Chapter 15
Lydia liked the gates best.
North gate, south gate, the little post by the orchard, the stone by the ha-ha—each had a man who stood like a tree. They all had names in her pocket: Stone North. Stone South. Stone Orchard. Stone Wall.
When Langston came home for a week, she took his hand and led him to each one in turn, as if she were showing him new dogs. His grip was warm and sure, his stride longer, and she had to hurry to keep up.
“Do they bark?” he asked, a teasing light in his eyes.
“They nod,” she said, solemn.
“What happens if they do not?”
She tilted her head, watching Stone North’s jaw, waiting for the dip. It came, as always, small but certain. She smiled with relief. “They always do.”
He squeezed her hand. “I like that.”
So did she. She kept the nod safe in her pocket with the others.
Sometimes at night she would draw them out, one by one, lining the shapes across her pillow in her mind—Stone North, Stone South, Stone Orchard, Stone Wall. Each nod was another stone for the wall around her.
That night, when Mrs Ecclestone made her repeat Latin verbs at her slate, Lydia wrote noddare in the corner and decorated it with a crooked little gate.
* * *
Ashdale, July 1825
The courtyard smelled of steam and wet stone. A summer squall had passed, leaving puddles that mirrored the sky. Lydia made a game of leaping six stones at a time, keeping her slippers dry, her skirts lifted just enough to avoid the splashes.
At the kitchen door a footman she did not recognise came out with a kettle. He did not wait for the maid to take it. Steam belched into the air, curling white and hot.
Ron was there before Lydia had time to think. He moved like a door closing—swift, silent. Without touching the man’s hand, he lifted the kettle, set it carefully on the flagstones, and stood between Lydia and the rising steam.
The footman swallowed, colour draining from his face. He bowed, awkward, the tray rattling.
Ron turned his palm outward. Not a word, only that large shape. Lydia’s heart leapt at the sight of it. She had seen it before. No more.
The man bowed again, deeper, and fled into the kitchen.
Lydia studied Ron’s hand until it fell to his side. She tucked the gesture into her pocket with the nods from the gates.
Inside, Mrs Ecclestone’s slate waited. Lydia copied Latin words in a steady hand, then English, then the names of the Derbyshire winds.
When she was finished, she drew the north gate from memory, marking the place where Stone North’s boots always stood.
Her fingers itched to add Ron’s hand beside it—open, forbidding—but she folded her slate shut instead. That secret belonged only to her.
* * *
Matlock House, Twelfth Night 1825
The house brimmed with light and music. Fiddles lilted, pipes laughed, and voices mingled like sugared wine. Lydia stood at the top of the staircase, gloves snug against her wrists, her hem whispering as she began her descent.
She counted each step, steady, careful. No stumble. No test. She would not give Mrs Ecclestone cause to frown nor Mama reason to pale. She smiled when she should, laughed when laughter was given to her, and let her chin tilt just so, like Lady Matlock had taught her.
At the foot of the stairs Langston waited. Taller now, with a sprig of ivy knotted at his shoulder, he offered his arm. His hand was bigger than she remembered, roughened by school and sparring. She set her fingers lightly upon it, as if they had rehearsed the gesture a thousand times.
“Shall we?” he said.
“We shall.”
They crossed the hall together, and Lydia dared one glance back. Ron and Kale stood half in shadow near the door. She did not need them to nod. She already knew. Stone Hall.
Her heart warmed. This is how a house keeps a promise without saying a word.
* * *
Ashdale, July 1826
Lydia had turned nine in March, but the family still spoke of her birthday picnic—ribbons, trifles, and a cake with too many sugared flowers. That was Lydia.
Under their favourite oak tree, Langston set a crown of wildflowers on her head. She was his little sister. And he was her older brother.
You are my hero, she signed.
Keeping the watchers guessing?
She laughed and embraced him.
That afternoon, when tea was laid, Langston looked to Lydia’s usual place by the window and found it empty. Kale said she had slipped away while they changed posts, a mischief of hers that sometimes tested their watch. Ron had already gone after her.
She was nine now, still small but lively, and had a talent for slipping away precisely when she knew the footmen’s eyes were elsewhere.
He took the orchard path, calling her name once, then again. The birds fell silent. The hush pressed on his ears, heavy as a held breath. His heart slammed against his ribs—then a scream tore the air, high and sharp, unmistakably Lydia’s.
He ran.
Through nettles, across the orchard line, skidding past the gatehouse, he rounded the tenant shed and saw her.
Lydia stood pressed against the stone wall, skirts tangled around her legs. Before her crouched a badger, thick-shouldered and bristling, its striped head low, teeth bared. It hissed, claws raking the earth, as if daring anyone to come closer. Its growl vibrated in the stones, low and furious.
Her breath came fast but her face stayed composed, as if she were studying the creature rather than facing its claws. Her gown quivered, though her face did not.
“Lydia!”
Her eyes darted towards him—wide, unblinking. She snatched her hem out of reach, the muslin catching on the wall. Blood streaked her shin in angry lines.
The badger wheeled at the sound of his voice. Langston grabbed the nearest branch, rough and heavy in his grip, and stepped forward. The beast hissed louder, backing Lydia tighter against the wall.
Langston shouted, charging, swinging down with all his weight. The branch cracked against the ground. The badger slashed at him, claws grazing his forearm through the sleeve before it spun and bolted into the hedge, hissing as it vanished.
Only then did Langston drop the branch. His chest heaved. “Did it bite you?”
Bootsteps pounded the orchard track. Ron appeared, Kale at his shoulder. Both men froze at the sight, eyes raking Lydia first, then Langston’s arm.
“Secure the doors and hedges,” Langston ordered, voice sharp. “See if it circles back.” Ron turned to the left, Kale to the right. A moment later, they disappeared from sight.
Lydia shook her head. Calm as ever. “It clawed me.”
“Let me see.” He crouched, breath still ragged. She gathered her skirts. Four red welts raked her calf, already swelling. Blood welled in bright beads.
“Not badly,” she said, almost curious. She bent, fascinated by the beads of blood. “It is warm,” she murmured, as though it were ink from a pen, not her own flesh torn.
His sleeve clung damp to his arm. He pulled it back to reveal angry slashes of his own. The sting rose now that the fight was over.
Lydia stepped closer, frowning. “It was only a mother. She thought I would hurt her babies.”
“Does it burn? Sting?” he asked.
“I feel it. But I don’t want to cry.”
He lowered himself to the flat stone beside the shed. She followed, skirts rustling. He pulled a pin from his coat hem, holding it tight though his hand shook.
“Tell me when it hurts.”
She nodded.
He pressed the point into her fingertip.
“Perhaps a little,” she said, uncertain.
He pushed deeper. She only shrugged.
He withdrew it, throat thick, and gave it to her. “Your turn.”
She tested his finger. Lightly. Then harder.
He winced, breath catching.
“That is blood,” she said.
“It is.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
Her violet eyes searched his face. “What am I?” she whispered.
He felt the weight of her question like a stone in his chest. Different, something whispered inside him. Like Papa. But she did not know that—and it was not for him to tell. Yet, she waited, trusting him, for the answer.
He straightened his shoulders, forcing his voice steady. “Strong.”
“I am strong,” she repeated, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Ron and Kale will return soon.”
He bent and kissed her temple. “They always do.”
They sat breathing together, bleeding together, until at last she raised her little finger. “Promise me.”
He lifted his finger and linked it with hers.
“I will not tell.”