Chapter 30
CHAPTER 30
Lydia
L ydia lay curled upon her bed, the weight of the evening pressing heavily upon her. The moonlight cast a pale glow across the chamber, illuminating the familiar walls of her childhood chamber.
She had never felt so alone.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and before she could answer, Louisa stepped inside. She moved with quiet purpose, her eyes sweeping over Lydia’s tear-streaked face. Without a word, she crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed.
“What did Father say?” Lydia asked hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper.
Louisa took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Not to worry. I told him that Elizabeth was feeling very ill and had requested that you come to her. That is why you will be staying with us for a few days.”
Lydia let out a shaky breath. “And he believed you?”
“He had no reason not to,” Louisa assured her. “And I also spoke with the new governess. She has agreed to go along with the story.”
Lydia wiped at her damp cheeks. “She sounds like a pleasant enough woman.”
Louisa smiled slightly. “She is. But she is not you. She does not know Father's moods as you do, nor does she manage the household with your efficiency.” Louisa exhaled, tilting her head slightly. “But enough of that. What happened? Tell me everything.”
Lydia closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering her thoughts. When she opened them, her voice was steadier, though it trembled at the edges. She told her all about the things Matilda Fitzroy had said before turning to the events of that night.
“When I returned, I confronted Alexander. I asked him outright if he had truly said the things Matilda accused him of.”
Louisa’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And?”
Lydia let out a bitter laugh. “He tried to evade everything I asked but he admitted to saying unkind things about his friends, and he once had an affair with Lydia. And he did not wish for me to meet his friends. He is ashamed of me. I know it.”
Louisa inhaled sharply. “Oh, Lydia?—”
“He did not even try to deny it,” Lydia continued, shaking her head. “He said that, yes, he spoke of our marriage in those terms, that he told his friends I was eager, desperate even, for a wedding.” Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to keep going. “That I would have taken anyone who asked.”
Louisa’s hands clenched into fists. “That is cruel. Unforgivably so.”
“It was before,” Lydia said, her voice hollow. “That is what he said. It was before he knew me.”
Louisa frowned. “What?”
“That is what he said,” Lydia explained. “That it was before. Before he got to know me. Before he… loved me. But he rushed away with them just yesterday, so how could it have been before?”
Louisa was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, she said, “And is that not true?”
Lydia blinked at her in disbelief. “How can you defend him?”
“I am not defending what he said,” Louisa said firmly. “But think on it, Lydia. You told me yourself that, at the start, you did not love him either. You did not even like him. And do you not remember all the unkind things you said about him?”
Lydia flinched, because of course, she did remember.
She remembered sitting with Louisa, lamenting her fate, bemoaning the prospect of being tied to a man she barely knew, a man she had thought rigid, unfeeling. She had made no effort to hide her disdain for him in those early days.
Louisa sighed. “The truth is, you both entered into this marriage for reasons that had little to do with love. But love did come, Lydia. I saw it in the way he looks at you, in the way you softened toward him. You both changed, and your marriage became something real.”
Lydia turned away, staring blankly at the wall.
“But all of his friends—” she said at last, her voice small. “They all think I was some charity case. They will always think that.”
“Do they matter?” Louisa asked.
Lydia turned back, her eyes flashing. “Of course they matter! How am I to live a life where I am whispered about? Where everyone believes he only married me because I begged for it?”
“And what does it say about him,” she added, voice thick with emotion, “that he has such friends?”
To that, Louisa had no easy answer.
Lydia slept fitfully that night, waking only to the occasional sound of an owl hooting beyond her window. The room, once so familiar, now felt distant, as though it belonged to a past version of herself—one who had not yet become a wife, a duchess, or a woman whose heart had learned the cruel weight of disappointment.
When she finally rose in the morning, a dull heaviness settled in her limbs. Each movement felt burdensome as she descended the grand staircase, the soft rustling of her night rail the only sound in the early quiet. The scent of warm bread and chocolate drifted from the dining room, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender from the flowers arranged on the sideboard.
As she entered, a sudden chorus of claps met her.
“Good morning, Your Grace!” Elizabeth and Margaret cried in unison, grinning mischievously.
Their enthusiasm startled her, but she forced a smile as she slipped into her seat.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Miss Barnes, the new governess, greeted warmly.
Lydia inclined her head. “Good morning. Where are Louisa and Cressida?”
