LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘It is no trouble, it is a pleasure.’ He fell into step beside her, carefully holding the umbrella over her. ‘Do you come often to Chelmsford?’

      ‘Occasionally when I need something I cannot buy in the village.’

      ‘Which village?’

      ‘Oh, it is such a small place, you would not have heard of it, I am sure.’ He was flirting with her, she knew, and she ought not to be talking to him at all, but they were unlikely to meet again, so where was the harm? And keeping him guessing was all part of the fun. She stopped at the door of the library. ‘Here we are. I said it was only a step, did I not? Thank you for your escort, sir.’

      He made her a sweeping leg, which was not easy considering he was holding an umbrella, and it made her laugh. ‘You should laugh all the time,’ he said softly. ‘Laughter lights up your eyes, brings them to life.’

      ‘Sir, you are too forward.’

      He sighed. ‘It was ever thus with me. But one must seize opportunities when and where they occur, don’t you think? Take the bull by the horns. Shall we meet again?’

      ‘That, sir, is in the hands of Providence.’

      ‘Then I hope Providence will be kind to me.’

      She smiled as he left her, striding away down the street, his umbrella bobbing up and down as he lifted it clear of other walkers who were venturing out after the downpour. She supposed it would be the last she ever saw of him. She rarely came to Chelmsford and, even if she did, the chances of bumping into him again were slight.

      She turned to go into the library, still smiling. He had been so handsome and evidently wealthy, though without pretensions to grandeur and certainly not over-proud, exactly the sort of man her mother said she should look for as a husband. But you did not pick up husbands in the street, did you? And she knew nothing about him—he might be married, or disreputable. And even if he were not, he would not think of her as a wife. Sensible men did not pick up wives in the street either. Mistresses, perhaps, someone with whom to have a short-lived dalliance. He must have thought she was that kind of girl. But he had called her ‘my lady’. His idea of a jest, no doubt. She was glad she had not told him her name or where she lived.

      Her mother had not yet arrived and Lydia spent the next half-hour browsing among the books, though they came to Chelmsford too infrequently for her to think of taking out a subscription. She smiled. If she did, it would be an excuse to come again. But then she sobered immediately; it would be what her mother called an unnecessary extravagance and, since her revelation about their finances, she must consider every penny carefully before spending it. Even ribbons and braid were luxuries.

      ‘Ah, there you are, Lydia.’ She heard her mother’s voice behind her. ‘I am sorry I am late. I stayed until the rain stopped. Did you get wet?’

      ‘No, I sheltered in a doorway.’ She did not know why she said nothing about the young man and his umbrella. Perhaps because she was determined to forget him and that strange pull he had over her. She had spoken to him for only a few minutes and yet he had left an emptiness behind, a promise unfulfilled, a glimpse of sunshine even in the rain, and she felt sad. And isolated.

      They walked out to where their only outdoor servant, the ancient Joshua Partridge, who had been groom and driver to her father, waited with the old coach and elderly horse. As they trotted through the now-crowded streets towards home, Lydia looked about her for the sight of a bobbing umbrella. But he had gone, disappeared as if he had never been.

      Ralph Latimer, fourth Earl of Blackwater, returned to his carriage which he had left at an inn on the outskirts of town, climbed in and directed his coachman to take him home to Colston Hall. Home! How often, in the heat and red dust of India, had he dreamed of coming home to the cool green of England, of being restored to the bosom of his family and taking his place beside his father, learning to take over the running of the estate, the welfare of the villagers, of hunting and fishing and sailing as he had done as a boy.

      Thinking of his boyish pursuits made him think of Freddie Fostyn. They had been almost inseparable, sharing their lessons in the schoolroom at the Hall, getting into mischief as boys always do, vying with each other on the sports field, riding and gambling and talking about women.

      It was women that had been their undoing or, to be more precise, one young lady they had met on picnic on the banks of the Cam one day soon after Freddie had joined him at Cambridge. The picnic had been arranged by Mrs Henrietta Gordon, a plump matron who had what was laughingly called an Academy for Young Ladies, supposedly a school for the education of the daughters of the middling classes. Everyone except the most naïve, and that apparently included Freddie, knew the girls were no such thing and their mission in life was of an entirely different kind.

      Ralph had found one of the girls very much to his liking and had enjoyed flirting with her, unaware that Freddie had fallen head over heels in love with her. It was only later, when they had returned home for the summer vacation that he had told his friend, laughing the while, that a certain young lady had been more than receptive to his advances and he had invited her to stay in rooms he had taken in a house in Malden, so that they might continue their dalliance during the vacation. In a year or two he would have to settle down, but until then he would allow himself to dip his toe in the waters of sexual experience just as every other young man of his acquaintance did. He had hoped Freddie would not mind forgoing their planned sailing trip around the coast to Worthing.

      Freddie had appeared surprised and reminded him in tones that sounded just like his strait-laced mama that he was promised to the Duke of Colchester’s daughter, Juliette. ‘Not yet,’ he had said. ‘The parents are still haggling over the dowry and marriage contract, and while they do, I intend to have my fun.’

      ‘And who is this fille de joie and where did you meet her?’

      Freddie was two years younger than Ralph and, a rung or two lower down the social scale; though that had never meant a thing as far as Ralph and their friendship was concerned, Freddie was decidedly touchy about it, especially when it came to women. Ralph had a way with them, a flattering manner and, besides that, he was wealthy enough to give them expensive trinkets.

      ‘At Mrs Gordon’s picnic. Her name is Fanny.’

      ‘Fanny?’ Freddie had repeated, giving every appearance of being shocked. ‘You are speaking of Miss Fanny Glissop?’

      He should have been warned by the fierce look in his friend’s eye, the way his jaw began to work, the clenching of the fists, that all was not well. But he was busy casting a rod into the sluggish waters of the River Crouch, which bordered his father’s estate, and did not look at him. Instead he said, ‘If that’s her name, yes, I never enquired the rest of it.’

      ‘How could you insult her so?’

      ‘Insult her? I did not insult her, rather I flattered her, for I am very particular as to where I lay my head.’ He had laughed with the exuberance of youth. ‘And my body. And I shall enjoy an hour or two amusing myself discovering more of hers—’

      Freddie’s blow was so unexpected and delivered with such force it toppled him into the river. He came up spluttering and began to clamber out, holding out his hand to be helped up the bank. Freddie ignored the hand and glared at him with pure venom in his eyes.

      ‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ Ralph had demanded. ‘Take my hand and help me out. You will have your little jest, but for the life of me I cannot think what brought it on.’

      ‘Can’t you? Can’t you? You insult a lady, a young and innocent lady, a pure flower who has known nothing but her parents’ love, and talk of defiling her!’ His voice reached a shriek of outrage. ‘You are an abomination…’

      He had climbed out without help and stood facing his friend, dripping water from his fine kerseymere coat and buckskin breeches, ready to grasp him by the shoulders and smile away his fury. ‘Freddie, my old friend, you know she is nothing of the sort. Why, she would not be at Mrs Gordon’s establishment if that were so…’

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