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T here had been a good deal of excitement at Greenfield House lately.

It appeared that Lady Greenfield had been invited to take tea with the Countess of Matlock.

Beatrice was full of self-important talk about what sort of gown her ladyship might wear to the tea, which gloves, which bonnet, and so on.

Edith rolled her eyes as Beatrice held forth at the servant’s meals, but Lydia, who had always been very interested in fashion, listened keenly.

She ventured a comment. “Beatrice, I recall that not long ago Azure Blue was the fashionable hue; is it now Imperial Blue?”

There was a long silence, while Beatrice stared at Lydia. Finally she said, “What does a farmer’s daughter know of such things?”

Lydia said, quickly, “One of the neighbours received La Belle Assemblée every month, and she gave the old one to her maid whenever the new one arrived, and the maid was sister to one of the servants – “ Flustered now, she concluded, “Well, in any case, I did get to read it on occasion!”

Edith saved the day by adding, “Yes, I got to see it once in a while as well, not that I recalled the names of the fashionable colours!”

***

That night, though, Edith scolded her. “I know full well yer no farmer’s daughter, Lydia Lucas, say what you will! But ya need to be a bit more careful afore the others.”

“But why would anyone even care?” Lydia asked.

“Because if yer of higher birth, the others get resentful; and if they get resentful, they will find a reason to get ya outta the house. I heard Miss Alice tell Letty how you had been found half-starved in the middle of the city. Do ya want to go back there?”

“No! Heavens, no.”

“Then mind yer tongue.”

“You are right, Edith. I thank you for your good advice.”

“See? Even the way ya talk! Hmmph.” With that, Edith rolled over and was soon snoring away. Lydia lay awake, recalling again the terrible nights she had spent huddled in a doorway. She would do anything at all to not be turned out of the house.

***

The day after Lady Greenfield’s date with the Countess, Beatrice’s conversation was again full of fashion and gossip. But there was more! The Countess of Matlock had invited Lady Greenfield to join her on the board of one of her many charities!

“Serving on such a board at the express invitation of such a personage as the Countess – well! What a coup for Lady Greenfield, and thus for the entire house!” Mr. Durston intoned with enormous self-importance as the servants all gathered around the table that night.

“What difference does it make to you and me, I ask ya?” Edith whispered to Lydia.

“What was that, Edith?” Mr. Durston enquired.

“She was saying that this was indeed a great honour for Greenfield House!” Lydia said at once.

Mr. Durston, unimpressed and disbelieving, scowled at the two girls, who quickly stared down at their plates.

***

Then there was more news! The Countess had been invited by Lady Greenfield to take tea at Greenfield House, and the invitation had been accepted! The house was in an uproar over it.

Lady Greenfield had come downstairs to visit with Cook several times to consult about the treats to be served and which special tea was most likely to find favour with the special guest. It was clear that Cook tolerated these visits, but did not welcome them.

“As if I doan’ know how to serve a nice tea!

” she had been heard to mutter after one such visit.

***

On the day of the Countess’ visit, the three lady’s maids were in their element, tossing gowns about, pulling all the slippers out to be selected or eliminated, dragging out every ribbon for careful examination.

Lydia and Edith were brought into the fray only to return the gowns, slippers and ribbons to their proper places once they had been eliminated.

The chore ripped a new hole in poor Lydia’s heart. How she missed her own ribbons and bonnets! Edith caught sight of Lydia running her hands dreamily over one wide satin ribbon; Edith poked her hard, pulling Lydia’s head out of her past and back into her present.

Lydia understood full well that she had been born into a privileged life, and she had lost it as a result of her own foolishness.

She had thrown away her birthright for – what was it?

Yes; a mess of pottage. She was not quite certain what a mess of pottage was – Mary would know and Lydia hoped someday she might be able to ask her – but it sounded very much like Mr. Wickham.