With This Ring Part 10

They rode in absolute, deafening silence to the Capitulation Banquet, each staring out a window of the carriage. I cannot look at them, Lydia thought. Kitty and Mama are no better than Private Banks' tormentors. She rested her forehead against the gla.s.s. No, they are worse. I have warned them of evildoings, and they choose to ignore it, all in the name of fas.h.i.+on. She closed her eyes. And Papa will do nothing to prevent their moral ruin.

The carriage was claustrophobic. She dug her fingers into the fabric of her dress, wrinkling the material and bringing down a fierce hiss from Mama to stop it, her only comment on the entire trip. Her panic increased the closer they came to the banquet hall and other carriages converged. Her eyes full of shock and disbelief, she stared at the other occupants, people as well dressed as the Perkinses, as well mannered, and probably with more wealth and position. Waves of humiliation washed over her. We are mushrooms from Devon, she thought, and not for the first time. Our t.i.tle is small, even though our estate is well enough, and we have only one pretty face to recommend us. I am mortified.

After a wait that turned into another hour of excruciating silence, it was their turn to descend from their carriage. Lydia followed Kitty and her parents into the hall, wis.h.i.+ng that she could vanish as Mama preened and looked around, and Papa cringed anytime someone jostled him. Kitty sailed forward with confidence, smiling and waving.

She stopped after a few minutes and whispered to Mama. In the press of people, Lydia was close enough to hear her sister's complaint, and she felt her bones chill. "Mama, no one is waving back to me! What can be the problem?" Kitty whispered. She looked down at her dress. "Surely I am la mode!"

Mama whispered something in return to placate Kitty as Lydia took a deep breath and looked around. It was true. Some of the others were staring at them and whispering among themselves. No one smiled. I wonder, Lydia thought as the blood drained from her face. I wonder if that dreadful Lindsey or the other man recognized me this afternoon? She took a deep breath to counteract her sudden light-headedness. What did I say to either of them that wasn't the truth? She pressed her hands to her middle, suddenly queasy. And Major Reed's reaction would be hard to overlook. Put the two together ....

She wanted to sit down, but the tide of people bore them on into the banquet hall. The crowd thinned as people began to take their seats. She was almost afraid to glance at Kitty, who hung back now in an unaccustomed way, clutching her mother's arm, unable to account for the reaction of the young ladies and gentlemen she had teased and flirted with only that morning at a balloon ascension, or some other pointless, insipid gathering. As Lydia watched in growing concern, Kitty suddenly smiled and stepped forward.

Lydia groaned, then put her hand to her mouth. It was Lord Allsuch, and with him was that nasty tall man, minus his handkerchief, but unmistakable. With a highly artificial smile, Lord Allsuch beckoned her sister forward, then gave an elaborate, mocking bow that made her step back in surprise. Oh, please, no, Lydia thought. I have ruined us.

He spoke quite distinctly. There wasn't anyone within earshot who could not have heard him. Indeed, the anteroom had grown quite silent. "Kitty dear, let me warn your sister."

Kitty stopped in the middle of a smile.

"What do you mean, Edward?" she said, ready to put her hand into his, but hesitating now, as he did not offer his own. "My sister does nothing of importance here in London."

"She keeps dreadful low company in a charnel house." He took a deep breath and sniffed the air around Kitty's exquisite hair arrangement. "Dearest, dearest Kitty, I fear it has rubbed off on you! Such a stink."

Kitty stared in openmouthed amazement as Lord Allsuch bowed elaborately again and rejoined his friends. Everyone laughed, whispered among themselves again, and ignored the Perkins as they all moved forward to take their places.

White-faced now and trembling, Kitty leaned on Mama's arm and allowed herself to be led to a near table. No one else sat close to them. Lydia seated herself, and in a few words, completed the other part of the story-Major Reed's part-as her family stared at her. "I had no idea he was going to do that, Mama, really," she pleaded. "He was so angry, and there was Private Banks dead, an object of fun. You would have done ...." Her voice trailed off. No, no one else in my family would have done what Major Reed did. "I am sorry, Kitty," she concluded quietly. "I know this is wounding to you, but you cannot want such low company. No one with true feelings would."

