Chapter 32
The long corridor of Matlock House echoed faintly with her steps. Lydia’s hem skimmed the polished boards as she strode, eyes fixed ahead. She could feel them behind her, as always.
Duval with her neat satchel of sewing and a folded shawl upon her arm.
Nurse Bessette with her square hands gripping a basket of bandages and glass vials, her eyes ever watchful.
Ron, immovable shadow, his boots heavy, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
And at the far end, as if she had known precisely where to stand, Signora Bellanti waited, a thin volume of Italian verse in her hands. The woman closed it without sound as Lydia drew near.
Lydia’s cheeks flamed hot. She snapped her fan open with a sharp flick—practising deportment, she told herself. Inwardly, she seethed. They parade me like a prize foal, to be guarded and polished. Can I not stir one corridor without half the house at my heels?
She swept past Bellanti with a cold, curt nod. The woman did not blink.
Her throat felt tight, as if she had swallowed a stone. She fixed her chin level and counted each step until the corridor turned.
* * *
The blue parlour smelled of beeswax and roses. Lydia stood in the centre carpet square, hands spread just so, as Signora Bellanti corrected her posture.
“Rise,” the Italian intoned. Lydia rose.
“Turn.” She turned.
“Curtsey.” She bent her knees, felt Duval dart forward to tug her hem so it lay without wrinkle.
Ron stood at the door, silent as a post. Nurse Bessette sat close by, her sharp eyes upon Lydia’s hands—always her hands.
After the third repetition, Lydia let out an exasperated sigh. “How many bows make a lady, Signora? Am I to be trotted before the King tomorrow?”
Bellanti’s voice was even, deliberate. “All of life is rehearsal, Lady Lydia. If you cannot bear your own reflection in the parlour, how will you bear the eyes of five hundred in Court?”
Her mother, by the window with her needlework, looked up.
“All hours outside calling,” Bellanti said evenly, “in this house shall be mine.”
Her mother’s fingers moved with delicate precision: Your grandmother would agree.
“All?” Lydia’s voice sharpened. “What of Henry Thomas? And Maida?”
She glanced towards Nurse Bessette.
“My other requirements?”
“Of course. Posture, movement, speech, and silence—these will be our labour.”
Lydia bit back a groan. Another gaoler, another rule. And I am to thank them all for it?
She dropped into another curtsey, her chin held high, her eyes burning.
Bellanti’s shadow fell across the carpet. “Do you know why I make you curtsey?” she asked quietly.
Lydia straightened. “To make me ridiculous.”
The Italian’s mouth did not move, yet the dark eyes warmed with the faintest glint. “I make you curtsey so that no man may make you kneel.”
Lydia blinked.
Bellanti stepped closer, adjusted Lydia’s shoulders with the lightest touch.
“One day you will meet two kinds of men. The first will strut and flatter, their danger small—unless you give them hours you can never reclaim. The others will not strut. They will watch. They will wait. They will strike where you are weakest.”
Her voice softened, so low that even Duval stilled her busy hands. “Your bow is not for the peacock, Lady Lydia. It is for the wolf. It says: I am not prey.”
Lydia glanced over her shoulder. Ron stood inside the door.
Her mouth curved despite herself. “You do not give him his due, Signora.”
Bellanti drew back, her face unreadable once more. “Again,” she said simply.
Lydia curtseyed. This time, she imagined a wolf watching.
* * *
Lady Newhaven’s Morning Room, June 1832
“Lady Lydia!” Miss Fairchild sang out as Lydia entered. “How perfectly charming you look this morning.”
“As do you both,” Lydia replied, curtseying. She crossed to the nearest chair and sat; gloves folded neatly in her lap.
Miss Beaufort leant close to Miss Fairchild, her whisper pitched just loud enough to carry. “There. I told you she had the Fitzwilliam nose.”
“And the Fitzwilliam manner,” Miss Fairchild replied with a sly little smile.
They turned their heads just enough to catch Lydia in their glance. “Your brother must have the same, Lady Lydia?”
Lydia inclined her head.
Miss Beaufort clasped her hands. “He is said to be the handsomest gentleman at Cambridge—handsomer than Lord Atherton.”
“Prettier, I think,” Miss Fairchild said. “Though not quite so tall.”
Lydia smoothed her skirt. “He is tall enough.”
Miss Beaufort tittered. “She will not hear a word against him. How sweet.”
Miss Fairchild twirled her fan. “Would he dance with anyone at Almacks, I wonder? Men who are too handsome can be dreadfully vain.”
Lydia pressed her lips together as she stilled her hands.
“They say he has fathomless dark eyes,” Miss Beaufort continued, “but sharper. Very piercing.”
“They would have to be,” Miss Fairchild said. “A gentleman must frighten off half the room before he can choose a partner.”
Miss Beaufort giggled. “Perhaps Lady Lydia has frightened off the other half already.”
They dissolved into laughter. Lydia inclined her head once, her expression smooth.
