Chapter Sixteen #2
Lydia fought against another attack of tears. Do I look that bad? “I’m not ill,” she replied, removing her gloves and bonnet and handing them over. “I’ve just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. I’d like some tea, please. In my bedroom.”
“Of course, miss.” Doyle cocked her head. “But are you sure you’re not ailing? Shall I send for someone perhaps?”
“No, that isn’t necessary, Doyle, truly,” Lydia shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not ill. Just out of sorts, that’s all. I doubt I’ll be down for supper, though. I should like to retire early.”
“As you wish, miss,” Doyle replied, looking decidedly unconvinced. “Go and get yourself settled. I’ll be up shortly.”
Lydia headed upstairs and closed the bedroom door behind her. For a few minutes, she simply stood in silence, icy disbelief still coursing through her veins. The world she’d known, the future she’d anticipated, no longer existed and she couldn’t begin to understand why. What had changed?
An underling?
Ambrose had implied she was less than worthy. No, it hadn’t been an implication. It had been a statement. Not in an eternity would she have expected him to ever say such a thing. What had changed? Lydia frowned as a horrifying suspicion crept into her brain.
Had she been duped from the start? Might it be part of the game that had been arranged?
A cruel plot concocted between an earl and a viscount, using Lydia solely for their amusement?
No, surely not. Neither Mrs. Dove-Lyon nor Lady Eskdale would be part of such a scheme.
Lydia set the ridiculous suspicion aside, leaving her wondering, again, what had changed Ambrose’s mind.
Nothing made sense, and she was in desperate need of a reason.
It seemed impossible that she’d misunderstood or misread his intent.
A sudden spell of dizziness came over her, and she stumbled over to the bed, heaving a shaky sigh as she lay down and curled into a ball.
Maybe she’d call on Lord and Lady Eskdale tomorrow and let them know what had occurred. Then again, no. It would seem like tale-telling. They’d find out soon enough, anyway.
Heaving another sigh, she rolled onto her back and pressed her hand to her forehead. “God help me.”
A short while later, a soft tap came to the door and Doyle entered, a tea tray balanced deftly on her left hand.
“Here now, miss,” she said, setting the tray on a small table by the fireplace.
“Some tea, and I took the liberty of making some toast. You should eat something. The bread is freshly baked and Milly churned the butter herself. Shall I pour?”
Lydia sat up. “Thank you, Doyle. The toast smells delicious.” A lie. The smell actually turned her stomach. “You may go. I’ll not need you or any of the staff for the rest of the evening.”
“Can I help you undress, miss, since you’ll be staying in your room?”
“No, I’ll manage. But thank you.”
“Well, if you change your mind, miss, just ring,” Doyle replied, and turned to leave. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a difficult day.”
Nor would it be over at the stroke of midnight, Lydia thought.
The difficulties were bound to flow into tomorrow and many more days and weeks after that.
A veritable river of anguish. Harriet would undoubtedly be supportive.
Or would she? Maybe the viscount and his lady wife, deeming Lydia to be no longer significant in their lives, would also take a step back.
After all, the only reason she’d been presented to them was because of a foolish game.
One, in hindsight, she wished in which she’d never agreed to take part.
With a dull, steady throb at the back of her eyes, Lydia left her bed and went to pour her tea, cringing at the sight of the toast. Cradling the teacup in both hands, she sank into the armchair and took a sip, a noise at the window drawing her attention.
Rain, she realized, rattling against the glass.
A desolate sound, it stirred up a sense of despair that threatened to overwhelm her.
She wondered where Bertie was, the mere thought of seeing him again giving her spirits a brief lift.
For sure, he’d be a source of comfort. A friend who would listen and commiserate.
It would be some weeks before he returned, however.
Till then, it would simply be a question of getting through each day.
It wasn’t as though Lydia was unfamiliar with grief and heartache, but this was different.
Along with the grief came a terrible sense of betrayal and disappointment.
She felt foolish. Inadequate. Trodden on.
Setting her cup down, she went to the window and closed the curtains against the deluge.
