Free Spare Brides by Adele Parks Page A

a girl she had been jolly, some might say flirtatious, but as a wife she’d always been entirely decent and correct. He was well aware that not every wife in their set was as faithful and single-minded, but they were both repelled by the untidiness of adultery. Besides, there was not a hint of the flirtatious about her now. Not since this whole baby business. She wasn’t the jolly type either.
    ‘Do you think we are being punished?’ Lydia rushed the idea on to the table with a scared breath.
    ‘Punished? What an extraordinary thing to say. Why would we be punished?’ Lawrence replied in a considerably more hearty voice than the one he’d used when commenting on Cook’s seasoning.
    Lydia’s response stuck in her throat like a splinter from a chicken bone. She could not swallow the words but it was agony to cough them up. She’d played with this thought late at night as she lay awake, lonely in a huge house full of people; alone because they could all find sleep and yet it eluded her. She’d let the thought become a theory as she sat in countless austere doctors’ waiting rooms, suffocating under the gloom of bad news delivered between the panelled walls, and then she’d let the theory become the only possible explanation when each month she bled rather than bred. ‘I think that perhaps God is punishing us for not doing …’ She faltered. Could she say ‘your’? No, she could not. ‘For not doing our duty.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ It was clear to Lydia that Lawrence understood her perfectly, because in an instant his ruddy complexion vanished and he became ashen. He glanced at the under butler, who kept his gaze locked on his shoes, despite the fact that he was trained to keep his eyes ahead, his chin up at all times. ‘What can you mean?’ Lawrence repeated, dazed. Then he waved his hand to silence her, because he realised there was a very real danger that she might tell him exactly what she meant.
    He’d done his duty! He’d served. Not on the front line, perhaps. His was a strategic position. It was important work.
    ‘There won’t be anyone to pass Dartford Hall on to, or Clarendale or the title, anyway,’ Lydia pointed out. The
anyway
was the giveaway. The insult. The abuse. Was she saying he might as well have died at the Front because his line was going to end with them? Was that all he meant to her?
    She feared she might cry. She hoped not. Lawrence had never been the sort of man who melted at the sight of a woman’s tears; he always became discomforted and inept when there was any show of sentiment.
    ‘It will all go to my cousin William, as you well know, Lydia,’ he snapped.
    ‘Yes, and he was at the Front for several months and was decorated,’ added Lydia thoughtlessly.
    ‘Your point?’
    She did not hesitate. ‘I suppose there’s some justice in that, at least.’
    Lawrence glowered at his wife. He silently counted to five, then ten. ‘Lydia, you are not thinking clearly. You are in danger of being hysterical. I think today has been a strain. I suggest you have an early night.’ His staccato sentences betrayed the fact that he was finding it an effort to maintain his composure.
    Lydia met her husband’s eyes and took a deep breath. ‘You are probably right, Lawrence. I shall go to bed at once.’ She pushed back her chair; he stood up too, through habit.
    ‘I’ll have Dickenson sent up to you.’
    ‘How thoughtful. Good night.’
    ‘Good night, Lydia.’

11
    S ARAH WAS AMBIVALENT about Ava’s invitation to visit her father’s estate. Her initial response was to feel flattered to have been invited at all. Ava wasn’t reliably polite the way the rest of their set were; she had no scruples about snubbing those she considered tedious, whereas others would invite the right families through good form or habit. Sarah knew that Ava believed that she and Bea were dull, and so she was never absolutely sure they’d be invited to her luncheons and soirées, let alone included