“How are you, my dear?” Jackson set his book aside and gestured to a chair across from his desk.
“Fine, Papa.” She seated herself and tried to plan her next words as best she could.
“Yes?”
“I am worried about Portia.”
“Oh? What’s the little bit gone and done now?” He gave a smile he only reserved for Portia, and it pricked at Lydia’s heart like a thorn. He had no special smiles like that reserved for her.
“She’s taken a fancy to a Scotsman. He was in questionable company tonight at the assembly rooms, and Lysandra Russell warned Portia not to take an interest in him. I am worried she is going to do something reckless in order to obtain a marriage to this gentleman.”
Jackson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “What kind of reckless?”
“Well, to start with, she walked up to this gentleman and introduced herself, rather than having the master of ceremonies introduce her. You know how strict the protocol is for the assembly rooms. She was lucky not to be cast out and banned from returning.”
Lydia had always thought the position of master of ceremonies was silly, but it was derived from the royal courts and was designed to supervise public behavior and help maintain a level of decorum and manners at social functions. If one displeased or upset the master of ceremonies, one would likely be disgraced.
Jackson chuckled at Lydia’s mention of Portia’s outburst. “Well, at least she goes after what she desires. It reminds me of myself. I was about your age when I first saw your mother. There was nothing that could keep me away from her.”
Lydia knew then that her request for Portia to be checked would go unanswered. Her father’s gaze grew distant. He was lost in the mists of the past, where his beloved wife was still alive.
“Papa,” Lydia said, trying to catch his attention.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Lydia. Never mind Portia for now. Did you enjoy the ball? Find any young man just up to scratch for you?”
“No.” She ran her fingertips over her rather plain rose-colored silk gown. “Papa, please listen to me about Portia. You and Great-Aunt Cornelia must keep a sharper eye on her.”
“I know, I know. We depend on you far too much, don’t we?” Her father sighed. “When your mother died, I was too quick to place so many duties upon your young shoulders.” That was not something Lydia would disagree with him on, but she sensed he was gently changing the subject.
“What if I were to send you to Brighton? You may take that friend of yours, Miss Russell, along with you. What do you think? I could hire a chaperone for you and keep your great-aunt here in charge of Portia while she hunts for a husband.”
The offer was far too tempting. She had been longing to visit a seaside resort and try her hand at bathing. But she knew her duty and couldn’t leave.
“No, I should stay here and help you with Portia.”
“Nonsense. Mrs. Wilcox and I can handle the child. Why don’t you go on to bed? We can discuss this more in the morning.”
That was the end of it. She would have no more luck tonight in convincing him. With a sigh, Lydia stood and nodded.
“Good night, Papa.” She came around his desk and bent to kiss his cheek before she headed upstairs. As she walked past Portia’s room, she saw a light on and was tempted to speak with her. Portia, while a vain creature often focused on gowns and balls, did enjoy staying up late to read, and Lydia thought it was best not to disturb her.
Lydia’s lady’s maid, Phyllis, stood waiting for her. They shared a tired smile as she helped Lydia undress.
“Would you like a bath tonight?”
“No, thank you, Phyllis. Go on to bed,” she encouraged the maid, who gratefully left her bedchamber.
Lydia combed out her hair and climbed into bed. A small glass of fresh milk and a plate of biscuits rested on the table beside her. She ate her midnight snack and wondered what to do. She couldn’t leave Portia alone. The trip to Brighton would have to be postponed.
She blew out the candle on her night table and settled into bed. But as sleep drifted near, her thoughts wandered back to the dark-haired Scotsman.
What if Portia were to successfully marry such a man? He would attend family dinners, father Portia’s children . . . For some reason, the thought made Lydia’s heart heavy. If anyone were to snare the attention of a handsome man like that, it would be her sister.
She was suddenly overcome with a foolish rush of tears, because she knew she would never have a chance to make a match with a man like that. She was too old, too uninspiring, and that knowledge crippled her with an unbearable loneliness that left her awake well past midnight.
3
Lydia had recovered some of her good spirits by the following morning when she sat down to breakfast. Her father was reading his paper, and her great-aunt was poring over a set of fashion plates. Portia made a late entrance, casting only a brief glance at Great-Aunt Cornelia, who arched a brow in return. It amused Lydia to know the two spent all their time antagonizing each other, while she was left quite alone.
“Ah, Portia, good morning,” Jackson greeted his younger daughter.
“Morning, Papa.” She kissed his cheek before she sashayed to her seat. She wore a gown of cerulean blue, and her hair was styled in the latest fashion, pulled back with artful curls framing her face. Lydia tried to ignore the sudden awareness of her own boring gown, a soft blue satin with fewer frills than her sister’s gown. Portia always looked so perfect, while Lydia simply focused on being serviceable. She felt silly if she tried to look nice, rather like trying to decorate a simple country cottage with golden garland—a waste of time, money, and effort.
You cannot have fancy gowns, she reminded herself. You’re not a young girl fresh in her first season.
“Morning, Portia,” Lydia greeted.
Her sister smiled warmly at her. “Oh, Lydia, I’m sorry for being so cross with you last night.”
“It’s all right. I only wished to watch out for you,” Lydia said.
Portia nodded as if to agree, then turned to their father. “Papa, I have found my future husband and should like very much for you to go and speak to him today.”
Lydia froze in the act of buttering a muffin. Lord, if only she could strangle her little sister for her silliness. Aunt Cornelia squawked and tossed her fashion plates to the table so hard that her teacup toppled over, spilling tea. A footman rushed to clean it up. Jackson ruffled his paper and gazed at Portia, and what little of his expression that they could see over the top of his paper was slightly perplexed.
“What’s all this?” Cornelia demanded. “You cannot have your father go speak to a man. That’s not how it’s done.” She huffed and seemed to expect that to be the end of the matter.
“Now just a minute, Cornelia,” their father said. “I may be willing to risk the scandal.” He looked toward Portia again. “Has the man proposed to you, child?” Jackson inquired with a discreet look toward Lydia.
“No, but I believe he’s too shy.”
“Shy?” Jackson chuckled. “I did not think you would choose a shy man to be your husband. Are you quite sure this is the right fellow for you?”