Chapter Eighteen
Raindrops played a lively drum roll on Lydia’s umbrella, though she hardly paid attention.
Today, like any other day while out on her afternoon walk, Lydia was lost in thought, her mind raking through every moment she’d spent with Ambrose.
It wasn’t so much an exercise in reminiscence, but rather the search for a sign.
The slightest indication, something, anything, that might cast him in a different light.
A light that would expose him as a man capable of casting her aside so callously.
For the man she’d come to love would never have done such a thing.
Unless, of course, her opinion of him, and her belief in him, had been horribly misplaced.
Such a possibility was too painful to contemplate.
She knew she was torturing herself with such thoughts, but she couldn’t stop.
At least, not until the tide of anguish ebbed, and so far it showed no sign of doing so. Time went on, nevertheless.
Indeed, it was now three weeks and three days since Ambrose Michael Crossley, the fifth Earl of Pendlewood, had broken Lydia’s heart. Somewhere in the future there existed a day when she would forget to mark the time. But today was not that day.
It was the day, however, when Lydia appeared to have a visitor, her first since Harriet had been to visit.
Seeing the carriage parked outside her house caused her heart to leap with a brief spark of hope.
The spark died. It was not Ambrose’s carriage, of course, but a private one, unmarked.
The driver, looking rather miserable beneath his rain-battered umbrella, gave Lydia a nod as she climbed the steps and entered the house.
She had a suspicion about the visitor’s identity. Someone she hadn’t spoken to in a while, simply because she hadn’t summoned up the courage to do so. With her own dripping umbrella deposited in the stand, Lydia shrugged off her coat as Doyle came scurrying across the foyer.
“You have a visitor, miss,” she said, taking the coat and handing Lydia a shawl and a calling card.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Lydia muttered, reading the card.
“Only arrived ten minutes ago and insisted on waiting for you,” Doyle said. “I put her in the parlor. Here, let me help you with the shawl.”
“Thank you.” Lydia read the card again, her stomach fluttering, for she knew what had prompted the visit. “Did you offer her something?”
“I did, miss, but she refused,” Doyle replied. “Will you have something? Tea, perhaps?”
“No, nothing at the moment. Perhaps later.” Lydia smoothed her skirts, drew breath, and went to the parlor.
Do not cry. Do not.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon, what a pleasant surprise,” she said, as she entered. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I… I went for a walk.”
“Miss Page.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon, veiled as usual, rose from her seat and appeared to glance at the rain-spattered window, perhaps questioning Lydia’s rationale.
“I beg your pardon for calling unannounced, but I’ve been worried about you.
I was informed some time ago about Lord Pendlewood’s unexpected change of heart, and expected to hear from you, but I…
oh, no, my dear! The last thing I wanted to do was upset you. ”
Lydia shook her head, scrubbed an errant tear from her cheek and then swallowed over the lump in her throat.
“No, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I’m glad you’re here, truly.
” She blinked to clear the mist of tears from her eyes.
“And please accept my apology. I should have contacted you. I should have called on you, but I didn’t because I… that is, I couldn’t—”
“Find the courage?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon approached and took Lydia’s hands in hers. “I quite understand, my dear, but believe me, sharing your anguish will ease the burden of it.”
“I’m not sure it will, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Lydia said, “but please sit and I shall recount my tale of woe. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some refreshment?”
“I’m sure, but thank you,” she replied, and settled back into her chair. “I want only to know what brought all this about. I must confess to having a bit of a selfish motive, since I agreed to Lord Eskdale’s suggestion. It seems I misjudged Lord Pendlewood, however.”
“As did I,” Lydia said, taking her seat in an adjacent chair.
“It was such a shock when he cast me aside. Till then, everything had been wonderful. Beyond anything I could have imagined. I fell in love with him on that first night, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, when he took me to his garden. It was magical. Like a fairy tale. I even thought of what you’d said about two unique pieces that fit together, and I was sure it applied to us.
And so it went on, with no sign of what was to come.
As far as I was aware, we were perfectly matched and perfectly happy.
Then he went to Nottingham, to his cousin’s funeral, and apparently, someone there managed to change his mind.
They reminded him of who he was, what he was, and told him to marry appropriately.
I knew something was wrong when Lady Eskdale told me he’d been seen at the theater, and I didn’t even know he’d returned to London.
