Chapter 27
The new arrival came on a drizzling morning: a carriage at the back, a crate within, and two stableboys muttering as they eased it to the ground.
The rain slicked the cobbles, made the horses shy and snort.
Lydia heard the growl before she saw the beast—low, throaty, a sound that made one gelding rear in alarm.
When the latch was forced and the crate door swung open, a Great Dane burst forward, black-and-white, tall enough that his head near reached Lydia’s shoulder.
His coat gleamed like polished marble, his chest deep and wide.
He strained against the leather lead, paws slipping on the wet stones, teeth flashing beneath the cruel muzzle.
Lydia darted forward, joy bursting from her unchecked. “He’s perfect—my knight, my hound—”
“Stand back.” Her grandfather’s voice cracked like a whip. He and Bill together held the lead, boots braced against the flagstones. “This dog is not a toy.”
Her grandmother’s step was measured, her voice cool as winter. “He is yours only on terms.”
“What terms?” Lydia’s fingers twitched to touch the muscled flank, her body leaning forward as if drawn by an invisible tether.
“The muzzle remains,” her grandfather said. “Whenever you are near. Always. If you cannot abide that, the dog returns.”
The words dropped like stones in her chest. She stared at the oiled leather, the straps biting into the proud animal’s face. “But he cannot breathe, he cannot—he cannot be a dog at all like this.”
“He can, and he shall,” her grandmother replied without hesitation. “Or he will not stay.”
The stableboys shuffled, muttering, eager to be rid of the beast. The dog gave a low whine, his body quivering with suppressed strength. Bill stroked the ruff of his neck, muttering, “Steady, Maida, steady now.”
“Maida,” Lydia repeated, seizing on the name. “Yes—Maida. She is mine. Mine to love, mine to keep.”
Her grandfather’s eyes softened for a flicker of a moment, but his jaw stayed firm. “Yours—if you obey.”
She looked round the circle—grandfather stern, grandmother implacable, her mother silent but with eyes bright and pleading, her father unreadable, Ron looming silent behind them all like a carved sentinel. There would be no appeal.
Her lips pressed tight. She saw Henry Thomas’s laughing face in her mind, her brother free to run barefoot across the nursery carpet without caution or restraint. The tears threatened, but she swallowed them back, chin lifted in defiance that fooled no one. “I will abide,” she said, her voice thin.
Only then did they let the lead pass to Bill, who tugged the great beast towards the stable. Lydia followed with her gaze until both were swallowed into the misting rain.
* * *
Later, in the nursery, Lydia stood on the rug, arms held high, while Henry Thomas ran circles round her, a long ribbon in his hand. They played at Wrap the Maypole, Lydia as the pole, her brother’s little feet pattering across the carpet. His laughter was high and unfettered, sweet as bells.
Maida lay nearby, huge and muzzled, her head resting on her paws. Her sides rose and fell with quiet, patient breaths. Each time Henry stumbled near, Maida’s ears pricked and her tail thudded faintly against the rug.
Lydia reached out, touched the leather straps biting her muzzle. “They think I do not know,” she whispered. “They think it is for you.”
She paused. “Or perhaps… it is for me.”
Henry squealed with delight as the ribbon tangled his ankle, tumbling to the floor. He rolled over, fearless, giggling until Lydia freed him with a flourish. He leapt up again, fearless, free.
Lydia pressed her brow to Maida’s head. “No one will say it. But I know. They fear me breaking—not you. They fear the child I was, not the sister I am.”
The dog gave a low whine, her eyes meeting Lydia’s with something like understanding.
“Do not fear, Maida,” she murmured. “We shall teach them both of us are safe.” She looked towards Henry Thomas, who clapped his hands and toddled towards the cradle again. “And one day he shall ride you, and the world will see—he is not glass, and I am not shadow.”
She kissed the cold leather, then gathered her brother into her lap, holding him fast.
* * *
Snow pressed against the tall windows of the great parlour, softening the light.
The family had gathered—grandfather in his chair, grandmother upright beside him, her lace cap immaculate, mother at her embroidery, father leaning indolently against the mantle.
Even Mrs Ecclestone had been persuaded to pause her lessons, while Henry Thomas sat in the nurse’s lap, cheeks flushed from the fire.
At the centre of the rug stood Lydia and Maida. The Great Dane towered, sleek as black marble, her muzzle gleaming in the firelight.
“Begin, then,” her grandfather said, sceptical but indulgent.
Lydia inclined her chin. “Sit.”
Maida hesitated—just a breath, weight shifting, a low sound in her chest.
Lydia did not repeat the word. She only lifted two fingers and stilled.
Maida sank at once, great body folding to the carpet.
“Down.”
A flick of her wrist, and the beast stretched obediently at her feet.
The murmurs began—mild surprise, then genuine admiration as Lydia led the hound through a series of commands.
With the sweep of her palm, Maida rose, circled, and lowered again.
A finger to her lips, and Maida stilled as silent as stone.
Lydia spoke little—only enough to keep rhythm—while her hands, deft and precise, gave the real orders.
She understands both, her mother signed with delight, hands moving quick with pride. Speech and sign.
Lydia flushed with pleasure, her eyes shining. She finished with a flourish: raising her hand, bowing low from the waist. Maida followed suit—an awkward but unmistakable dip of her massive head between her forelegs.
Applause filled the room—warm, impressed, uneven. Even her father laughed, clapping loudest of all, while Henry Thomas shrieked with glee and tried to wriggle free of the nurse’s arms.
Lydia’s heart beat like a drum. She had proven them wrong—all of them. She laid her hand on Maida’s head, her voice clear and bold.
“As she is so perfectly behaved,” she declared, “may we now remove this hindrance?”
Her fingers went to the muzzle strap.
“No.” Her grandfather’s voice cut firm.
“An agreement was made,” her grandmother added, calm as ever. “It must be abided.”
The applause died. Lydia’s hand lingered on the strap, trembling with the nearness of freedom. “But she has earned it—have I not shown you—”
“The rules remain,” her grandfather said. His gaze did not flicker—to the dog or the muzzle—but stayed on Lydia. “The penalties still hold.”
She drew a sharp breath. “You would take away my companion?”
“We would,” her grandmother said, the words cold and final.
The silence that followed pressed hard as stone. Lydia swallowed her pride, every muscle taut with fury she dared not show. Slowly, she curtseyed, the bow stiff as iron.
She took up Maida’s lead, shortened it to the prescribed length, and without another word walked from the parlour. The dog followed, stately and patient, the sound of the muzzle’s buckle faint as a fetter closing.