“A fact that both you and the Fates remind me of constantly, I assure you,” Lydia replied. “I know not what my father was thinking when he instructed his solicitor in that regard, but I do appreciate all of your assistance in helping me follow through. Shall we go, so that I might hope to catch a young gentleman’s fancy?”
Lydia laughed softly at her own jest, but her uncle was not so easily amused.
“There is only one man whose eye you need concern yourself with this evening,” he reminded her. “Vincent Antworth is your most likely prospect at the moment, and though only a Viscount, he is from an old and well-respected family. True, there is not much left in the family coffers due to some unfortunate investments, but that’s where you come in, my dear.”
“I see,” she answered absently as the footman held the door to the carriage for her.
“Hold a moment, Claudine is not yet here,” Julius said, looking around for any sign of her.
Lydia seethed. It had been difficult enough having her uncle take her father’s place as Earl of Bronson, to fulfill her obligations to marry, and to see to poor Elsie, but to have her uncle’s longtime friend also encroach upon Bronson Manor—though they had chambers at opposite ends of the house—was beyond all reasonable expectation.
“I yam heeeere!” Claudine called out as she hurried out the front door. Lydia tried not to stare in horror at the woman’s attire, but that proved unsuccessful when she took in the sight of her.
Plunging necklines might have been the fashion in her native France, but Claudine’s gown left nothing to the imagination. Her ample bosom was barely contained by the bodice, let alone concealed behind it. The woman, only thirty years of age but made up with powders and rouges that gave her the appearance of a woman much older, hurried towards the carriage with such quick steps that her mass of tight curls and her plume of ostrich feathers bounced and swayed behind her as she ran.
“Mon Dieu, I was not aware of zee hour!” Claudine exclaimed breathlessly as she hurried forward. “I almost would have had to go wearing only me chemise!”
“Well, we cannot have that now, can we?” Uncle Julius asked playfully, gesturing for Claudine to enter the carriage ahead of him.
Lydia followed, pressing her gloved hand to her nose in a futile effort to block the cloud of heavy perfume that wafted behind Claudine. Julius entered the conveyance last, and the footman closed them in, leaving Lydia to wonder if they might asphyxiate before their arrival at Lord Verdurn’s ball.
“So, Miss Lydia,” Claudine said eagerly, bouncing happily in her seat, “tonight is zee night, no? Perhaps your future husband awaits you!”
“I should hope not, considering no one has even asked permission to court me as of yet,” Lydia replied slowly, but Claudine shook her head.
“Zat is not what I hear,” she hinted with a wink, but Julius put a hand on Claudine’s arm to stop her, leaving Lydia puzzled by the silent exchange between the two of them.
Chapter 3
Lydia opened the glass beside her, grateful for the chance to breathe the fresh air after the close quarters inside the carriage, and called out to the driver. “This should do very nicely.”
“Certainly, My Lady,” the driver answered back before calling out to the horses to stop. When the carriage had rolled to a slow stop, the footman came around from his seat and opened the door.
“Why are we stopping?” Claudine asked, looking out the windows in confusion and seeing that they were only a few miles past the grounds of the Bronson estate. “Zee ball is not here, to be sure. And we do not wish to be late.”
“Lady Lydia has an important errand to see to, we will wait here,” Uncle Julius explained patiently. He turned to Lydia with an uncharacteristic look of kindness and asked, “Do you have what you need, my girl?”
“That I do,” Lydia answered, thanking the footman and taking his hand to steady herself as she descended. He handed her the parcels of wrapped flowers he had brought forth from the box fastened to the rear of the carriage. “I shall only be a moment, Uncle.”
Lydia left the carriage and walked up the stone path that led from the roadway to the top of the hillside. The section of the cemetery, particularly chosen for both its serene vista and the fact that it would have made for poor farmland, had held the remains of her Reed ancestors for countless generations, their graves marked by increasingly newer and more elaborate gravestones.
She picked her way among the tombstones, careful of her shoes and her gown and thankful that the day had not turned rainy as she had feared. It was easy to find the place where both of her parents were buried, side by side and facing down the hill to the church where they had been married, as her weekly visits had begun to wear a small path in the grass.
“Good evening,” Lydia whispered aloud as she faced the stones and read their names: Albert, Earl of Bronson devoted husband and father, Catherine, Countess of Bronson beloved wife and mother.
She carefully unwrapped the flowers she had brought from the gardens behind the house and placed them on the ground at the base of the stones, plucking up the flowers she’d placed the week before and removing any brown petals or leaves before putting them down again.
She spent a few moments lost in the happy memories of her parents, of the little family they’d been for so long. Learning that she was to finally become a sister had been one of Lydia’s happiest days, only to have that joy turned to anguish when Elsie’s birth stole Catherine from them.
“I miss you terribly, Mother,” Lydia said softly. “I need you now more than ever, to help guide me in the most important decision I shall ever make. And you, Father, I do not understand why you were so adamant that I marry, unless it was to ensure that I could not wither away in my grief over the loss of you for too long. So here I am, your dutiful daughter, seeking a husband as was your great hope for me. I know you are both looking down and trust that you are steering the course for me. I shall not disappoint you.”
Kissing the tips of her fingers and touching them to her parents’ gravestones in farewell, Lydia turned to go back to the carriage. She was startled by the appearance of a man she had not noticed when she first arrived, standing only a dozen paces or so away from her.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I did not know anyone was here,” Lydia said, and the man slowly lifted his gaze to look at her. He seemed to stare straight through her, as though his own sadness prevented him from seeing anyone else.
Lydia stood awkwardly for a moment, watching the man stare at her. Feeling the sting of his inspection, she looked down and realized she was dressed rather unlike someone who was mourning one she had lost.
“Oh, my gown,” Lydia stammered, brushing at the fabric self-consciously, “I’m on my way to somewhere else, and only needed to come here for a moment. I am here every week at this time, I find that it gives me great comfort.”
