The bedroom was warm thanks to a small coal stove tucked in one corner. Nathan watched in some amazement as Lydia meekly complied with his suggestion that she sit on the thickly padded footstool beside it. He poured water from a porcelain pitcher on Ginny’s bureau into the matching bowl and washed his own hands. He carried fresh water over to Lydia. In spite of the warmth, she was chilled through.
He knelt on the floor in front of her. “Here,” he said, lifting the basin to her lap. “Put your hands in here and I’ll wash them off.” He scrubbed her skin with a washcloth, noticing for the first time how small and soft her hands were in comparison to his. Yet he had seen for himself that they were capable hands, as deft and skilled as they were graceful. He thought of his own rum daddles, rough and calloused after more than a decade of hard labor, and realized how inadequate they had been to this evening’s task.
“You have beautiful hands,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
Nathan self-consciously curled his long fingers into fists. He got to his feet quickly, picked up the basin, and emptied it. He rinsed his face at the bureau. Turning to Lydia, Nathan rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. “I left my jacket upstairs. While I’m getting it, I suggest you find something of Ginny’s to wear. You’re about the same size, I think.” When Lydia looked at him blankly, a frown furrowing her dark brows, he pointed to her yellow party gown. “It’s ruined.”
Lydia’s eyes dropped to her ruffled bodice. It was indeed ruined, stained with blood along the edge, at the waist, and where she had absently adjusted her short, puffed sleeves. There were handprints on the skirt of the gown, black now that the blood had had time to dry. “Yes,” she said, nodding once. “You’re right. It’s quite ruined. I can’t go home like this.”
She seemed at a loss as to what to do so Nathan repeated his suggestion.
“Oh, but I don’t think I could wear something of Ginny’s.”
Nathan frowned and asked sharply, “Why? Because it’s a whore’s dress?”
Lydia’s head jerked up. She was not adept at hiding her hurt, and it was there for Nathan to see in the dark blue depths of her eyes. “N-no. Of course not.”Ginny’s clothes won’t fit,she wanted to say, but was too embarrassed. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll think of something.”
Nathan wasn’t certain he trusted her. He opened Ginny’s wardrobe, selected a severely cut sapphire blue evening gown, and tossed it on the four-poster. “Put that on,” he said, brooking no argument. “I’ll ask Ginny just to make certain there’s no problem.” At the door he paused. “Be here when I get back, Miss Chadwick.”
In the attic he helped Ginny clean and dress Charlotte’s body, then take the bloody linens to the washroom in the cellar. Ginny was effusive in her thanks, but Nathan didn’t pay much attention. He hadn’t done anything as far as he was concerned and his motives weren’t as altruistic as Ginny made them sound. When he came to the attic Charlotte and her baby weren’t nearly as important as making himself less repugnant in Lydia’s eyes. He wondered if he had failed because of that. Maybe there was nothing to be gained by doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.
Thirty minutes after he left Lydia, Nathan found himself holding his breath while twisting the brass handle in Ginny’s door. He let it out slowly when he saw Lydia was still in the room. She was standing at the window, her back to him, dressed in the gown he had chosen. She didn’t move when he entered and he wasn’t sure she had even heard him. Yet when he came to stand behind her, her slender shoulders heaved once with a sob she couldn’t contain, and when she turned it was to step into his arms.
Lydia did not question that she should seek comfort and strength in the embrace of Nathan Hunter. For once she put her needs first and she needed someone to hold her now. It had never felt quite so important to have the touch of another human being. She required nothing of him save kindness. She could not know then it did not come easily to this man.
Nathan absorbed her shudders. He felt the damp stain of her tears through his shirt and the soft, silken strands of her hair against the underside of his chin. Her skin held the delicate scent of lilac and the freshness of her, the purity of her spirit touched him unexpectedly. He didn’t know what to do with her; he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He held her loosely, somewhat stiffly, not pressing the sudden advantage the evening’s odd events had given him. It was enough to hold her and let her imagine he was feeling her pain, when in fact he knew little about sharing any emotion.
He wasn’t any better than Brig, he thought, and perhaps he was worse. Lydia was a complete innocent. What chance did she have against either himself or Brigham Moore? Did she even understand the kind of careful calculation and planning that was being used to win her trust? He set Lydia away from him and handed her a handkerchief. “Take this, wipe your eyes, and blow.”
Confused by the harshness in Nathan’s tone, Lydia gave him a watery, tentative smile and thanked him. Just below the surface of her skin she was cold again, and in her heart she was aching with sadness. “We should go, I suppose,” she said finally when he didn’t say anything. She folded the handkerchief neatly and tucked it under the sleeve of her gown. The tatted edge of the handkerchief peeked out to decorate her wrist. “What time is it?”
Nathan consulted his pocket watch on the platinum fob. “Almost midnight.”
“I suppose Papa is beside himself with worry by now.”
“I think Pei Ling told him you were ill and indisposed to visitors. I’m fairly confident Father Patrick will keep your secret as well.”
“And you?”
“Your parents aren’t going to hear about tonight from me.” That would hardly win him a chance at her hand. The Chadwicks most likely frowned on their daughter delivering babies in brothels.
“Good.” She raised her chin a notch, a gesture that Nathan was beginning to recognize as Lydia’s challenging stance. “Then I don’t want to go home just yet,” she said.
Nathan didn’t so much as blink. He wasn’t surprised. Jackaroos did indeed have more sense than Lydia Chadwick. “What is it you want to do?”
“Get drunk.”
She made it seem perfectly reasonable. “Have you ever been drunk, Miss Chadwick?” he asked politely.
“No.”
“Do you even drink?”
She sniffed a shade haughtily. “Of course I do.”
“Wine with your dinner or perhaps you sneak a glass of port after the meal.”
“I drink sherry. In fact, I’ve already had some this evening.”
