Page 68 of Miss Dignified
Everything elseleft a great deal. Dylan was still pondering that conundrum when his sisters joined him and informed him that his day would start with a visit to the British Museum, followed by ices at Gunter’s, and a protracted stop at Hatchards bookshop.
Dylan let the sororal chatter swirl around him, passing over the teapot and the butter and jam as he was directed, and still, he turned over in mind what it meant thateverything elsewith Lydia had been the truth.
What saved Lydia from utter despair was a small tower of oranges advertised as fresh from Spain. They were big, bright, enticing specimens sitting outside the greengrocer’s stall at the market, and Lydia longed to hurl them all against the nearest stone wall.
She had left the breakfast parlor in a welter of miserable emotions. Dylan had not given her a fair hearing, much less a sympathetic response. He had not offered to help her find Marcus. His concern had been over menus for his perishing family dinners.
But then, she had lied to him about a matter of significant weight.
She marched along the rows of stalls, the chatter and bustle of the market humming all around her. Then she’d come upon that tower of oranges, stacked like cannonballs, begging to be hurled in anger.
Standards must be maintained.Nobody ever said why, and the person making that declaration was seldom responsible for the hard labor involved in the maintenance. Staring at the tower of handsome, succulent oranges, Lydia’s ire grew, past guilt, past shame, past weariness even.
Certainly past tears, for tears never solved anything.
The oranges were perfect, while Lydia was a failure. She hadn’t found Marcus. She would not have a future with Dylan Powell. She might not like the words Dylan had used, but part of what drove her anger was the fact that, from a certain narrow perspective, he’d been right.
She’d been a little bit scoundrelly, taking a job no earl’s daughter would hold, taking a false name, and taking Dylan’s coin while encouraging his advances.
Maybe more than a little bit scoundrelly, and Lydia resented the admission. Scoundrel or paragon, she was tired of not being enough. Not comfort enough for Mama, not clever enough to salvage Tremont’s fortunes, not shrewd enough to find Marcus, and not perishing honest enough for Dylan.
“Shall I buy you an orange?”
Sycamore Dorning stood at Lydia’s elbow, eyeing the tower of fruit. “Ann Goddard says the best produce is always gone by nine of the clock. I finished my hack and bethought myself to have a snack on the way home. How are you, Mrs. Lovelace?”
I’m not Mrs. Lovelace. “Mr. Dorning, good day. If you’ll excuse me, I have shopping to do.” The next week’s menus were rattling around in Lydia’s head somewhere, though for all she cared, Dylan could serve his sisters raw potatoes and boiled turnips.
“Help me pick out an orange,” Mr. Dorning said, pulling off his riding gloves. “Ann says she sniffs them, but I will not be caught in public sniffing fruit.”
He was exceedingly presuming, and yet, as Dylan had said, he was brother to an earl. Rank had its privileges, and Mr. Dorning was also married to Dylan’s cousin.
“You expect me to sniff the fruit for you?”
“No, I expect you to tell me why a woman who has earned the lasting esteem of her employer is looking like the wrath of Mayfair on such a fine spring morning. My wife and I are very much in each other’s confidence, and Powell is family to her, ergo, any upset in his household merits my notice.”
Lydia had the sense everything merited Mr. Dorning’s notice, everything except a lady’s need to be left in peace. Though that wasn’t quite fair. If she told Mr. Dorning to take himself off, he would.
“I want to smash the oranges,” Lydia said, apparently having lost all self-restraint thanks to one short and disappointing discussion with Dylan.
Mr. Dorning bought three oranges and handed one to Lydia. “That wall should do nicely. The birds will thank us. Shall we count to three?” He’d put a second orange in his pocket and was tossing the third like a cricket ball.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I am never ridiculous,” Mr. Dorning said. “I am dramatic, but sometimes a little drama is necessary to make a point. Let’s sit, shall we?”
How was this happening? Lydia had come to the market first as an excuse to leave the house and walk off the dismals or the furies—whatever she was feeling. Second, she honestly needed to stock her larders now that the Powell ladies were on hand. Third…
Third, she’d wanted solitude, in as much as London’s crowds and bustle afforded that precious commodity. Instead, here she was, sitting on a bench in the morning sun, her market basket at her feet and Sycamore Dorning beside her.
“Powell is not an utter lackwit,” Mr. Dorning observed. “And yet, he has apparently bungled with you. Tell me all, and I will put it to rights if I can.”
“You will meddle? The captain does not care for meddlers, Mr. Dorning.”
“The captainisa meddler of the first water. He is the field marshal of meddlers, the grand duke of meddlers… Care for a bite?” Mr. Dorning held out a section of orange.
In her present mood, Lydia understood why dogs nipped at presuming humans. “No, thank you. The captain does not meddle.”
“He sees a former soldier down on his luck, and the captain meddles until that fellow has decent lodging, some sort of employment, and a few mates keeping an eye on him. He sees a soldier’s widow begging, and the next thing you know, that woman is employed as a scullery maid in my own establishment. Two of my club’s footmen, the largest two, are former soldiers. They are scary fellows, but when Powell wanders around to check on them, they are new recruits eager to pass inspection.”
