Chapter 29
Later that night, when the fire in her sitting room had burned low, Clarke brought her a sealed letter. Lydia broke it open with her bandaged hand, smearing the paper faintly with red.
My Dearest Lydia,
Your courage is not in doubt. You placed yourself between Henry Thomas and harm, and in that I take pride. You have kept faith as his sister, and as mine.
But you have broken faith as well. You swore never to reveal the secret I have kept for you, and yet you let it be known.
I shall not write more of this now. My remains must be said when I see you next.
Your brother,
Langston
* * *
The morning sun had burned away the mist, leaving the fields washed in green-gold.
Lydia’s skirts were kilted high, her boots damp from the grass, her hair tumbling loose from its pins.
She ran—truly ran—for the first time in years, Maida thundering at her side.
The dog’s stride was vast, her teeth flashing, yet she kept pace with every dart and turn.
Lydia laughed aloud, the sound breaking across the meadow like a skylark’s song.
No one called her back. No voice scolded. The shackles had been lifted.
At the far hedge she slowed, breath coming fast, and Maida dropped obediently to heel at a flick of her fingers. Lydia bent and buried both hands in the dog’s warm coat. “Good girl. My knight in armour.” Maida’s tail swept the grass, steady as a drumbeat.
Later, in the stable-yard, Lydia found Bill currying a bay gelding. She seized a brush from the wall and fell in beside him, tugging the bristles down the horse’s flank with swift, eager strokes. Bill gave her one long look—half doubt, half amusement—and grunted, “Mind his hock, Lady Lydia.”
She grinned, undaunted. “Do you curry every horse yourself, Bill? Even Grandpapa’s hunters?”
“Aye. Unless you mean to lend me a dozen more arms.”
She pressed him with questions: why oats at dusk and not dawn, how to read a shoe’s wear, whether the greys at Pemberley truly threw straighter than the Ashdale bays.
Bill answered in his slow, thick way, sometimes with words, more often with a twitch of his lip or a pointed lift of his brow.
He let her feed a lump of sugar, showed her where to smooth a mane so it lay flat, even guided her hand when she tried the comb across a stubborn tangle.
Lydia’s heart swelled. She could feel the horse’s strength through the bristles, smell the sharp mix of hay and hide, hear the steady blow of his breath against the stall boards. This was life, full and rough and real.
She was careful. Always careful. No climbing the stall rails, no slipping in straw, no rash strokes near a twitching hoof.
She remembered her promises to herself: she would not give them reason to wrap her in blankets again.
She was not a boy, for pity’s sake, to come home bleeding for glory.
But she could be strong. She would be strong.
Each day followed in that manner—races across the meadow, walks to the orchard, hours in the stable with Bill and the grooms. Henry Thomas toddled beside her when the weather was fine, squealing when Maida nosed his curls or when Lydia swung him laughing into her arms. Those were her happiest hours, when the house had forgotten to guard her, when she could breathe freedom in the wind.
Two weeks later, after a long tramp over the common with Maida ranging wide and Henry Thomas trotting stoutly at her side, she surmounted the rise only to halt.
Her boots were clotted, her hem damp and clinging, and she stood staring at the sweep of liveried footmen and carriages, all polished bright as glass.
She swiped at her hem, mud streaking her palm. A laugh still clung to her lips—until the sun struck the Matlock crest, gilt and pitiless, and her throat closed as if the hedge had risen against her.
Every carriage from Matlock was lined in the drive—polished wheels, crests bright against the afternoon light. Footmen hurried, valises were being lifted, the air crackled with the stir of departure.
Lydia caught her breath. The Season. London loomed, vast and inevitable, like a storm rolling in from the horizon.
* * *
The September air in Matlock House carried the faint tang of coal smoke, though the parlour fire had only just been lit.
The Countess of Matlock sat erect in her chair, a fresh pot of China tea steaming on the tray.
Lydia’s mother stirred her cup with silent precision, while her grandmother discussed callers and balls with unbending composure.
Lydia sat restless, fingers tapping against her knee.
