“Come sit and have some tea with us,” Ellen encouragedLydia.
Lydia went to the tea table and Ellen poured her a cup. She sat down. She was not about to be intimidated by Miss Sybil, and said, "Whereas Ellen may have told you all about me, she has told me nothing about you. And what might yourinterestsbe?”
Sybil studied Lydia. “I am quite well-known for my watercolors in certain circles, I collect bibelots, and I just adore my King Charles spaniels. And when I am married, I expect to establish a Sunday afternoon salon for poets and intellectual thinkers inMayfair.”
Lydia gave Ellen a furtive glance. Lydia could see that Ellen felt as she did about Sybil’sanswer.
Ellen chose to change the subject entirely. “Sybil, and how is your dear mother? I cannot tell you how long it has been since I sawherlast.”
“She has the occasional bout of the vapors, but her doctor says it is nothing serious. And she asked after you when she knew I was coming to see you, and she sends her bestregards.”
“And return them to herforme.”
Sybil finished her tea. “Thank you my dear, Ellen, but I promised to stop by the Richards before supper. And as I notice it is beginning to snow I feel I must be onmyway.”
She stood and leaned in toward Ellen, giving her a buss on the cheek. “It has been such a delight seeing you again, dear Ellen.” She turned to Lydia. “Miss Lydia, goodafternoon.”
Ellen rang a bell on the table and a footmanappeared.
“Will you show Miss Masters outplease?”
Sybil turned and left ever sobeautifully.
Both Ellen and Lydia said nothing until they could hear the front door closing, then they collapsed intolaughter.
* * *
Alone in herroom after tea, Lydia opened her two letters. She opened her mother’s first because she knew Jenny’s letter would be the greater treat and wanted to save thatforlast.
Her mother bade her write with news of her stopover at Oxford. She talked about the weather, the state of Her Grace’s health, and reminded Lydia to not forget the rose water and theorgandy.
Her only other comment was that Her Grace was becoming more and more demanding since she had moved into the house. The Duchess called upon her mother whenever she wanted anything—regardless if it was her private timeornot.
However, she said absolutely nothing about Edwin—the one bit of news she would have beeninterestedin.
Now Jenny’s letter was a differentmatter.
“Lydia, Lydia,Lydia,
How can I miss you so much already? Reggie is off to some horrible medical conference in Shrewsbury, and I am absolutely all alone in this mausoleum of a house all by myself—except for the servants, of course. But there is absolutely nothing entertaining about thematall.
I suppose you are off conquering London and melting the hearts of all the eligible young gentlemen—and perhaps even some who are not soeligible.
I am spending most of my time at the family home until Reggie returns. I cannot bear being all alone. Youknowme.
Oh, and Mother sends her love, and Graham tells me to tell you that you are a divine dancer. He has not stopped talking about you since the wedding. He is dropping hints that I should write to you about how handsome, and virile, and available he is—just in case your heart is not captured by storm by some young, titled buck inLondon.
I saw Edwin the other day in the market. He was looking most sad and romantic. I am sure he is missing you, but he will never write you, will he? —being all engaged to that Beaufortwoman.
He did, however, finally spy me and came over to chat about this and that. I could see he was dying to ask me if I had heard from you, but he was the soul of discretion and refrained from mentioning you, except to say he was so appreciative of the work you did for him on the orchard and garden. Well, at least you know your job is safe for the timebeing.
Oh, do please write to me. I want to hear absolutely everything about London, and your adventures, and your mad torridaffairs.
Ever yourdevoted,
Jenny
Mrs. Dr. ReginaldCooke
Lydia put the letter aside. It had made her feel desperately homesick. Not that she was not enjoying London. But she had to admit that, so far, she was finding neither the place nor the people to be particularlysympathetic.
She was realizing that her simple ways were not the ways of metropolitan London. The noise, the crowds, the constant clatter of wagons, carriages, and public transportation grated on her nerves. She was a woman of wide open spaces. She longed to walk through a grove of trees on a grey, misty morning. Or study the starry night for shooting stars. Or sit under a shady tree, beside a babbling stream, as she read her book on a hot summer’safternoon.
It was still an hour or so before supper, but it was already nearly dark. She considered taking the walk she had promised herself but chose against it. It would be better to explore in the fulldaylight.
