Page 23 of A Lady in Name

Lucy laughed. “I imagine even gypsies find their wagons crowded with useless items they cannot bear to throw away.” She looked down into the trunk. “Really, I cannot imagine what I will do with the half of this stuff.”

“But you cannot be rid of it. I know. You would laugh if you could see the collection of dolls and childish games I insisted upon bringing with me to Pennington. Yet I have not looked at them from that day to this.”

Frowning round at the mass of items still awaiting her attention on the surrounding chairs, Lucy gave an exasperated sigh. “I have a very good mind to throw the rest away.” She moved to a pile of old clothes. “I cannot conceive that I shall ever wear the half of these things, even when I am out of mourning.”

“Take them,” advised Dion. “Mrs Lovedown has an excellent system for disposing of cast-off clothing.” She got up and came to join Lucy in sifting through the pile. “There is plenty of wear left in these. What you do not want will be much appreciated by those in less fortunate circumstances.”

Lucy felt herself to be scarcely more fortunate than the proposed poor recipients who might receive the offerings. She ought not to indulge in the profligacy of discarding garments. How was she to replace them? A horrid thought occurred. Was she to be beholden to Lord Pennington for the very clothes upon her back? Unthinkable. She had rather marry Mr Waley.

Remembrance caught at her, and she fairly jumped. “Oh, dear Lord! I must go at once to the church. I had forgot Mr Waley. How uncivil not to visit him at once.”

She hurried from the room as she spoke, hunting for where she had discarded her coat. Dion was hot on her heels.

“Who is this Mr Waley? Stefan said he is a curate.”

“He was Papa’s right hand, and a good friend to us both,” Lucy said, running upstairs. “I must have left my coat in the bedchamber.”

From the hallway, Dion called out. “Bring mine, will you?”

Lucy halted at the top of the stairs and turned, anxiety stirring in her bosom. “Oh, no, I must go alone. Pray, Dion, do you remain here. I will not be long. You may partake of some more of the cake we had earlier. And tea, if you wish for it. You will have to make it. But I must go by myself.”

It did not take many moments to array herself in her coat, and Lucy was just running down the stairs when a peal of the bell sounded at the front door.

Dion came in from the back premises as Lucy crossed towards the door. “That is likely Stefan, come to ask why we are taking so long.”

Just when she needed to be gone, Lucy thought. How typical of his lordship to arrive at an inconvenient moment. The last thing she wanted was for Stefan to thrust in upon her meeting with the curate.

She opened the door. Standing outside was Lord Pennington, in company with a thin gentleman on spindly legs. His near-skeletal features were only too well known to Lucy.

“Mr Waley!”

He peered with his habitual air of anxious concern through the spectacles which made a habit of dropping down his nose so he was obliged to be constantly pushing them back. “Dear Miss Lucy, I am so glad to see you returned.”

“I was just coming to find you.”

He cast a puzzled look at Stefan. “No need, dear Miss Lucy, no need, for his lordship found me instead.”

Heat sliced through Lucy in a flare of rage. How dared he interfere? She cast one fulminating glance at Stefan, with difficulty biting down upon the hot words rising to her tongue. Desperately she sought for other words, innocuous ones that would not give her away.

“What am I about, keeping you standing? Do come in, Mr Waley.” She pulled back to allow him to enter, taking opportunity the instant he had passed, to turn back and glare fury at Lord Pennington.

He met the look with a coolness which did nothing to improve her temper. “Am I included in your invitation?”

“Naturally.”

Lucy bit the word out, turning immediately into the house without waiting for him to enter and addressing herself to the curate.

“I’m afraid the parlour is all at sixes and sevens, Mr Waley, for we have been packing. Oh, this is Dion. Lady Dionisia Ankerville, I mean.”

The curate bowed awkwardly. “My lady.”

Dion’s eyes were alive with curiosity, raking the poor man’s person. Lucy tried to frown her down, perfectly aware of the impression he must create in the other girl’s mind.

“How do you do?”

“Mr Waley, come into Papa’s study, if you please,” said Lucy hastily, leading the way across the hall and opening the study door.

She had deliberately refrained from entering the room before, afraid of the memories, astutely managing to draw Dion’s attention away from that particular door. Her efforts proved vain. Mr Waley went in, closely followed by Dion, who exclaimed at once.