Page 80 of Miss Dignified
Tremont was still so very young, and clearly, he believed he’d set himself on some version of an honorable path. His demeanor wasn’t quite martyred, but rather, nobly resigned.
Why?“Is there anything I can do to help?” Dylan asked, though his own question surprised him. He did not like or respect the Tremont he’d served with, but Lydia’s brother was miserable and about to part from his only home and everybody he’d ever loved.
“Look after Lydia and Mama. Please, for God’s sake, somebody look after Mama. I was clearly unequal to that honor. Lydia, you should not have come, but it has been good to see you.” Tremont held the door open, eyes front, and Lydia swept through without sparing her brother a glance.
The door closed, and Dylan expected Lydia to throw herself into his arms and commence a fit of weeping. In this tired, old building in this sad, crowded neighborhood, nobody would remark the sound of a woman’s heart breaking.
Lydia descended the steps at a good clip, leaving Dylan to follow in her wake.
“I want to know what the hell Wesley was doing here,” Lydia said when they were standing outside the gin shop. “Why does Marcus think his only course is to banish himself, and what could my ancient and sorry history possibly have to do with this whole business.”
Dylan thought back over the strange scene in the dingy little room above. “Who is Finchly?”
“My lapse from paragon-hood. That was years ago, and Marcus didn’t even like him because he was stealing Wesley’s attention from Marcus, or something.” Lydia started walking, and Dylan fell in step beside her. “I had no idea what ‘whole business’ Marcus alluded to regarding Finchly. Gambling debts, I suppose. Stupid wagers. Male folly all mixed up with Marcus’s overdeveloped sense of honor.”
Lydia did not speak again all the way back to the house, but Dylan was sorting through what he’d heard and seen, even as he waited for some outburst from Lydia. The outburst never came, but Dylan did reach three conclusions.
First, Lydia was absolutely correct that Cousin Wesley was up to something. Wesley had known where Marcus dwelled and said nothing to Marcus’s family about that discovery. He was further arranging for Marcus to leave England, a maneuver that put Wesley much closer to holding the title himself.
Second, Lydia’s ancient history, herlapse, was somehow the root of all these troubles. Whoever Finchly was, wherever he was, he was the key to solving Lydia’s problems and the clue Dylan would pursue.
Third, Lydia had reserves of composure that Dylan found frankly unnerving. Soldiers were supposed to calmly gaze upon the battlefields where comrades had fallen hours before, except that few soldiers could be that stoic. They cried, they raged, they drank, brawled, swived, and cursed God. Sometimes they deserted or took their own lives rather than face another battlefield.
Lydia was dry-eyed and determined, but somewhere in that large and courageous heart of hers, she had to be carrying years’ worth of hurt.
And Dylan, guardian angel of the regiment and all that, had added to her pain.
Walking back to Dylan’s house, Lydia pondered a new appreciation for the sheer effort required for effective reconnaissance. Without in any way conveying watchfulness, Dylan had walked across much of London on highest alert.
He’d silently acknowledged a half-dozen former soldiers, whom Lydia recognized from their calls at her kitchen door, but would have passed by on her own without even noticing.
He’d twice gently tugged Lydia closer to the street, and only then had she realized they’d been approaching some shadowy doorway in which a beggar or streetwalker slouched. Dylan had known exactly where he was going, while Lydia had lost her bearings fifteen minutes from home.
And all of this—maps, destinations, perils, potential ambushes, possible allies—Dylan had carried in his head while appearing to be nothing more than another down-on-his-luck Londoner ambling through the morning throng with a tight-lipped woman at his side.
What must it be like to carry a whole war’s worth of such missions in his head, sorties into dangerous territory a daily duty, death and torture ever-present threats? Perhaps Dylan’s past was the deadly version of what Lydia faced at Tremont—Uncle’s sniping and stealing, Mama fading into vapid agreeableness, Cousin Wesley circling like a hound on the scent of Lydia’s fat settlements, the servants spying, the neighbors gossiping…
Marcus’s deceitfulness had been a rude shock, and Lydia had been ready to cosh her brother with her reticule, except she hadn’t been carrying a reticule. Marcus might be taking the only course available to him, but in the moment, Lydia had felt furious, dismayed, caught off guard,betrayed…
She had been one increment of self-restraint away from accusing her darling baby brother of acting like a scoundrel.
And Dylan and Marcus had both had a flaming scoundrel for a commanding officer.
“I am tired,” Lydia said as she and Dylan traversed a quiet street lined with oak trees in the pink-fading-to-green phase of leafing out. “You were right about that. Not physically tired. I do sleep, but…”
“You are worn out,” Dylan said. “Weary of spirit. Shall we sit?”
The street fronted a bit of bricks and greenery in an oblong shape with a three-tiered fountain at the center. No iron fence declared the tiny space private, and the sound of trickling water imparted a sense of repose.
The fountain was flanked by two benches. A pigeon strutted about on one, like a footman keeping the seats free for anticipated dignitaries. The other bench was unoccupied, and Lydia sank onto it gratefully.
“I wanted to hug Marcus, and I wanted to hit him,” she said. “That man we met is both my dearest brother and a complete stranger. He did not even…” Lydia fell silent, trying to recall who had not hugged whom. “He was always so dignified, even as a little fellow. He once told me he could at least comport himself like an earl, even if he lacked an earl’s intelligence. That broke my heart, because Marcus had spoken the truth. He’s not stupid. He can be profoundly insightful, but he will never express a thought until he’s sure of it. The result is that he appears slow, so he retreats into dignity.”
“Youare always so dignified,” Dylan said, coming down beside her. “Maybe I am too. Marcus had a lot of writing supplies for a man living hand to mouth, Lydia. I suspect he’s managing as a scribe and reader. The finest article in the whole room was a traveling desk that matches the one in your bedroom.”
Lydia had seen none of that. She’d seen water-stained walls, a bare hearth, a sagging cot. A brother who’d gone to war barely old enough to shave, now several inches taller and worlds more serious.
“Is there any detail you miss, Captain?”
