Scorned By Him, Cherished By His Brother novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Mourning Supper
At the supper for his dead brother, Roland puts Lydia out in front of forty guests. She calls her father's loan note and walks out, and a boy hands her a letter sealed with Henry's ring.
My husband stood up at his dead brother's memorial supper and told forty guests that I was barren.
Candles burned down the long table at Barrington House.
Every guest wore black, and every fork stopped.
"Lydia has given me no child in four years," Roland said. "The physician has put it in writing."
He lifted a paper and let the room see it.
"I will not waste what is left of my youth on a wife who cannot do her duty. Her trunks are already in the hall."
I looked at the doorway.
Two footmen stood beside my trunks, and neither of them would look at me.
My father's money had bought this house.
It had also bought Roland his seat at the Treasury, his carriage, and the coat he was wearing.
I set my spoon down on the cloth.
"You had my trunks packed before the soup," I said.
"Yes," Roland said. "I wanted it done properly."
Somebody near the end of the table laughed and stopped.
Cordelia was sitting two places down from him in her grey mourning silk.
She had been Henry's wife for eight years and his widow for four months, and she had been kind to me for all four of mine.
Her eyes were wet when she reached across and took my hand.
"Lydia, he is grieving," she whispered. "Henry's death has made him wild. Let him say it tonight, and tomorrow I will make him take it back. Come and stay in my rooms."
Her hand was warm and her voice was gentle.
Every month her maid came to my door for a bottle of my willow and ginger tonic, for the house, and every month Cordelia sent a note thanking me in her own hand.
I had never once doubted her.
I looked at Roland, who was looking at Cordelia.
It was not the look a man gives his brother's grieving widow.
I had seen that look for four years and had called it politeness.
"Thank you, Cordelia," I said, and took my hand back.
Then I stood up.
"Roland says I am a waste of his youth," I said. "Then I will not waste any more of it."
The room had gone so quiet I could hear the candles.
"Before I go, I think the guests should know how this house is held."
"Sit down, Lydia," Roland said.
"My father holds the loan note on Barrington House," I said. "He lent the money for the roof, the stables and the plate on this table, and he lent it on my name."
I did not look away from Roland's face.
"The note falls due on quarter day. That is nineteen days from now."
Roland laughed, but it was too loud.
"Your father would never call it in on his own daughter's husband."
"He will call it in on the man who turned his daughter into the street in front of the court," I said.
A man halfway down the table put his glass down and took out a small notebook.
I think he was a clerk to somebody important.
Roland's smile went wrong at one corner.
"Lydia," Cordelia said softly. "Please. Not like this."
I turned to her and found my voice was steady.
"You are kind to ask," I said. "I will not need your rooms."
So I walked out.
The footmen opened the door for me, and one of them whispered, "Beg pardon, madam," as I passed.
They carried my trunks to the street, where there was no carriage.
The night air was cold, and it was starting to rain.
I stood on the steps with my cloak in my hands and no idea where to go.
My father's house was across the river, and I could not make the walk in satin shoes.
I was reaching for my hood when a boy came running up the street.
He was ten, perhaps, and soaked through.
"Mrs. Barrington?" he said. "A gentleman paid me a shilling to find you."
He held out a folded paper.
The wax on it was dark red, pressed with a ring I knew.
I had seen that seal on every letter that came to this house for eight years.
It was Henry's.
Henry had been dead four months.
My hands were not steady any more.
I broke the seal under the lamp by the door.
The writing was small and hurried.
Do not drink anything Cordelia sends you. Come to the vestry of Saint Clement's on Customs Quay. Come alone. H.
I read it three times.
Behind me, in the house, someone began to play the harpsichord, because they did not know what else to do.
The rain came down harder.
I picked up my smallest trunk and began to walk.
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