Someone to Cherish by Mary Balogh
Twelve
And there went one resolution, broken before the dancing had even begun, Harry thought.
He had come here with the full intention of nodding amiably to Lydia, exchanging a few friendly words in passing if he came face-to-face with her, and keeping his distance the rest of the evening without being too obvious about it. He would treat her as he did everyone else and as he had done for most of the past four years, for he had never deliberately ignored or avoided her then. He simply had not noticed her. He could not go back to those days, of course, but he could set the tone for the future.
Yet here he was about to dance with her, even over her own protests and her very reasonable argument that since she had refused three other partners it would be poor manners to accept him. He had persisted, with the encouragement of a few of his neighbors, who seemed to agree that it was high time she danced.
He escorted her to the line of ladies, bowed over her hand, and took his place in the line of men. He hoped she was not about to make a spectacle of herself and go prancing off to her left while everyone else glided gracefully to their right, for example. She would be horribly embarrassed and would almost certainly never dance again. And he would be left knowing that it was all his fault.
There was something different about her tonight. Well, yes, of course there was. One would have to be blind not to notice. She was looking slender and dainty and pretty in her rose pink gown. Her chestnut hair glowed in the candlelight. How clever of her to wear it in a simple style so that the smooth sheen of it would not be lost in curls and ringlets. Or was it only that she did not have a maid? She wore no jewelry. Because she did not have any to wear? Or because she had aimed for simplicity and got it perfect? Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her face bright with animation though not openly smiling.
But there was something else over and above the obvious differences—which were startling enough in themselves.
It was partly her eyes, he decided at last. They were wide and unguarded and looked about the room with frank interest. Including at him. She was looking at him now and did not glance away when she saw him gazing back. Or lower her eyes. And yes, that was what it was. She was not in hiding tonight. She had worn that particular dress to be noticed. She had left off her cap to be noticed. And there was her chin as well as her eyes. It was raised. Not defiantly or belligerently but … proudly? Was that the right word?
It struck Harry that she was neither the Reverend Isaiah Tavernor’s wife tonight nor his widow. She was herself. Lydia Tavernor. Perhaps the Lydia Winterbourne she had once been.
The orchestra struck a chord, the ladies curtsied, the men bowed, and the dancing began.
She did not make a spectacle of herself.
She danced with deliberate care, he noticed, each step and gesture one fraction of a second behind those of her nearest neighbors as though she wanted to be quite sure before she committed herself that she was getting it right. Her movements were deliberate and slightly wooden for the first little while, until they had performed all the figures once and she was confident that she could do them again without committing some ghastly faux pas. She smiled at him as they met between the lines with another couple and all four clasped hands above their heads and danced a full circle before returning to their places.
And good God, she was beautiful.
When they reached the head of the lines and their turn came to twirl alone down the middle while the other dancers clapped and tapped their feet to the rhythm, she looked at him with sparkling eyes and actually laughed. The woodenness was long gone from her movements, as well as the concentration upon getting the steps right, and what was left was pure, light-footed grace. There was music and rhythm and color and light, and there was Lydia to embody them all.
Harry laughed too.
He was in a bit of danger here, he thought. He might even be in a lot of danger.
“Thank you,” she said when the set came to an end far too soon, and perhaps just as far too late. “I am relieved that I did not disgrace you after all. Denise was right. One does not forget how to dance. I must go and speak with Mrs. Bartlett. She was still not sure when I talked to her yesterday that she would come tonight. I am glad she did.”
He escorted her to her next-door neighbor’s side, stayed to chat for a minute or two, and then strolled away to have a few words with Mr. and Mrs. Raymore and solicit Theresa’s hand for the next set. He danced after that with Mirabel Hill, Miss Ardreigh, Hannah Corning, and Mrs. Bailey. He drank a glass of wine with Lawrence and his uncle and ate a plate of food while the orchestra was taking a break. He was enjoying himself as he always did at the village assemblies. There was something so relaxed and merry about them.
And he was constantly aware of Lydia. He supposed it was inevitable. It would surely fade with time. He would simply have to be patient with himself. She danced every set and mingled between sets, smiling and conversing and generally being everything she had never been before to his knowledge. She positively glowed. She looked vividly lovely. She did not attempt even once to hide in any corner or disappear inside herself.
