Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
L ydia’s eyes fluttered open the following day, and for a moment, she had a dreadful feeling as though she was still dreaming. Nothing in her vicinity appeared familiar. The bed she had awoken in was larger than the one she was used to, and a heavy curtain surrounded the four posts of the bed. A canopy in navy velvet, adorned with a design of golden swirls and stars, hung above her. It was claustrophobic, to say the least. She took a deep breath and pushed herself up, yanking open the bed curtain. The chamber that revealed itself before her was no more familiar.
She had looked at it the day before, of course, when she first arrived, but she had been so miserable she had called on her maid—a short, red-haired woman whose name she did not recall—to undress her for bed. The woman had been surprised but had, of course, complied.
Then Lydia had gone to bed and forced herself to sleep. She had awoken more than once in the night but refused to leave the safety of her bed. Still, even nestled in the soft pillows and underneath the blankets, she hadn’t found comfort because whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the faces of her younger sisters. Tears stained their cheeks, sadness marring their usually so cheerful faces. What were they doing now?
She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Ten in the morning! She had slept an appalling sixteen hours.
If she were home, her sisters would now be completing their first hour of study and would soon be going outside into the garden for some play before resuming their lessons. Cressida would be downstairs playing, and Louisa would be refining her accomplishments, perhaps watercoloring. Suddenly, a thought came to her. She had been brought here to take care of a child—the little boy, Eammon. What was his schedule, she wondered? Did he have one? She got up and walked across the room, ringing the bell for the maid.
What was her name? It was exceedingly unpleasant not to remember the name of a servant. Her father frequently forgot, and she always made a habit of ensuring that her youngest siblings never made such a mistake.
Ella, Emma, Amelia—something like that.
She paced for a few minutes, her thoughts racing with all the things she did not know. When a knock sounded at the door, it opened, and the woman appeared. She was older than Lydia had remembered, but her hair was a similar shade to her own, though more brown than red.
“Your Grace,” the woman said.
Lydia wanted to look around to see if there was somebody else in the room but then it came to her. The maid was addressing her. She was Her Grace. She was Duchess.
“Good morning… Emma,” she said, but mumbled the name so that it could also have been Amelia or Emily or something like that.
“You remember,” the woman said. “That is very kind of you.”
Which was it? Emma, Emily, or Amelia? She would have to ask somebody else. Why had she mumbled? She should’ve just said the name out loud, and then if it was wrong, the woman could’ve corrected her. Now she would have to spend the entire day trying to figure out the woman’s actual name because now she couldn’t ask. Now it would seem inconceivably rude.
“I would like to dress simply,” she said. “I expect to spend much time with young Master Eammon. Where is he?” The nameless maid made her way to the armoire and withdrew one of Lydia’s plain, pastel-colored gowns. All of her clothing had been delivered before the wedding and had been here waiting for her.
“By this time, I imagine Miss Murphy has fed him his breakfast, and he’ll be studying. He usually studies until the late afternoon and…”
“The late afternoon?” Lydia couldn’t help but repeat. “That seems awfully long for a little boy.”
“It is what His Grace wishes,” she said and Lydia detected a hint of an accent.
“Are you Irish?” she asked and the maid nodded.
“My father is English, my mother Irish. His Grace brought us all down with him when he moved here. My father is his valet and my mother is down in the kitchen,” the maid explained.
“Did many of his servants come here with him?”
The maid shrugged. “A number of us, yes. He offered to bring anyone who wanted to but some chose to stay at the estate in Ireland. It’s occupied, you see. But some of us came. My father wanted to return,” she explained as she laid out Lydia’s dress and started helping her get dressed..
Once she was ready, she went downstairs to seek out breakfast. However, when she reached the breakfast room, she found all the dishes removed.
“Your Grace,” the housekeeper—whose name she could not recall either—appeared. “His Grace usually has breakfast removed as soon as Master Eammon is finished. We weren’t sure how you would like to conduct the mornings.”
