Chapter 31
The afternoon light slanted across the chamber, pale against the drawn curtains. Lydia sat rigid in her chair, her arms folded tight, chin lifted in stubborn defiance.
Nurse Bessette set her leather satchel on the table and unbuckled it with slow, unhurried hands. Folded linen, glass vials, a coil of bandage, and a slim lancet gleamed in the light. She might as well have emptied a surgeon’s kit upon Lydia’s dressing table.
Duval shifted where she stood with the basin, the water trembling against its rim. Her eyes flicked to the little blade and away again, her lips forming a soft mon Dieu.
By the window, her mother kept her needle poised above the fabric, her hands steady but her face pale. She did not look up, though Lydia saw the tightness in her mouth.
“Let us begin,” said Nurse. Her voice was plain, stripped of fuss. “Thumb to finger. One by one.”
Lydia scowled. “This is childish.”
“Yet it must be done.”
With a huff, Lydia obeyed, tapping thumb to forefinger, then middle, then ring, then little. The movement felt absurd.
“Again,” Bessette said.
She repeated it. Then again, faster, until irritation flushed her cheeks.
“Now the other hand.”
“This is nonsense.”
“This is survival,” the nurse answered. “Each motion tells you whether strength remains. When you are cut, or dizzy, or faint with blood loss, you will know if your hand still obeys you. Begin again.”
Lydia swallowed hard and obeyed.
Bessette moved to her feet. “Shoes off. Flex your toes. Spread them. Roll your ankle.”
Lydia glared at her, but Duval was already crouching to unfasten the slipper. Lydia jerked her foot away. “I can manage.” She tore off the shoe herself, flexed her toes in a quick, angry flutter.
“Slower,” Bessette instructed. “Feel each joint. Each tendon. They speak to you if you listen.”
“I feel nothing,” Lydia snapped.
“That is precisely why you must look. Count. Measure. What you do not feel, your eyes must tell you. Again.”
Her jaw tightened. Still, she obeyed, the motions clumsy, graceless.
When at last she tried to stand, Bessette pressed her back down with one firm hand. The nurse unrolled a strip of bandage, laid it across Lydia’s lap, and drew out the lancet.
Lydia’s heart jolted. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching. Hold out your hand.”
“No!”
The steel gleamed, small but merciless. Duval gasped, and her mother’s needle faltered, pricking her finger. A drop of blood welled, dark against the pale cloth.
Bessette only waited. “You cannot rely on others to bind you, Lady Lydia. Not a maid. Not your mother. Not even me. You will bind yourself. That is the task.”
Lydia’s fists curled tight. “I will not—”
“Enough,” Bessette said. “Give me your hand.”
It shook as she extended it, palm up. A drop of blood welled swift as the lancet nicked the base of her thumb. Lydia flinched, not from pain—there was none—but from the sight of scarlet on her pale skin.
“Bind it,” Bessette commanded. She pressed the strip of linen into Lydia’s other hand.
Her fingers fumbled, clumsy, useless. Duval took a half step forward, but the nurse barked, “No.”
Lydia wrestled with the linen, breath coming quick. At last, she knotted it round the thumb, awkward but secure. The red had already blotted through, but the flow slowed.
“Raise your hand above your heart.”
Lydia did so.
Bessette nodded. “Adequate. With practice, it will be better. You will repeat this until your hands obey without thought.”
Lydia stared up at the crude bandage, her chest heaving. She felt exposed, ridiculous.
By the window, her mother set down her sewing and lifted her hands to sign: It was the same for your father. He learnt. So shall you.
Lydia’s mouth fell open.
For a heartbeat, she forgot her anger.
* * *
The fire burned low in the grate, shadows soft against the panelled walls.
Fitzwilliam sat with his boots stretched towards the hearth, one hand cradling a glass of brandy.
Kitty occupied her usual chair opposite, a lamp at her elbow, her sewing folded neatly in her lap. She had not touched it in some time.
Her eyes lingered on the glass in his hand. At length, she raised her fingers. I watched her today.
He looked up, meeting her gaze. “You should not have been made to.”