Kitty began to cry. The tears slid down her face in that wonderful way of hers without causing any blemish or ugliness. It was an art that she had practiced for a solid year in front of the mirror, with devastating results on the local Devons.h.i.+re swains. There was no one to watch now, and sympathize. No family was as ignored as they were now.

Lydia s.h.i.+vered and drew her wrap close around her shoulders, trying to ignore the sn.i.g.g.e.rs and pointing of fingers at Kitty, who was sobbing quite openly now. She thought Mama would rise and sweep out of the hall, with the rest of them to trail out in her wake, but she made no move at all. They sat close together, deriving no comfort from each other, afraid to call attention to themselves by leaving.

The dinner began. She tried to eat, but it was as though her throat were sealed. She put down her fork, scarcely daring to look around. General Picton, sitting several rows away, caught her eye and smiled at her, obviously unmindful of their ruin. If I were a man, I would take the king's s.h.i.+lling and follow General Picton to the next battle, she thought. I do not think Holly Street will be any better than this banquet hall. After everyone has had their fun with us, Mama will turn on me.

She sat rigid, scarcely daring to move. During the two hours spent not eating, Kitty managed to compose herself. Beyond an occasional sob that sounded like m.u.f.fled hiccups, she was silent. Lydia could not bring herself to look at her mother.

She could have cried with relief when Lord Walsingham finally rose to speak. Some talks, some toasts, and they would be out of the hall. If they really hurried, no one would have any more opportunity to snub them. For no good reason, other than the fact that she was an optimist by nature, Lydia allowed her hopes to rise. Surely not everyone approved of evil schemes hatched by idle young men. Surely Kitty will be approached by her more discerning friends, she thought. I cannot believe that her Season is unsalvageable. A little time will make such a difference. People forget.

Later that night, lying in her bed perfectly miserable, she had time to think through the events of the next few minutes. If I had not listened to Lord Walsingham, it never would have happened, she thought. If I had not cared so much, she told herself. But she did listen, and she did care.

"In conclusion, honorables and distinguished guests, let me kneel for a moment at the feet of those n.o.ble among us who have taken of their valuable time to visit the sick in our hospitals," Lord Walsingham was saying. He gestured toward the a.s.sembled diners. "Some do not trumpet the good they do," he said.

"I know he means ladies like you, daughter," Papa whispered. "I am certain of it."

She looked at him, startled. She had forgotten he had even tagged after them into the hall. She started to say something then stopped, because Lord Walsingham was continuing, after a modest pause. His tone became warm, more intimate. "I call attention to my own son, who-when I dragged it out of him! Modest boy-was even paying such a call of sympathy today at St. Barnabas. All honor to such ...."

She heard a chair sc.r.a.ping back and someone rising and declaring in ringing tones, "Sir, you have been misled. He went there to do great mischief and watch men die for entertainment!"

Lydia looked around her for the voice and realized with sick horror that it was her own. Oh, G.o.d, she thought weakly, as her legs turned to pudding under her. She clutched at the table to keep upright, and then felt the great anger build even greater within her. Her indignation lit a fire that spread through her whole body like wind up an air shaft. She stood as straight and tall as she could.

"I know because I was there, my lord. On a wager, your son and another were sent by a weak mind named Allsuch to see if they had the stomach to watch men die, and then to return with ... with souvenirs!"

She spit out the last word like a bad taste. The hall was deadly quiet now, except for Kitty's sobs, and Mama's hisses for her to sit down. Papa seemed to have vanished. Some force within her kept her going. "Unlike you, sir, I can only sorrow at the great hypocrisy among us. We send men to war to fight and die for us. If they are not of our cla.s.s, we ignore them, give them only the poorest places to lick their wounds, then send them back into the ranks only half well, if that."

The tall man next to Lord Walsingham rose to his feet and began to applaud her. She thought he was mocking at first, and she stopped in confusion; then she noticed the deadly serious expression on his face. She clutched the table to stay on her feet, for Mama was pulling at her dress now.

"Where are the hospitals for these men? Must they suffer in ruined churches with bad drains and more mice than sound masonry? My lord, I know that you care, but I am sickened by the hypocrisy in the rest of us a.s.sembled, who make sport of good men."

Others were on their feet now, applauding her. She could see General Picton rise, and other men whose faces were familiar to her from depictions in store windows and on victory arches over London's major streets.

