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“Oh, Lydia, there you are! I saw the dark clouds rolling in and I was worried you’d be caught in the rain.” Aunt Phillips hobbles over to greet me. “Well, don’t just stand there in the door, come in, come in.”
As I step inside, she leans in and whispers in my ear, “You don’t have to say a word. I saw how heartbroken you were when you mentioned the engagement was off, so I sent for Mr. Thompson, telling him it was all a misunderstanding and now he’s obliged us with his company.”
My mouth falls open but I can’t sort my thoughts into any coherent words. Aunt Phillips gives me a knowing look and smiles. “There’ll be time to thank me later, now go on.”
Cyrus is already lounging in the parlor, fingers tapping erratically on the arm of the big chair by the hearth, one boot propped up on Aunt Phillip’s gout stool. I don’t bother smiling or pretending I’m pleased to see him as I drag my feet inside.
“I’ll go see how Blake is getting on with tea.” Aunt Phillips gives me a ridiculous wink and before I can beg her to stay, she’s backing out of the room, closing me in there with him. So much for propriety.
“Hello, Lydia,” Cyrus says without getting up. “You’re looking rather down about the mouth.”
I peel off my gloves and throw them down on the table along with my books. “And you’re looking well enough for someone who so bitterly claimed they were on the cusp of abject poverty.”
“Abject poverty is apoorexcuse to let one’s self go, wouldn’t you say?” He cocks his head at me to see if I noticed his stupid little pun.
“What do you want, Cyrus?”
“Want? Why, your lovely aunt invited me over. Am I not welcome?”
I glare at him in answer as I shake my cloak off. Then, even though I’ve never had the urge to take a drink in my life, I go over to the sideboard to pour myself something from one of Uncle Phillips’s crystal decanters. Whatever it is, it smells awful and scalds down my throat like fire. I choke a little, aware that Cyrus is watching me with cool, unwavering eyes.
“I never knew you to take a drink, Lyd. Have things really gotten that bad?”
I don’t say anything, just return his patronizing gaze from behind the rim of the glass with as much haughty composure as I can muster.
“I guess we’re past mincing words, eh? Well then, that should make this infinitely easier on both of us.” He’s still sitting, cross-legged and elegant, looking as if he has every right in the world to be here. I don’t like standing in front of him as if I’m at his beck and call, yet I can’t bring myself to sit down, to concede that we’re actually having a conversation.
“I was charmed to get your aunt’s invitation, but I must admit I had reasons of my own for wanting to see you when I found out you were back in Boston. You never answered any of my letters.” When I don’t say anything he looks a little disappointed, but carries on. “I want to renew my offer. Your hand in marriage, bringing with it the Montrose money, and in return, my spotless name and a chance for you to reclaim your place in polite society.”
The bark of laughter that escapes my lips is so loud that I make myself jump. I wait for him to crack a smile, but his face remains infuriatingly unreadable. “You...you can’t be serious.”
Slowly, and with the grace of a cat, he unfolds himself and comes right up beside me, so close that I can’t tell if the smell of alcohol is from his breath or mine.
“Would I waste your time if I wasn’t serious?” His tone is gentle, wheedling, like our last meeting never happened. “Come on, Lyd. Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?”
I turn to leave. “No, I don’t.” I would have read his letters if I wanted hear his empty declarations of love. This has gone on long enough, and I want to be upstairs writing a letter to Mr. Barrett, the letter I should have written the first time.
Cyrus reaches into his waistcoat and produces a folded piece of paper. “Oh,” he says with grim satisfaction, “but I think you do.”
The floor creaks outside the door. Aunt Phillips is listening.
Cyrus realizes this too. Just as I’m about to turn the knob, he raises his voice, calling out after me, “Who’s the baby’s father, Lydia?”
28
MY HEART FREEZESin my chest. In two strides I’m back over to him. “Shut up!” I hiss. “How did you know about that?”
A grin spreads over his face and I realize my mistake at once. I slump down into the chair.
“So thereisa baby.” Smug, he saunters to the sideboard and pours himself a glass. At least he’s lowered his voice now, and there’s a reluctant creak in the hall as Aunt Phillips tries to tiptoe quietly away.
He flops down into the chair opposite me. “I’ll try to make it quick, but I have to say I rather have a mind to bide here awhile, drinking your uncle’s fine spirits.” He drains the glass. “I haven’t had a good glass of port in too long.”
“Cyrus...”
“Oh, all right.” He unfolds the paper, and my heart lurches as I recognize Catherine’s handwriting. “Seems your sister is in rather desperate circumstances. She sent me this letter.”