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CHAPTER FOUR

The carriage ride to Finch Hall was longer, and more pleasant, than Lydia had expected.

It took her out of the city, into the countryside, past farms and cottages, and then, up a winding road to a rather charming, albeit slightly worse-for-the-wear manor house, which appeared to have sheep grazing out front.

As they drew near, she confirmed that indeed, the animals were sheep, and the manor was more than a little run-down.

And yet, there were flowers in the gardens, blossoms on the apple trees, and a wooden swing hanging from a tall branch.

It all gave the sense the manor was… lived in.

A home, rather than a great house like the one she’d grown up in.

Her parents would have never permitted livestock or even apple trees to mar their respectable house.

Nor had they allowed a less-than-respectable daughter to mar their family name once she’d been found in bed with the man she thought she’d marry.

He had told her he loved her, that what was between them was only natural, that with the wedding banns soon to be read, there could be no harm in following the passion they both felt.

And yet, although they’d shared the passion and the bed, only she had been ruined as a result.

The memory, already seven years old, flickered in Lydia’s mind once more than she exited the carriage. A tall, grey-haired man stood at the entrance to receive her. He offered a deep bow and announced, with quiet dignity, “welcome to Finch Hall.”

It was typical for a guest to be formally received and either handed over to a ladies’ maid or escorted by a housekeeper to refresh before joining the household.

Yet no such lady’s maid appeared, and the butler, after a moment’s hesitation, merely inclined his head and gestured toward the wide central hallway.

“If you would kindly follow the corridor as it goes, my lady, the dining room is the second door on the right.”

He did not summon any of the female staff to attend her—a small but notable breach of etiquette.

Nor did any lady of the house descend the stairs to greet her, as one might expect, especially given the signs of feminine presence—a parasol left on a side table, a shawl draped carelessly over the banister.

The omission struck Lydia as odd, and she moved forward with hesitant steps, her gloved fingers trailing along the polished rail of the grand staircase as she passed it by.

She reminded herself Alexander had been the one to insist he didn’t care about her reputation, nor did he worry about scandal.

However, his sisters, perhaps, would be a different story.

Then she entered the dining room, where everything was far from what she’d expected. It was utter chaos. Four young girls, in motion, like billiards balls bouncing from wall to wall, shouted and laughed and argued.

The tallest girl, her brown curls slightly disheveled, was mid-argument with another, who sported the same blond curls as Alexander, though her fingertips were stained with what appeared to be blue paint.

“But surely, Harriet,” the young artist insisted, gesturing emphatically with a napkin, “the curtains cannot be taken down. Not in the library. It would ruin the books and--”

“Nonsense,” said the tallest one, now helpfully labeled as Harriet. “We’ll take the curtains from the third floor--”

“Those are MY curtains!” cried the smallest one. “No!”

It took Lydia more than a moment to spot Alexander, who stood near the fireplace, his eyes widening, then sparkling, as he spied her. Still, he remained silent as the chaos continued.

“Elanor, darling,” Harriet dropped to the floor where the small child had collapsed. “I didn’t mean the curtains in the nursery, you understand, I just--”

“My curtains!” Eleanor wailed, kicking her feet.

Across the room, Alexander sent Lydia a look that was half a plea, half an apology.

In return, she offered him a smile. Then, momentary meltdown over curtains forgotten, Eleanor sprang to her feet, a whirlwind of energy, and circled the table, attempting to peek at the covered dishes with undisguised curiosity.

The fourth girl, who alone had auburn hair, finished her work of setting up a large stack of books by her place at the table, and then, looked to Alexander with a clearly judgemental gaze. Lydia tilted her head, surprised. She’d expected to be the one judged, not him.

Alexander did his best to speak over the noise.

“Welcome, Miss Lydia. You have arrived amidst our usual domestic tranquility.” He gestured towards the remaining empty chair beside the auburn-haired girl.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. Lady Cecily will surely be fine, social company.” He emphasized the word.

The girl turned a page, sighing. Alexander cleared his throat a second time. “Cecily. Book down. Eyes up.”

With a tremendous roll of her blue eyes, she did so until she spotted Lydia. “Oh!” she said, sounding delighted. “You’re pretty! And you’re not old!”