He found himself wondering if this transformation had anything to do with him. She would not marry again. She had been quite adamant about that from the start. But she had also learned from her experience with him that having a lover was an impossible thing when one lived in a village the size of Fairfield. Had she decided as a result of that realization to reach out to friends and friendly acquaintances for happiness? To do it in an active way, not as an observer from a shadowy corner but as a full participant?
Perhaps after all he had done her some good.
Harry was standing close to the doors of the assembly rooms late in the evening with the Reverend Bailey and his wife, when they were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a young man Harry believed was one of Sir Maynard Hill’s farm laborers. He was not dressed for the occasion and in fact seemed to have come in from outside. He was very wet—and frowning and breathless as he caught the vicar by the arm.
“It’s my gran, Reverend,” he said. “She has taken a turn for the worse and Ma thinks she is going fast. I came for the doctor and for you too if you will.”
“Ah, it is time, then, is it, John?” the vicar said in his calm, kindly manner, patting the young man’s hand before raising his arm and beckoning Dr. Powis, who left his wife’s side and came striding toward them. “Mrs. Wickend is coming to the end, Powis, and we are needed, you and I. You came on horseback, John?”
“I did,” the young man said.
“The doctor and I will take my carriage, then,” the Reverend Bailey said. “It is still raining, is it? Foolish question. You are soaked.”
“It’s coming down like cats and dogs out there, Reverend,” John Wickend said.
“My dear—” Bailey began, turning to his wife.
“You must not worry about me, Stanley,” she said, interrupting him. “Someone will give me a ride home. You go.”
“It will be my pleasure to convey Mrs. Bailey home,” Harry said as Sir Maynard approached to find out why one of his laborers had arrived in the rooms looking like a drowned rat, as he put it.
“Gran is on the way out, sir,” the young man explained. “Ma sent me for the doctor and the reverend.”
“Off you go,” Mrs. Bailey said briskly. “Both of you.”
They left within the minute, with very little fuss. It was doubtful many people had even noticed the little drama being enacted over by the doors, since the volume of general conversation was nearly deafening and the musicians were tuning their instruments again before the next set formed.
“It is very kind of you to be willing to take me home in your carriage, Major Westcott,” Mrs. Bailey said. “I would happily walk on any other night, but I must confess I would not fancy it tonight, what with the rain and the wind.”
“I would not hear of your walking anyway, ma’am,” Harry said, “even if it were a balmy summer evening. My carriage is at your disposal whenever you are ready to leave.”
“And whenever Lydia is ready,” Mrs. Bailey said. “She came with us. You will not mind taking her too, I am sure. You will not even have to go out of your way. She lives at the end of your drive.”
Ah.
“Absolutely not, ma’am,” he assured her.
But he did mind.
And so, surely, would Lydia.
The final set of the evening finished well before midnight. People who lived and worked in the country did not, generally speaking, dance until dawn. Many of those who attended the assembly would not be able to sleep until noon tomorrow.
Even so, people were reluctant to leave. The women had to sort out the leftover food and claim their own plates and dishes, talking animatedly with one another as they did so, just as though there had been no other opportunity all evening for conversation. But the men were not hurrying them along or showing any particular signs of impatience to be gone. Most of them were downing one more pint of ale or glass of wine as they finished off their own conversations.
There would be no point in rushing outside anyway. Coachmen had to be rounded up from the taproom below and then had to collect their horses and hitch them to their carriages before they could drive up to the doors of the inn. Cloaks and hats and gloves and umbrellas had to be identified and claimed. Last-minute greetings and hugs and handshakes had to be exchanged.
It all took a good half hour.
Lydia was feeling both sad and relieved that it was all over and that soon she would be saying good night to the Baileys and closing her cottage door behind her, back in her own quiet, safe haven. She had enjoyed herself enormously and was immensely proud of herself. She had felt for most of the evening almost as though she were at a masquerade ball, safely hidden behind a disguise and able to behave out of character, secure in the knowledge that no one would ever know that she had been herself. Almost as though … What she had been doing in reality, of course, was just the opposite. She had thrown off her mask in order to be herself. As she had never had a chance to do when she was a girl. As she had never been allowed to do while she was married. As she had never dared to do since.
Tonight she had dared.