“Lady Louisa took Lady Cressida for an early walk,” Miss Barnes replied as she poured a cup of chocolate. “It has become something of a custom of late.”
Lydia faltered, gripping the edge of the table. A custom. Life here had continued in her absence, new habits formed, new traditions established. She had expected to return to familiarity, yet everything had shifted ever so slightly, leaving her feeling like an outsider in her own home.
“You shall stay for some time now, shall you not?” Elizabeth asked, reaching for a slice of toast.
“I am not certain,” Lydia admitted, keeping her tone light. “For a while, at least.”
“Good!” Elizabeth said cheerfully. “Then we may resume our games of pall-mall. Miss Barnes is dreadful at it.”
“Dreadful indeed,” Margaret added with a giggle.
“Elizabeth! Margaret!” Lydia chided gently, but the governess merely chuckled.
“They are quite right, Your Grace,” Miss Barnes said with a good-natured sigh. “I am dreadful at it. It will be a joy for them to have you back.”
Margaret looked up then, her brow furrowing slightly. “Will His Grace be coming as well?”
The mention of Alexander was a blade to Lydia’s heart, sharp and unrelenting. She set down her spoon, suddenly unable to stomach breakfast.
“No,” she said, voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “He is… very busy.”
Her sisters seemed to accept this, returning their attention to their porridge. Elizabeth took an oversized spoonful and Margaret followed suit, both of them swallowing with exaggerated gulps.
“Now, now—” Miss Barnes gave them a stern look. “Is that ladylike?”
The girls giggled and set their spoons down, chiming in unison, “No, Miss Barnes.”
Lydia watched them with fondness, but her heart felt fractured. This—her sisters, her home—was where she belonged. Not with Alexander, not with a man who had thought her desperate and unworthy. Otherwise, why had he not introduced her to his friends? Why had he hidden her?
And yet, no matter how she tried to harden her resolve, memories of him lingered. She thought of the quiet moments they had shared—how he had listened to her, how he had made her laugh, how they had fit together so unexpectedly well. Was it all a falsehood? A game to him?
Then there was Eamonn. The thought of his bright little face, his laughter, made her stomach tighten. If she left, then at best she could only snatch stolen moments with the boy she’d come to care for. When she had first considered fleeing, she had intended to be so impossible that Alexander would send her away in a fit of rage. But now? Now she had left because she was brokenhearted.
The front door creaked open in the distance. Lydia turned her head slightly, expecting to hear the light, eager steps of Louisa or the delicate patter of Cressida’s feet. But instead, she heard a heavier tread—a gait firm with purpose.
A presence loomed before the doorway, and her father appeared.
For a moment, he merely stood there, as though he had not expected to see her at all. But then his gaze settled on her, dark eyes narrowing slightly.
“There you are,” he said at last. “Louisa told me you were here.”
He stepped forward, glancing toward Elizabeth, who sat serenely, sipping her chocolate. “Your sister seems much improved,” he remarked.
she hesitated, then gave a half-hearted cough. “My throat still aches, Papa,” she said, lowering her cup with great dramatics.
“Does it now?” their father replied dryly, watching her with skepticism.
She merely lifted her spoon again and took another large mouthful of porridge.
“Shall I send for the physician?” he asked, arching a brow. “Perhaps a draught of horehound syrup and a mustard plaster would do the trick. Or perhaps a dose of camphor oil?”
Elizabeth paled. “No, Papa,” she said hurriedly. “I do feel much better. I truly do.”
“Ah. You do, indeed.” His lips pressed into a thin line as he turned back to Lydia. “So then, there is no need for you to remain here, is there?”
Lydia’s breath caught. She understood his meaning at once. He wanted her gone.
How had she not thought this through better?
“I… I can go,” she said numbly, though she had no idea where. The cottage near Gloucester, owned by her mother’s family, was always open to them. But it would take her far from her sisters and Eammon.
She clenched her hands in her lap. How had she imagined she could simply run here and stay as though nothing had changed?
“Lydia,” her father repeated, his tone expectant.
She looked up, meeting his gaze. The answer hovered on her lips, but her heart resisted. She had no place here, but neither did she have one with Alexander.
And so, where did she belong?
“Would you come to my study with me?” Lydia blinked but got up from her seat. She followed her father down the hall and up a flight of stairs to his study. She hadn't been in a study since the day he had told her that she was going to marry Alexander. How strange life was. How peculiar the circumstances that she found herself in.