"It is time to ask questions in Parliament, my lord, about this neglect of those less gentled by birth than we are, but who fight our battles," she declared in ringing tones. "And then we should question those among us, who look upon the wounded as playful objects to while away the breathless tedium of boring, useless lives!"

She paused, struck finally by the effrontery of her action. Her anger had cooled itself into a little banked fire, and with the sickest of feelings, she knew she had just completed her family's ruin in London Society, even as England's greatest heroes applauded her. She sat down with a thump.

"Have you lost your mind completely?" Mama hissed at her. Mama's face was a sickly green color, and Kitty had withdrawn into that curious blank state preceding monumental hysteria.

"Mama, it is only the truth," Lydia said, when her lips would move again.

"I wash my hands of you!" Mama exclaimed, then turned to Kitty.

The applause continued, relentless, unimportant now in the reality of what she had done to her family. Without a word to her parents, she leaped up and fled the banquet hall, pursued by the approbation of the Peninsular veterans, but deeply aware of her own downfall. Mama would rather that we were hypocrites, she thought as she walked swiftly from the banquet hall, unmindful of the rain and its ruin of her dear dress. She shook her reticule for coins, then hailed a hackney, which took her swiftly home.

Stanton was astonished to see her: wet, fearful, and wide-eyed with disbelief at herself. "I do not know anyone more meek than myself," she told him later, when wrapped in a blanket and warming herself with mulled wine and sympathy in the servants hall. "I said all those things, Stanton! Mama is furious. I doubt she will let me stay here."

The servants exchanged looks; there was nothing they could say, which only increased her terror. It was true.

She was in her room, huddled into a ball in her chair by the fire, when the rest of them returned. Kitty was shrieking. In sick horror at what she had done, Lydia heard the front door slam again, and a few moments later, heavy steps on the stair. The doctor was here now. In a few more minutes, the shrieks ended. She closed her eyes, praying that her door was locked, as she heard her mother's footsteps.

"I will see you in the morning," was all she said outside her door.

"Yes, Mama." Lydia was on her feet now. I wonder how many things I can stuff into a bandbox, she thought as she went calmly to her chest of drawers. And more to the point, I wonder where on earth I will go in the morning?

Chapter Nine.

Lydia did not sleep all night, but packed and repacked a bandbox until she had a petticoat, second dress, chemise, stockings, and shoes folded within. She would have liked to add a nightgown, but she thought a shawl more useful. Thank G.o.d it is high summer, she told herself. I will not be cold until fall, and who knows where I will be then?

She devoted that darkest part of the night between midnight and three o'clock to an appraisal of her abilities, and where they would get her. The result of her personal inventory of marketable skills only made her queasy. Perhaps things will appear more sanguine when the sun rises, she thought, remembering a moment at St. Barnabas when one of the surgeons took a moment to sit down and drink tea. He had told her that dying people seemed to fade fastest after midnight and before dawn. "Experience tells me it is a most hopeless time, Miss Perkins," he had remarked.

"You are right, sir," she said out loud around three o'clock. "I can knot a fringe, barber and cut hair, sketch a little, dance a little, play the pianoforte a little, sing a little." She sighed. "I know nothing about cooking-although I would be a willing student-and less about running a house. I do not flinch at open wounds, or removing maggots from high flesh." She rose and forced herself on another weary turn about the room. "Altogether it is an eccentric list of talents that will get me nowhere."

She almost dozed off at three-thirty, but a maggot of her own advised her to check her finances. In a moment she was on her knees by her trunk in the dressing room. Papa had given her five pounds before they left Devon, and three pounds were still there. "Thank goodness for that," she said, turning her face for comfort into the fabric of her favorite dress folded over the trunk. She shook her reticule again, and it was lighter, thanks to her hackney ride from the banquet hall to Holly Street. I will resolve to walk more, she thought, then shuddered, even though the room was warm. It is not a matter of resolution but necessity. Worn out with worry, she went to sleep as the sun was rising, only to dream of Private Charlie Banks dying over and over again, with those fops simpering and jumping up and down behind her, trying to see him. They would not leave, no matter how she pushed against them, and then Kitty was screaming and would not stop.

She woke up in a panic, her breath coming in short gasps that made her dizzy. She lay in her own sweat, her nightgown twisted around her like a wound-up top. With more dread in her heart than she could remember from other encounters with Mama, she listened for Kitty.