She wanted to say that she would like breakfast to go on until she had eaten, but she knew that this was not the fault of the housekeeper or anybody else. This household had been run by Alexander Hayward. These were his rules. She would have to set about changing them.
“In the future, I would prefer that we wait until every member of the household has eaten. But I assure you, I do not make a habit of sleeping this late.”
“You had an eventful day, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said. “Should I bring you something?”
“Yes,” Lydia said. “Salted oatmeal with a little sugar on top.”
The woman eyed her askance at the simplicity of her request. “That is what I would enjoy. And some fresh fruit, if you have it.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said and walked away, leaving Lydia alone in the breakfast room. Lydia took a deep breath, knowing it would take a little while for her meal to arrive. In the meantime, she decided to walk along the corridor to see where it led.
It was a wide, dark corridor with sconces along the walls where candles had burned out. To the left and the right were doors. When she peered inside, she saw that almost all of the curtains were closed.
How dark this place was! She could only imagine how beautiful it would look if the lights were allowed to shine.
Then she walked back into the hall and took a breath. This was her home now. This was where she lived, where she would live—for the time being, at least. Therefore, these were her windows to open as she wished.
She might have been a touch Friday faced the night before but she had not lost her determination to get back home to her sisters. As she had tossed and turned between bouts of fitful sleep, she had worked on her plan. She was going to make Alexander Hayward miserable. He would regret the day he ever laid eyes on her.
She was going to make sure that she forced him to either annul their marriage or agree to a divorce. Yes, it would be a scandal. She would never find another husband again after that. Being divorced was, after all, one of the worst shames that could follow a woman. But she was not going to allow herself to be married to this man who’d simply scooped her up as a housekeeper might choose a suitable roast at market. She’d rather spend the rest of her life alone.
She wasn’t quite sure how she was going to accomplish this yet, but ignoring him and giving snippy answers whenever he spoke to her was a good first step. And for starters, she’d open every curtain she could find, just to annoy him.
More ideas would come to her. She would find ways to vex him. Perhaps she would publicly ridicule him when he forced her to go on an outing, which he would undoubtedly do.
She already smiled at the idea but was then distracted when a thud came to her ear. She whipped her head around and peered into the little library to her right. No, it wasn’t the library. It was what looked to be a converted drawing room, fashioned into a small library with a desk by the window where, for a change, the curtains were already open. There, sitting in the corner on the chaise, was a little boy. He scowled over an open book, and his shoulders were hunched as if he expected a lecture at any moment.
“Eammon,” she said. The boy looked up, his eyes wide, and a small smile appeared. “Your Grace,” he said.
She entered the room and saw the source of the noise. A stack of books beside him had fallen down and tumbled onto the floor.
“You can call me Lydia,” she said.
“But Master Alex… I mean His Grace… said that I have to call you ‘Your Grace.’ That is your title.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, His Grace is not here right now, is he? And I would prefer it if you called me Lydia. That is my name. I do not care for the title.”
Eammon smiled at her, a lock of blond hair falling into his face as he moved. “I like the name Lydia. My mamó had a friend named Lydia. She would give me sweetmeats. My mamó always told me not to tell my daidí.”
She smiled at the little boy. “Well, maybe I can find you some sweetmeats, too.”
“Can you? His Grace only lets me have sweetmeats on Sundays. And only if I’ve read all the books I’m supposed to read.”
“How many books are you supposed to read?” she asked. He shrugged and pointed to the stack on the floor.
“Two of those at least.”
She bent down and picked up the books, frowning when she saw the titles. These were not meant for children. In fact, she wouldn’t have enjoyed reading them either. Every one of them had something to do with theocracy, British history, or Greek mythology. There was one about the Roman Empire and one about the history of Judea. It was truly a peculiar choice of books for a little boy.
“Say, do you understand what’s in these books?”
