Chapter 2

"It's a pleasant enough house—a little pokey, though," Lady Morton whispered as the five of them entered what was to be Caroline's new home a short while later.

It was a glorified townhouse, sprawling in various directions, but with no main focal point. A series of connecting rooms led off the hallways, and a number of tables had been brought in for the wedding breakfast, laid with a variety of different cloths, cutlery and glassware.

It was not the grand occasion one might expect from a Society wedding, and served only to emphasize the minor title of Caroline's new husband. Lydia could not have cared less where the celebrations were held, but looking around her, she could tell others did.

"Aunt Letitia won't like this," Ezra whispered.

"She's probably fainted at the sight. None of the glasses match, and are we to be served by those two sorry excuses for footmen?" Graham asked, nodding to where two young men—not much more than boys dressed in ill-fitting livery—were looking nervously around them, as though waiting for instructions.

There was no butler to oversee the proceedings, and no master of ceremonies either. As they entered the first of the connecting rooms—a drawing room with a large bay window—a harassed-looking woman emerged from a side door, wheeling a trolley on which were balanced several large tureens.

"Jacob, Michael, come here. Start serving the soup," she hissed, and the two footmen hurried forward.

"Would everyone like to sit down? Please take a seat wherever you can. There are tables in the drawing room, the music room, and the morning room—the doors all connect, you see," Edward called out.

It seemed he was trying to make the best of what he had, which was not a great deal—he looked somewhat embarrassed.

The guests went to take their seats, and Lydia, her mother, and her brothers sat down at one of the tables in the drawing room. More guests were now filing in, and as one of the tureens of soup was placed on the table in front of them, Lydia caught sight of the one person she had hoped to avoid—Philip. He had just entered the room with his mother.

"Look, Lydia, I told you I saw Lucy," her mother whispered.

Lydia watched as the pair made their way through to the next room in search of a table.

Despite having not seen him for almost seven years, there had been no mistaking Lord Walford's appearance. He had been striking in his youth, and he remained so now in early manhood—a dashing figure, resplendent in a red frock coat, breeches, shirt, and matching cravat. He was tall and athletic, but slim, with brown hair. Lydia knew his eyes to be hazel in color, and she blushed at the thought of the last time she had gazed into them, feeling foolish for having allowed him to upset her so in the past.

"He's certainly grown up, hasn't he?" Graham noted, raising his eyebrows as he glanced at his sister, who turned away in embarrassment.

"Grown more arrogant, I'm sure," Lydia replied, for she had not liked the confident swagger with which Philip had passed by, not even deigning to look at them.

But despite this, Lydia was surprised to find her curiosity piqued. Seeing him again intrigued her, and she could not help but wonder how the years gone by had treated him.

"I'm surprised he's even here. I haven't seen him in years," Graham continued.

"He's Edward's cousin. He was bound to be here," she pointed out, turning her attention to the soup tureen.

The ensuing meal was something of a farce. The two footmen—whom Lydia suspected did not usually fulfill such a function—were entirely out of their depth, berated by the harassed-looking woman with the trolley, who appeared at various points with further courses, none of which could be claimed to delight the culinary senses. The fish they were served was undercooked, the joint of beef was burned, the tureen of vegetables was cold, and the ices melted. It was a disaster—a clear indication of Edward's lack of circumstances.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Lydia. Marry well," her mother whispered to her, displaying something of the snobbery she had condemned her own sister for.

Coffee was to be served in an ante-room, and curious to explore the house a little further—and get away from Derek's interminable talk about the sermon they had endured—Lydia excused herself. She wanted, by her own admission, to steal another glance at Philip. She knew she was being foolish, that she should ignore him completely. But seeing him again had roused long-forgotten memories, and she was interested in knowing something more about him—from a distance, of course.

I don't want to talk to him, she told herself as she helped herself to coffee in a chipped China cup.

Everything about the occasion—the setting, the food, the general atmosphere—spoke of a man trying to achieve more than his means allowed.

Lydia felt sorry for Edward. He was clearly in love with Caroline and wanted to do everything he could to impress her. But his financial limitations and social standing prohibited him from being the sort of man her mother had expected her to marry, and now, she would soon discover what those limitations meant.

"Oh, Lydia, it is you. I thought I saw your mother here," a voice behind Lydia said.

Lydia turned to find the Dowager Countess of Walford smiling at her.

The Dowager Countess was a pretty woman, and there was no doubt she was Philip's mother. They had the same brown hair, and the same nose—small and dimpled.

"My Lady," Lydia greeted, setting down her coffee cup and bobbing a curtsey.

"Oh, you don't need to stand on ceremony like that. It's lovely to see you. Philip's here, too. He'll be thrilled to see you. It must be… oh, seven years since you were last together? Where does the time go? I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people—letters go unanswered for weeks. But seeing you here, oh, it's so nice!" Lady Walford exclaimed.

Lydia smiled. She had always liked Philip's mother. Lady Walford was kind and did not take herself or her rank too seriously. She was self-effacing, and while she could be somewhat overbearing when it came to her son, her motives came from a purely genuine, loving place—at least, that was how Lydia remembered her.

"It's really lovely to see you. And my mother will be so pleased, too," Lydia replied, for she did not want to be impolite, even as she feared the possibility of a direct encounter with Philip.