“What are you doing here, child?” he asked, the word “child” pronounced in a sort of derogatory manner, as though he pitied her somehow. “Did you know what had happened? And do not tell me that Elizabeth was ill. I am no fool. Lydia, you should know that Louisa is a terrible liar, and neither Margaret nor Elizabeth could keep a secret if their lives depended on it. So pray, what brings you here?”
Should she lie? Make up some other story? But to what end? She did not want to go home. And she did not want to be far away from her sister or her Eammon. But she needed somewhere to stay. Perhaps if she told her father the truth, he might gloat or ridicule her, but he might still let her stay.
She took a deep breath. “My husband and I had a rather unpleasant row. I left, and… I do not want to return.”
“You do not want to return?” he replied. “Oh, Lydia. What possesses you, child? No suitor I find for you suits your needs. I thought it was bad enough when you ruined three perfectly good courtships, but now this? Ruining a marriage to a duke?”
“Why do you think it was my fault? Does it never occur to you that it may have been his fault? And since we are speaking of my prior broken courtships, you ought to be grateful that none of them worked out. One of them has been publicly ridiculed for stealing from his own family, even if his sister Lady Mosley wants to look past that. Another ran away with his maid, and the third was not much better. If you had had your way, I would’ve been wed to each and every one of them when the scandal broke. Would that have been better?”
Her father shook his head and looked out of the window, folding his hands on his desk. “Lydia, perhaps if you had married them, the scandals would not have corrupted you.”
“And I would yet have been trapped in marriages to horrid and unsuitable men. Father, pray tell me, why do you care so little about my happiness?”
“I care about your happiness,” he said, looking at her. For a moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of truth in his eyes. He truly did.
“If you did, why did you try to force me to marry these men?”
“Because all of them had secure positions to offer you. And with each of them, you could have led your own life. You would’ve had a title, you would’ve been secured in a respectable home, and the men were feeble enough to not be troublesome. We both know you are a strong character; you do not need a man to protect you. You can protect yourself, but you needed a safe place.”
These words were entirely unexpected, and she sat back, dipping her head to one side. “You chose them because they were feeble-minded?”
“I chose them because you are intellectually superior to all of them. You would’ve been able to live your life as you pleased, unbothered by battles of will or anything of that nature.”
“Why would you wish to marry me to someone feeble-minded?
You did not seek feeble-minded men for Louisa.”
“Louisa is tenderhearted. She is kind and good, but she is far more obedient than you. She will do well with a man who is stronger than her. Intellectually…” he shrugged, “superior. Like Arlington.”
She stared at her father, her mouth falling open. Did he really think Louisa was not intelligent?
“Louisa is witty and sharp, Father.”
“Witty and sharp for a lady, yes, but she is not independent. She could never manage on her own. She needs a man who can do that for her. You needed a man who would let you do what you wanted to do. I never would’ve chosen the Duke of Leith for you, child. He is far too mercurial.”
She took a sharp breath. “And why did you make me marry him?”
“Because you would not marry any of the others, and you were becoming an old maid. I could not have that. Do you know what it looks like for a household when a man cannot marry his oldest daughter? It would’ve been disastrous for your younger sister. Now, pick yourself up and go back to him.”
“I do not wish to,” she protested.
“And where, pray, do you intend to live?”
“I hope that I could stay here for some time until I decided what to do.”
Her father shook his head. “That is a scandal in the making. You would do that to your sister? Now, when she’s so close to having a good courtship of her own?”
“I do not presume that I will have your hospitality. And I certainly do not wish to harm my sister. In any case, I could simply stay here for a few days, and we could perpetuate the lie. I attempted to tell you that Margaret is sick and needs me.”
“And your husband? Will he not be anxious to have you back?”
“My husband thinks I am a desperate woman who could not have made another match and is reliant upon his pity. He is ashamed of me. He will not even introduce me to his friends. You would’ve been better off letting me become an old maid, for his friends already think me ridiculous and surely will spread the fact that my husband only married me because I was desperate. I will let him do whatever he wishes among the ton, so you will have a scandal on your hands anyway.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? What friends? What is being said?”
“I thought Alexander cared for me,” she said finally, as tears accumulated in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to keep them from growing. “But then I was told by a friend of his that he left Hyde Park with his friends. He showed them out as quickly as he could when he saw me coming because he is ashamed of me. He told his friends he married me because I was desperate enough to go along with his scheme.”
“And what schemes might that be?” her father asked.
