The brothers exchanged glances.
“I will not allow my sister to be bullied, ma’am,” William Winterbourne said.
“Good gracious,” Harry’s mother said. “Nor will I. More to the point, from what I know of Mrs. Tavernor, nor will she. Harry? Your arm, please.”
Two minutes later they were making their way down the drive, the four of them, Harry’s mother—bonnetless—on his arm, the two Winterbourne men coming along behind. Harry did not turn his head to look at them, but he would wager they both looked pretty sheepish.
“The power of women,” Harry’s mother murmured.
Twenty-three
Lydia was feeling a bit melancholy and was trying desperately to shake off the feeling. Tomorrow was her wedding day! And she was excited about it. She loved Harry. She could not be happier.
So why did happiness feel so …flat?
She had decided to spend the day at home alone. She wanted to rest after what had been a busy week. She wanted to get ready for tomorrow. Though there was precious little to do. She had chosen an old dress she had not worn for several years, though she had worn it precisely once. It was too frivolous and too pale a green for a vicar’s wife, Isaiah had said. Lydia had chosen it because it reminded her of springtime and lifted her mood. There were pink rosebuds embroidered about the hem and smaller ones about the edges of the sleeves. It must be woefully out of fashion by now, though Lydia had no idea quite how much.
It was going to be her wedding dress notwithstanding. She had washed it and hung it to dry and ironed it and … there was no other way to get ready.
At least today she did not have to fear any visits from the Westcotts. They were having a picnic to celebrate the betrothal of Harry’s cousin. If the weather was kind, Harry had said. The weather was very kind.
She did not have to fear any visits from her friends either. Mrs. Bailey had invited them and a few other ladies to tea at the vicarage. She had invited Lydia too but had understood when Lydia had refused. Mrs. Bailey knew about the wedding, of course. She was to be one of the witnesses, and the Reverend Bailey was to conduct the service. She was not really happy about it. She had not said so to Lydia, but she had looked troubled when she had agreed to be a witness.
Since Monday, Lydia thought early in the afternoon as she sat idle on her chair by the fireplace, her heels resting inelegantly on the edge of the seat cushion while her arms hugged her legs to her bosom and she rested her chin on her knees, she had seen Harry precisely twice—for a few minutes when he was leaving for London on Tuesday morning, and for a few minutes yesterday afternoon as he was coming home. She would not see him all day today and would see him probably only briefly this evening while they made final arrangements for tomorrow.
Had they been unwise to decide upon such a rushed wedding?
Had they been mad to decide to marry at all?
And were these last-minute, second-thought wedding nerves she was having?
She felt so very alone.
There was only one thing she was sure of. No, two. And they did help calm her as she pulled in her chin and rested her forehead on her knees. She loved Harry Westcott with all her being. More important—oh, by far—shetrustedhim. Their marriage would be a partnership, a companionship, a friendship, a …romanceof equals. It would be, despite what both civil and church law might say to the contrary. Tomorrow she would promise to obey, but Harry would never hold her to that. Not that she could know for absolute certain, of course. One never could of the future. But one could trust, and she trusted Harry. With her life. For that was exactly what she would be doing tomorrow.
Oh, tomorrow was her wedding day. Why oh why did she feel so flat today? Why did it all seem somehow wrong? Or if not wrong precisely, then not quite right? She had no wish for a grand wedding or crowds of guests. She had no wish—
Oh,whowas coming now? She had heard horses and carriage wheels and had assumed it was someone on the way to Hinsford. There had been much coming and going all week. But the conveyance was unmistakably drawing to a halt outside her gate. She straightened up in some annoyance to see who it was.
And then she was hurtling out the door, leaving it open behind her, Snowball bouncing along at her side, yipping in a frenzy of excitement. And she was throwing open the garden gate and hurling herself into her father’s arms as he descended from the carriage. And bursting into tears.
“Papa. Papa!”
“Lydie. Lydie!”
That was almost the full extent of the conversation for the next minute or two, though there was a great deal of hugging and kissing and back patting and hiccupping and barking.
“James. Oh, James.”
“Lydie. Lydie, Lydie.”
“William. Oh.”
“Lydie.”
“It is all over now, Lydie,” her father said as everyone crowded into the house and seemed to fill it to overflowing. “Lady Hill wrote to me on Sunday as soon as she heard and sent the letter by special messenger. You have a true friend there. As for all the rest of it, it is nonsense and I would like nothing better than to crack a few heads together. But it is all over now.”
“It is just what we warned you about, Lydie,” William said. “But we have not come to scold. You must have been suffering enough.”