The house was completely silent, almost as though all of its inmates were holding their breath. She listened for the usual homely sounds of servants pattering to and from rooms with hot water, or tea. There was nothing. They have all gone to Devon and left me here, she thought, but knew that could never be. Mama would never miss an opportunity for a good scold. If only she will confine herself to a scold, Lydia thought with a s.h.i.+ver.

She got out of bed and went to the window, half expecting to see that she had imagined daylight and it was still night. She blinked at the bright sunlight. Well, so much for my theory that I have dreamed this whole wretched business, she thought.

As she watched the street below, the postman stopped his cart in front of their house, rummaged around, and produced a collection of letters so large that it required an extra turn of the twine to contain them. Lydia sighed with relief. "There you are, Kitty," she murmured against the window gla.s.s. "More invitations."

It was a large collection, and then she remembered the invitations to their own rout that she and Mama and Kitty had labored over last week. There is nothing like a little notoriety to increase the RSVPs beyond one's wildest expectations, she thought. I wonder if we should increase our champagne order, as well. After Mama scolds me, I shall suggest that to her.

She dressed quickly, then tiptoed next door to Kitty's room, and let herself in quietly. The room was dark, but she could make out Kitty sleeping soundly. Lydia frowned, recognizing the slowness of her breathing as the pattern that always followed doctor visits. Kitty, I wish you did not require sedation after trying moments, she told herself. Perhaps in this pile of mail, there will be new inanities to attract your notice.

Satisfied that Kitty was sleeping peacefully, Lydia returned to her room to find Stanton waiting for her. Oh, dear, she thought, here comes Mama's scolding. If I am summoned to the blue salon instead of the sitting room, I know I am in for heavy sailing.

"Madam wants to see you immediately in the book room," he said.

"That is a new place for a scold," she said. "Wish me well, Stanton."

He did not smile. She had never seen him so serious, even allowing for his usual butler's demeanor. "Miss Perkins, it may be beyond that," he said finally as he held the door for her and followed her out.

She sighed with resignation. So it has finally come to that, she told herself. For my sins of Christian charity and righteous indignation, Mama is sending me back to Devon. After a moment's reflection, she could not say that the feeling stung her. This might be my opportunity to visit with the vicar's wife and carve out some role for myself in the parish. I will probably even be meek and biddable again by the time the rest of them return.

She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, then pressed her ear against the panel to listen for a response. "Oh, dear," she whispered, and listened again at something unheard of: Mama was crying, but not the gentle tears one would expect from a grown woman. Not that Mama ever cried, Lydia reasoned. She had nothing to cry about. These were the noisy tears of a thwarted child. Lydia knocked again, less confident this time. Again there was no answer, but she squared her shoulders and entered the room anyway.

Mama sat at the desk, sorting through the invitations, tears streaming down her face. She ignored Lydia for the longest time, then blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Still she said nothing. Mama's tears had been replaced by an expression so cold that Lydia felt her blood run in chunks. As she watched, Mama gathered up the letters. She held them close to her breast for a moment, then stood up and threw them at Lydia.

"There is the result of your night's work, Lydia Perkins," Mama said. She turned her back to Lydia and went to the window.

Startled, Lydia picked up a handful of letters. "Oh, Mama, I certainly can't take credit for all these invitations," she said. "I just knew that people of sense and reason would rally to us."

Mama turned around to stare at her. Before Lydia even had time to take a deep breath, Mama strode across the room and slapped her. "These are all regrets, daughter! Every single one of them!"

Lydia gasped. She took her hand away from her burning cheek and opened one of the letters that she held. She read it quickly as her insides began to chum. The handwriting was beautiful, well-bred, and the note was written on the best paper. Her eyes were watering from the force of Mama's blow, but still the phrases, "... want nothing to do with your family," and "We withdraw our invitation to you for Tuesday next," leaped out at her like imps. Her hands shaking now, she opened another letter. "... sever all acquaintance ..." she whispered as she grabbed up another letter. "... worse than barbaric conduct ..." And another. "... what can one expect ...."

She knew her face had drained of all color because she felt suddenly light-headed. Lydia sank into a chair by the door, still clutching the letters. "Mama, these people have no feelings, no sense of honor! Surely you cannot want Kitty to ...."

