Her big blue eyes sparkled with tears, and her flushed face bespoke her agitation. Camilla took her hands and squeezed them.
“Of course I can forgive you. Anything. You know that.”
Others, such as Aunt Beryl, called Lydia a “fribble,” and Camilla had often enough bemoaned her aunt’s vague, haphazard ways, but there was no one with a warmer heart, and Camilla loved her dearly.
“Thank you. You don’t know how that relieves me. I was worried that you would hate me.”
“I could never hate you.” Camilla took her arm and led her down the hall to her bedroom, Benedict following behind them. “But I don’t understand what is going on. Why did you say he was my husband?”
They reached the door of Camilla’s bedroom and walked inside. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and an oil lamp was lit, giving the room a soft golden glow.
“It was terribly bad of me.” Lydia caught her lower lip between her teeth, looking chagrined and absurdly youthful. She was only thirty-seven, and over the years had retained her good looks. “If I had only thought about it, I would have realized that it might cause trouble. But I simply could not stand it anymore. You know how Beryl is.”
“Well, I don’t,” Benedict put in bluntly. “My good woman, what are you talking about?”
“Why, the reason I said you were Camilla’s husband. It was because of Beryl. She was driving me quite mad—all those sly digs and innuendos. She was convinced from the first that it was all folderol, though how she could tell, I’m sure I don’t know. Your letters sounded so convincing that sometimes even I thought that you really had gotten engaged. But she would make remarks in that insinuating voice of hers— You know what I mean. So vastly irritating. Your uncle Varian always used to say he wanted to pinch her lips shut whenever she began to talk that way.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Camilla said, trying to bring her back on track. “But what happened this time?”
“She kept asking why you were so vague about your wedding plans. She said it didn’t sound natural, a bride-to-be not bubbling over with news of her trousseau and her dress. Well, that is true, but I can quite understand why you wouldn’t think of putting things like that in your letters, my love, since you have no interest in marrying. I should have thought of it, for that is exactly how I was when Varian and I were engaged, always talking about my dress and flowers and—”
“Mrs. Elliot…” Benedict reminded her flatly.
“Oh. Well, one day she said, in that silly jesting way of hers that isn’t joking at all—you know what I mean. Anyway, she said, right there in front of the Earl—I am positive she meant to do it that way—that she thought you didn’t mean to marry at all, because you hadn’t set a date. She didn’t go so far as to say that you had made the whole thing up, although I’m certain that’s what she wished to say, for she knows that the Earl won’t listen to her speak an ill word about you. That is why she always couches her statements in that pseudolaughing way. But she said, with a false little titter, that she thought you must be getting cold feet, and she reminded him how you had always been so set against marriage. ‘So unnatural in a gel that age.’” Lydia imitated her in-law’s drawn-out vowels and nasal tone to perfection, even adding the way Aunt Beryl had of lifting her chin and stroking down her throat.
Camilla had to chuckle. “So you, of course, decided to tell her that I had already married.”
“I didn’t mean to. But she was looking at me in that way, you know, and I opened my mouth and somehow it just came out. I told her I had gotten a letter from you, and that you and your Mr. Lassiter had gotten married two weeks ago.”
Camilla let out a low groan.
“I’m sorry, Camilla, but once I’d done it, what could I do? I didn’t think it would do any harm. It seemed no worse for you to pretend to be married than to pretend to be engaged. And it was so pleasant to see Beryl sitting there with her mouth opening and closing.” She paused, then added, a trifle resentfully, “I never dreamed you would actually bring a man with you. I thought you would arrive by yourself, with some excuse why Mr. Lassiter could not come. And since we would only be talking about him, what difference would it make whether he was your fiancé or your husband?”
“Of course,” Benedict agreed. “A mere trifle.”
Lydia smiled at him, pleased by his understanding, and said, “Exactly. I am so glad to hear you say so.” She turned to Camilla. “Where did you find him? I don’t understand how you managed to come up with him.”
“I paid him,” Camilla told her bluntly.
Lydia’s eyes widened. “You mean you can buy a husband?”
“Actually, she only bought a fiancé,” Benedict stuck in. “Now that I am a husband, perhaps I should charge more. What do you think, Camilla?”
“I think this is scarcely the time for humor.” She turned back to her aunt. “I didn’t mean that I purchased a husband, Aunt Lydia. I meant that I am paying him to pretend to be my fiancé.”
“How odd,” Lydia said thoughtfully.
“But that doesn’t matter now. What is important is the fact that Aunt Beryl thinks we are married—and she put us in the same bedroom!”
Lydia moaned. “This is terrible. Your reputation will be ruined! Whatever are we to do? Oh, drat my wretched tongue!”
“It’s all right, Lydia. Don’t worry about it. We will manage to scrape by.”
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