go unanswered. Her father’s gaze grew distant. He was lost in the mists of the past, where his beloved wife was still alive.
“Papa,” Lydia said, trying to catch his attention.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Lydia. Never mind Portia for now. Did you enjoy the ball? Find any young man just up to scratch for you?”
“No.” She ran her fingertips over her rather plain rose-colored silk gown. “Papa, please listen to me about Portia. You and Great-Aunt Cornelia must keep a sharper eye on her.”
“I know, I know. We depend on you far too much, don’t we?” Her father sighed. “When your mother died, I was too quick to place so many duties upon your young shoulders.” That was not something Lydia would disagree with him on, but she sensed he was gently changing the subject.
“What if I were to send you to Brighton? You may take that friend of yours, Miss Russell, along with you. What do you think? I could hire a chaperone for you and keep your great-aunt here in charge of Portia while she hunts for a husband.”
The offer was far too tempting. She had been longing to visit a seaside resort and try her hand at bathing. But she knew her duty and couldn’t leave.
“No, I should stay here and help you with Portia.”
“Nonsense. Mrs. Wilcox and I can handle the child. Why don’t you go on to bed? We can discuss this more in the morning.”
That was the end of it. She would have no more luck tonight in convincing him. With a sigh, Lydia stood and nodded.
“Good night, Papa.” She came around his desk and bent to kiss his cheek before she headed upstairs. As she walked past Portia’s room, she saw a light on and was tempted to speak with her. Portia, while a vain creature often focused on gowns and balls, did enjoy staying up late to read, and Lydia thought it was best not to disturb her.
Lydia’s lady’s maid, Phyllis, stood waiting for her. They shared a tired smile as she helped Lydia undress.
“Would you like a bath tonight?”
“No, thank you, Phyllis. Go on to bed,” she encouraged the maid, who gratefully left her bedchamber.
Lydia combed out her hair and climbed into bed. A small glass of fresh milk and a plate of biscuits rested on the table beside her. She ate her midnight snack and wondered what to do. She couldn’t leave Portia alone. The trip to Brighton would have to be postponed.
She blew out the candle on her night table and settled into bed. But as sleep drifted near, her thoughts wandered back to the dark-haired Scotsman.
What if Portia were to successfully marry such a man? He would attend family dinners, father Portia’s children . . . For some reason, the thought made Lydia’s heart heavy. If anyone were to snare the attention of a handsome man like that, it would be her sister.
She was suddenly overcome with a foolish rush of tears, because she knew she would never have a chance to make a match with a man like that. She was too old, too uninspiring, and that knowledge crippled her with an unbearable loneliness that left her awake well past midnight.
3
Lydia had recovered some of her good spirits by the following morning when she sat down to breakfast. Her father was reading his paper, and her great-aunt was poring over a set of fashion plates. Portia made a late entrance, casting only a brief glance at Great-Aunt Cornelia, who arched a brow in return. It amused Lydia to know the two spent all their time antagonizing each other, while she was left quite alone.
“Ah, Portia, good morning,” Jackson greeted his younger daughter.
“Morning, Papa.” She kissed his cheek before she sashayed to her seat. She wore a gown of cerulean blue, and her hair was styled in the latest fashion, pulled back with artful curls framing her face. Lydia tried to ignore the sudden awareness of her own boring gown, a soft blue satin with fewer frills than her sister’s gown. Portia always looked so perfect, while Lydia simply focused on being serviceable. She felt silly if she tried to look nice, rather like trying to decorate a simple country cottage with golden garland—a waste of time, money, and effort.
You cannot have fancy gowns, she reminded herself. You’re not a young girl fresh in her first season.
“Morning, Portia,” Lydia greeted.
Her sister smiled warmly at her. “Oh, Lydia, I’m sorry for being so cross with you last night.”