“I am sorry, madam,” she said, weakly. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
It was unlike her to ask for anything for herself.
“Not at all,” I said, taken aback. “Please do.”
She sank onto the sofa. It was strange to see her there.
“Are you unwell?” I asked, rising from the piano stool and moving instead to the armchair, closer to her but not so close that I’d risk catching her cold. I couldn’t bring sickness into the Evanses’ house. A widow, two daughters, and a servant were already enough of an imposition on my sister and her husband.
“Yes, madam, I am,” said Marshall, her voice low and steady. “I am sorry to say it, but I will not be well enough to accompany you to Derbyshire.”
“Nonsense!” I had the urge to stand up again but instead began plucking at a loose thread in the upholstery. My fingers weren’t strong enough to break it. “A cold is unlikely to last more than two weeks, and we can always delay our departure, although that is less than desirable.”
I couldn’t go to my sister, Mary, in such a sorry state, without even a maid to dress me. I wanted to cause a stir in society there, to be thought a sophisticated and fascinating widow, not a poor relation down on her luck.
“But, madam, Mrs. Robinson, I am not suffering from a cold.” Marshall studied my face like she would a baby’s when he is on the verge of tears.
“Not a cold? Then what?”
“Consumption, madam. I’ve known for some time.”
“No.”
“Yes.” She said that very sharply.
Marshall had never been one for melodramatics. I could not doubt her.
“The blood, it comes more frequently. The fits, they last longer. I cannot serve you as I should.”
I waved her objections aside. “But you are welcome—” I struggled to find the words. “You can stay with us—with me—until the end, like you did with—”
How many nights had she dabbed Edmund’s and Georgiana’s brows, how often had she reasoned them out of their fevered delusions?
“I wish to go to my sister, Mrs. Robinson.” Ann Marshall stood.
This was it, then, all she would give me by way of good-bye. It was her sister she wanted. Not me.
“Of course,” I said.
Had I been wrong? Had there never been anything more than the relationship between a lady and her maid between us? But it had felt that way when she rocked and caressed me, when I grabbed her hand to kiss it, when, during my weekly bath, she had sponged my back and tickled my neck with a steady stream of water, through those months and years when Edmund wouldn’t touch me at all.
Who would nurse me to my end when it came? I had no mother to hold me, no husband to mourn me. By then, perhaps, all my children would have faded away.
Marshall held out her hand and I pressed it, unable to rail at her for abandoning me, unwilling, even now, to admit that I needed her.
“You will come to the study later, so I can settle your pension and the pay that we owe you?” I asked.
She nodded.
Her bones poked through her papery skin under my too-tight grip. If only I need never release her. My Marshall, dying. How was it I hadn’t noticed before?
15th February 1847
Thorp Green Hall
My dear Sir Edward,
Some months ago, you bid me write if you could render any assistance to me. Now I do so, remembering the generosity of that offer.
The months since my husband Edmund’s death have been a sore trial for me, and I have taken on much beyond the small realm of a woman’s knowledge. I have secured the services of an agent, and Thorp Green Hall is now let. I have managed sales of oak wood and farming stock and learned all manner of agricultural terms.
My daughters and I are to travel to Allestree Hall, home of my brother-in-law, William Evans, MP, in Derbyshire, within the fortnight.
Yet one difficulty remains, which I have been unable to surmount: the fate of our coachman. William Allison, for that is the fellow’s name, has been a most loyal servant to my husband and to me, but I, a widow, can hardly think of maintaining a carriage or expect my sister and her husband to harbor my horse in addition to myself and my unmarried daughters.
I have, as you know, never been to Great Barr Hall, but, having heard of the size of your estate and fame of your stables, thought I would inquire whether you were in need of a man?
Allison is decent, hardworking, and honest. He has a family who rely on him.
If you can’t offer him a place, perhaps you have an acquaintance who could?
Ever grateful for your kindness and sending my familial love to my dear cousin Catherine, I remain, yours very truly,
Lydia Robinson
19th February 1847
Great Barr Hall
My dear Mrs. Robinson,
What a joy it is to bring comfort and help to a friend in need when to do so is to lose nothing oneself!
I must tell you I am deeply touched by your compassion for your inferiors, even in this time of your own grief.
Your man William Allison would, of course, be a most welcome addition to our household. Bid him come to Great Barr Hall as soon as it is convenient for you to part with him. If all goes well and I find him to my satisfaction, his family should follow him shortly after.
Looking forward to a time when we will meet again (how I desire to hear your lectures on agriculture!).
I remain your most sincere admirer,
Edward Scott
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“LYDIA!” MY SISTER, MARY, threw her arms around me. I submitted gratefully.
It had been kind of her and her husband to send their carriage for me. Patroclus and our other horses I had sold and William Allison had already decamped to Great Barr Hall. A part of me couldn’t help but envy him. Yet the journey here, while comfortable, had been lonely. The girls wouldn’t arrive in Derbyshire for a few more days, and the latest novel from Mr. Bellerby’s circulating library wouldn’t hold my attention. So I’d stared out the window, trying not to think, and when the countryside was too monotonous or the hedgerows too high, read and reread Sir Edward’s letter, delighting to have such a lofty and considerate friend.
“It is so wonderful to see you, Lyddy.” Mary hugged me tighter, although her servants, a few of whom were lined up to greet me, must be staring at us. She was shorter than me, and her hair, which had grayed since the last time I’d seen her, at Mother’s funeral, was coarse against my neck.
I breathed deeper. Nobody had touched any part of me other than my hand since the day Marshall had left us for Aldborough, and now I would never feel her calming caress again.
“Welcome, welcome to Allestree Hall.” My sister released me.
I turned to learn the servants’ names, but they hadn’t been lining up to greet me at all and were already scuttling off with my many trunks and boxes. Of course, I was only a guest here. Introductions were hardly necessary.
“William is at the mill, one of our mills. He is always working,” Mary said as she ushered me toward the house.
Allestree Hall was larger than Thorp Green, although not so charming. The building was three stories high with unflinchingly symmetrical windows, and the exterior was a gray ashlar, which was unwelcoming compared to our warm red brick. The only flights of fancy were some Romanesque entablatures and columns (Ionic, if my half-remembered history lessons served me well) and an ornate central porch, which my sister had rhapsodized about when she was first married. William’s father added it, you know. I thought it out of place.