The Season had begun, and with it the endless rules and watchful eyes.
The door opened. Clarke inclined his head. “Mrs Hudson is here, your ladyship.”
The housekeeper entered, solid and brisk, spectacles flashing. Beside her came a slight young woman in a plain grey gown, apron starched stiff, hair drawn smooth beneath a neat white cap. She curtseyed deeply, her dark eyes lifted once and lowered again.
“Your ladyship,” Mrs Hudson said, addressing the countess. “As requested, I present Mademoiselle Duval. Well recommended, skilled in hair, dress, and needle. She speaks English passably and has experience in households both here and in Bath.”
“French?” Lydia said, straightening.
Her grandmother set down her cup with delicate precision. “Yes, child. French maids are fashionable, and skilled besides. Do not gape.”
Duval curtseyed again, lips barely curving in what might have been the ghost of a smile. “I shall endeavour, my lady, to serve with discretion,” she said, her accent soft but unmistakable.
Lydia’s mother raised her hands, swift and elegant. You will be grateful, daughter. This is an honour.
Honour? Lydia signed back, her fingers sharp, her gaze fixed on Duval. It is a gaoler in ribbons.
Her father was absent, but she could almost see his brow arching in amusement at her defiance. No one else looked amused.
Mrs Hudson gave Lydia a brisk nod. “She will attend you directly, Lady Lydia—lay out your gowns, keep your linens, assist with your hair. You will not be burdened with trifles.”
“I am not troubled now,” Lydia said. “I keep my own chamber as I please.”
Her grandmother’s eyes cooled. “Which is precisely the problem.”
Duval’s head lifted at that, though her gaze did not linger. She moved with small, exact steps to Lydia’s side, curtseyed once more, and said in quiet French, “Ce ne sera pas mon r?le de commander, mademoiselle. Seulement de veiller à ce que vous soyez servie comme il sied à votre rang.”
It will not be my place to command, my lady. Only to see you are served. Lydia flushed. As befits your station. She hated the phrase. It was what everyone said when they meant to bind her hands and call it duty.
Lydia’s fingers dug into her skirts, nails biting through muslin. She hated the way the maid’s voice caressed her father’s name—as though it were a prayer upon strange lips.
She leant closer to Maida in her mind—though her hound was barred from the parlour—and thought: Better a dog than a French maid.
Aloud, she said tartly, “I have no need of her.”
“Need is not the matter,” her grandmother replied. “A Fitzwilliam lady must be ordered. And properly attended. This is settled.”
Lydia’s mother signed gently, Give her a chance, dearest.
Lydia turned her face away, chin high. She would not give in to the silent pleas of her mother’s hands.
Duval waited, unflinching. Her eyes were calm as pewter, her hands folded without fidget. For the briefest instant her eyes lingered—not reverent, not defiant, but measuring.
Lydia could not name it, and that ignorance nettled her most of all.
Her grandmother dismissed Mrs Hudson with a nod. The door closed, leaving the abigail standing behind her chair like a shadow stitched into place.
Lydia felt the invisible leash tighten anew.
* * *
The lamps burned low, the curtains drawn. Lydia tugged at the hooks of her gown, determined to undo them herself. Mademoiselle Duval stood by the dressing-table, patient, hands folded. She had followed Lydia up after tea without needing to be told.
“I said I do not need you,” Lydia muttered, jerking at a stubborn fastening.
Duval moved forward a single step. “If you permit, my lady, it will be quicker.”
“I will not permit.” Lydia twisted, fingers slipping. “I do not take instruction from anyone—least of all a maid.”
“As you wish.” Duval’s tone was quiet, unruffled. She did not withdraw, only waited.
Lydia yanked harder, the silk biting into her shoulder. Angered, she whirled round. “You are aware of my father, I trust?”
Duval inclined her head. “I read of him once, in the gazettes. Spain—Badajoz, was it not?” Her voice deepened slightly, steady as if she recited a lesson. “They told of his wounds, his imprisonment, and his escape. A deed of valour few men could claim.”
Lydia froze. Heat surged up her throat, prickling her scalp.
