Scandalising the Ton. Diane Gaston
She planned to spend the day perusing the household accounts. Now that she was in control of her money, she intended to spend wisely and never have to worry over money again. First she must learn the cost of ordinary things, such as lamp oil and beeswax and the food for their table. She must learn how to make a budget that included the servants’ salaries, taxes on her menservants and the house, and whatever amounts she would be expected to pay throughout a year. It would be like assembling a puzzle, and she enjoyed assembling puzzles.
“My lady?” Mary laid the dress on the bed. “I thought I would go to the shops this morning to purchase the items you requested.”
Lydia had asked for pins and also silk thread. She planned to embroider new seat covers for the dining-room chairs. She needed something to keep her fingers busy and to fill her time. To keep her from becoming lonely.
Mary turned to her. “Won’t you come? You’ve not been out in ever so long.”
Only a scant few days ago, Lydia thought, but Mary knew that outing had not been for pleasure.
Although Lydia had gained pleasure from it. She glanced at her bed and thought of Adrian.
Lord C in The New Observer.
“Not today, Mary.” She shook her head, more to remove his image than to refuse Mary’s invitation. “I fear I would be followed by the newspaper men.”
Mary walked over to the window and peeked through a gap in the curtains. “They are still out there.”
Lydia had already seen them loitering near her door.
“I suppose you cannot come with me, then,” Mary said.
Lydia smiled at her. “You must purchase something for yourself when you are out. A length of fabric for a new dress, perhaps. Or a pretty hat. I will give you some extra coins.”
Mary curtsied. “Thank you, my lady, but I could not—”
“I insist.” Lydia stood. “Would you help me dress?”
Samuel stood shivering on the corner of the street where he had a clear view of Lady Wexin’s side gate. He had already seen the butler hurry out. Samuel almost followed him, but made a snap decision to remain where he was. He really hoped the maid might come out next.
All the reporters knew that something had made the household jubilant two days previously, but none of them had dis covered what it was. It had been noted that Mr Newton, Wexin’s solicitor, had called and shortly after whoops of joy were heard. Perhaps the widow had come into more money, but coming into money when one was wealthy was not too interesting.
He needed something more.
The hinges of the gate squeaked, and, as Samuel had hoped, the trim figure of the maid appeared.
In Samuel’s experience, maids knew everything that went on in a household and they could often be encouraged to talk about what they knew.
The maid headed towards Berkeley Square. If Samuel hurried, he could catch up with her, but he needed to detour so that neither she nor the other reporters saw him.
He walked to Charles Street and practically ran to Berkeley Square where he caught sight of her just as he’d hoped to do. Keeping a good distance between them, he followed her as she walked to the shops.
It was almost peaceful following her on her errands. Samuel watched her select threads and pins and pieces of lace. She did not hurry at her tasks, but instead examined all the wares at a leisurely pace, as if this excursion was merely for her own pleasure.
Instead of making him impatient, it seemed a treat to watch her. She had a trim little figure, a graceful way of walking, and a sweet way of smiling at the assistants in the shops. Her heart-shaped face was as pale as the finest lady’s, fringed by auburn curls that escaped from her bonnet. Her lips were so pink they might have been tinted, but what intrigued him the most were her huge blue eyes.
She filled a large basket with her purchases, adding bouquets of flowers from the flower vendors until she looked more like a girl who had come from a stroll in a lush garden than a servant about her errands.
When she headed back towards Berkeley Square, Samuel realised he’d not found an opportunity to speak to her, although it somehow had not seemed like time wasted.
When she entered Gunter’s Tea Shop, a confectionary in Berkeley Square, he saw his chance. Samuel hurried into the shop behind her.
“A lemon ice, please,” she said to the shop assistant. “And six of those.” She pointed to marzipan displayed under glass, perfect miniature pears and peaches and apples, confections made from almonds, sugar and egg whites.
He stood behind her, his heart beating a little faster. He could easily see over her head. She was no taller than the level of his chin. She turned and gave him the briefest glance with those big blue eyes. He nodded to her, and she turned away again.
The shop assistant produced the lemon ice and packed the marzipan into a box, tying it with string. The maid handed the shop assistant her coins. When she walked past Samuel he had a whiff of lemon from the lemon ice, but also a hint of lavender.
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