And it had felt wonderful. And horribly frightening, for several times, quite without warning, she had felt herself close to panic, as though were she to look down she would discover that she had forgotten to put her dress on before leaving the house.
Yet even as she had been enjoying herself she had longed for the evening to be over so she would not see Harry wherever she looked—dancing, smiling, talking, laughing, as she was doing herself. Unaware of her very existence, as he had been for most of the four years of his acquaintance with her.
Now, soon, she would be going home. Like Cinderella at midnight. But with no glass slipper to leave behind her. With no prince to retrieve it and search for her even if she did.
She was also exhausted, not just with physical tiredness from all the dancing and conversing, but with the emotional exertion of having behaved so differently from usual—and of pretending indifference to Harry.
She had no plate to take with her. She had offered her leftover iced cakes to Mrs. Piper to take home for her children, and since Mrs. Piper’s own plate had little room left on it, Lydia had told her to take the plate too. She would not miss it for a few days. She looked around, waved to Mrs. Bailey, and made her way toward her.
“Major Westcott has gone for the carriage,” Mrs. Bailey said. “I daresay he may be waiting for us by now. I believe the heavens have opened out there, Lydia. We are having a wet spring.”
“Major Westcott?” Lydia looked at her in incomprehension.
“It was kind of him to offer us a ride home, was it not?” Mrs. Bailey said. “Oh. Have you not heard, Lydia? The vicar and Dr. Powis were called away. Poor John Wickend came here, very agitated. He was convinced his grandmama is on her last—again. She does seem to have at least nine lives, just like a cat, though I mean no disrespect by the comparison. The men went anyway, of course. The vicar took the carriage. Major Westcott assured him that he would take us home. We would be drowned if we had to walk.”
Had he known when he offered, Lydia wondered, that he would be taking her home as well as Mrs. Bailey? What a ghastly way for the evening to end. And this would make three times in a row after they had been at the same evening event. Twice he had walked her home. Now he was to take her in his carriage. She just hoped Denise would not find out and start teasing and speculating again. Lydia hoped no one else would find out either. But there was nothing to be done about it now, was there? It really was raining heavily out there, and it would be foolish to try to insist upon walking home. Besides, he was to take Mrs. Bailey home too. Thank heaven for that at least.
There was an unruly jumble of carriages outside, all of them pulled as close as possible to the inn doors instead of ranging themselves in an orderly line as they normally would. People were making a dash for them, laughing, shrieking, calling out to one another, generally getting soaked and mud spattered.
Harry’s carriage must have been one of the first to arrive. It was standing almost directly across from the doors, and he was hurrying down the steps to hand them in as they came out. They were all seated inside within moments, and his coachman was about to put up the steps and shut the door when Mrs. Bailey threw up her hands.
“Oh, wait!” she cried. “The vicar’s muffler. I would be willing to wager upon it that he left it behind when he went off with Dr. Powis. He is always doing it. I shall go back and fetch it now and save him from having to come back here tomorrow. No, no, Major. I will get it. I know what it looks like. You wait here in the dry.”
And she was gone, down the carriage steps with the assistance of the coachman’s hand, and across the pavement and back inside the inn before Harry could do anything to stop her or even insist upon accompanying her.
Lydia felt suddenly very alone in the carriage with him.
“I am so sorry about this, Harry,” she said. They were sitting on opposite seats, their knees almost touching. “I could have walked.”
“In the rain,” he said. It was not a question, but his tone told her what he thought of that idea.
“I suppose,” she said, “it would have been a bit foolish.”
“More than a bit,” he said. “If I allowed it, the Reverend and Mrs. Bailey would look reproachfully at me for the next year at the very least every time I stepped inside the church. And the whole of Fairfield and its surrounds would wonder what on earth I had done or said to you that you preferred to get soaked to the skin rather than ride home in my carriage. Everyone would talk of nothing else for a month.”
“If you allowed it,” she said.
“Poor wording,” he admitted.
And for some reason they both laughed.
“Am I permitted,” he asked her, “to tell you how lovely you look tonight and how well you dance?”
“Yes, you are,” she said. “Which is just as well since you have told me anyway.”
He laughed softly again.
“I suppose Mrs. Bailey has searched every room in the inn for a muffler that is snugly about the vicar’s neck at this very moment,” he said.
