Lydia laughed, the sound escaping before she had any opportunity to restrain it. Gemma, despite her initial shyness, was an absolute delight. As she looked at them, the little girl quite content in Oliver’s arms, Lydia noted that Gemma looked nothing like Oliver.
There was no denying the child was beautiful. Reddish-gold curls framed a lively face animated by intelligence, and eyes the clear blue of a summer morning regarded the world with endless curiosity. Lydia looked again, expecting perhaps to discover some familiar angle of Oliver's jaw or the shape of his mouth hidden beneath the softness of childhood, but there was nothing at all that called him to mind. The contrast struck her as curious rather than troubling. Children often favored one parent almost entirely, and Gemma must surely have inherited every feature from her mother. Still, the thought lingered for a moment that when she had once imagined children with Oliver, she had never pictured one who looked quite like this. In her mind’s eye, any children they might have had together had possessed his dark, nearly black hair, and the pale green eyes that had charmed her so.
Perhaps it was just as well that Gemma looked nothing like him. If she did, it would likely break her heart all over again.
The gong for dinner sounded below stairs and Oliver eyed her over top of Gemma’s head. “It might seem unorthodox but Gemma takes her meals in the dining room, as shall you.”
“Of course, she should do that. How is a child to learn their manners if they never get to practice them?” But inside, Lydia wanted to scream. Every moment in his presence was torture.Every moment watching him so lovingly cradle a little girl who might have been hers had things been different, that was a pain that surpassed anything she had felt up until that moment. Walking away from him had been a hellish decision, but being confronted by all that might have been had she stayed? That was beyond cruel and she had no one to blame for it but herself. After all, she’d been the one who chose to walk away, to give him the opportunity to marry and have children with another. She could not very well bemoan the fact now.
As they made their way downstairs toward the dining room, Lydia braced herself for the storm of regret that was to come.
Chapter
Four
The dining room was ablaze with light and the table well laid when they entered. Of course, Oliver had not expected less. Stedmore would naturally think of Lydia more as a guest than as a governess. It hadn’t really dawned on him before that moment how it might impact his servants when they were suddenly presented with the dilemma of the woman who at one time would have been their mistress suddenly being amongst, or at least adjacent, to their ranks.
That thought prompted a frown as he helped Gemma settle into her chair, seated on a higher cushion so she could adequately reach the table. “Mind your manners tonight,” he whispered to her. “I don’t want Miss Mercer to think I’ve allowed you to become a heathen.”
Gemma giggled, as he’d intended, and Oliver straightened. Lydia was taking her place across the table from Gemma and just over her shoulder, he saw a footman worriedly whispering to Stedmore. Then Stedmore simply left the dining room. To say that was shocking was putting it mildly. Stedmore never left the dining room during the dinner hour. He considered it almost a sacred duty to preside over the evening meal at Hartwell Hall.
“Is something wrong, my lord?”
The question came from Lydia. She was staring at him with some degree of concern. And it wasn’t a question he could answer. Still, there was the feeling of impending doom. Something was about to go very, very wrong. “Gemma, I just remembered that the first course tonight is Mock Turtle Soup, which you detest… Why don’t you go to the kitchen and see if Mrs. Weddington has something else for you? I believe she was making lemon cakes earlier.”
Gemma was off within seconds, scrambling down from her chair and all but running for the door that would lead downstairs to the kitchen, just as he’d anticipated. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to distract his daughter in that particular instance. Firstly, because she loathed the soup being served and secondly, because as much as she hated the soup, she loved lemon cake. It had been a ploy to have her far enough away that whatever was about to occur would be something she did not have to witness.
“I’m not entirely certain, Miss Mercer,” he finally answered her. Then Stedmore re-entered the room, his face quite ashen. “What is it Stedmore?”
“My lord, there has been a minor kitchen fire at the dower house… your mother has come to stay until everything can be righted.”
It was worse than he’d imagined. So much worse. But there was no time to prepare because his mother swept into the room. Immediately, her gaze fell on Lydia who had risen from her seat, as etiquette demanded.
“You!” His mother said, her voice all but trembling with shock and surprise.
“Lady Charlotte,” Lydia acknowledged. “You are looking quite well despite the distressing situation you’ve just fled.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why you fled all those years ago? A distressing situation?”
Oliver closed his eyes and prayed for strength. It was going to be a very long evening.
Lydia’s heart was pounding.Confronting Oliver had been something she both feared and dreaded, but because of how it might make her feel. Because of all the pain it might dredge up for her—for them both. But confronting Lady Charlotte was something else entirely. She’d always been a bit intimidated by her. What young woman wasn’t thoroughly terrified of her mother-in-law?
Attempting to smooth things over, Lydia began, “I understand your anger, Lady Charlotte. And it is anger that you have every right to feel. I know my actions seem cowardly?—.”
“They do not seem anything. They were cowardly. You ran from him, disappearing into the night a mere fortnight before you were to be married! Banns had been read. The church had been secured. Flowers and foodstuffs ordered! The whole of society was prepared to attend your wedding… and you left. Without so much as a by your leave! An explanation is in order!” Lady Charlotte demanded.
Lydia swallowed convulsively. It was all true. Every bit of it was true. But the last thing she could give Lady Charlotte or Oliver was the thing that had just been demanded of her. An explanation. Because everything she’d seen of him since arriving at Hartwell Hall had brought those very actions and her reasoning behind them into question. “I cannot give you that, I am afraid.”
“Why else would you be here?” Lady Charlotte scoffed.
“I have secured the services of Miss Lydia Mercer as governess for Gemma,” Oliver stated, answering for her.
Lydia was grateful in that moment for his clear head, because she was struggling to find words at all. Much less to find words that were articulate and would not escalate the already tense situation.
“Mercer?” Lady Charlotte snapped, her gaze flashing from Oliver to Lydia. “You married another?”
“Miss,” Oliver said. “Miss Mercer… it is an assumed name and it is her choice to keep or divulge the reasoning for it. Her references are excellent and Gemma is already quite taken with her.”
