Spare Brides (12 page)

The last generation were distinctly divided.

Some arrogantly demanded that the world return to what they had known before: a world where everyone knew their place and stayed in it. The old men who thought that way, with their red faces, deep tones and bulbous noses, droned on pompously. They seemed irritable and impotent. The other half were intimidated by the generation that had fought in the Great War. These old men had nothing similar to compare it with; the Boer War was dwarfed by comparison. They could not relate and yet they’d let it happen. They were ashamed that they were alive when so many of their sons were dead. These sorts were confused and dismayed by the losses too, but not the loss of order; specifically the loss of life. They felt they’d let down their sons. Which indeed they had. This chap was the latter sort. The more bearable. He talked about his pheasant shoots, his dogs, the difficulty in finding a skilled man to repair the hundred miles of dry-stone walling that surrounded his estate, but what he had to say was not said with the entitlement of old; his tone was more one of humble gratitude. He was aware that he was privileged, but he seemed to understand that his biggest privilege was that his son had been too old to fight, his grandsons too young. He talked of his large family with affection and recognition that they were an accomplishment. Not because they would inherit his land and titles, but because they rode, danced and sang, squabbled, drank and gambled. They were alive.

Normally Lydia would have found this man a jovial enough dinner companion. As a woman who considered herself way beyond common flirtation or dalliance, her preferred companions were the old, interesting fellows; the ones who appreciated her conversation and her beauty but placed her far away from suspicion. Tonight, time stretched endlessly, reminding her of the tedious journeys she’d made as a child in the rumbling brougham.
When will we get there?
she’d nagged. Although the carriages had been considered the ultimate in comfort, Lydia had loathed the stale, cramped journeys and only managed them by focusing on the moment she’d be allowed to tumble out and run free, stretching her legs. She felt the same sense of confinement now. She held her body rigid and unyielding, pointing, like a magnet points north, towards the old man, because she dreaded that if she turned her head – even a fraction – and allowed herself a glimpse of Edgar Trent, she would not be able to drag her eyes away from him again. Ever again.

She would not allow herself to look at him throughout the course, yet her being was with him entirely. She was conscious of him – tantalisingly close to her, right next to her – in the purest and most exquisite sense of being conscious of a thing. She sensed his movements as though the rippling of his shoulder muscles, the bend of his elbow, the turn of his head caused a tsunami in the air between them. On three, maybe four occasions, she experienced the warmth of his actual touch as his jacketed arm nudged against her bare one. His contact felt firm and deliberate; she did not believe it was accidental. She could smell him. Early on in the evening he smelt of Pears soap, no nonsense. Later, she imagined, he would smell of cigarettes and red wine, a lot of nonsense. Whilst listening to her companion talk about dry-stone walling, her ears strained to pick up Edgar Trent’s tones. His laugh, which came often and loud, rattled through her body. It caught in her chest. It settled between her legs. She was quickly drunk, although she was unsure if it was the champagne or him that had caused the intoxication. After a millennium, the crockery was cleared, the fish was served and it was the appropriate moment to rotate once again and speak with him.

The wait had been too much, too long. It had been cruel and had destroyed any chance she had of remaining aloof or appropriate. She turned to him, helpless.

‘So, Lid, say something that will impress me.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Oh, that doesn’t impress me at all. Try again.’ He picked up his glass and glugged back the entire contents as though he was in a hurry.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I think you do. Isn’t this what is expected at events such as these? You say something audacious. I say something flattering. We begin a flirtation. A flirtation at the very least, or perhaps a love affair at most.’

‘I don’t … I don’t …’ She wanted to say she didn’t understand, but she did.

‘Sorry, have I ruined everything by jumping the gun? Should I have played along more subtly?’

Recovering, Lydia said, ‘You’re being very rude, Sergeant Major Trent.’

‘Am I? I don’t mean to be. I’m delighted that your friend has sat us next to one another. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather flirt with.’ He brushed his eyes over the other guests as though confirming his selection. He swiftly licked his firm, cushioned lips and added, ‘Flirt at the least.’

‘I don’t think that’s why we were seated together. No one even knew you were coming until today. You are only making up the numbers because my husband has to work and couldn’t be here.’

