She was an heiress.
For the first time in her life, there was hope for a future in which she had a say in what happened to her.
Collecting herself, she continued to read.
Regarding your questions of your grandfather, I will tell you all I know, though I apologize in advance that it is so very little. I did not meet the man—the entirety of our association took place through letters. I will also add thatI know even less of your parents. I wish I could be of more assistance to you in that regard.
Your grandfather left to pursue his work in India while your mother was attending school. His wife had passed before this point. At school, your mother met a young man—your father—and presumably fell in love. When letters to your grandfather apparently went unanswered, they chose to elope to Gretna Green. By the time your grandfather heard anything, they had been married several months. He was unhappy, but there was nothing that could be done, and his business could not be left. He learned of your birth and growth through letters and was immensely excited to meet you, but shortly after your fifth birthday, your parents fell victim to a fever. Your grandfather was not allowed to see you when he returned home, and not long after, he too died, leaving you the sole recipient of his fortune.
I do believe—and please know that this is conjecture on my part, not fact—that your grandfather must have blamed your mother’s death on something relating to her having married young. Nothing points to that actually being true, though it does serve as a reason that your grandfather would like you to be older before you marry. It is possible that your father was related to a family of status, which would account for his additional dislike of lords.
Please advise should you have more questions.
Yours,
Mr. Arthur Sperry
Solicitor
Some of the exhilaration from the first part of the letter faded as she read the final words regarding her parents’ and hergrandfather’s deaths. She’d always known she was alone with no one to claim her as family, but seeing it in such neat, black words drove the point home.
She shook off the melancholy as best she could and turned to the question at hand: How was she to forgo marriage until twenty-five? Would putting off each of her suitors be enough, or would more drastic action be required? Perhaps she would have to embarrass her guardian enough that he allowed her to return home. But how?
The handle on the door jostled, causing Lydia to jerk up. Ruining some of the perfectly pressed lines in her haste to fold the papers, she stuffed them back into her trunk in the same moment a heavy knock sounded at the door. She pulled the door open to reveal Jones’s exasperated face.
“Why was the door locked?”
“Habit, I suppose.”
Jones pursed her lips but accepted the excuse. “Lord Tarrington indicated you would need to be freshened up before your ride with Mr. Frank Colbert. You ought to have called for me when you first returned.”
“I think I am wonderful just as I am.” Lydia turned to hide the water stain at the back of her gown. It would only help her in turning away Mr. Frank Colbert.
“Well, you are not correct on that front and— Gracious! What did you do with your dress?”
Lydia sighed, accepting her fate and allowing Jones to poke and prod her back intoperfection.
***
Lydia took her ride with Mr. Frank Colbert and attended the musicale that evening, viewing everything through the lens of the knowledge held in her letter. She kicked mud on Colbert—who was not as gracious as Lord Charles had been—attemptedto slip in information about her less-than-ideal past, and did not fawn over any of his inflated stories of himself.
At the musicale, she gave up propriety altogether. She spoke to no one and offered no musical talent to the group. Lord Tarrington glared at her, and if he hadn’t seemed so sickly, she imagined that when the group turned to a bit of dancing, he would have forced her on to many a man. But as it was, she simply smiled benignly back at him, and if his huff of frustration were any indication, he found that incredibly endearing.
It was as if she were the opposite of a fortune hunter, and as such, it was rather fun to sit on the side of the dancing couples and experience no anxiety over whether she would fill each of her dances.
Both Mr. Belcher and Mr. Frank Colbert were in attendance. The former, Lord Tarrington rebuffed for Lydia, having used some criteria known only to himself to deem Mr. Belcher unworthy of pursuit. The latter paid her kind addresses and asked her to dance, to which she claimed a sore ankle. No matter how handsome the man was, Lydia felt nothing for him. And with the freedom to choose, she would choosenotto marry until she reached twenty-five. Then, if she married, it would be for an all-encompassing affection, not simply appreciation of a man’s physical attributes.
Which brought to mind another man’s even more attractive attributes, both physical and otherwise, and it took a great deal of effort to push his visage from her mind. Lord Berkeley was not an option. Not now and likely not in two years either.
As their carriage rumbled toward home in the dark of the early morning hours, Lydia watched her guardian’s slumped form as he seemed to barely retain consciousness. He seemed tired and not just from the night, but increasingly so. Was he truly sick? He had been coughing, and his appearance indicated more than a simple ailment.
If he were sick, why was he insisting on pushing both himself and her through a rigorous London Season? The man could likely use a week or two’s recuperation, which would play well into her own desires. He hadn’t let her leave before, but maybe if he wasn’t feeling well, he would be more amenable to returning to the country, where Lydia could hide away until the inheritance was hers.
The carriage swayed as it turned, and not expecting it, Lydia bumped into the wall, her head hitting the side. The pain that lanced through her head—exacerbated by an elaborately pinned hairstyle—served to highlight the pain she felt at the idea of leaving. Why though? What was in London that would make it hard to leave?
It was a farce of a question. She already knew the answer.
Lord Berkeley.
