Chapter 28
Ashdale, this wretched month of March
My Dearest Langston,
I write to you in a passion—and if my ink blotches the page, you must forgive me, for it comes from my heart, which is full to bursting.
All here conspire to cosset me. Yes, stifle!
Were you to return, you would laugh to see how I am treated, as if every step I take were peril, as if every breath I draw must be watched.
I am surrounded on all sides—by Grandmama’s constant counsel, by Grandpapa’s stern eye, by Mama’s hands ever raised to bid me Patience, and by Papa’s silence that chills me more than a rebuke.
And above all by Ron, who never leaves me, never speaks, never falters, but trails me as though I were some state secret under guard.
No one will name it. Not one soul will speak the word aloud, though I feel it everywhere—like a draft under every door. As if it were a monstrous cloak that clings to me still. As if it were writ upon my brow, plain to every eye, yet none will speak of it.
I cannot stir into the grounds without escort.
If I stoop to pick a daisy, Bill watches from the stable-yard.
If I lean too far over the pond, Ron’s shadow looms like a gaoler at his post. I cannot run—not properly run—without a call of caution behind me.
Yet I am fourteen, hale, hearty, full of life—more so, I daresay, than Henry Thomas himself!
Ah, Henry Thomas—he is the jewel of the house.
He is permitted everything. His cradle stands in sunlight, his feet patter on carpets, his laugh is echoed by all.
But when I was his age, the furniture was wrapped in padding lest I stumble!
The very tables and chairs wore muffling, as though I were a reckless colt bound to shatter myself.
Now they coo over him, unwrapped, unbound, their darling boy.
I rejoice in him—how could I not? He is my knight, my little king.
But oh, Langston, do they not see the insult?
He is not me. He never was, and never shall be.
Yet they act as if my shadow might fall upon him and dim his light.
I begged for a dog, and at last they yielded—but even that gift was chained.
Maida is noble, clever, mine in spirit as much as flesh, yet she must wear her cruel muzzle whenever I am near.
They say it is to protect me. Lies! They say it is for my sake.
I do not know if I believe them anymore.
The beast obeys me better than any tutor, she bows when I bow, she lies down when I lift a finger—yet still they muzzle her in bondage. And I, too, in silence.
I am taught by so many masters—music, languages, the sciences, history.
They drill and question and applaud when I answer quick, and yet not one teaches me how to live with this endless curtain of caution drawn about me.
Not one admits that the veil exists. I am clever enough to know, and cruel enough to resent it, and helpless enough to be bound by it.
Come home, Langston. You are my champion.
You are the only one who speaks plain. You would tear this mask aside and tell them I am flesh and blood, not glass nor porcelain.
If I scream it, they say I am ill-tempered.
If I sulk it, they say I am childish. But if you declared it, they would believe.
Come home. Come soon. I will wither here if no one hears me.
You promised me, before you left, that with you I might always be Lydia, only Lydia. I need that promise now. Write to me, if you cannot come. Tell me what I should do. Tell me how to endure.
Your most loving, most vexed, most desperate sister,
Lydia
* * *
The drawing room was warm with fire and laughter.
Lydia chased Henry Thomas round the carpet, her slippers skimming the rug as he shrieked with delight.
He fell with a thump against Maida, burying his little fists in her sleek hide.
The dog, muzzle fastened, bore it without complaint, lowering herself so the child might clamber up.
With a proud groan she heaved him to his feet, and he tottered forward again, running with a wobbling gait until he collapsed once more, his giggles spilling through the chamber.
Lydia clapped her hands and called, “Again, my knight!” Henry Thomas squealed, toppled, and Maida obliged him. Even her mother smiled, her hands rising to sign her approval, and her grandmother’s lips softened from their usual severity. The room breathed with ease.
The door latch turned.
Clarke stepped in, grave as ever. “Mr Burton.”
Lydia froze, arms tightening round her brother before she knew she had moved. She drew him up against her hip and stepped behind Maida, who rumbled low in her throat.
Burton entered, his expression calm, unreadable. He bowed to her grandmother and mother. “I come prepared.”
The women rose. Her grandmother said briskly, “Bring the boy.”
“No.”
The single syllable cracked across the chamber. All turned to her.
“What was that?” Her grandmother’s tone sharpened.
“You shall not harm him.”
Her mother’s brows knit. She lifted her hands to soothe: Dearest, no one means harm—
But both women stepped towards her.
“Guard,” Lydia commanded.
Maida surged upright, a growl bursting from her chest. The countess halted, skirts rustling back; her mother faltered mid-step, her hands dropping.
Ron hurried through the doorway, crossed the room without a word, caught Maida by the collar. He lifted her bodily as though she weighed no more than a child. The dog thrashed, but Ron bore her out, the sound of her snarls fading down the passage.
Lydia’s heart pounded. She set Henry Thomas down and thrust the dessert cart between herself and the advancing figures. Her breath came hot, fast. “You will not harm him. I know what you mean to do.”
Sweetling—her mother signed, hands trembling.
“You suppose I do not know? You would take me for a fool?” Lydia’s hands shook, but her voice was sharp as glass. She screamed, “He is not as I am!”