‘But you wouldn’t have been seated next to your husband,’ Edgar Trent pointed out.

Lydia faltered. ‘No, I don’t suppose I would have.’

‘The seating plan has been tampered with. We’ve been set up.’

As Lydia accepted the thought, she turned her head once again towards Ava, who was staring right back at her. Ava raised her glass; Lydia felt the truth of the gesture like a poke.

‘Our hostess clearly hopes that we’ll flirt to a shocking, shameful, unprecedented level.’ He flicked his eyes around the table for a second time. ‘Consider, this place is full of those distinguished by birth but not much else, the academic erudite who talk about theology and economics but not much else and eminent businessmen who value money but not much else. She needs to be entertained.’

‘I don’t think Ava would do that, set us up, as you say, simply for entertainment.’ But even as Lydia heard the words tip out of her mouth, she knew that it was just the sort of thing Ava would do. She also became aware that simply by having this conversation she was flirting with him. Very much so. It wasn’t a suitable conversation; it was open to misinterpretation. She ought to cut it dead. She really ought. ‘Besides, you arrived with the Duchess of Feversham. Surely she’s the lady you need to be flirting with.’ She flashed him a look that deftly communicated her knowledge that he must be more than flirting with the duchess. ‘I’m no use to you at all.’

‘I did arrive with the Duchess of Feversham, but I’m her cover. Matthew Northbrook is her lover. Those in the know are aware of that.’ Ava was in the know. ‘You see, people think of me as a ladies’ man.’

‘Do they just?’

‘They do, and so I’m a likely suspect as the duchess’s lover, but blameless if anyone does any digging about, therefore a brilliant foil.’

‘I see.’

‘Quite clever, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose. But then those sorts have to be.’

‘What sorts?’

Lydia paused, then added, ‘The adulterous sort. I imagine it takes quite some planning.’ She’d picked her words carefully. She wanted him to know she was not that sort. She was not an adulterer. Never had been. Never wanted to be.

Edgar paused; they both reached for their glasses, both found them empty. Lydia inclined her head a fraction, enough for the under butler to be by their side in an instant. He offered the wine but Edgar waved it away and asked for a cocktail. It wasn’t done to drink cocktails with dinner. Lydia had a feeling Edgar knew as much and didn’t care.

‘So are you a ladies’ man?’ she asked, once their drinks had been delivered. She’d chosen to reject the wine as well and join him in drinking cocktails, just to be polite. Or was it impolite? She wasn’t sure. ‘Is it a fair assessment?’

‘It is.’ His words had a physical impact. It was as though he had leaned over and licked her mind and – shockingly – her upper thighs too. Because she felt him. She felt him in an absolute sense. ‘It’s a common and general turn of phrase but essentially accurate. What do they think of you?’ he asked.

‘They think of me as happily married.’

‘Do they now?’

‘They do.’

‘And
are
you happily married? Is that a fair assessment?’ Lydia paused for a beat longer than she should have. ‘I see.’ And he had. He’d seen a green light, because Lydia was breathless and slow.

‘Well of course,’ she muttered finally, but she sounded unconvincing, unconvinced. Why? She
was
happily married. Not today, obviously. There were issues, but generally speaking she was happy.

He paused, stared at her for the longest time. Long enough to make her oddly ashamed; she looked away.

‘I bet when you were a debutante you were an accomplished flirt.’ Lydia had been. Some might even remember her as a bit of a tease, certainly an enormous giggle. ‘I bet you drove men mad,’ he added with some amusement.

‘Oh, yes, they fell for me like apples fall off a tree,’ she replied with a deft mix of irony and honesty.

‘Landing hard, getting bruised. I know how it happened for you.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. Your husband. Solid sort. He came along and said he wouldn’t stand for any of your nonsense, as he liked to call it. He said you had to pack it all in and marry him. It was coming to the end of your season and you were rather relieved. You found it a little tedious being forever sparkling, didn’t you? I bet you did. I don’t imagine he was the first proposal; he might have been the fifth or sixth. But he was the first one you could take seriously. The other boys had all worshipped you a little too ardently, a little too quickly, and you insisted their heat was insincere.’

