was the fineness of his clothes. He was wearing a coat of a fine worsted cloth lined with red silk. The collar and cuffs of the sleeve were faced with the same silk embroidered with gold and silver thread. It was an expensive coat, but he wore it casually as if it was of no importance to him that it was being spotted with rain. She tilted her head up so see his face and was taken aback to find him scrutinising her as if he meant to memorise every detail.
For a moment she continued to look up at him, noticing that his features were even, his nose long, almost haughty, and his skin was tanned and crinkled round his mouth as if he were more used to laughter than frowns. He wore a dark wig dressed away from his face with long side curls and the back tied with a narrow grey ribbon. His dark eyes were looking at her with a slightly mocking expression and she realised that she, too, had been staring and cast her eyes down.
She was met with the sight of an embroidered brocade waistcoat with a row of silver buttons from the neck, where a lace cravat frothed, down to his narrow waist. His long legs were clad in knee-length fitted breeches tucked into shining boots, which emphasised his muscular calves. Embarrassed, she turned to stare out at the rain-sodden street where puddles were gathering and filling the gutter.
‘I never thought an article like an umbrella would stand me in such good stead,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I was in a mind not to bring it out today, but I am glad that I did.’
She was aware of the undercurrent of meaning he put behind the words and felt the colour flare in her face. ‘Indeed, sir, you would have been very wet else.’ She risked a glance up into his face and smiled. ‘As it is, I do believe you are already very damp. Pray, hold it over yourself and not me. I have my cloak.’
‘I do not mind the rain. I am used to it. Where I come from, the monsoon is a hundred times more wet.’
She laughed. ‘Wet is wet, sir, how can one rain be wetter than another?’
‘Oh, I assure you it is. Have you ever been to India? No, I will wager you have not, but if you had, you would know exactly what I mean.’
India, she mused. Then he was a nabob, grown rich on trade and made bold by it. But the strange thing was that she was not repelled as she should have been. She found herself drawn to him, as if there was something from him to her, a fine but strong thread, pulling her to him. ‘I should like to travel some day.’ she said. ‘But you are right. I have never been away from England in my life.’
‘Not even to London?’
‘Once I went, a long time ago, but not since—’ She stopped suddenly and then went on. ‘Not since I was a child.’
He detected the wistfulness in her voice and wondered what had caused it. He looked down at her. She was slight; the top of her head hardly reached his shoulder, but he sensed an inner strength, a steely determination. She was no wilting violet. Her eyes, looking up at him without fear, were hazel, but they had golden lights in them that glowed when she smiled like the tiny lights of the will o’ the wisp that twinkled over the marshes on dark nights. Her hair was thick and a glorious russet brown. The cloak which covered her gown was a plain grey broadcloth tied at the neck with matching ribbon, not the garment of a young lady from a wealthy family, but not poverty-stricken either. ‘Then I hope you have your wish, my lady.’
‘Thank you, but I am not entitled to be called lady.’
‘You are in my book,’ he said softly. ‘For want of a name.’
She ignored his hint to provide her name and turned from him. ‘I do believe the rain is easing and I shall venture forth.’
‘Must you? I was just beginning to enjoy myself.’
‘I have arranged to meet my mother at the library. She will be waiting for me.’
‘Then allow me to escort you. The rain has not quite stopped and you will need my umbrella.’
‘It is but a short step, sir. I would not put you to the trouble…’
‘It is no trouble, it is a pleasure.’ He fell into step beside her, carefully holding the umbrella over her. ‘Do you come often to Chelmsford?’
‘Occasionally when I need something I cannot buy in the village.’
‘Which village?’
‘Oh, it is such a small place, you would not have heard of it, I am sure.’ He was flirting with her, she knew, and she ought not to be talking to him at all, but they were unlikely to meet again, so where was the harm? And keeping him guessing was all part of the fun. She stopped at the door of the library. ‘Here we are. I said it was only a step, did I not? Thank you for your escort, sir.’
He made her a sweeping leg, which was not easy considering he was holding an umbrella, and it made her laugh. ‘You should laugh all the time,’ he said softly. ‘Laughter lights up your eyes, brings them to life.’
‘Sir, you are too forward.’
He sighed. ‘It was ever thus with me. But one must seize opportunities when and where they occur, don’t you think? Take the bull by the horns. Shall we meet again?’
‘That, sir, is in the hands of Providence.’
‘Then I hope Providence will be kind to me.’
She smiled as he left her, striding away down the street, his umbrella bobbing up and down as he lifted it clear of other walkers who were venturing out after the downpour. She supposed it would be the last she ever saw of him. She rarely came to Chelmsford and, even if she did, the chances of bumping into him again were slight.
She turned to go into the library, still smiling. He had been so handsome and evidently wealthy, though without pretensions to grandeur and certainly not over-proud, exactly the sort of man her mother said she should look for as a husband. But you did not pick up husbands in the street, did you? And she knew nothing about him—he might be married, or disreputable. And even if he were not, he would not think of her as a wife. Sensible men did not pick up wives in the street either. Mistresses, perhaps, someone with whom to have a short-lived dalliance. He must have thought she was that kind of girl. But he had called her ‘my lady’. His idea of a jest, no doubt. She was glad she had not told him her name or where she lived.
Her mother had not yet arrived and Lydia spent the next half-hour browsing among the books, though they came to Chelmsford too infrequently for her to think of taking out a subscription. She smiled. If she did, it would be an excuse to come again. But then she sobered immediately; it would be what her mother called an unnecessary extravagance and, since her revelation about their finances, she must consider every penny carefully before spending it. Even ribbons and braid were luxuries.
‘Ah, there you are, Lydia.’ She heard her mother’s voice behind her. ‘I am sorry I am late. I stayed until the rain stopped. Did you get wet?’
‘No, I sheltered in a doorway.’ She did not know why she said nothing about the young man and his umbrella. Perhaps because she was determined to forget him and that strange pull he had over her. She had spoken to him for only a few minutes and yet he had left an emptiness behind, a promise unfulfilled, a glimpse of sunshine even in the rain, and she felt sad. And isolated.
They walked out to where their only outdoor servant, the ancient Joshua Partridge, who had been groom and driver to her father, waited with the old coach and elderly horse. As they trotted through the now-crowded streets towards