He looked down at the floor, then up at her, and shyly shook his head. “No. I know who Zeus is because there’s a statue of him out in the garden. But that’s it. I know who William and Maria are, but I’m confused because when Duchess Emma took me to her estate, she showed me William and Mary, but they were swans. In the book, they’re not.”
Lydia chuckled and shook her head, placing the books aside as she sat beside the boy. “I think this evening, I will go to the library upstairs and see if I can find some books more appropriate for your age. Books you will enjoy. What sort of books do you like to read for your own entertainment?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like to read when I’m on my own. I must read so much already. The letters all dance.”
“I see. Well, then we will make sure the books you read when you’re supposed to study are interesting. And we will find other things for you to do when you’re not studying. What do you like to do?”
“Draw,” he said. “I like to draw.”
“That’s wonderful. Can you show me some of your drawings?”
“Miss Murphy has them,” he said. “The governess. She keeps them in her room.”
“Oh, I see. Why don’t you keep them in your room?” she asked.
“His Grace thinks they are childish, and he takes them away. He only likes my drawings when they have to do with the books I’m reading or the things I’m learning.”
“I see,” she said. Either Alexander was the worst-equipped guardian she had ever met, or he was genuinely horrid. At least his sister Emma – the lady Eammon had called Duchess Emma, which was of course not the correct way to address her – showed an interest in the little one.
“He gave me a book with animals to draw, and I draw those. Those I’m allowed to keep,” he said.
Well, at least that’s something.
“Very well. Aside from drawing, what else do you like to do? Do you like playing outside with animals? Do you like running? Do you…”
“I haven’t the time,” he said. “I’m only allowed to play one hour every day. Once I’ve done all of my work and I’ve been good and I’ve had my meal and I’ve washed behind my ears. Then I can go to play with toys.”
Her eyebrows rose so high she thought they might disappear under her hairline. “One hour a day? That won’t do. We’ll have to play a lot more, you and I.”
His eyes widened and he looked around, lips pressed together.
“Do you think his lord…His Grace will allow it?”
He’d almost used Alexander’s lesser title twice. Apparently the lad’s parents had been friends with the Duke.
“Of course. One of the reasons I’m here is to look after you, to help Miss Murphy. You see, you and I are going to be great friends.”
“That is what His Grace said when I got here from the boat,” he said. He looked at her dubiously. “But we’re not friends.”
“You’re not? Do you and he ever spend any time together?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes we eat together. Sometimes he does a dissection puzzle with me. But he never talks much,” he said in a lowered voice. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”
Lydia’s heart broke. For a little boy to think that the person meant to look after him didn’t care was a cruel notion to bear.
“I don’t think that’s true,” she said, though she saw the little boy’s bottom lip quiver. “I don’t think that’s it at all. You see, he brought me here to play with you, to be your companion. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t like you.”
“I thought he would be like an uncle, that’s what Mrs Holmes said,” he said, bottom lip wobbling.
“Mrs Holmes?”
“My neighbor. I lived with her for a spell,” he explained but then was overcome by tears. “I miss my mamó and my daidí,” he said in a voice almost swallowed by emotion.
Instinctively, Lydia wrapped her arm around him and pulled him closer as he burst into tears.
“Oh my dear boy. Don’t you worry. Your mama, your papa are always with you. Even when you can’t see them. Do you know how I know?” He pulled away from her and looked up, his round face wet. She took off her right glove and used her hand to wipe away his tears.
“I know that because my mama died four years ago. Almost five now. But I know she’s always with me. I can feel it in here,” she said and placed her hand over her heart. “I know for sure that she watches me and that she’s proud of me. She’s happy when she sees me smiling. And I think your mom and papa feel the same way, but they wouldn’t want to see you cry all the time.”
“No,” he said, “Mamo always said 'smile,' and pinched my cheeks like this,” he said and pinched his right and left cheeks with his thumb and index finger as though he were turning a screw, showing her his best smile. “She would do that all the time when I looked sad.”