Lydia nodded, fascinated by the accuracy of his account. ‘Mostly they were rather silly,’ she admitted.

‘Quite. But he saw potential in you. He thought you could be better. Better behaved. Under the correct guidance. He saw himself as just that. You believed the same to be true. Am I right?’

He was. No one had ever taken the time to understand the exact reasoning behind Lydia’s acceptance of Lawrence’s proposal. They were simply pleased she had accepted him. After she had discouraged a number of chaps whom everyone considered totally appropriate, her parents had concerns she might turn out to be wilful. When she said yes to the Earl of Clarendale’s son, they had been so relieved. He was eminently eligible; if they’d wanted to be Victorian about the business, and had found her a match at birth, they could not have chosen better themselves.

People talked of marriages of convenience and marriages that were love matches, as if the entire business was an either/or situation. In Lydia’s view things were rarely so clear cut. She had found Lawrence attractive, suitable, pleasant-tempered and moral; added together, she’d thought she was being offered a good deal. What she felt for him was a lot like love, as near to love as she’d ever known, and so she gave it that label. She had been keen to get on with it. The business of being married. She wanted to be more than a girl waiting for invitations; she wanted to be a woman dispensing them. Sure enough the parties and dancing were delicious to begin with, when the spring months first heated up and exploded into summer, but the entire business of what to wear, whom to talk to and wondering whether anyone might say a fresh word ever again meant things had become tedious and exhausting by the time the leaves on the trees were turning golden brown. Lawrence probably hadn’t given too much thought as to why Lydia had accepted his proposal after only four meetings. If he had thought about it, no doubt he’d have reasoned that she had settled down because he was masterful and insistent. He had no idea that she wanted to be off the merry-go-round, and that the timing of his attentions had been fortunate.

Yet this man, this Edgar Trent – with whom she had swapped only a handful of sentences – seemed to know her soul. How could that be? No, it could not be. She would not allow herself to be fanciful. It was much more likely that her story was a predictable one. This was not a flattering thought, but it was more rational. No doubt there were countless other women out there with the same story. This man had probably met, seduced and ‘understood’ plenty of these other women in order for him to be so sure of her predictable story. The thought offended her but forced her on to be more frank.

‘Actually, he did not use the word
better
. He said I could be
more
.’

‘So ever since you’ve striven to be just that. You’re the perfect wife, mother and hostess. Am I right?’

Lydia sipped her cocktail. ‘Don’t mock me.’

‘I’m not mocking you, Lid. I understand.’ Edgar Trent suddenly dropped his gaze and stared at his plate. ‘We both know that sometimes being more leaves you feeling as if you are less.’

All around them jewels glittered, satin lapels shone; the servants approached and retreated as they served food, poured wine, removed dishes. Lydia became aware that a footman was standing by her shoulder waiting to retrieve her plate. She had not touched the salmon, but all the other guests were sitting, plates cleared, waiting for the roast course. Only her food and Edgar’s remained uneaten. She felt that every eye in the room bored into her. Swiftly she brought together her knife and fork. ‘You can take it.’

She turned back to the old chap whom she knew she must talk to throughout the roast, but she willed away each laborious moment. The words he offered up drifted past her like dandelion seeds on the wind and she could do nothing to capture them and continue the conversation. All the while she strained to hear what Edgar was saying to his companion. It was agony. Now, if he laughed, she felt anxious; could the woman be more entertaining than Lydia? But if he fell quiet, she resented any intimacy they might be forging. She felt he was being wrenched from her and was desperate until the salad was served and she was able to turn to him once again.

She did not flirt with him in the traditional sense. She felt that the skills that had been so perfectly honed before she married – but had been quenched and quashed for years now – could have sprung back into life if she’d wanted, and this time she would have been a thousand times more alluring than she’d ever been before. As a woman, not a girl, she had the ability to be polished – frank, elusive, candid and coy by turn – but she could not bring herself to flirt with him like that. She would not pick imaginary lint off his dinner jacket, she would not squeeze his arm and then appear surprised and delighted by his dense muscles, she would not laugh at his jokes even before she heard the punchline. She needed to give him something different. Something more.