“Mmm,” he replied. “A one. I’m missing a one.”
She peered over his shoulder. “You left it on the last page,” she said after a moment’s study. “When you carried the amount over.”
He looked up at her, peering over the rims of his glasses. “Did I, then?”
She ran her finger down the facing page and pointed.
He frowned—not a real frown, that; she knew his moods well enough to know when he was unhappy. And right now, he wasn’t. “So I did,” he said. “So I did.”
But instead of returning to his books, he looked at her—at the heavy gown of dark rose she’d donned, so unsuited for an afternoon at home.
“You’re going out,” he said mildly.
She shrugged, feeling suddenly awkward. Lydia knew for a fact that she could tell her father anything. She’d told him about that dreadful ordeal with Tom Paggett, after all. Her father knew the absolute worst about her, and he loved her anyway. She didn’t understand why.
And she didn’t want to tell him about her wager with Doctor Grantham. He trusted her, and even though she knew why she’d agreed—for no reason other than to rid herself of him—she was aware that the situation might have appeared somewhat improper if she were to reveal the stakes.
A kiss? From Grantham? The very idea made her shiver. No, it had made perfect sense to make sure that Grantham never talked to her again. She’d never have to feel that nervous anticipation creeping up her spine. All she had to do was endure him for a few afternoons, and she’d be free of him.
“I am going out,” she said awkwardly.
He glanced down, caught a glimpse of her half boots. “Going out walking. With a man?”
Lydia made a face. “Not a man,” she muttered. “At least—not like that.”
Even though there was nothing exceptional in walking with a gentleman, another father—knowing what he did of Lydia—would have restricted her movements, refusing to let her do what the other young ladies did. He might have told her she was no longer trustworthy.
Mr. Charingford was not those other fathers. When Lydia had told her father she was pregnant, he’d held her close for many long minutes, not saying a word. He’d called her mother in, leaving Lydia in her comforting embrace. Then he’d left the house. She had no idea what he’d said or done, but Tom Paggett had left town two days later. Her father didn’t speak much, but she’d never doubted him.
One of Lydia’s first memories was playing on the floor of her father’s study. Her nurse had darted in, grabbing her up with a flood of apologies and a scold for Lydia.
“Can’t you see your father’s busy?” she’d remonstrated.
But her father had simply shrugged. “If you take her away every time I’m busy,” he’d said placidly, “I’ll never see her. She can stay.”
He’d not been too busy to take her to Cornwall when she was pregnant, hiding her condition from those who would have disparaged her. And on Christmas morning, when she’d not been sure if she would live, he’d come into her room with ribbons and holly. He hadn’t said a word; he’d only set them around the room, fussing with ribbons he scarcely knew how to tie because he’d wanted to do something.
Sometimes, when she thought of her father, she felt as if there were something vast and impossibly large inside his slight frame, something too big for words. It certainly felt too big for her.
And so now, she put ribbons in his study as Christmas approached. It was the only way she could return those too-large emotions.
“You’re not walking out with a man?” His tone was congenially suspicious. He looked pointedly at her.
So it was her favorite walking dress, the one she saved for special occasions. He’d seen her altering the trim last night, replacing the light blue cuffs with two inches of white linen that she’d embroidered herself.
Lydia felt herself flush. “I like looking well, no matter who I’m with.” She wasn’t even sure why she’d dressed with such particular care. Maybe she just didn’t want to give Grantham another opportunity to poke fun at her.
“Mr. Charingford. Miss Charingford.” A maid ducked her head in the doorway, interrupting the conversation.
Behind her stood the tall figure of Jonas Grantham. His coat was slung over one arm; he held a large black bag in the other.
“You see?” Lydia sad. “Not a man. A doctor.”
Grantham looked to one side, biting his lip, and her father raised an eyebrow at her.
“That’s not what I meant,” Lydia muttered.
But her father simply took off his spectacles and set them on his desk
Grantham didn’t look at her. “I believe what your daughter meant was that she agreed to accompany me on a call to the Halls, out by Lipham Road.”