Lady Walford clapped her hands together in delight. "I've been so neglectful of my friendships in recent years. Caring for my husband kept me away from so many of life's pleasures. I'd do it all again, of course. But… I feel a certain sense of freedom now—a freedom I didn't have before," she replied.

Lydia smiled and nodded.

Philip's father had suffered a long, drawn-out illness, and Lady Walford had nursed him throughout, winning the admiration of the ton in the process.

Lydia hoped to extricate herself from the conversation before Philip came to seek out his mother, but as she turned to retrieve her coffee cup from the nearby table, she caught sight of him approaching. He seemed just as surprised to see her as she had been to see him, though there should have been no surprise at all at the fact that they had both been invited to their respective cousins' wedding.

He greeted her with a curt bow. "Good afternoon," he said.

Lydia smiled at him. "Good afternoon… My Lord," she returned, for she was aware she was now addressing a titled man—the Earl of Walford, no less.

"You must both have a great deal to talk about. Do excuse me. I'll go and find your mother, Lydia. We've got so much to catch up on," Lady Walford said.

Before Lydia could protest, the Dowager Countess was gone, leaving the two of them alone.

An awkward silence fell over them, and Lydia thought back to the last time they had encountered one another…

"You're always with them. You never have any time for me," Lydia snapped as Philip looked at her imploringly.

"That's not true, Lydia. You know it's not. But I'm at school now. I can't just come and see you whenever I want to. I wish I could, but I can't," he replied, reaching out to take her hand in his.

But Lydia batted his hand away, turning away from him as tears welled up in her eyes. She did not know why she was getting so upset. He had done nothing wrong. It was circumstances that had pulled them apart—his being sent to school, and hers being expected to keep up her lessons with her governess. They no longer saw one another as they once had, and while Lydia was left on her own, it seemed Philip was making new friends without her…

"You'll forget me. I know you will. You'll find new friends at school. You won't want to come back during the holidays. You won't want to come here," she said, pulling out her handkerchief and wiping her eyes.

"But I will. Please, Lydia, don't be like this. I know I've made some new friends, but that doesn't change things between us, does it?" he pleaded.

But Lydia could not help the way she felt. She knew she was being foolish—it was only natural for him to make new friends and to move beyond the narrow confines of their childhood. But growing up was not easy, and with her three brothers now forging their own paths in life, she was feeling somewhat left behind. Philip was her closest friend, her confidante, and now he was about to leave her behind.

"I don't know when I'll see you again," she said, sniffing, as she brushed a tear from her cheek.

He looked at her sympathetically. "I'll write to you, I promise," he said.

Lydia nodded. "And I'll write you, too," she replied, even as she knew it would not be the same, and it seemed inevitable they would drift apart…

"I'm sorry I didn't write to you," Philip said, breaking the silence.

Lydia shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I didn't write to you, either, did I?"

When the summer had come in that first year Philip had gone away for school, he had not returned. Lydia had discovered he was in Bath, staying with a friend from school, and so it was the next year, too. They had drifted apart, and this was the first time they had set eyes on one another since that last parting.

Philip folded his hands behind his back. "No, but… I'm sorry. There was no excuse. I promised, and I failed to keep my promise."

Lydia gave a weak smile. She was not angry. It was just the way things were—the way things had been. Friendships came and went, and what seemed important at one time was no longer so later on. But despite telling herself this, she had missed him. She had missed him a great deal, for he had been her closest friend, and circumstances had pulled them apart.

"I suppose so, but… well, it was a long time ago now, wasn't it?" she said.

He nodded. "Seven years, I think. You've changed, you've grown up. You're wearing a very pretty dress," he noted.

Lydia blushed. Had he expected her to remain preserved as though in a portrait? She knew she had grown up—just as he had, too. But she did not need his flattery. They had both changed. Time had passed, and they were each different because of it

"Well, it's my cousin's wedding day, isn't it? One likes to make an effort. I know what you all used to say about me, but I can dress up when I need to," Lydia returned, smiling as Philip laughed.

"Oh, but we only said those things in jest. You were very much like a boy. I remember the look of utter horror on your mother's face on the day you cut your hair short," he recounted.

Lydia laughed.

Her mother had been horrified at the sight of her holding her beautiful curls in her hand and declaring herself a boy like her brothers. But the curls had grown back, and Lydia had been forced into pretty dresses and made to sit like a China doll in her mother's drawing room, watching forlornly out the window as her brothers and Philip played in the mud.

"Well, she should've let me play with you, then. But Caroline always wanted to play with dolls. We had to stay inside, while you and the others got to do all the things I so desperately wanted to do," Lydia retorted.

It had all seemed so unfair at the time, and her life still felt unfair. Her brothers pursued whatever took their fancy, while she remained at home, ever the dutiful daughter and sister, waiting for a man to decide to marry her…

"It wasn't all fun," Philip replied.

Lydia raised her eyebrows. "Why, did you want to play with dolls and pretend to have tea with Caroline? I think I've already been married a hundred times. We were always pretending. But you never wanted to play inside. And then when we were older, you left," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice, did I? I was sent away to school. But I'd much rather talk about the present."

Lydia nodded.

She did not hold the past against him. It had been a long time ago, and she was not the sort of person to hold a grudge. She had been sad when he had not written, but life had gone on, and she could hardly claim to have been embittered ever since.

"You're right, it's all forgotten—water under the bridge. But tell me, are you engaged to be married?" she asked, curious as to what his answer would be.