In which an important discussion takes place in the garden and Lord Aldershot refuses to be pushed around
Finding no excuse to remain in his company, Lydia reluctantly left Mr. Newton seated comfortably at her father’s desk scribbling out a few notes; his description, not hers. Deep in thought and distraction, she wandered into the morning room at the far side of the manor, where she could be alone. With a sigh, she worried at her bottom lip.
There seemed to be some urgency to Uncle’s manner and choices that Lydia did not understand. Was it all too much for him—the burden of the estate—too much weight for him to bear? To buckle after such a short duration, well, it smacked of weakness. It was a most abhorrent condition to her father, and one that he must not have foreseen or Uncle Arthur would never have been named as a trustee. The whole situation was beyond perplexing.
If only Mr. Pibsbury were still there. He would call Uncle a ninny, quietly under his breath, and toss Mr. Drury out on his ear. Tea would get short shrift, and pineapples wouldn’t even merit a comment—a smirk, perhaps, but no more than that.
Yes, a wonderful, competent man, Mr. Pibsbury. He was a font of information, kindness, and chuckles—a bonhomie sort. His pensioning-off had come as a complete surprise to all. Thirty-five years of knowledge swept away in one fell swoop.
This whole state of affairs was nothing short of a disaster.
Frowning, Lydia plopped—very unladylike—onto the firm morning room settee.
Disaster. Her father would not appreciate the word’s use—too much emotion, smacked of an indecent amount of sensibility. Histrionics at its worst. Perhaps farce would be a better word. Yes, digging up a productive orchard to plant tea … in Somerset, no less … could be nothing but a farce.
Still, there was little Lydia could do—farce or disaster—at this point other than appeal to Mr. Lynch, which she had already done. Rubbing at her forehead—completely mussing her carefully placed curls—Lydia considered one more option … one more person to whom she could turn. Yes, despite a qualm or two, she considered involving her neighbor, Lord Aldershot, in this tug-of-war of authority.
Indeed, Manfred Barley, Lord Aldershot, had authority in spades simply for being who he was—Lord Aldershot: friend of her father (or, rather, the son of her father’s friend), member of the peerage, and the gentleman to whom Lydia was unofficially engaged.
Yes, that might do the trick.
Barley would be like-minded—he always agreed with her. No reason to think he would have his own opinion in regard to crops; it would be uncharacteristic, for he was a compliant and easily led individual. And while he knew nothing of running an estate the size of Roseberry, which was three times larger than Wilder Hill Manor, he had a vested interest.
All and sundry knew that their engagement was not official—no contract had been signed, none of the larger issues settled. Yet, had their betrothal not been generally bandied about, Barley would have had to retrench, so deep were his debts. Forced into Bath or, worse, Bristol—to live a quiet life off a rented Wilder Hill Manor. It was a horrifying thought to any who knew him. Barley was a country gentleman: horses, hounds, and high living were his lifeblood … and his financial drain.
It stood to reason that Barley would not wish his future jeopardized.
Jumping up, Lydia exchanged her seat on the settee for the chair at her escritoire. She stared at the rosewood grain for some minutes as she composed the missive in her head and then dashed off the carefully worded note. Then, after giving the sealed letter to Shodster, she adjourned to the first-floor drawing room to await Barley’s arrival.
*
The drawing room was a pleasant apartment: of a good size, lately redecorated in floral pink and green with a bank of windows overlooking the formal gardens. As expected, the room contained six ladies, and did so daily—Lydia, being the seventh female of the household, was somewhat inconstant.
Lydia had a deep affection for all members of the Whitfield family circle. Cora Shipley, the governess of Cousin Tessa and Lydia’s sister, Ivy, was included under that umbrella, for they were, in fact, close friends. However, the family was not without flaws. Cousin Elaine, almost three full years Lydia’s senior, could be annoying at times—prone to exaggeration or melodrama. Mama was … Mama. And Aunt Freya, Uncle Arthur’s beleaguered wife, well, the poor woman fancied herself a gifted but unfulfilled artist and constantly regaled them with anecdotes of flower arranging or matching ribbons or choosing wallpaper.
Walking sedately into the room, Lydia allowed the bubbling conversation and laughter to distract her from her worries … her uncertainties. Ivy joined her on the couch with an embroidery sampler, asking how best to correct a stitching error. Once Lydia had fixed her sister’s needlework, Cousin Tessa traded places with Ivy for no particular purpose. Tessa lolled against Lydia, as only a worshipping nine-year-old could. The scene was so untouched by the tea-and-pineapple hostilities that Lydia’s abating tension was soon no longer a pretense but truly realized.
Even Mama’s pointed remarks did not nettle.
“How is dear Shelley, Lydia? Have you heard from her lately?” Mama turned to look at Aunt Freya, who was seated next to her on the couch by the fire. “Shelley is a fast friend of Lydia’s from Miss Melvina’s Finishing School for Young Ladies—”
“And of Cora’s, Mama.” Lydia glanced toward the window seat, where her friend sat sideways with a book on her lap; she was lost in her own world, staring out at the trees. The picture of a demure governess, Cora wore an unembellished dove-gray gown, a serene expression with a hint of melancholy in her pretty blue eyes, and a sensible upsweep of her dark blond hair. It was quite disturbing, for Cora was of a flamboyant nature in dress and character, normally tending toward laughter and spirited discourse.
When Lydia had offered her the position of governess six or so months earlier, Cora had been extremely grateful. Cora had been at wit’s end as her brother’s wife had made it plain that Cora’s presence was tiresome and that she was no longer welcome at the Shipley manor.
Lydia had offered her friend a home at Roseberry Hall with no obligations, but Cora called it charity and would not agree. It was then decided that a girl well versed in elocution, deportment, and dancing could provide the two youngest girls of the Whitfield-Kemble menagerie with a worthwhile education. And so, Cora Shipley acquiesced.
Now, not for the first time, Lydia observed that her friend had become withdrawn this past month. Quiet afternoons were spent staring out the window with an ever-growing expression of sadness. Even the mention of her name had not distracted Cora from the complicated process of staring at nothing.
With a sigh, Lydia returned her attention to her mother’s conversation.