The air thickened; her hands fell slack at her sides.
She had heard the tale before, but never with such reverence, never in a voice so calm it felt like prayer.
Pride tightened in her chest—pride, and something sharper she would not name.
Duval stepped closer, her gaze steady, respectful. “He is a hero, my lady. A man of courage, duty, and endurance. Few households so venerated.”
Lydia lifted her chin. “I need no maid to remind me who my father is.”
For a beat Duval held her silence, the faintest curve at her mouth that might have been deference—or something else entirely.
“C’est… mon papa,” Lydia said, at last, the words pulled from her despite herself.
Duval bowed her head. “C'est donc un honneur de servir sa fille.”
Lydia’s mouth closed hard. She had given the girl something she had not meant to. She turned sharply away, nails digging at the fastening again. Her pride burned hotter than the sting in her eyes.
She pulled again at the hook. Duval stepped closer, hands still low, unthreatening. “May I?”
Lydia hesitated. Her shoulder ached; the silk cut cruelly. With a small huff, she nodded.
Duval’s fingers moved deftly and the gown loosened in an instant. “Là,” she said softly. “Pas de peine.”
Lydia slipped free, arms crossing over her shift. She felt suddenly small. “I did not ask for you,” she said.
“No,” Duval agreed. “But here I am.”
“Do not think to win me with talk of my father.” Lydia narrowed her eyes. “You are a servant.”
“As you command, my lady.”
The words pricked like a needle. Lydia sank into the chair, jaw set, and allowed her hair to be unpinned in silence.
* * *
The countess had called for Lydia to attend her in the blue parlour. Lydia entered with Duval in tow, Ron silent at the door as always.
Her father was already there, standing by the hearth. Opposite him sat a woman Lydia had never seen: plainly dressed, dark hair streaked with iron grey, her hands large and square, folded over a leather satchel that bulged with orderly rolls of linen.
Her father’s eyes warmed. “Mrs Bessette.”
She inclined her head. “Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“You’ve mended since Talavera,” he said with something that was not quite a smile. “I scarce recognised you without a pack on your back.”
The woman gave a short laugh. “And you, sir? You walk straight again. I heard your horse donated your last set of sutures.”
“That he did,” her father admitted. “Burton says I live on borrowed grace.” He waved a hand. “And the family? Do you hear from them still?”
“My brother still fishes at Gorey,” she said. “My mother is buried there now. The rest… scattered.”
Her father’s eyes softened, then turned towards her. “This is my daughter. Lydia, this is Nurse Bessette.”
“You may call me, Nurse.” Her gaze, not unkind, but sharp as a surgeon’s probe fixed on Lydia. “Your father’s brow, your mother’s eyes.” She inclined her head. “Is she her father’s daughter, Colonel?” Her tone was low and serious.
“She is,” he said, with equal weight in his tone.
“Has Mr Burton set a course for her instruction?”
“He has. A triage program, scaled for her hand. Nothing too elaborate. Basic self-care. No dependence on maids or mothers.”
“Good. Then we may begin.”
Lydia’s eyes bounced between them, bewildered. “Am I to sit here like a piece of furniture while you two decide my fate?”
Her father raised a brow, calm but warning. “Lydia.”
Mrs Bessette only smiled faintly, as if Lydia’s protest were the squeak of a cart wheel. Lydia’s heel beat a furious tattoo against the rug; the only sound she dared make until her protest burst.
“She’ll bridle at first. They all do.”
Her father nodded once. “Then we are agreed.”
Lydia’s fists clenched in her lap. They spoke of her as though she were absent, as though she were still a child in a cradle. Her head flicked between them, back and forth, and she felt like a shuttlecock batted over a net.
Nurse looked at her directly. “We must stop minor aches from becoming larger injuries. Your extremities speak to you. We only need to learn to listen.”
“Listen? To my… fingers?”
“As you are your father’s daughter, you must learn to keep yourself whole. If you can bind a wound, you can save a life.”
Nurse did not ask whether Lydia agreed.
“Begin with your own. That will be our work.”