And it was me to whom she spoke her first words since her return.
Floating in and out of consciousness, her lips pale, she snapped awake for one precious moment. Her eyes met mine, like she was finally back in her body.
“It wasn’t worth it,” she rasped.
“What wasn’t?” I whispered in return.
The candle at her bedside flickered. “The bargain.” Her eyes were wide, imploring me to listen.“It wasn’t worth it.”
She slept for three days, and I sat vigil at her bedside, relief at her return and terror at the state she was in intermingling to form an emotion I still can’t name.
When she awoke after her long sleep, hope bloomed in me that she would be back to herself, armed with a plausible explanation for her disappearance. But all she had to offer was a paper-thin story about running away with a lover, some working-class printer. She said that they had arranged to elope but were accosted on the road and her bridegroom was murdered. Left lost and alone, she finally found her way back to the outskirts of London.
I brushed my sister’s fringe from where it was stuck to her sweaty forehead. “Why are you lying to me?” We didn’t lie. Not to each other.
She looked vacantly at the wall, and something inside of me died.
Mama and Papa grimly spread Lydia’s explanation around town. None of us believed it, and it wasn’t exactly an acceptable story, but it was less tawdry thannothing.
But the gossips of London have plenty of time on their hands, and it wasn’t long before they discovered that no marriage records for one Lydia Benton were ever filed in Gretna Green.
I’ve only been invited to the Pact Parade as a courtesy, given my father’s title as a marquess. But even if my mother is in denial, Iknow that no more invitations will come for the rest of the season. My debut in society will be over as soon as it has begun.
I dash upstairs to dress for dinner, hesitating as I pass my sister’s door. I know better by now, but I can’t help myself from turning the knob and stepping inside.
Lydia spends most days shut in the dark of her room—“Convalescing,” they call it. She wastes her time away, eating cut fruit brought up on silver trays by the ring of her bell. It’s the only thing she wants. She devours whole oranges and cubes of hothouse pineapple and watermelon like she’s starving and nothing else will sate her.
I heard our housekeeper, Mrs. Tuttle, complaining to our cook, Mr. Froburg, that our parents’ coddling made us both soft. I couldn’t even find it in myself to be upset about her gossip. She was right. I was too soft. Right up until the moment my sister disappeared, I really did believe the world was a kind place that wanted good things for me.
The curtains in Lydia’s room are drawn, and she’s nothing but a lump, her blond hair barely visible under her duvet.
I sit on the edge of her bed and lay a hand on her back. “Lydia, the Pact Parade is tomorrow.” She doesn’t roll around to face me, but I can tell by the rise and fall of her shoulders that she’s awake.
She draws a breath. “Oh?”
“Will you dress my hair like you used to? Remember when you used Mama’s necklace to—”
She finally rolls over and cuts me off. “I’m afraid I won’t remember how. You’d best let Mrs. Tuttle do it.”
She swipes a palm across her storm-cloud face. I don’t know if she’s only just finished crying or getting ready to start, but her eyesare rimmed in red. “Close the door on the way out, please.”
I leave her in darkness.
I don’t know why I keep giving her opportunities to break my heart.
She’s ruined my chances of finding a husband. No family of any real status will let their son stoop so low as to marry a Benton. No real dowry to speak of, and now no honor either.
The truth is, I hate her more than anyone in the world. The rage rips hot and fierce through the walls of my chest, and I have to resist the urge to wrench her door back open and shake her until she can give me an explanation.
But by the time I reach my own bedroom door, I miss her. I just miss her.
I love Lydia more than anyone else in the world too.
She’s easier to love when she’s not in front of me. I like her so much more when she’s not around.
My father goes to bed right after dinner, unable to bear the nervous tapping of my foot and my mother’s forced cheerfulness.
It’s just Mama and I in the drawing room. Outside, Belgrave Square is dark and quiet. Inside is a chorus of sounds I know well: the ticking of the grandfather clock, the crackling of the fire, and the incessant scratching of my mother’s pen.