Mama was directly in front of her now, her hands like iron bars on Lydia's legs. "It is precisely these people of money and t.i.tles that I sought for Kitty!" She looked away, almost overcome with her anger. "Poor Kitty, I should call her now. You have ruined her chances! I wonder that we will not even be laughed out of Devon, and what could be less inconsequential than Devon!" She was shouting now, so loud that Lydia's ears began to hurt. "How could you stand there and wound those young men! Kitty all but had Lord Allsuch in her pocket! Sixty thousand a year and a marquis! Lydia, have you no sense at all?"

To Lydia's indescribable relief, Mama flung herself away, retreating to the far corner of the room as though she could not abide her presence.

"Mama, I am ...."

"Sorry?" Mama sneered.

"Well, no, actually," Lydia said, stopping herself too late. "That is, I mean ...."

She flinched and raised her hands to protect her face when Mama came toward her again, but her mother barely glanced at her. She went to the door instead, clutching the k.n.o.b until it looked as if the bones of her hands would break through.

"Papa and I are taking Kitty back to Devon as soon as we can pack," she said, biting off her words. "If this ... this scandal doesn't follow us like a bad stink, perhaps we can arrange a marriage with the squire's son! The squire's pimply son, Lydia, when she could have had a marquis!"

"I ... can close up the house for you, Mama," Lydia whispered, "and follow later."

Quicker than Lydia would have imagined, her mother grabbed her by the hair and yanked her face hard against the door frame.

"I cannot think of anything you can do that would ever induce me to want to see you again, Lydia. Not anything," she added for emphasis.

That was all. After another yank for good measure, Mama released her and stormed from the room. Her stomach in complete turmoil, her face on fire, Lydia sank to the floor among the scattered letters. They rustled around her as she drew her knees up close to her body and cried. She cried quietly, not wis.h.i.+ng to disturb her mother into a return visit to the book room. When she finished, she dried her eyes on the hem of her dress, then touched her cheek gingerly, wincing at the pain. Her lip felt swollen, too. She touched it, then sighed and wiped the blood on her petticoat, and rested her good cheek against her knees. Who are these people who have raised me? she asked herself in disbelief.

She sat there in silence for another few minutes, mainly to a.s.sure herself that Mama would not return. She nearly shrieked in fear when she heard footsteps, but they went quickly past the book room door, so she knew it was a servant. When the house was absolutely silent again, she left the room and tiptoed upstairs. Kitty's door was ajar, so she knew Mama was in there. She crossed quietly on the other side of the hall and let herself into her room.

She was almost afraid to look in the mirror, but she forced herself, and then drew back in dismay. A bruise-ugly and purple-stood out on her cheek like a carbuncle. This will never do, she thought as she went to the basin for a cloth and cold water. She sat rocking back and forth on her bed, the cloth pressed to her cheek and her lip, which was swollen. But only a little, she decided, after another look in the mirror. I doubt it will be noticeable tomorrow.

Her cheek was hopeless, however. Experience told her that in a week it would be just a fading greenish-yellow. But meanwhile .... "Oh, bother," she said. "Oh, bother. This complicates matters."

She sat back on her bed, wondering what to do. The decision was made for her when Kitty began to scream. Lydia clamped her hands to her ears, but the noise scarcely diminished. Mama, did you inform her that she was returning to Devon and destined for the squire's son? Lydia thought. Truly I am sorry for that, but Kitty, for all his spots and stammers, he is a far better man than Lord Allsuch, who makes devilish bets.

The screams continued, then turned into loud sobs, and finally subsided. The eerie silence that followed was twice as disturbing as the noise. Lydia sighed, remembering outbursts at home, and Kitty's stormy fits. "And my own 'punishments,' eh, Mama?" she said as she applied another compress to her ruined cheek. Servants had an instinct about silence around the manor. I wish my own were as good, she thought. I wish I knew when to keep silent. Mama is right; I am stupid.

She said it out loud, and then again, wondering why she did not believe it this time. "No, Lydia, you were right to stand up and say what you did last night," she told herself. "Evil of that nature should not be tolerated, no matter what Mama thinks."