“To continue with his bachelors, to take a mistress whenever he pleases. He wanted only someone to look after his ward. He doesn’t even intend to have an heir.”
Her father rubbed his beard, creating a scraping sound that filled the air. “A great many men take wives for just that reason. But most of them have enough sense not to advertise their actions to their friends—at least not in such a way where it would be spread around. It is not right to embarrass your wife, even if you do not get along. Who are these friends of his?”
She looked up and cleared her throat. “Lord Wycliffe, Lord Harrington, and someone called Fitzroy.”
Her father groaned. “I am familiar with Harrington and Wycliffe. I do not know of Fitzroy.”
“I do not think he is peerage. His sister is the one who told me.”
Her father raised his hands. “Wait, wait. One thing after the other. I was unaware that he was friends with Lords Harrington and Wycliffe. These are not men of quality, character or consequence. Not the sort of men I would want my son-in-law associating with. There are rumors that they are involved in a smuggling venture. Do you know about this?”
She shook her head. “I do not know much about his business at all. He never talks about it.”
“I do hope he is not involved in that smuggling situation. If he is, it could be very bad. It would certainly end any hope for Louisa and Arlington if such a scandal were to involve us and draw us all in. I thought better of him. I must say, I am very surprised to hear you say these things because I was certain that he was very fond of you. The way he spoke to me at the ball at the Foxworthy… that is not how a man acts who does not care for his wife.”
“Well, he doesn’t care for me. It was all pretend.”
“I cannot believe that, Lydia,” he said. “He did not strike me as someone who did not mean what he said. Indeed, after he left, Lady Mosley told me that even though she was still very upset about her brother Archie, she thought I had done a good thing for you, finding you a husband who really cares about you. I have to say I felt rather good about myself. I know I have not always treated you with…” He shrugged as if looking for the word. “I should’ve treated you better. I am aware. I told myself that by finding you a duke, making you a duchess, I had made up for some of my mistakes. But to hear this… Do you wish me to speak to…”
“No,” she said, completely shocked by her father’s offering. “I… genuinely, no. But Father, since you have broached the subject, may I ask you why? Why have you treated me differently from my sisters? Is it because I remind you of my mother?”
He took a deep breath, his chest rising, heavy footfalls filling the air between them as he walked to the window.
“It is true. I have treated you differently just because you remind me of your mother. She and I were never in love. We never cared for one another, no more than we had to. I wouldn’t even say we were friends. Characteristically, she was independent; she was fierce. She spoke her mind—all of which qualities I did not appreciate. We were incompatible. That is part of why I thought finding a suitable match for you would be the best. Someone who would let you be you, because he would not know better. You’ve always been like her. I’m aware of the many mistakes I made with your mother, and I inevitably repeated them with you. Louisa reminds me of myself. The little ones—they’re too young to have personalities.”
Lydia chuckled, despite herself. “Father, they all have personalities. Well-developed ones as well. If you ever spent any time with them, you would know that.”
Her father glanced at her and sighed. “That is something to discuss another time. Right now, we must decide what to do about you and your husband. Now, you said a friend of his told you all of this? Which friend?”
“The opera singer,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Another woman told you this? And you do not know her?”
“I know of her. She is the sister of one of his friends. And she said he and her once were involved. That they were…”
“I see,” he said. “Well, that sheds new light on this situation. Lydia, perhaps I gave you too much credit in thinking that you were witty and intelligent.”
“What do you mean, Father?” she said, hurt by his words.
“A woman of lower birth—no member of a noble family would ever be an opera singer—had liaisons with a duke. And after this duke married someone suitable of suitable station, she suddenly came forward and told you all of his details? Doesn’t that strike you as strange? Calculated? What did Alexander say precisely?”
“He admitted that he said these things to his friends. He tried to explain himself, but…”
“You did not give him the chance, did you?”
“Of course not. He admitted that he told his friends he thought me…”
“You thought much worse of him yourself,” her father said, and she groaned. “That is what Louisa said.”
“I told her she reminded me of me. Lydia, you can stay here for a few days. But I want you to really think about the time that you have spent with your husband. Do you really believe that he still thinks so negatively of you? And please examine this woman’s reasons for telling you what she told you. I want you to consider if it isn’t perhaps wiser to at least speak to Alexander one more time. Give him a chance to truly explain himself.”
“And if I do not like what he has to say?”
“That is a bridge we must cross when we get to it.”