“She sounds like a lovely lady,” Lydia said. “Now, what do you say we dry your eyes and then we go outside? We can play out there.”
“But it rained,” he said. “Everything is wet. His grace always says that I shouldn’t get dirty. A gentleman doesn’t get dirty.”
“Well,” Lydia said as she got up, “he isn’t wrong there. A gentleman should indeed be sure to be properly dressed and present himself appropriately, but you are only a boy. Not a gentleman yet. And even a gentleman sometimes needs to have entertainment; otherwise, what’s the point in living? As for the rain, if this estate is anything like mine, the rain will create the most wonderful opportunities for play. Do you believe me?” she asked and extended her hand.
He glanced at her hand and then slipped his hand into hers. The two of them made their way out of the little study room and down the hall, breakfast long forgotten.
They stepped out into the sunlit garden, hand in hand. The rain had left the air cool and fresh, carrying a soft, earthy scent. Lydia inhaled deeply, savoring the crispness, while Eammon skipped along beside her, his small boots making a satisfying crunch against the gravel path.
She let her eyes scan the grounds, searching for just the right spot. Past the trimmed hedges and flowerbeds, she finally found what she was looking for—a small patch of lawn by the driveway, still damp and vibrant from the earlier rain. In the center of it was a perfect puddle, round and gleaming in the sunlight, as though it had been placed there just for them.
“Come now,” Lydia said, quickening her pace and tugging Eammon toward it. “We’ve found our quarry!”
The boy cocked his head at her, curious but not yet convinced. “A puddle?” he asked doubtfully, glancing from her to the shallow pool of water.
“Yes, a puddle,” she said, kneeling down at its edge. She picked up a small rock, tossed it gently into the middle, and watched as the surface rippled and splashed. “See? It’s a perfectly good puddle. And do you know what puddles are for?”
Eammon’s brown eyes widened with genuine confusion. “Getting dirty?”
Lydia laughed and nodded. “Yes, precisely. Getting dirty —but with purpose.”
His brow furrowed. “His Grace won’t like that,” he muttered, shaking his head as if the disapproving guardian were already watching from behind a curtain.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt His Grace will have his opinions,” Lydia said breezily, picking up another rock. “But you’ll wash up after. Besides, it’s good for you.” She paused, giving him a sly look. “And think of it as training.”
“Training?” He perked up at the word.
“For hunting,” she said solemnly, though she was certain the glimmer in her eye gave her away. “See if you can hit the middle of the puddle every time—it’s precision work, like hitting a target. All great hunters must practice.”
Eammon giggled, thoroughly amused by the idea. “Hunters?”
“Oh yes.” She handed him a smooth stone, giving him a wink. “Now, aim true, Eammon.”
The boy hesitated only a moment before tossing the stone. It splashed perfectly in the center, spraying droplets onto the grass.
“Well done!” Lydia clapped her hands.
He beamed, and soon they were both gathered at the puddle’s edge, selecting rocks and splashing happily. Laughter filled the garden as ripples spread across the water again and again.
By the time the game ended, their clothes were damp and streaked with dirt, and Eammon’s cheeks were flushed with delight.
“See?” Lydia said, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “I told you it would be fun.”
Eammon nodded earnestly. “Can we do it again tomorrow?”
Lydia grinned. “Perhaps, if there is still a puddle. If not, we will find something else to do. For now I….Oh, I think we should take one last turn each. Go and search for the perfect pebble and we will throw it once each before we go inside.”
He nodded and instantly went to look for another pebble while Lydia stood and exhaled. This reminded her of the enjoyment she felt when she played with Cressida, who was almost Eammon’s age. How she missed her, and Elizabeth, Maggie, and Louisa… But soon she’d be back with them. No power on earth—and certainly no arrogant Duke—would stop her.