Her hands moved again, slower now. It was necessary. As it was for you.
His jaw tightened. He set down the glass, leant forward, elbows on his knees. “For me, Burton began the drills when I was four years old. I thought them a punishment. Humiliations dressed as lessons.”
Kitty’s fingers stilled in her lap. She gave a faint nod, eyes clear. I remember the first time I saw you.
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “Longbourn.”
She nodded again. Her hands spoke with delicate precision: You stood as still as stone, staring at me, touching your thumbs to your fingers again and again. I thought you were mocking. Then you signed to me. The first person outside my family ever to do so.
He exhaled, the memory striking warm and raw together. “It was the only way I knew to show you I was not some gaping fool.”
Her expression softened. And I loved you for it.
“Loved?”
She leant in and kissed him.
Love, she mouthed against his lips.
* * *
The Season was finally stuttering to its close.
The air in Matlock House still smelled of beeswax and rosewater, but summer was a carriage ride away.
Ashdale. Langston. Together, they could take long day–outings with Henry Thomas, and with Maida bounding ahead.
No governesses, no nurses, no endless attendants. Freedom.
How she hated it—that her smallest action drew a ripple of people about her, a whole retinue orbiting as though she were some fragile, porcelain doll. She was not a princess for pity’s sake, yet she was shadowed as if she wore a crown of glass.
She bent over her writing, the last letter to Eton nearly finished.
Soon, the address would change to Cambridge.
Would their paths never cross again? Always diverging, he there, she here?
Would they ever truly live together again, as they had in childhood?
The thought made her jaw clench. It was maddening.
A soft throat-clearing cut the air. Lydia looked up. Duval stood in the doorway, hands folded, dark eyes as steady as ever.
“Milady, the countess and viscountess have asked that you join them in the study.”
Her heart dropped to her stomach. Not another summons, not another new “attendant” to be foisted upon her.
She shoved back from the desk, exasperated. Then, with a resigned sigh, she rose and stretched out her arms. Duval was at her side in an instant, fastening hooks, tugging sleeves smooth, setting her hair in place with deft fingers. It took less than two minutes—tidy, invisible service.
Lydia caught her reflection: presentable, polished, perfectly fit for an audience in her father’s study.
“Merci beaucoup,” she muttered, a little grudgingly.
Duval dipped in a neat curtsey, unoffended.
Well. Perhaps Duval might remain. She was quiet, efficient, unflappable.
But the rest—the endless crowd of watchers and whisperers—blast.
Lydia knocked once and pushed the door wider, her heart fluttering despite her resolve. Her father sat behind the earl’s desk, the lamplight throwing sharp lines across his face. To his left stood Nurse Bessette, square-shouldered, her leather satchel propped like a sentry at her feet.
* * *
The blue parlour smelled faintly of lavender polish and coal smoke.
The Countess of Matlock presided at the centre, erect as a statue, her teacup untouched.
Kitty sat to one side, her hands folded neatly in her lap, while Mrs Gardiner occupied the other, calm and gracious, her violet eyes so like her sisters’.
Lydia paused on the threshold, feeling the air of quiet expectation thrum about her.
Behind her, Duval hovered, as silent as a shadow. Ron took his habitual place near the door. And beside the hearth, waiting, stood a tall woman in a gown of black bombazine, her posture straight as a blade.
“Lady Lydia,” the countess said with cool authority, “this is Signora Bellanti. She comes to us from Florence by way of Paris. You will show her respect.”
Bellanti inclined her head. “Your ladyships.” Her accent carried that rich Italian music, softened by years abroad. She did not smile, yet there was nothing discourteous in her manner—only a gravity that seemed to fill the space without effort.
Lydia pressed her lips together. Her gaze flicked to Bellanti. “And how much of my day am I to be given over to this… instruction?”
Bellanti inclined her head once more, unruffled by the barb.
“I am no gaoler, Lady Lydia. I shall not bind your hands.”
She paused—only a fraction, but long enough to be felt.
“I will teach you how to carry them so that none may see weakness in your grasp.”