to pass. For Jane’s sake, if for no other reason. Do for her what your parents were unable to do for you.”
A thread of candlelight wove through the darkness. Lydia approached the bed where Jane lay beneath the covers, staring at the pattern of shadows across the ceiling.
Lydia paused and looked at the girl. She saw no resemblance to Theodora Kellaway in Jane’s rounded features, her soft, full mouth, her dark eyebrows. And as much as she wanted things to have been different with her mother, Lydia was glad—fiercely glad—that Jane bore no similarities to a woman whose mind had filled with darkness.
She sat on the edge of the bed and rested her hand over Jane’s. Jane tried to pull away, her body stiffening.
“Jane?”
Jane turned her head, studying Lydia with a peculiar intentness, as if she’d never seen her in this light before.
“What did Grandmama say?” Jane asked. “Did she tell you Lord Northwood came to her about the proposal?”
“You knew about that?”
“I heard them talking.”
“What do you think of the idea?” Lydia waited, hoping for a faint flicker of interest, of something, to cross Jane’s expression, but the girl’s face remained as unreadable as a china plate. “Does it upset you?”
Jane shrugged. “Do what you like. I won’t be here much longer anyway, at least once Grandmama makes the arrangements for Paris.”
A faint accusing tone underscored her voice. Lydia tightened her clasp on Jane’s hand.
“I should like to go to Paris,” Jane continued. “And I like Lady Montague.”
“Grandmama’s right, you know. My education has been a bit lacking. I ought to learn French and that sort of thing.”
Lydia forced a smile. “Well, Paris is the place to do that.”
Jane sat up so quickly that Lydia released her hand. The candle flame flared across Jane’s pale features.
“That’s it?” she snapped. “You don’t even care that I’m going away?”
“Of course I care, Jane. I’ll miss you terribly.”
“No, you won’t! You’ll be glad to get rid of me, won’t you, now that you’ve got Lord Northwood.”
Shocked, Lydia watched a flood of tears fill Jane’s eyes. “Jane—”
“No.” Jane pushed at Lydia’s hands when she tried to reach for her. “Leave me alone. Is that why you gave him the locket, Lyddie, so he’d ask you to marry him?”
The locket?
“Jane, how… how did you know he has the locket?”
“I saw him with it when I went for a piano lesson. Then he… yesterday when he was… Oh, never mind.” Jane glared at her, her chin set with mutinous stubbornness. “Is this why he had it? Because you wanted to marry him?”
“No.” Lydia pressed her hand to her throat, unable to absorb exactly what Jane was telling her. “No. The locket… Oh, it’s such a long story, but it’s true. Lord Northwood never intended to keep it. It was always meant to be yours one day.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want it.”
“Why would you say such a thing? And why would you think I’d trade the locket for marriage?”
“So you could get away from the boredom of this.” Jane flung her arm out as if to encompass their lives together. “So you could live the life of a viscountess. So you wouldn’t need to do whatever Grandmama says and you’d no longer have to bother with me.”
“What gave you the notion I’ve ever considered you a bother?” Lydia tried to reach for her again, but Jane rolled away and curled herself into a tight ball. “I love you, Jane. I love our life. If I did marry Lord Northwood, it wouldn’t be because I was trying to escape.”
Lydia rubbed her burning eyes, exhaustion falling over her. She bent to wrap one arm around Jane, ignoring the girl’s stiffening rejection as she pressed her lips to Jane’s hair.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “None of this was intended to hurt you. Just the opposite. I only ever wanted to protect you.”
“From what?” The pillow didn’t muffle the crack in Jane’s voice.
“From… from living a life you didn’t want. From being unhappy.”
“Like you are?”
A lump clogged Lydia’s throat. “You think I’m unhappy?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not when I’m with you. Never.”
“But other times? You seemed so. At least until you met Lord Northwood.” Jane shifted, turning to peer at Lydia over her shoulder. “Why is that?”
Lydia’s heart wrenched. She thought of Alexander, that beautiful man with his sunlit black hair, angular features, and formidable build that contained the strength of a thousand ancestors.