“Will he take a commission?” Miss Beaufort asked. “Scarlet would suit him.”
“Blue is smarter,” Miss Fairchild said. “The Blues are far more exclusive.”
“Papa was in scarlet,” Lydia said softly.
Miss Fairchild snapped her fan shut. “Yes, but your papa fought real battles. There are none left to fight now. Gentlemen only wear uniforms to be admired.”
“Or to find a wife,” Miss Beaufort added. “Girls lose their heads for a red coat. I suppose you will too.”
Lydia’s hands tightened on her gloves, but she made no reply.
Miss Fairchild tilted her head. “She will not confess it. That means yes.”
Miss Beaufort laughed. “Wait until she comes out. We shall all be shoved to the wall.”
“Better the wall than the floor,” Miss Fairchild said with a sly look.
The girls laughed again. Lydia nodded, serene, giving them nothing.
Miss Beaufort’s smile turned kittenish. “Do you not have a younger brother, Lady Lydia? I, for one, cannot abide little boys.”
“They are sticky,” Miss Fairchild said at once. “My cousin’s son ruined my gloves with jam.”
“They break things,” Miss Beaufort said. “My brother smashed Mama’s Chinese vase last month. I told her he ought to have been whipped.”
“They are sent to school as soon as they can be trusted with breeches,” Miss Fairchild said. “And good riddance.”
“Let the masters have them,” Miss Beaufort agreed. “Then at least they do not chatter at breakfast.”
Lydia’s fingers curled hard against her gloves. “Little boys grow,” she said, very quietly, “into young men.”
“Some grow worse,” Miss Fairchild said airily. “I suppose your baby brother will be just as wild.”
“You know not what you speak,” Lydia said.
“Not yet,” Miss Beaufort said with a knowing smile. “But wait until he finds the stables. He will come in smelling of horse.”
“And mud,” Miss Fairchild added. “And tear his stockings.”
Lydia lifted her chin. “A stocking mended is worth more than a slipper unsoiled.”
Miss Beaufort’s brows shot up. Miss Fairchild bit back a laugh.
“She is fierce!” Miss Fairchild whispered.
“Fierce and taciturn,” Miss Beaufort said. “I do not know which is worse.”
“Quiet girls are very proud,” Miss Fairchild said. “One never knows what they are thinking.”
“Perhaps she is judging us,” Miss Beaufort said.
“Of course she is.” Miss Fairchild laughed. “That is what Fitzwilliams do.”
Lydia inclined her head once more, her smile faint.
“Will you be at Lady Vale’s musicale?” Miss Beaufort asked.
“If invited,” Lydia said.
“Of course you will be invited,” Miss Fairchild said. “Your mama never misses.”
“Then I shall go.”
“And sit silent again?” Miss Beaufort teased.
“Silence offends less than pretence,” Lydia said.
Both girls stared. Then Miss Fairchild laughed, high and quick. “There now—she does speak!”
“Sharp as a pin,” Miss Beaufort said. “We must be careful or she will prick us next.”
Lydia rose, her curtsey perfect. “I thank you for the call.”
“You are not going?” Miss Fairchild cried.
“I am expected,” Lydia said.
Miss Beaufort gave a careless shrug. “Then we shall see you at the next tea. Do not come looking so solemn. Men like a merry face.”
Lydia smiled, nodded once, and left them with their giggles rustling behind her like paper.
* * *
The Matlock parlour was warm with late-afternoon firelight, the air faintly scented of lavender polish. Lydia sat stiffly on the edge of the settee, her gloves still in her hand, colour high in her cheeks.
You hardly spoke during the call, her mother signed.
Lydia faced her as she twisted her gloves. “If I had spoken, it would not have been civil. Lady Newhaven’s eldest daughter scarcely looked at me, and Miss Fairchild whispered as though I were not there. They made me feel—” She broke off, biting the word.
“—as though you were a curiosity?” Lady Matlock asked.
“As though I were an inconvenience,” Lydia said hotly. “Their faces—” She flung down the gloves. “I would rather be snarled at outright.”
You must not give them power by allowing their whispers to offend.
“Indeed not,” Lady Matlock said, her tone crisp as the crackle of the fire. “If you are to hold your place in society, my dear, you must meet such girls with composure, not complaint.”
“They were most unfeeling,” Lydia replied.
They were foolish, her mother signed. As are you still young. Learn to let such barbs fall aside.
Lady Matlock added, “One day you will have the advantage of rank and presence. For now, you must bear the scrutiny without flinching. To betray temper is to yield ground.”
Lydia pressed her lips together. Her cheeks still burned, but she said nothing more. When the tea tray arrived, she took a moment to steady her hands. At the window, Signora Bellanti stood with her back to the room. She turned.
Her lips were pressed into a narrow line. She inclined her head once, almost imperceptibly. Good, her eyes seemed to say. Learn where to place the cut.
* * *