So, I went to see him, looking for an explanation, and he’d become someone I didn’t recognize.
Cold, unfeeling, utterly heartless.” Lydia blinked another threat of tears away and shook her head.
“Weeks later, I still cannot believe it.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon remained quiet for a moment, then said, “I find it difficult to believe also, Miss Page, what you’re telling me about Lord Pendlewood’s behavior. It’s not like him. Not at all! There has to be a reason for this, something other than a prod from a meddlesome relative.”
“Well, if there is, I cannot imagine what it might be.” Lydia heaved a sigh. “In any case, I no longer have plans to find a husband.”
“Given what has happened, I can understand why,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “But that will change eventually.”
“Perhaps.” Lydia managed a smile, unable to imagine a day when Ambrose would not be present in every single thought. “For now, I have decided to seek distractions. Some charity work, I think. And I might travel, both here and abroad.”
“Both would be rewarding, I’m sure,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon replied.
Lydia pursed her lips. “Or maybe I’ll purchase a run-down cottage with a garden overlooking the sea, and have it refurbished.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon laughed softly. “Now that does sound like a charming endeavor!”
“You will have an open invitation to visit, of course,” Lydia replied. “And you were correct, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Sharing my burden of anguish has helped. I feel a little bit lighter. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear. If you ever have need of me, please do not hesitate to seek me out.”
The door opened and Doyle stuck her head around it. “Excuse me, Miss Page, but you have another caller. Mr. Truscott is here again. Shall I tell him you are otherwise eng—?”
“Bertie is here?” Feeling a sudden and welcome burst of happiness, Lydia leapt to her feet. “Oh, how nice. Please show him in, Doyle.”
“And I think I should be on my way,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, rising also.
“I couldn’t help but hear that, dear lady, and I trust you’re not leaving on my account,” Bertram said, as he strode into the room. “I am not expected, after all, but I do hope I’ve…” He frowned as he regarded Lydia. “Er, I do hope I’ve been missed.”
“Oh, you have been missed indeed, sir! Your arrival is a tonic.” Lydia offered Bertram her cheek for a kiss, pretending not to notice the expression of concern on his face.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I’d like to introduce you to my very dear friend, Mr. Bertram Truscott.
Mr. Truscott, this is Mrs. Dove-Lyon, also a very dear friend. ”
Bertram bowed and Mrs. Dove-Lyon bobbed a slight curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and again, I trust you are not leaving on my account.”
“Not at all, sir,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Perhaps we might acquaint ourselves on some future occasion.”
“Possibly, ma’am, though I’m only here for another week.”
“Mr. Truscott actually lives in New Brunswick,” Lydia said. “He arrived in England a few weeks ago to do some business.” Feigning a scowl, she regarded him. “Which was a total surprise to me, mostly because he has an aversion to letter writing.”
Bertram laughed. “Guilty as charged, but I am not here solely to do business. Visiting Miss Page was actually at the top of my list.”
“We’ve known each other since childhood,” Lydia explained.
“You arrived a few weeks ago, Mr. Truscott?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The Lydia Jane docked in London on the 27th May after a four-week crossing. The winds were favorable.”
A soft gasp came from behind the veil. “The Lydia Jane?”
Bertram glanced at Lydia. “Named after a young lady very dear to my heart who has, to my eternal regret, given her heart to another.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “And I only have myself to blame.”
Lydia guessed what Mrs. Dove-Lyon was probably thinking. “Lord Pendlewood was in Nottingham at the time,” she explained, “so they never met.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “Ah, I see.”
“Yes, I was only in London for five minutes, so never got the chance to meet His Lordship,” Bertram said, “but I hope to remedy that in the near future. Fully intend to tell him how fortunate he is.”
Lydia looked down and swallowed over a sudden lump in her throat.
“I’ll be on my way, Miss Page,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, gently. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Truscott.”
“Likewise, ma’am,” Bertram replied, inclining his head.
“I’ll see you out, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Lydia said.
“No need, my dear, I’ll see myself out,” she replied. “Remember, you know where I am if you need me.”
Lydia nodded, but said nothing. Bertram barely waited till the door closed.
“What’s going on, Lyddie?” He moved closer, frowning as he studied her face. “Have you been ill? Has something happened? Who is that woman?”