Chapter 29

Sir Anthony called for more dancing. Mr. Amberson obliged with two merry jigs. For Annabelle's sake, Lydia went through the motions of the dance. Thankfully her feet knew the steps; her mind could never have kept up. Then Sir Anthony insisted upon cards. Was his lack of sufficient society in Summerseat driving him to play host in Mrs. Drummond's house?

At last, their guests departed. Annabelle hurried to the room they shared, Lydia and Juliana close behind her.

Annabelle shut the door and pressed her back against it. She pressed her head against the worn oak and crossed her arms over her chest. "I hardly know what to make of any of this."

"That duet you played," Juliana sat on the end of the bed, "I have never heard anything like it. It was amazing."

"Did he write it?"

Lydia wandered to the window and pulled the curtain over her shoulder. "Yes, although at the end … when we played it through the second time, it was just improvised."

"You improvise very, very well," Juliana said.

"Is it not time you tell us about him?" Annabelle dragged Lydia to the bed and sat down.

Lydia grabbed a pillow and clutched it to her chest. "There is nothing to be told."

Annabelle huffed. "Of course there is—we saw—"

Juliana placed a hand on her shoulder. "She doesn't know what to say. Here—" She handed Lydia her sketchbook. "Draw your duet."

She pushed it away. "I cannot." That would be worse than dancing naked in the parlor.

"You must. We have told you everything about ourselves," Annabelle grabbed the sketchbook and pushed it at Lydia. "It is only fair."

Lydia gulped and took book and pencil. Her hands trembled and she struggled to open to an empty page. Annabelle and Juliana pulled away slightly. How did they know she needed air?

The pencil settled into her hand, an extension of her heart and soul. Soft lines formed two profiles, the eyes most clearly drawn. Below, a keyboard with four hands playing.

"You are in love with him," Juliana whispered. "I think you have been for a very long time."

Lydia dropped her pencil. "No, no, it is nothing like Wickham."

"That was not love," Annabelle said, "That was rebellion and lust."

Juliana tapped the sketch. "This is nothing like that."

Lydia pushed the sketchbook aside. "I do not know. Is it so very different? He…he kissed me in the garden."

Annabelle gasped, wide-eyed.

"The night he buried the baby. I went out because I could not sleep and found him in the garden, grieving, weeping. It happened then. He apologized and left the garden right after that. We have barely spoken since. Not until tonight at the piano."

"What did he say then?"

Juliana's forehead knotted and she pointed to Lydia's sketch.

"He said nothing to you? What kind of a declaration is that." Annabelle rolled her eyes.

Lydia shrugged. "We neither use words well."

Annabelle grasped Lydia's shoulders. "Someone surely needs to and soon. You are so well formed for one another."

"No, please, please, I hardly know what I think myself. Besides, I am far more concerned with Amelia and her temper right now."

"I am certain Mrs. Drummond had some very strong words after her display in the parlor." Juliana said. "I am sorry she embarrassed you so. It was very wrong of her."

"Wrong, but perhaps not unexpected." Annabelle sniffed.

"I cannot believe Sir Anthony's set down to her. It was something to behold," Lydia said.

"If that does not affect her, I cannot imagine anything that Mrs. Drummond or Mrs. Weatherby could add that would. And certainly her cane? has had no influence either. I have little reason to believe Amelia will suddenly mend her ways." Annabelle blushed crimson.

"That is a very grim pronouncement," Juliana murmured.

"Not everyone is soft hearted and teachable like you. There are some who are steadfastly determined to do as they will."

"My family would have said that of me once." Lydia swallowed hard.

Annabelle patted Lydia's shoulder. "I think that is how all of us came to be here. Some of us have just chosen to do something with the opportunities we have been given, deserved or not."

The next morning, Lydia left Annabelle and Juliana to sleep a little longer while she crept downstairs to start on their chore of cleaning the parlor. She gathered her supplies from the kitchen. The odd, stale scent of the thrice-used tea leaves tickled her nose. The earthy fragrance echoed back to Mama's garden. Perhaps in the spring, Mrs. Drummond would allow her to revive that forgotten corner of the garden. It would be nice to have a patch of her own to tend.