Then she undressed, dug a clean handkerchief out of a drawer, and prepared for bed.
“How could I have been so wrong?” she whispered, clutching her handkerchief as she settled beneath the covers. “I was so sure about you, Ambrose. About us. How could you tell such lies? How could you be so cruel?”
It was purposeful, the self-torture, for it allowed Lydia to surrender to the flood of tears that had threatened since the moment she’d walked out of Ambrose’s house and out of his life.
It was a release, an outpouring of grief that was far too much for a single handkerchief to handle.
Sometime later, eyes swollen and pillow damp, Lydia, still clutching the saturated handkerchief, drifted into a fitful sleep.
The following afternoon brought Harriet to Lydia’s door, and one look at Lydia’s bleary eyes and disheveled hair, not to mention being still in her dressing gown despite the afternoon hour, answered the unspoken question.
“Oh, Lydia,” Harriet said. “Say it isn’t so.”
“I wish I could,” Lydia replied, and burst into tears.
“Come, now. Sit with me.” Harriet steered them both to the settee. “And tell me what happened.”
So Lydia relayed, with as much stoicism as she could manage, all that had occurred and all that had been said the previous day.
“Oh, my dear!” Harriet shook her head. “I simply cannot believe what I’m hearing. What on earth has got into the wretched man?”
“I wish I knew.” Lydia rubbed her temple, trying to eradicate the steady throb that had been with her since she’d left her bed that morning. “I didn’t recognize him, Harriet. He was like a stranger. A cold-hearted stranger. I cannot make sense of it.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Harriet squeezed Lydia’s hand. “Perhaps Edward should go and have a chat with him. See if he can shine some light on the situation.”
Lydia gave her head a slight shake. “He must not go on my behalf, Harriet, please. I simply cannot bear the thought of someone pleading my case. Ambrose made it quite clear that we are finished. I am unsuitable, according to him, and I cannot imagine anything Lord Eskdale might say to change that.” She drew a shaky breath.
“And even if he did, how could I ever trust Ambrose again?”
“Edward will undoubtedly go and see him anyway,” Harriet replied. “Probably today, since we’re leaving for Goshawk tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving town?” Lydia gave her a questioning look. “Is everything all right?’
Harriet heaved a sigh. “Sophia has developed a cough and we’ve been advised to leave the city.”
“Oh, Harriet, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Lydia winced. “Poor little mite. I hope it’s not too serious.”
“Our physician isn’t overly concerned, thankfully,” Harriet replied, “but because Sophia is not as robust as her brother, he recommends getting her out of the city air. Hence our imminent departure.” Her eyes widened. “Why don’t you come with us? It might do you good.”
“Thank you, Harriet, that is very sweet of you, but no. I’d rather stay here.”
“I don’t like to think of you by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do, but I am dreadful company right now.” Lydia managed a smile. “I’d just rather stay here and lick my wounds.”
“I understand, believe me,” Harriet said. “Will you be informing Bessie Dove-Lyon about your situation?”
Lydia hesitated a moment and then shook her head.
“No. At least, not immediately. It feels like I’d be running to her to tell tales.
There’s nothing she can do about it anyway, and searching for another potential husband is the last thing on my mind, and will be for a long time to come.
” She tussled with a sudden swell of emotion.
“I miss him, Harriet. I can hardly bear it!”
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where we are.” Harriet stood. “We’ll be leaving in the morning after breakfast. Goshawk is beautiful, Lydia. You’d love it.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Lydia replied, standing also.
“Liar.” Harriet smiled and kissed Lydia’s cheek. “I’ll write, and shall expect a response.”
Lydia nodded. “You’ll have one, Harriet, that I can promise you. Give Lord Eskdale my regards and a kiss each for Sophia and Charles.”
Harriet’s smile faded. “It’s his loss, Lydia. Please don’t let this destroy you.”
“It won’t destroy me,” she replied, lifting her chin. “I was reminded today of who I am. And I am Reginald Page’s daughter.”