Chapter1
Lydia Fernside studiedherself in her dressing table mirror. She tilted her head from side to side and turned to look at herself from all angles. Very pretty face she decided. A slender non-obtrusive nose. A pleasing figure—her mother had told her so many times. Although, she also had much to say about Lydia’s poor posture. Lydia noticed her hair could use some attention, but her complexion was fair and she thought she had bright and intriguing eyes—but who was she to conclude that? Certainly one could not see oneself as othersmight.
She let out a fulsome sigh as she realized that at twenty years of age she still lacked what she would describe as a suitable suitor. Oh yes, Henry Howell currently filled that position. But Henry? Really? She sighed once again and stifled a yawn as she contemplated a life with one so dull and uninteresting. He maintained a small accounting establishment and his conversation was laced with stories of sheep farmers and shop owners struggling with debts or taxes—stories he found eminently fascinating but which she could only feign the mildest of interest. More often than not, when in conversation with Henry, her eyes glazed over or she looked down at her embroidery and nodded into a slightslumber.
But enough of this self-centered contemplation, she advised herself. It was time to rise from her dressing table and meet the morning full on. She grabbed the current novel she was reading and raced downstairs forbreakfast.
“Good morning, darling Mother—and dearest sister, Margaret,” she announced as she entered the dining room where breakfast was beingserved.
“You are looking well this morning, Lydia,” her mother said, scarcelylookingup.
Lydia had pinched her cheeks to add a bit of color before she camedownstairs.
“And how is your barrister? Is he to call on you today?” Lydia asked Margaret, as she sat down at her place at the breakfast table and shook out her napkin, laying it across the lap of her charming lemon yellow morningdress.
Margaret looked up from her kipper and squinted. She needed eyeglasses but vanity kept her in a fuzzy world of ill-defined shapes and colors. But it mattered not, as everyone could seeherjust fine, as she could see the admiring glances from those who appreciated her slender figure, dark curly hair, and fair creamycomplexion.
“Charles had a court date he’d forgotten about. I’m afraid he had to cancel. But perhaps you and I could go for a stroll later this morning? I believe the weather promises to be fine and Culum Daniels is installing a new stile at Brompton corner. If it’s complete we could enjoy a walk along theriverpath.”
“I would like that,” Lydiaanswered.
“But isn’t Henry coming by for a visit this morning?” Motherasked.
“Not until tea,” Lydia responded. “He is visiting with a new client thismorning."
Mother seemed agitated. She adjusted her cap and fiddled with the tassels on her dress. “I really don’t know what the matter is with that young man. He has been calling on you for over a year and yet he never seems to have the nervetoask.”
“Ask what,Mother?”
“Ask for your hand. I can’t possibly understand his hesitation. Your father had words with him but a fortnight ago, and still hedissembles.”
“Perhaps he’s bored with me,” Lydia teased, knowing it would ruffle her mother’s feathers—which, indeed, it seemedtodo.
Mother dabbed at her constantly watery eyes with the edge of her napkin and proceeded to blow her nose with a hoot. And as she did so, a cloud of powder exploded from her over-powdered face and she waved her napkin in the air todisperseit.
“Nonsense, you are a tribute to this family. You are well read, you practice the domestic arts and are accomplished in piano, reciting, watercolors, and you embroider the most charmingcushions.”
“Yes, Mother, but perhaps he desires a more buxom lady. I have a much more modestfigure.”
Mother brushed away the comment. “Oh, Lydia, how can you say such things, let alonethinkthem?”
“She reads too many novels, Mother dear,” Margaret added. “It’s not ladylike and I’m sure she puts off young Henry with her babbling on about heroes andheroines.”
“I dare say, you have a point,” Mother replied, as she rang the silver bell tosummonLucy.
“Yes, mum,” Lucy said, as she entered from thekitchen.
“You may clear the table after Mistress Lydia has finished herbreakfast.”
“And Vicar Fernside? He’s not breakfasted yet, mum.”Lucysaid.
Mother looked up. “Oh, bother. Has he lost himself in his morning reveries again? Go see if he’s in his study. And if he is, tell him I require him to come to breakfast before the morning is entirelyspent.”
“Yes, mum.” And Lucydeparted.
“Honestly—how I am bothered. Not one moment of tranquility. Your father, I swear, will be the death of me. Fiddling with his little wooden carvings, or lost in his Sunday matters, and forgetting to pay the bills. Why, only the other morning, butcher Barns threatened to delay delivery of the lamb chops unless we made some payment on the account. I had to use my pocket money tosatisfyhim.”
“Mother, you know Father tends to be forgetful of such trivial domestic matters. His mind is on loftier ideals. His sermons soar to the heavens,” Lydia said, defending herfather.