“Probably,” she agreed. “She is very precious. They both are. They are warm and human.”
Mrs. Bailey came back after several minutes without the muffler. She hurried into the carriage with the assistance of the coachman and a hand Harry offered from inside.
“It was not in the cloakroom,” she explained as she settled beside Lydia. “I looked in the assembly rooms too and even the taproom, though it was unlikely to be in there. It is as well to be thorough, however. One never knows. You must take me home first, Major Westcott. It would make no sense to go to Lydia’s and then have to turn back to the vicarage with me, would it? And she is no girl to need a chaperon over such a short distance.”
“The vicarage first, then,” Harry told his coachman.
Lydia was relieved to find that Mrs. Bailey seemed to fill the carriage with her cheerful presence and her chatter about all the pleasures of the assembly even though it was sad to think that while they had danced and enjoyed themselves poor Mrs. Wickend senior not so far away was perhaps really dying this time after suffering increasingly failing health over the past few months. But such was life, and she had lived to a good old age.
“None of us can live forever,” she concluded as the carriage drew to a halt outside the vicarage. “Which is a very good thing, as the vicar always points out, as our poor world would get so full of people we would all have to stand upright on it with our arms pressed to our sides.”
Harry drew a large umbrella from a holder beside his seat and escorted Mrs. Bailey up the garden path to her door.
And then he was back inside the carriage while the rain beat down on the roof and against the windows and the wind rocked it on its springs. The interior suddenly seemed more crowded than it had when Mrs. Bailey was still inside with them and very quiet despite the almost deafening noises of weather and horses and carriage wheels.
“I have finished knitting your scarf,” Lydia said as the carriage moved away from the vicarage. “I knitted it while I was away.”
“Oh,” he said. “You did not need to do that, Lydia.”
“And you did not need to chop my wood,” she said. “I have been wondering how I would get it to you. I will give it to you tonight.”
“Thank you.” He was gazing across at her, though there was very little light by which to see.
She could not think of anything else to say, and he remained silent. But she felt sadness welling for a reason she could not quite understand. It was over between them because it could not possibly work. She had her life to live, the life of freedom she had never expected, the life with which she had been gifted anyway. It was a way of life that brought her great contentment. And it was a life into which she had moved fully tonight, out of the shadows cast by her marriage. She was no longer anyone’s helpmeet. She was herself. Lydia Tavernor.
But for a brief moment there had been Harry.
And he had left behind in her a trace of sadness.
He took up the umbrella again as the carriage drew to a halt outside her gate. He raised it as soon as he was outside and held it aloft as he helped her descend the steps— carefully, for they were slippery with rain. He tipped it slightly against the wind as he opened the gate, and then drew her to his side with an arm about her waist as he hurried up the path with her. He kept her dry while she fumbled with her key in the lock and opened the door before bending over Snowball, who had come dashing and yapping to greet her and reproach him for keeping her out so long.
She lit the candle and turned toward him, pushing back the hood of her cloak as she did so.
“Step inside out of the rain,” she said. “I will fetch your scarf.”
He did as she suggested and lowered the umbrella, shook some of the wetness from it, and stood it against the doorframe. He half closed the door, presumably so that the wind would not blow out the candle.
Lydia got his scarf from her bedchamber, folded into a neat oblong. “I should find something to wrap it in,” she said. She was feeling a bit suffocated by the sight of him inside her house again, though he was only just inside.
“There is no need,” he said, reaching out and taking it from her. Their hands brushed. “Thank you, Lydia. It is a lovely bright color. It will mean a great deal to me. I will think of you whenever I wear it.”
“As I think of you whenever I sit before a fire,” she said. “I still have a pile of your wood left.”
He smiled at her, and she smiled at him. And the sadness was a dull ache about her heart.
“Good night, Harry,” she said. “And thank you for the ride.”
“Good night, Lydia.” He raised one hand to hook behind her ear a lock of her hair that had come loose when she lowered her hood. He kissed her forehead.
But the wind blew the door open again as he did so, and he turned, tucked the scarf beneath one arm, raised his umbrella, ducked beneath it, and hurried back to his carriage.
Lydia shut the door, leaned back against it, closed her eyes, and touched the fingers of one hand to her forehead.