Henry Thomas began to cry. Lydia caught him up, kissed his wet cheek.
“Then tell me,” Lydia said, her voice breaking at last, “what you intend to do to him that you once did to me.”
No one answered.
The silence came down like a lid.
She swung him on her hip, reached out and snatched a fork from the cart.
Her grandmother paled. “Lydia,” she said, very calm now. “That is enough.”
Lydia pressed the prongs just hard enough into her brother’s chubby leg. He pursed his lips, gave a startled wail. Tears nearly blinded her.
“See—he weeps, he feels pain, yet it passes as it should.”
She kissed him over and over, rocking him, whispering, “You are not as I am. You are not as I am.”
The door banged open. Her father and grandfather strode in, faces stark with alarm.
Lydia whirled on them, her brother clutched close, the fork quivering in her hand. She pointed it straight at her father.
“He is not as you.” Her voice lowered. “But I am.”
She set her brother down, laid her left hand flat upon the cart, and then, before anyone could stop her—and before she could be stopped by doubt—she drove the fork into the back of her hand.
* * *
Kitty’s scream tore through the room.
Fitzwilliam was across the carpet in two strides. He seized Lydia’s wrist before the fork could twist deeper, his other hand clamping over Henry Thomas to bear the boy away. Clarke swept the child from his arms at once, the boy’s wails echoing against the panelled walls.
“No!” Kitty’s voice rasped, broken from the depths of her chest. She half rose, her hands clawing the air, her face ashen.
The countess stood rigid, her napkin still crumpled in her hand, her eyes wide and stunned. The earl’s lips pressed thin, white as chalk.
Lydia only lifted her bloody hand higher, scarlet streaking her wrist, her eyes burning with something she had waited far too long to prove.
“Do you not see?” Her voice cracked. “I knew. I have always known. Langston knows—we tested each other—”
“Enough!” He turned to Burton. “Those who dismiss the past,” he said, his voice low, steady, meant for every ear in the chamber, “only invite it to return.”
Burton, pale as parchment, bent without a word, drawing open his satchel. Bottles clinked, folded linen appeared, forceps gleamed. His hands, though aged, moved with soldier’s economy. “I have better than brandy for this instance,” he murmured.
The earl’s voice broke the silence. “At least it was not Langston stabbing her hand. I do not think I could go through that again.”
Lydia’s gaze snapped to him. “What are you saying? My brother is innocent—”
“Not your brother,” Fitzwilliam said, the words heavy as stone. His own voice sounded strange to him, as though drawn from another man’s throat. “My brother.”
Her breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Fitzwilliam’s jaw set. “Burton—treat her as the injury demands.”
Burton bowed his head, already reaching for her hand, murmuring as one might to a skittish horse.
Fitzwilliam looked around the table, meeting each stunned face in turn. “We shall reconvene when her hand is cleansed. There is much Lydia must learn—and she must learn it quickly.”
* * *
Burton bent to his task, extracting the fork, wrapping linen round Lydia’s palm, murmuring calm as her blood seeped scarlet into his cloths. Henry Thomas was carried out. Maida gone. Silence clung heavy, broken only by Burton’s careful work.
For a moment, no one spoke as though speech itself might invite another wound.
It was the earl who spoke first. His voice was iron.
“She has shown us the truth of it. No more cosseting. No more curtains and guards. The girl must learn to reckon with herself. To bind her own wounds. To master her own body.”
The countess gasped, colour rising in her cheeks. “You would make a spectacle of her? A girl of twelve—”
“Fourteen,” Fitzwilliam cut in. His voice was steady, unflinching. “And already she sees more than half this table. The pretence is done. She herself has torn it.”
Kitty’s hands moved quick. Why must she bear it all? Why press her as though she were a soldier? She is a girl. My girl.
“She is Fitzwilliam,” the earl said, his hand striking the table. “And Fitzwilliams endure.”
The countess’s voice sharpened. “There are limits! You would teach her fencing? Boxing? To bleed in the yard like a common pugilist?”
Fitzwilliam’s gaze flicked to her, then to Kitty, then back to his mother. “Not so. Only what may be borne by a lady without shame. But enough to defend herself when others fail her.”
“Unseemly,” the countess snapped.
“Necessary,” the earl returned.
Kitty’s lips tightened. What would you have of her, Richard? What life do you envision?
He met her eyes, his own steady though a weight pressed his chest. “The one that keeps her alive.”
That silenced them.
The earl leant forward. “She must be weighed. Measured. Tested. And if she fails—”
The countess’s hands clenched in her lap. “Fails? She is but a child.”
Fitzwilliam looked at his daughter’s pale face, her wide eyes fixed on him as Burton bound the last knot. His words fell slow, deliberate.
“If she fails, then her path is narrow—quiet walls, prayer, and no further risk to herself.”
He inclined his head. “That is not where a Fitzwilliam lives.”
The earl nodded once, hard. “So be it.”
All eyes turned to Fitzwilliam.
“She must learn to survive against the odds.” He turned to her.
“Or she will not survive at all.”