Prologue #2
Oliver reached out and brushed an errant curl from her cheek, tucking it very gently behind her ear.
Even that innocent touch made her shiver.
It never ceased to amaze her how very much she could want something she understood so little about.
The marriage bed was spoken of only in whispers, if it was spoken of at all, mothers guarding the subject with determined silence as though ignorance itself were a virtue.
Lydia had long ago concluded that such an approach answered very little, so she had quietly enlisted the assistance of one of the housemaids.
The poor girl had done her earnest best, though her halting explanation had left Lydia rather more confused than enlightened.
It had not, however, lessened her curiosity in the slightest. If anything, every kiss, every embrace, every fleeting touch from Oliver only made the waiting more difficult to bear.
She did not simply want another stolen moment in a moonlit garden.
She wanted him to keep touching her, to keep looking at her as though she were already his, and she found herself hoping with increasing frequency that the wedding day might arrive before either of them completely exhausted their supply of patience.
His hand drifted from her cheek until he could rest a crooked finger beneath her chin, gently lifting her face until their eyes met.
"Soon. The time will pass so swiftly until the day we meet at the church...
until the day when no one can tell us we've danced together too frequently or been alone together too long.
" His hand fell away almost reluctantly as he took a small step backward, increasing the distance between them by no more than propriety demanded.
"Go inside, Lydia. I'll follow shortly. It wouldn't do to court scandal any more than we already have. "
She knew he was right, though she found herself wishing, not for the first time that evening, that right and fair were not so very different.
Gathering her skirts, she climbed the terrace steps alone and slipped easily into the end of the supper queue, exchanging pleasant greetings with acquaintances while making every effort to appear as though she had spent the past quarter hour doing nothing more remarkable than admiring the gardens.
Conversation flowed comfortably around her, yet she heard almost none of it.
She was too conscious of the empty space behind her, knowing Oliver would wait precisely long enough to satisfy convention before joining the line himself.
She told herself there was no reason to look back.
It would accomplish nothing beyond tempting her to smile when she ought instead to be paying attention to those around her.
She looked anyway.
Oliver had only just entered through the terrace doors and had not yet taken his place in the queue.
Another couple passed in front of him before he moved forward, his attention apparently occupied by the gathering ahead.
Then, as though some invisible thread existed between them, he lifted his head and found her almost immediately.
No one else would have noticed anything remarkable in the glance they exchanged.
There was no broad smile, no wave, no gesture that might invite comment from watchful eyes.
Yet the look he gave her carried all the warmth of the embrace they had so reluctantly abandoned only moments before, and she felt her pulse answer nearly as enthusiastically as it had in the garden.
Smiling to herself, she turned back toward the dining room, perfectly content to wait just a few weeks longer for the life that was already beginning to feel as inevitable as tomorrow's sunrise.
The drive home passed pleasantly enough, though Lydia contributed very little to the conversation. Her mother spoke of Lady Winthrop's supper, the success of the evening, and the approaching wedding while Lydia's thoughts remained beneath the garden trees with Oliver.
The carriage drew to an unexpected halt. Every downstairs room was ablaze with candlelight, the front door stood open, and strangers were carrying furniture and paintings into waiting wagons while raised voices echoed from the study.
Lydia looked toward her mother who stared at the scene unfolding before them with an expression of stricken terror. But there was no time to question her, for her mother was all but jumping from the carriage before the footman could even lower the steps.
Her own entrance was much less harried, not because of lack of concern but of necessity. She had to navigate around a pair of large men carting out a settee. Once inside, Lydia sought out Pritchard.
Lydia found Pritchard standing near the foot of the staircase, watching the strangers move methodically through the hall with the quiet resignation of a man who knew there was nothing to be done.
He had served the Whitby family for nearly forty years, and she could not remember a time when he had not been somewhere nearby, ensuring every detail of the household ran precisely as it ought.
Seeing him stand idle while others carried away the contents of the house unsettled her almost as much as the spectacle itself.
"Pritchard," she said, drawing nearer so they need not raise their voices above the commotion. "Please tell me what has happened.”
He removed his spectacles, polishing them absently with a handkerchief before answering. It was a habit she had watched him perform since childhood whenever he found himself obliged to deliver unwelcome news.
"Your father has sustained very heavy losses over the last several years, Miss Lydia. At first we believed them temporary. So did he. Each new investment was expected to recover the one before it.”
"And it didn't."
"No, miss." He replaced the spectacles upon his nose. "Instead, the losses continued, and your father began relying upon credit to maintain the household while he attempted to restore what had been lost."
Lydia looked around the entrance hall again. The scale of it suddenly seemed impossible. "But surely..." She hesitated, struggling to understand. "Surely we cannot owe so very much."
"I'm afraid the debts have accumulated for some time.
" His voice remained as steady and respectful as ever, though there was genuine sadness beneath it now.
"The household staff have not received wages for several months.
We've remained because we hoped matters would improve.
Neither has the butcher been paid, nor the greengrocer.
The baker, the wine merchant, the tailor, the coal merchant, the chandlers, the stable, the farrier...
" He paused, as though reluctant to lengthen the list further.
"They have all continued extending credit because your father has always met his obligations in the past. No one wished to believe the situation was beyond recovery. "
"What changed?"
Pritchard's gaze drifted briefly toward the open study door before returning to her.
"The latest investment failed, miss. I do not pretend to understand the particulars of such matters, only that your father expected it to restore everything that had been lost before it.
Instead..." He drew a slow breath. "Word spread remarkably quickly.
Once one creditor demanded payment, the others became fearful of receiving nothing if they waited.
They've all called in their accounts at once. "
Lydia felt the first genuine stirrings of hope since entering the house. "Then this can still be put right."
Pritchard regarded her kindly but said nothing.
She scarcely noticed his silence. Instead she focused on what she thought might save them.
On who she thought might save them. "Oliver will help us," she said, the solution seeming so obvious she wondered why no one else had thought of it.
"Hartwell requires my dowry, certainly, but not all of it. We can satisfy the most strident of father’s creditors, once we're married.
And Oliver has seen to his own estates, everything else can be sorted properly. "
Without waiting for a reply, she gathered her skirts and hurried to the study.
Her father remained behind his desk exactly as she had imagined him, though there was nothing familiar about the defeated figure before her.
Only hours earlier she had left him in excellent spirits, laughing about how her mother was trying to pauper him with wedding expenses.
Now his cravat hung slightly askew, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and the papers scattered across the desk bore the appearance of having been read, discarded, and read again in the futile hope that the words upon them might somehow have changed.
The solicitor stood near the hearth, hat in hand, while her mother sat in a chair beside the fire, a damp handkerchief clutched tightly between trembling fingers.
"Lydia." Mrs. Whitby started to rise, her face crumpling almost at once. "My darling..."
"It's all right, Mama." Crossing the room, Lydia bent to kiss her cheek before turning immediately to her father. "Pritchard has explained enough for me to understand that matters are serious, but they are not beyond remedy."
Mr. Whitby neither looked up nor spoke. The solicitor seated opposite his desk remained silent as well.