“I had no idea either was in question,” Lydia replied, smoothing her skirts as she sat next to the girl.

“Well, of course. I mean, Alexander isn’t exactly the most charming conversationalist, you know? And I was so worried whoever he’d invite over would just be the absolute worst.”

“I see,” Lydia replied, trying her best not to giggle at the girl’s antics.

The others made their way to the table, though none had remotely the appropriate posture that would be expected of a young lady anywhere else.

They slouched and pointed and laughed, mouths open, voices raised in conversation.

Indeed, their manners were more like the men of the gambling hell that Lydia had known.

The artist was revealed to be named Jane, as she launched into a veritable barrage of questions for Lydia.

None of which had to do with her wealth, family name, or title, but rather, her favorite color, musical instrument, and time of day.

Indeed, the interview went on for over a minute before Cecily cut her off, to say that it was rude to ask so many questions.

Jane stuck out her tongue at her sister. “Not as rude as reading during a meal.”

As Lydia glanced down the table, with its haphazard cutlery and clashing personalities, she felt oddly at home. Not at all what she’d expected, for her first time back in a gentleman’s home after being exiled from her own.

As he sat, Alexander addressed his sisters. “Ladies, Miss Lydia has kindly joined us, and?—

Eleanor, meanwhile, had peeked beneath one silver dome. “Fish? We're having FISH. Nooo. And it still has eyebaaaaaaalls.”

Alexander turned to Lydia. “Forgive their exuberance. They are not always this… vocal.”

Lydia smiled warmly. “On the contrary, I find it quite refreshing.”

The meal began in a flurry of clattering cutlery and overlapping chatter.

Lydia quickly discovered that decorum at Finch Hall was more of a suggestion than a rule.

The girls carried on spirited conversations, occasionally pausing long enough to chew or breathe, while Alexander watched them with a mix of exasperation and affection.

Harriet, seated across from Lydia, was leading a vigorous debate on whether wallpaper in the drawing room was an unforgivable sin. Cecily, quiet until now, finally interjected with a dry remark. “Given our financial situation, I daresay paint would be a luxury.”

“Cecily,” Alexander warned gently, without a trace of true anger. A comment like that, in Lydia’s own family home, would have been grounds for very strict punishment. Her father’s fury still lingered in the recesses of her mind, his cruel words carved into her memories forever.

In contrast, the gentleness here made her smile. “I think wallpaper can be charming in the right light.”

Cecily studied her over her teacup. “What sort of wallpaper?”

“If I had to pick, I suppose one with flowers,” Lydia replied, thinking of a mural she’d once seen in an artist’s bedroom loft. He’d been handsome and excellent in bed, though rather dramatic for her to pursue for longer than a night. “Something with roses, perhaps.”

“We don’t have roses in the garden,” Harriet sighed. “Too impractical, and they take too much to care for.”

“We do have daisies!” Eleanor chimed in. “An’ an’ cornflowers an’ bluebells!”

“Bluebells,” Lydia declared, “are my most favorite flowers.” Common ones, to be sure, mere wildflowers that bloomed wherever they wished. But beautiful and free, all the same.

That earned a faint smile from Cecily. Not approval, perhaps, but not outright dismissal either.

Later, after the dishes were cleared and the younger girls had scattered, Alexander approached her. Not for the first time, she found herself intrigued by his shyness, by the way he blushed as he spoke. “Would you like to see the garden?” he asked. “Since it was talked about in such detail.”

“Indeed, it sounds like one to rival Nebuchadnezzar’s Hanging Gardens.”

His blond eyebrows arched at her words.

She grinned. “What, did you think all my knowledge was of card playing and carnal desires?”

“N-no,” Alexander stammered, his blush reaching all the way to his ears.

For a moment, she considered telling him more about herself, her past, even her education, but decided against it. If he was so determined to court her, she would prefer it be based in reality she lived now.

When she offered her hand, Alexander took it. Despite the contact being nothing but proper, it still sent shivers down her spine. An annoying fact, it seemed, that her body was certain his every respectable touch and glance was to be just as desired as any more illicit action from another man.