Page 24 of Miss Dignified
“We have gardeners,” Caroline said, setting the sunflower back on its base, “but without Lydia here, nobody reminds them that spring means regularly scrubbing out the birdbaths. I notice the flowers, while Lydia notices everything. If Lydia sought to marry you, she would have married you by now, Wesley. I’m sorry to dash your hopes, though honesty is generally the kinder course in the long run.”
“If Lydia seeks to marry me, she needs me to propose to her, and in that regard, I have been remiss. I cannot remedy my oversight if Liddie continues to sulk at Aunt Chloe’s.”
“Lydia has never sulked a day in her life,” Caroline said, taking the basket of flowers from Wesley. “That you know your cousin so little is more proof that she ought not to marry you. Shall you join me for some weeding?”
She aimed her Gracious Lady of the Manor smile at him, all the while wishing him to perdition, or to his London clubs, or to some race meet or other.
“Liddie sulks,” Wesley said. “She doesn’t sulk in the normal way. No fulminating glances, no brooding silences at meals. She sulks by nattering at Papa to repair the tenant cottages and to look for Marcus.”
“Reginald should be looking for Marcus, and I have wondered, Wesley, if you are part of the reason he does not.”
The whole reason, though Reginald would enjoy his turn at being the earl too, of course.
“No doubt Papa has predictable ambitions for me,” Wesley said, taking one of the daffodils from the basket, twisting off most of the stem, and tucking the bloom into his lapel.
“I cannot help that Papa wants to see me well settled,” Wesley went on. “Regarding Markie, I have made such inquiries as I can among my London connections and any friends who bought their colors. Their best theory is that the boy thrives in rural obscurity in Provence, maybe even enjoying a stipend from a grateful French government, and the company of a lovely French wife. I nearly called out the fellow who suggested that possibility to me, but as you say, Aunt, honesty is often the kindest course in the end. I thought you should hear the rumors from me.”
The temptation to cosh Wesley with the basket of flowers took Caroline by surprise. He was taunting her and insulting her son while pretending false outrage on his cousin’s behalf. What would Lydia do in the face of this disclosure? She would think, she would consider, she would analyze, and she would do all of that in the time it took Wesley to fluff his cravat.
“I cannot help that military gossip is so disrespectful of a man who served loyally,” Caroline said, “just as you are powerless to force Lydia to the altar. She receives her competence whether she marries or not. You will have to do more than crook your finger at her to earn her hand, Wesley.”
“I am prepared to do much more than crook my finger, Aunt. I am prepared to endure dear Chloe’s hospitality for as long as necessary to inspire Liddie to come home. I might even jaunt down to London to have a listen in the clubs. If Markie-boy is kicking his heels in France, Lydia’s best strategy is to marry me now, before she’s proved to be the sister of a traitor.”
Wesley spoke calmly, even pleasantly, as if the topic was of no more moment than a birdbath full of brackish water. But he deliberately described Caroline’s missing son as a traitor, and Caroline felt all over again a widow’s powerlessness.
Except that she wasn’t quite without resources. Not yet.
“If you are traveling on to London to look for Marcus,” Caroline said, “you will need means.” She slipped a bracelet from her wrist, one her grandmother had given her upon the occasion of her come out. The jewelry was heavy, ugly by modern standards, and a constant reminder that the women in Caroline’s family were not faded, spineless creatures.
Most of the women.
“This is worth a small fortune,” Caroline said, though Wesley likely knew to the penny what the bracelet would bring. “If you can sell this bracelet and use the proceeds to learn the truth of Marcus’s situation, however painful, I will be in your debt, as will Lydia.”
Wesley took the bracelet, the amethysts and emeralds sparkling in their gold settings. “Are you sure, Aunt? This is a lovely antique.” His words were hesitant, the look in his eyes positively jubilant. This was not the first time Caroline had financed his jaunting about, all in hopes he’d meet somebody to distract him from the notion of marrying Lydia.
“Anything that aids me to learn the truth of my son’s situation is worth more than an old bracelet, Wesley. I do not mean to criticize Reginald’s efforts, but we must admit his perspective is not entirely selfless.” Neither was Wesley’s. Far from it.
He slipped the bracelet into his pocket. “I will do all in my power to find out what has become of my cousin. I never wanted Marcus to buy his colors, but Papa said Uncle John would have wanted Marcus himself to make that decision. Suffice it to say, Papa is not infallible. Marcus was too young and too tender of heart to go for a soldier.”
A pretty speech, and true enough as far as it went. “Find my son,” Caroline said. “Lydia would ask the same thing of you, if she hasn’t already.”
An odd expression crossed Wesley’s features, a little amused, a little chagrined. “I will send her back to you as my intended and then find our Marcus. See if I don’t, Aunt.” He bowed and strode off, a man very much on a mission.
Wesley disappeared into the house, and the whole garden felt more peaceful in his absence.
“I’m sorry, Grandmama.” Caroline had acquired the habit of addressing the deceased after John had passed. At first, she’d been self-conscious about such an eccentricity, but John would not have judged her for it. “Wesley will make a flying pass down to London, pawn your bracelet, and spend the proceeds on a new wardrobe.” Or worse. “I could think of no other way to buy Lydia more time.”
Chloe would be very upset at the fate of Grandmama’s bracelet, but needs must.
Wesley might yet think to look in on Lydia on his way to Town, and that would create all manner of awkwardness. Caroline considered remaining in the herbal and indulging in a good cry, but no.
Somebody had to remind the gardeners to clean the birdbaths, and that much at least, Caroline could do.
Because Mrs. Lovelace had sent a snack up to Dylan as he’d dressed for his call upon Jeanette, he was, for once, not famished, though Jeanette presided over a lavish tea tray.
“So tell me how your sisters are getting on,” Jeanette said after she’d poured them each a cup of tea. “Their letters are all about spring lambs, daffodils, and double rainbows.”
That simple recitation sent a pang of longing through Dylan. Home in any season was beautiful, but springtime had been made for Wales.
