Chapter 32 #2
Once she had changed into acceptable daywear, Lydia sought out her tutor. The blue parlour lay quiet save for the faint hiss of the fire. Lydia found Bellanti there, arranging papers.
“You heard what they said,” Lydia began.
The Italian inclined her head. “I did.”
“They told me to bear it.” Lydia’s voice caught. “As though I had not borne enough already.”
Bellanti rose, closed the door herself, and turned the key soft. “Sit, Lady Lydia.”
Lydia sank onto the sofa, skirts rustling. “You told me that to bow keeps a man from humbling me.” Her hands twisted once in her lap before she stilled them. “What of women who smile as they slice one to pieces?”
Bellanti’s dark eyes softened, though her voice was level. “They are more dangerous than you think. Wolves devour in a moment. Women strip you to ribbons with their tongues—and leave you standing to feel every cut.”
Lydia’s fists clenched in her lap. “And to this, I must do nothing?”
“Do something, but not as they expect,” Bellanti said. “A sharp word, a turn of the shoulder, a well-timed laugh—these are enough to remind them you will not be their sport.”
Lydia looked up, almost daring her. “And if they press me still?”
“Then strike once, and strike clean,” Bellanti said. “Not with fists—we are ladies, for pity’s sake.” She lowered her voice. “Answer with a palm across a cheek. One mark, rightly struck, will serve.”
A slow smile tugged at Lydia’s mouth. “You shall make me formidable.”
“You are the granddaughter of an earl and the daughter of a warrior,” Bellanti replied.
“è nel tuo sangue.”
* * *
Lady Weatherby’s Drawing Room, June 1832
Miss Weatherby rose as Lydia entered, her curtsey neat but hesitant. “Lady Lydia. You are very welcome.”
“Thank you.” Lydia curtseyed and took the offered seat.
Miss Fairchild and Miss Beaufort were already settled on the sofa, fans fluttering.
“Lady Lydia!” Miss Fairchild exclaimed. “You are everywhere this week. I begin to think you will outshine the Queen herself.”
Lydia inclined her head.
Miss Beaufort gave a soft laugh. “Not the Queen—perhaps Princess Charlotte. She is younger.”
Miss Fairchild tilted her head. “Yes, younger—and very pretty. Does she not put you in mind of Lady Lydia?”
Miss Weatherby smiled faintly. “I think Lady Lydia looks more like—”
“She does not look like anyone,” Miss Beaufort interrupted, her tone bright. “She looks exactly as a Fitzwilliam ought.”
Miss Fairchild nodded sagely. “Yes—stern and perfect.”
Lydia’s chin lifted, but she said nothing.
Miss Weatherby tried again. “Will you take tea, Lady Lydia?”
“Gladly.”
“She takes tea as solemnly as she sits,” Miss Fairchild whispered—loudly enough to be heard.
Miss Beaufort giggled. “Perhaps her brother never teases her. My brother never lets me sit solemn.”
“My brother is at university,” Lydia said evenly.
“How very grand,” Miss Fairchild said, eyes dancing. “I suppose he is fawned over by all the dons—and every hostess in Cambridge.”
“Not every,” Miss Beaufort said. “But I heard he is quite the handsomest man there. How fortunate for you, Lady Lydia, to have such a brother. Though it must be tiresome to have him admired more than yourself.”
Miss Weatherby shifted, opening her mouth, but Miss Beaufort pressed on.
“Is your baby brother in the nursery still?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Miss Fairchild gave a little shudder. “Ugh. I cannot abide little boys. Always sticky and shouting.”
“They are a plague,” Miss Beaufort said with relish.
Miss Fairchild giggled. “At least until they are breeched. Otherwise, they grow wild. Yours will too, Lady Lydia. All boys do.”
Lydia’s gloves creaked in her hands. “Henry Thomas is not wild.”
“Not yet,” Miss Fairchild said sweetly. “But wait until he starts pulling maids’ hair. Or stealing sugar from the pantry. My brother had to be beaten before he would stop.”
Miss Beaufort laughed. “Yours will need it too.”
Miss Fairchild shifted, rising suddenly. “I must step to the retiring room.”
Lydia rose at once. “I shall accompany you.”
Miss Fairchild blinked. “You need not—”
“I insist,” Lydia said, her tone smooth but final.
Together they crossed to the retiring room, the swish of their skirts the only sound. When the door closed, Lydia turned.
“You will never speak of my brother that way again.”
Miss Fairchild gave a sharp little laugh. “Or what, Princess Lydia? You cannot frighten me.” She shifted closer, her heel pressing down upon Lydia’s slippered foot.
Lydia looked down at the pressure, then raised her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she smiled. Her teeth freed from her lips and she felt the insane pleasure of giving liberty to her feelings. Her eyes tingled as though alight.
She grasped Miss Fairchild’s gloved hand and with her free one, pinched the soft roll beneath the muslin sleeve, hard enough to draw a gasp.
Miss Fairchild faltered, colour draining from her face.
“You know my father’s name?” Lydia asked.
Miss Fairchild’s chin dipped in a quick nod.
“And his fame?”
Miss Fairchild nodded. Lydia’s fingers tightened.
Miss Fairchild whimpered.
She struck at Lydia’s arm—once. Twice. Thrice.
“Cease, you foolish girl,” Lydia said.
“My father once set his jaw upon a French soldier’s throat in the Peninsula.”
Miss Fairchild froze, her face white as paper. Tears welled in her eyes.
Lydia tightened her grip, her nails biting through the muslin.
“Do you know how he escaped?” Lydia asked softly.
Miss Fairchild did not answer.
“He used what was nearest.”
Lydia bared her teeth.
“I shall not have to repeat myself, shall I?” Lydia asked.
“No, Lady Lydia.” She dropped her eyes and gave a quick, awkward dip—more stumble than curtsey.
Lydia released her arm. Miss Fairchild staggered.
“Compose yourself,” Lydia said. “We are returning.”
When they re-entered the room, Miss Beaufort sat forward eagerly. Her lips parted, her eyes darting between them, but her smile faltered when she fixed on Miss Fairchild.
Lydia ignored her, crossed to Miss Weatherby, and smiled—not for mirth, but for command.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Weatherby. You have been a most gracious hostess. I should be very glad if you would take tea with me at Matlock House next week.”
Miss Weatherby blinked, then coloured with pleasure. “I should be delighted.”
“Excellent.” Lydia turned, her expression cool as she looked past Miss Fairchild and Miss Beaufort.
“Good day.”