The spring … what would it bring? She would be alone again, like she was when she had just arrived. No, that was silly melancholy. It would not be like that at all. Miss Greenville and Miss Long—and Stephanie and Ruth, they were all friendly with her. And there would be new students too. And Mr. Amberson would still be teaching.

Was Annabelle right? Were they so well formed for one another?

Did he believe so, too?

When they played together—oh, those last choruses were like a single soul shared by two minds. The tears on his cheek spoke everything she needed to hear.

But was it enough? Was Annabelle right? Were there not words that needed to be spoken too?

"Miss Bennet." Mrs. Drummond bustled in, a soggy note in her hand. "This came from the modiste. I expect it is in regards to the wedding dresses, but her girl seems to have dropped it in a puddle, and I cannot make it out. Perhaps you can?"

She extended the sodden missive. It dripped on the not yet clean floor.

Lydia took it and moved to the window. She held it up in a sunbeam. The ink had not been dry long enough to darken properly. The faint lines faded to obscurity amidst the water and muddy patches. It made for an interesting effect though. She might have to try intentionally decorating a paper like that sometime.

"I am sorry, madam, I cannot make it out either."

"I suppose there is nothing to be done for it then." Mrs. Drummond huffed and took the note back, her face wrinkled to match the paper.

"Shall I go to the modiste and ask what she wanted? The parlor is not clean yet, but I can go as soon as I finish."

"Best go now. You have done your share. Go quickly. The modiste has a bit of a temper. I do not wish her to suggest to Sir Anthony anything that smacks of ingratitude. Bring this with you," she shoved the disheveled message at Lydia, "and make she is well aware of where the fault lay in this affair."

"I will leave directly." Lydia curtsied and hurried out.

The scullery maid met her at the door to accompany her into town. Funny how Mrs. Drummond attended such issues better than Papa. He would not have cared if she walked alone.

The girl was quite a chatter box, talking from the moment they left the back door until they reached the modiste. By that time Lydia considered herself quite the expert on the girl's brothers who were employed as under-gardeners at a nearby estate, but might soon be promoted, though one meant to quit at the next quarter day and go to work for another. The maid herself was quite grateful to have employment at a place like Mrs. Drummond's where there were no men about who believe she was there for playing at rantum scantum as well as for mopping and scrubbing.

She had been so anxious when Mr. Amberson came lest he be like the sons of that estate. But he kept his breeches buttoned and his hands to himself. That was her idea of a gentleman.

A life in service was only a step above one as a public woman, and only a very small one when masters thought a girl's wages as good as a whore's socket-money. Lydia swallowed hard.

They slipped into the modiste's shop and Lydia handed her the illegible missive, along with Mrs. Drummond's careful explanation. The modiste rang her girl a fine peal over the sodden note and asked Lydia to return with Annabelle that afternoon to fit the dresses.

That accomplished, they headed to back to the school. The maid began her chatter anew, but Lydia cut her off.

"Wait, hush. Is that…" She pointed across the street.

Amelia sauntered down the lane on the arm of her Mr. Beverley.

"It is, Miss. She oughten not be doing that." She headed toward Amelia, but Lydia pulled her back.

"Wait, let us follow her and see what she is about."

"But the missus ought to know."

"Yes, she shall, but do as I say. Let us follow her just a bit."

The maid shrugged and followed as Lydia ducked into an alley way and held her finger to her lips. That earned a petulant little huff.

Amelia glanced their way once, but her expression remained unchanged. She shrugged and continued on with her beau.

They followed the couple to a fashionable street, lined with houses quite as nice as Uncle Gardiner's. Amelia withdrew something from her reticule and pressed it into Beverley's hand. She stood back, and he marched past several more doors to a freshly painted red door. He rapped the knocker three times and waited.

The door opened. Great heavens, Sir Anthony's man answered! What was Amelia doing delivering a note to Sir Anthony?"

Lydia grabbed the maid's arm."Now you must go to Mrs. Drummond. Tell her exactly what we have seen."

"Will you not accompany me?"

"No, I must do…something…lest this all go entirely aresey varsey."

The maid scurried away.

Beverley entered the town house while Amelia paced half a dozen houses down.

Perhaps she should confront Amelia. But what would she say? Beverley was already with Sir Anthony.

The door swung open and Beverley sauntered out, resettling his hat. Amelia met him three houses down. They exchanged several words. She took his arm, and they left the way they came.