“So, to be a married woman,” Penelope said dreamily, teasing Lydia now, “what is it like?”
“I am hardly the one to ask for advice on the matter, considering my state,” Lydia replied, nudging Penelope with her elbow. “Mine is not the shining example of love and devotion you might expect.”
“No, but it is binding, which is all that matters. You are safe and protected now,” Penelope replied. “Safe from further rumor-mongering, protected from being turned out in a street without a shilling to your name.”
“Hardly!” Lydia replied vehemently. “Lord Paxton could come home tomorrow and divorce me, while keeping my inheritance. Assuming my uncle ever even turns over said inheritance. Marriage is not the source of security that many might envision it to be. Look at my own situation: my husband has not returned, my mother-in-law refuses to leave my house, I do not even have permission to send someone to the market for fish for supper.”
“Those fears are only because it is so new, I would think,” Penelope answered helpfully. “Once you’ve grown accustomed to things, you will figure out how you fit in at Paxton. And certainly once you have children, others will not doubt your intentions.”
Lydia was quiet, remembering their arrangement. She thought to keep it to herself out of fear for legitimacy of her marriage, but knew that Penelope was the only one she could confide in.
“Penelope, there will be no children,” Lydia confessed quietly, leaning closer as though even the trees might overhear. “Ours is a marriage merely of convenience.”
Penelope looked aghast. “How sad for you! For the both of you. How will Lord Paxton ever pass on his title, let alone any wealth he earns?”
“I don’t know, unless he has other family members who might receive it,” Lydia said sadly. “I did not inquire because he was very adamant about it.”
As they talked, the entire story poured forth. Unable to stop the tide of emotions that Lydia had held back for days, she talked of her great sadness and fear while Penelope listened sympathetically.
“Oh dear,” Penelope said when Lydia had finished, “it is worse than I feared.”
“Why is that?” Lydia asked, dabbing at her eyes.
“Because you love Lord Paxton deeply. That is why this is so painful for you,” her friend said, putting an arm around her shoulders to comfort her.
“I… I don’t know that I do,” Lydia argued weakly, but no sooner had she spoken than the truth became even stronger. “I mean to say, perhaps I love the boy I once knew. He was more than a friend somehow, even more than a brother to me.”
“I think you also love the man as well,” Penelope suggested. “Perhaps not the man he has become, but the one you thought he might be. All this time, even while he was away and you said he did not write to you, you had built this hope inside you that he would return and prove to be the man you wanted.”
Lydia didn’t answer, but eventually shook her head slowly. Penelope only smiled.
“But now that he’s here, even if only for a little while, and you have him, he has proven to not be the man you waited for. That is what hurts so terribly. It is not Lord Paxton you are sad for, it is the love you had hoped to have from the man you had hoped he would be.”
Lydia sniffled, but nodded. “I wish for nothing more than to say you are wrong, Penny, but I cannot. It is as thought you held a light to my soul and saw all the way within. I do love Matthew! But I love the memory of Matthew, the husband I dreamed of all those years.”
“And you do not love this Matthew? The one who is here and could be persuaded to become a different person?” Penelope asked.
Lydia shrugged.
“I don’t know that he can be persuaded. After all, he has been very certain so far in his views,” Lydia reminded her.
Penelope smiled. “That is where you fit in all of this, Lydia. Lord Paxton spurns the notion of a happy marriage and a loving family because he has never known those things himself. He has hardened his heart in order to protect himself from any further pain. But you could be the balm he needs to undo all of that hurting.”
“And if I cannot?” Lydia asked, scoffing lightly.
“Then what will you have lost? Nothing,” Penelope answered with a hopeful note in her counsel. “It will cost you nothing to be kind, loving, and generous with your admiration. But it could prove fruitful and provide you with the love you want… and deserve.”
“How did you become so wise?” Lydia asked, giving Penelope a knowing look. “You are correct, of course. But—”
“No! Stop right there!” Penelope said, teasing Lydia playfully. “Let us end your statement with ‘You are wise and correct, dearest Penny.’ That is my favorite part, after all.”
Lydia had to laugh, grateful for her friend’s humor in such a troublesome time. She nodded and said, “I shall try. I will endeavor to win over Matthew by showing him what sort of wife he might have if he would only stay.”
“That is all anyone can ask of you,” Penelope said. “Mind you, you must not suffer ill-treatment or hateful disregard, of course. But so long as your only enemy is Matthew’s own pain, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
The two friends finished their outing with luncheon by the brook, tossing crusts of bread to the geese who dotted the top of the water. They walked in the shade and talked, and Lydia felt more like herself than she had in weeks. Her earlier worries—inheritances and husbands, an uncle who controlled her father’s will—all of that was forgotten for the space of an afternoon.
By the time Lydia returned to the house and bade Penelope a heartfelt, grateful goodbye, she was in a better frame of mind than she could have hoped. She climbed the stairs to her chambers and entered, only to have all of the day’s goodwill dissolve like a flaming match burning itself out to a pile of ash.
