In fact, Lydia remembered, it had felt like that before. On one particular night, long ago, after Lady Eccleston’s year of morning for her father ended.
Lydia leaned forward. “Harriet, have you seen Thornycroft Hall’s ballroom?”
Harriet had known the ballroom was there, of course. It was hard to overlook such a space. But the heirs of Thornycroft Hall had the opposite of interest in throwing a ball now or any time in future, so they had left it closed up the way they’d first found it.
Now Harriet found herself pushing open the double doors and slipping inside, Lydia hot on her heels.
It was a vast cave of a space, a jewel-box lozenge with a parquet floor and a small gallery along one of the long sides. Drop cloths made craggy boulders of stored tables and chairs, as well as the distinctive shape of a piano against the wall beneath the gallery. A few trunks of stored things had found their way here as well, unwelcome in the rest of the house.
Lydia made for the windows, where daylight was leaking in at the edges of the drapes. She began pulling the fabric aside, and one by one the two-story stretches of glass were cleared to pour sharp sunlight into the room. With the brightness outside and the dimness inside, Thornycroft’s view of rolling hills and snow-dusted woods was sliced into a series of landscapes—as though some great mural artist had painted them specially for the delight of the guests who had come to dance.
Lydia brushed the dust from her hands and fixed the curtain ties in place. “There. How’s that?”
Harriet blinked, and considered. There really were a great many windows—she walked over to the one Lydia stood near, and could feel the winter’s chill leaching through, cooling the air nearest the panes. She could see the length of fully half the property, and even the top of the steeple of St. Gilbert’s, the highest point in Bickerton half a mile away. Yet at the same time she felt protected, buttressed in some wordless way by the knowledge that the house, with all its stone and wood and weight, waited at her back. Space and shelter, inside and outside were no longer opposites, but met in peaceful accord.
She turned to Lydia. “You’ve been here before.”
“I was twenty.” Lydia’s cheeks flushed, and her smile was full of secrets. “Lady Eccleston gave a ball—her first since her father’s death the year before. All her high-born London friends came down, and all the families in the neighborhood were invited. Peter got all his friends to ask me to dance—but I slipped away to the gallery, because Jane Arbuthnot was up there and I had to see the what candlelight looked like in her hair.”
Harriet could see it: Lydia coltish and eager, hope sparkling like a star in her eyes. Candles would tint the whole room gold and turn the windows into dark mirrors. This place would be a kaleidoscope of colorful silk and dazzling gems. And in the gallery, two girls, breathless with desire. Harriet moved a step closer. “Did you kiss her?”
“Jane?” Lydia’s laugh was rueful, a sound of pity for her past self. “Jane only had eyes for Roger de Voy. She married him six months later.”
“And broke your heart.”
Lydia laughed again—defiantly this time. “By then I was sneaking out every night to meet Emily Inch beneath the apple tree.” She pursed her lips, smug with memory. “She did kiss me, Emily did.”
That defiant laugh fluttered beneath Harriet’s fingertips as she rested them lightly on the side of Lydia’s throat. Lydia caught her breath, her dark eyes wide with surprise. Harriet moved slowly, giving Lydia time to pull away as she leaned forward.
Lydia met her halfway there.
Memory tasted sweet on Lydia’s lips. Harriet wanted more: her hand curved around the nape of Lydia’s neck and pulled her closer. Their tongues tangled, and Lydia let out a soft moan that Harriet instantly devoured.
It was greedy of her, she knew. Lydia deserved the kiss she’d sought that night, a memory wrapped in silk and candlelight. All Harriet could offer was this pale imitation, a flash of wintry silver glinting off ice.
And Harriet, starved as she was, wanted more. She scraped her teeth against the swell of Lydia’s lower lip. “Did you ever do more than kiss?”
Lydia’s laugh was a puff of breath, warm where it tickled over Harriet’s cheek. “You have been away too long, if you think English country girls have forgotten how to fuck.”
Harriet’s pulse leapt. “Even proper doctor’s daughters?”
Lydia leaned in, voice low and heated, her lips moving against the delicate skin of Harriet’s jaw. “What could be more proper than two girls—two very good friends—taking long walks together in the summer?” Lydia teased. “Or spending hours in a bedroom, trading gowns and gossip? No doubt they’re only sharing secrets when they bend their heads close together, arm in arm. And if they come down to the parlor rosier than they went up, with knees that wobble a little on the stairs—well, that’s just feminine weakness and overexcitement, isn’t it. Nothing to worry over. A little rest, and she’ll soon be the picture of good health.”
Harriet chuckled. “You wanton.”
Lydia leaned back, eyes considering. “Are you telling me this is the first time you’ve kissed a woman?” That smugness was back; Harriet liked it on her. “Didn’t feel like the first time.”
“Unlike you, I never pretended to be proper,” Harriet answered. Her fingers were tracing Lydia’s cheekbone, moving from freckle to freckle, shaping constellations over velvet skin. “I kissed anyone I could catch. And a bit more, sometimes. My parents almost despaired of me—until John proposed.” Her fingers stilled, and her heart made a fist in her throat.
Lydia’s hand caught hers, lacing comforting fingers with Harriet’s. “I admire your recklessness,” she said. “It was easy for me, being invisible. Maybe if my parents hadn’t been so busy scrutinizing Peter, they’d have noticed more of the things I was up to.”
Harriet grazed one more kiss over her mouth, distracting them both from that particular branch of thought. “I want to hear all of your secret exploits,” she murmured, making Lydia part her lips on a silent laugh. “Stay for dinner?”
Lydia’s shy smile was at odds with the heat in her eyes. “Of course.”
Harriet was so pleased by this, she reached for more. “Stay the night?”
Lydia dimmed. Winter light made her profile icy as she turned to regard the road home. “I don’t know if my parents can spare me.”