She thought again of the men at St. Barnabas, both the sick and the dead, and their courage, and of Major Reed's numerous trips to Horse Guards on their behalf. I think he has been using his own money to get them settled elsewhere, she thought. He's not afraid to say what he thinks. Her hand went to her cheek. Of course, no one strikes him.

She knew what she had to do, but it frightened her, so she remained where she was for a few minutes more. I will count to ten, then I will be about it, she told herself as she started counting slowly. She reached ten, and still she did not move. She counted again, and this time she got to her feet.

Her traveling dress b.u.t.toned up the front, so she had no difficulty in putting it on. St.u.r.dy shoes were essential, so she rummaged about until she found them. The hat would have to be a deep-brimmed one, to hide her bruised face. She put it on and frowned. It was better than nothing, but not by much. She drew on her best kid gloves, even though they were black and it was the wrong season for black. I do not know that I will be able to afford another pair like them for some time to come, she thought.

Her bandbox was full, but she knew she could carry it, since hackneys were beyond her price range now. I am leaving so much behind! she thought with regret. My books, my writing paper, my sketches. She paused at the desk, considering for a moment whether she should leave a note, then decided against it. I have nothing to say, she decided.

The ease with which she left the house astonished her. The upstairs hall was deserted. She heard Papa rustling about in his study when she pa.s.sed it downstairs, but she felt no inclination to stop. Worse than useless, sad little man, she thought, tightening her lips together and wincing at the sharp pain.

She feared that Stanton would be stationed by the front door, but he was nowhere in sight. She was almost disappointed. It would have been nice to say good-bye to him.

Keeping her head down, she walked east toward the city, and did not look back at the house. When she turned from Holly Street, relief flooded her like warm rain. The feeling lasted until the next corner, where she stopped. During her rides to and from St. Barnabas, she had noticed an employment registry office. Which corner? she asked herself as she started moving again.

She saw it finally after a half hour's walk toward London's center, "open after luncheon," read the sign in the window. The sign seemed to trigger her own hunger, even though it was early in the morning. A bowl of an undetermined soup yesterday at St. Barnabas had been her only recent meal, she reminded herself. She had consumed nothing except great mounds of humiliation since then. She looked about, wondering where one went to eat in London. Another block took her past a public house, where she could smell onion soup and the sharp odor of new ale.

Working men went into the shop, but no women. She knew she dared not go in there, so she kept walking until she found a bakery. Standing in front of the window, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the gla.s.s and stopped. Her hand went to her cheek, and she lowered her head and turned away.

She found a small park a block over, and settled for a drink from the fountain, disturbed beyond words by her own reflection, and the dreadful thought that no employment agency would hire her with her face so bruised. It will be better in a week, but what will I do until then? She had no idea. She felt herself wilting inside. Panic started to rise, but she forced it down and compelled herself to consider her situation.

An hour's thought did nothing to change the reality that she was hungry, in pain, and without resources. I am too afraid to go into a public house, and right now, my face will never recommend me to a potential employer, she thought. I have three pounds to my name, and have no idea where to stay, or how to afford it.

She s.h.i.+vered, despite the warmth of the day, and looked around her. In another moment she was smiling. "Well, at least I am not lost," she said to a squirrel who sat on her bench, looking hopeful. "That is something."

She knew where she was. Another two blocks would take her closer to the docks, but in sight of St. Barnabas with its two spires, one of them stately, and the other falling down, probably a ruin since the War of the Roses. Who would ever have thought the old pile to look so good? she thought as she rose. I have nowhere to go, so I might as well see if I can do some good at St. Barnabas. "I have a hat there, too," she reminded herself. Just think, Lydia, if you can find your hat, you can p.a.w.n the dear thing, providing that you know where to find a p.a.w.n store. She picked up her bandbox and started off, resolving someday that if she ever married and was blessed with children, she would teach them useful skills, such as how to find a job, eat in public, and p.a.w.n things.

Her smile lasted to the doors of St. Barnabas, which were wide open, as usual. She peered inside, and discovered to her distress that the place was nearly empty. Surely not all those men died since yesterday, she thought in alarm. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, she saw a few cots remaining, and a surgeon.

"They're the ones who cannot be moved, Miss Perkins."

She looked around in surprise to see the other surgeon. "But where are the others, sir?" she asked. "I was hoping to help."