The Viscount's Veiled Lady (Whitby Weddings 3)

‘You never know...’ she cleared her throat awkwardly ‘...maybe one day I’ll meet somebody who doesn’t care about my scar.’

‘Of course you might. Somebody worthy of you, my darling.’ Her mother dashed a hand over her face and started walking again. ‘Maybe at this garden party. I wish there was time to order you a new dress, but perhaps we can alter one of mine. It’ll have to be black, of course, but we can still make it pretty.’

‘Just nothing too fussy, please.’ Frances laughed at her mother’s eager expression. ‘And not too many frills either. Otherwise, I’m in your hands. You know a lot more about fashion than I do.’

‘Yes.’ Her mother’s face fell again. ‘I always did know a lot about that sort of thing. I’ve been a bad mother in that way.’

‘You’ve never been a bad mother!’

‘Yes, I have. I was always too concerned about my own appearance and it’s affected both of you girls. I raised Lydia to believe that looks are all that matter and I hurt you by making you feel even worse after your accident. But you see, looks were all I ever had. They were the reason your father married me.’

‘Not the only reason, Mama. Father loves you.’

‘Does he?’ Her mother looked dangerously close to crying again. ‘Perhaps he does still, but he fell in love with my appearance. When we were younger, he always enjoyed showing me off. I was his prize and, to my shame, I enjoyed it. I thought it meant that he loved me, but now we barely talk any more.’ She sighed. ‘Forgive me for saying this, darling, but it’s not easy getting old when you’ve been beautiful.’

Frances squeezed her mother’s arm sympathetically. There was something so melancholy in her voice, as if her beauty truly were a double-edged sword.

‘Do you think it was the same for Lydia with John Baird? He treated her like some kind of prize, too.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid that your sister and I are alike in that way. She always needed to be admired, as I did, and John Baird set her up on such a pedestal. Although between us...’ her mother looked around surreptitiously ‘...I don’t believe he was her first choice of husband.’

‘You don’t?’ Frances felt her heart start to thump.

‘I always thought she favoured Arthur Amberton. I believe there might even have been some kind of understanding between them.’

‘You knew?’ Frances was too surprised to dissemble.

‘So did you?’ Her mother’s eyes widened like giant orbs. ‘Well... I suppose it doesn’t matter now, but I’ve always known how your sister’s mind works. Only in Arthur’s case, I was afraid he might genuinely care for her.’

‘What do you mean, afraid?’

‘Because I knew his father would never allow the match and he always seemed so unhappy. Falling in love with your sister would only have made things worse for him.’ She looked pensive. ‘When I heard about his disappearance, I was afraid there was more to it than simply an accident.’

Frances gazed at her in surprise. Of all people, she would never have expected her mother to have been the one who guessed the truth, though her words gave her a sick feeling, too.

‘So you think he was really in love with Lydia?’

‘I don’t know. With the version he saw of her perhaps, but I think she was afraid to let him get too close. Your sister is less secure in herself than you think. Beauty is all well and good, but admiration isn’t the same thing as love and she knows that, deep down. John, on the other hand, was content to marry her for beauty alone, and after Arthur he was the next obvious candidate. Not a viscount, but wealthy and successful enough to give her the life she thought she wanted, the life she thought her beauty deserved, as if she had something to prove to the world. You know with Arthur gone, I think she was genuinely afraid of being left on the shelf. That’s why she married so quickly.’

‘But if you thought all of this at the time, why didn’t you say something?’

‘Because I find that most wisdom is only learned in retrospect. I wish I could go back and raise you both differently. I’d set a better example, teach you both there’s more to life than how you look.’ She smiled fondly. ‘You learned that lesson despite me, but as for your sister, I’m afraid it’s too late. Do you know, as a girl she was so loving and thoughtful. She never gave a second thought to her appearance. Wherever we went, she always managed to find a patch of mud or some puddle to jump in. I used to despair, but now I’d give almost anything to see that side of her again. I thought that maybe this year in mourning might help, might give her a chance to start again and think about what she really wants from life, but if anything she’s only become more self-obsessed. I worry for her. It’s as though she’s afraid to look any deeper than her own reflection.’

Frances threaded her arm through her mother’s as they made their way through the park gates and back on to the street. She’d never thought of Lydia’s vanity in that way before, but now she wondered if her mother was right and it was really a symptom of some greater fear.

‘I’m sure she’s all right, Mama.’

‘I hope so, but of course she wants to come to this garden party, too, which obviously your father and I can’t allow.’

‘Yes.’ Frances felt a mixture of guilt and relief, glad for once of the strict rules of etiquette that prevented her sister from attending. If Lydia were going to come to the garden party, then she’d have to warn Arthur and he’d doubtless change his mind about attending. Or maybe he’d still come, take one look at Lydia and forget about her own existence altogether. Although if that were going to be the case then surely it would be better to find out sooner rather than later...

No, Frances gave a small secretive smile, surely he wouldn’t forget her. After everything he’d told her about his past, surely he wouldn’t do that. He was going to the garden party because he said it was time for them both to move on and face the world again—together—as if they were somehow a pair. As if perhaps they might be more than friends one day. Was it possible? Could she risk believing in love again?

‘In any case, it’s only another few weeks.’

‘Hmmm?’ She’d lost track of what her mother was talking about.

‘It’s only a few more weeks until it’s been a year and a day since John’s funeral. That’s the very least expected for full mourning. After that, Lydia can go into half-mourning and I won’t restrain her any more.’ Her mother heaved a long sigh. ‘Not before tim