Page 32 of Miss Dignified
How had Dorning’s six older brothers allowed him to reach adulthood? “If a song is written in French, one generally sings it in French.”
Dylan did not increase his pace, but he wanted to. He wanted to be rid of Dorning’s thick-witted prying, and he wanted to be back under the same roof as Lydia. Was she having second thoughts about kissing him? Had she found excuses to spend more time than usual in his room today, or avoided his apartment altogether?
“Mrs. Lovelace is skilled with a needle,” Dorning said. “Jeanette had occasion to observe her handkerchief, the borders of her gloves, the stitchwork on her bonnet.”
“Most women are skilled with a needle. My sister Tegan has raised embroidery to a high art. What on earth are you getting at?”
Dorning paused on a street corner and propped his walking stick across his broad shoulders. “How did Tegan become so skilled with a needle?”
Dylan felt as if he were a recruit being schooled by a particularly pedantic corporal on the basics of firing a long gun.
“Tegan has been at her stitchery since she was a child, Dorning. The hour is late, and I’m sure you long to return to your lady’s side. I’d bid you—”
Dorning shrugged, or something, and the walking stick was in his hand. “Mrs. Lovelace quoted Wordsworth, according to Jeanette. Also, Shakespeare:
I rather would entreat thy company
To see the wonders of the world abroad,
Than, living dully sluggardized at home,
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.”
Dylan had to think for a moment, mentally reviewing his sisters’ parlor dramas. “Two Gentlemen of Verona. Lydia is from Shropshire, and a post in London qualifies as seeing the wonders of the world abroad. Her family resents the initiative she’s shown and wants her back home stepping and fetching for them. If you will excuse me, the day has been wearying—”
“You are not thinking, Powell, and you have no brothers to do your thinking for you, so I will put the case to you as simply as I can: You have a housekeeper who at some point had a singing master. She studied long enough that her voice is at least as trained as any self-respecting debutante’s. Shropshire’s dairymaids and alewives do not learn French chansons. Mrs. Lovelace has also had time to sit by many a sunny window, perfecting her fancy needlework, not simply repairing torn hems. She quotes the Bard and not the usual that-which-we-call-a-rose drivel.”
“You are taking rather a long time to make some obscure point, Dorning.” A point Dylan had glimpsed for himself days ago and promptly ignored.
“If you are smitten with Mrs. Lovelace, then those who care about you have a right to become interested in her particulars. Who are her people? Why did she leave them to come all the way to London? Is there a Mr. Lovelace, and if not, what became of him?”
“There is no Mr. Lovelace.” Lydia would never hide such a thing. Not after last night. She wasn’t hiding anything of significance, except a passionate and wonderfully affectionate nature.
“If she provided characters, who wrote them?” Dorning went on. “Has she had any callers or paid any calls the whole time she’s been in London? With whom does she correspond, if she has such devoted family in Shropshire? Does she evensoundlike she comes from Shropshire?”
William and Bowen Brook came from Shropshire. Lydia didn’t sound much like them at all, but then, they were the sons of a yeoman.
“Lydia Lovelace is an exceptionally talented housekeeper, Dorning. She has the knack of putting a place to rights and keeping it that way. She could be Napoleon’s daughter, for all I care, and I’d see no reason to inquire into her antecedents.”
“I will give you a reason, Powell: You referred to her by her given name. ‘Lydia is from Shropshire.’You trust her to gather intelligence for you on your own cousins. You have potted violets on your office windowsills.”
And they looked quite cheerful on that windowsill, which had nothing to do with anything.
“My office has east-facing windows, which is the best exposure for violets, apparently. I will deal severely with MacKay for bearing tales.” MacKay had to be responsible for spreading this nonsense. Goddard hadn’t been in Dylan’s office for months.
“Powell, if MacKay noticed your east-facing violets, it’s because his own office has likely been kitted out similarly,by his new wife. I’m not saying you need to sackLydiawithout a character, but if sheisNapoleon’s daughter, you deserve to know that before your firstborn is Napoleon’s grandson.”
“You have me already married and a father? What a fanciful imagination you have, Dorning.” Lydia would be a wonderful mother. Loving but firm, affectionate, warmhearted, good-humored, patient…
“I told Jeanette that reasoning with a man in love is futile, but she said I had to try.”
“I am not in love, but I am in anticipation of a visit from my sisters. If you or Jeanette or the archangel Michael do anything to vex Lyd—Mrs. Lovelace, I will have you drummed out of the regiment.”
Dorning took an idle swipe with his walking stick at some ivy trying to climb a lamppost. “I’m a-tremble with dread. I am also a happily besotted man, so if you ignore everything else I said, please heed me on this: Jeanette was keeping secrets when I began courting her. She was trying to protect herself with her reticence, but she was also protecting those she loved. That number included my darling self, for which novel sentiment, I was compelled to marry her. Certain aspects of Mrs. Lovelace’s situation do not tally and crossfoot, Powell.”
Oh, perhaps they didn’t. Minor, inconsequential aspects. Perhaps Lydia’s uncle had been a singing teacher. Perhaps an aunt had taken particular pride in her needlework. A grandfather might have been interested in literature, or done some acting in his youth. A few lines of Shakespeare did not an intrigue make.
And there was no Mr. Lovelace, of that Dylan was certain. Lydia had not kissed like a wife, not that Dylan made a habit of kissing wives.
