found she was not required to actually say much, because these old duffers were quite content carrying on the conversation without her active participation. She too wished Lawrence was here with her. She was used to having him by her side. He padded her out. The evening afforded her a brief insight into the lives of Sarah and Beatrice. Not Ava’s life, because whilst Ava was technically single, she never required or requested any padding. She was substantial enough.
Lawrence and Lydia very infrequently quarrelled; if a difference arose, they chose instead to be cool and silent with one another until their anger subsided. After their rare disagreements Lawrence often congratulated her on her good sense and conduct. He was naturally peaceable and, whilst Lydia was considerably more fiery by instinct, she had learned to curb any hint of ardent fury or zeal. Girls of her sort were taught by their mothers that angry, emotional scenes were unattractive and led to premature wrinkles; happy faces all round were infinitely preferable, significantly more flattering. But this recent tension was darker and deeper than anything that had gone before in their marriage. The things that had been said at last week’s dinner polluted and stained the atmosphere in their smart London home. She had shared with him her greatest dread, not out of malice, but because she didn’t know who else to voice it to. She had held the cruel thought tight to her for years now; it had bubbled like a cancerous growth in her head, malignant and stubborn. On Thursday it had erupted, her private menace spilling out across the napkins and glassware. She wasn’t sure why, but she hadn’t been able to curb her desperation a moment longer. Not a moment. So there was no chance of her remaining silent for a lifetime. She’d hoped her husband would reassure her, explain things to her; maybe he would show her a way of looking at things in a different light. She wanted her pervasive horror to be contradicted, blocked, eradicated.
Instead he’d called her hysterical and sent her to bed like a naughty child.
She did not believe she was hysterical, misguided or even superstitious; she saw things clearly. There was a moment when the men of their generation had been required to stand up and define themselves as men. Lawrence had hidden behind a desk, and now they were being punished for his cowardice. It was what she believed and it was therefore real. Loss could not be avoided. It would seek you out. Why should they think they could be any different from anyone else? They had no right. Lydia blinked repeatedly. She was surprised to find tears welling in her eyes. It would not do. She must find a way to bury the thought again. She could not think of her husband this way. It would destroy them.
‘Look, isn’t that the Duchess of Feversham?’ asked Beatrice, breathless with excitement and the ethereal whisper of potential scandal.
‘Yes, it is,’ replied Lydia, who was considerably more composed. She surveyed the indulged, coddled people with indifference. She was accustomed. She had grown up with them and was aware of all that they had to offer and all that they lacked. The Duchess of Feversham was a soured woman who existed within a loveless marriage; both she and her husband regularly took younger lovers. Lydia was not judgemental; she just found their set-up depressing. However, the war had limited Beatrice’s exposure to society, and she was still considerably more romantic about the aristocrats she hailed from. Lydia considered that the war had changed the playing field so significantly that it was unlikely that Bea would ever become as weary as Lydia found she was tonight. Bea would not have the resources to fund a continued association with this society, or even a role within it. Lydia found this particular train of thought upsetting and so shied away from it. She preferred to pretend that Sarah and Beatrice had the same money and opportunities as she
Lawrence and Lydia very infrequently quarrelled; if a difference arose, they chose instead to be cool and silent with one another until their anger subsided. After their rare disagreements Lawrence often congratulated her on her good sense and conduct. He was naturally peaceable and, whilst Lydia was considerably more fiery by instinct, she had learned to curb any hint of ardent fury or zeal. Girls of her sort were taught by their mothers that angry, emotional scenes were unattractive and led to premature wrinkles; happy faces all round were infinitely preferable, significantly more flattering. But this recent tension was darker and deeper than anything that had gone before in their marriage. The things that had been said at last week’s dinner polluted and stained the atmosphere in their smart London home. She had shared with him her greatest dread, not out of malice, but because she didn’t know who else to voice it to. She had held the cruel thought tight to her for years now; it had bubbled like a cancerous growth in her head, malignant and stubborn. On Thursday it had erupted, her private menace spilling out across the napkins and glassware. She wasn’t sure why, but she hadn’t been able to curb her desperation a moment longer. Not a moment. So there was no chance of her remaining silent for a lifetime. She’d hoped her husband would reassure her, explain things to her; maybe he would show her a way of looking at things in a different light. She wanted her pervasive horror to be contradicted, blocked, eradicated.
Instead he’d called her hysterical and sent her to bed like a naughty child.
She did not believe she was hysterical, misguided or even superstitious; she saw things clearly. There was a moment when the men of their generation had been required to stand up and define themselves as men. Lawrence had hidden behind a desk, and now they were being punished for his cowardice. It was what she believed and it was therefore real. Loss could not be avoided. It would seek you out. Why should they think they could be any different from anyone else? They had no right. Lydia blinked repeatedly. She was surprised to find tears welling in her eyes. It would not do. She must find a way to bury the thought again. She could not think of her husband this way. It would destroy them.
‘Look, isn’t that the Duchess of Feversham?’ asked Beatrice, breathless with excitement and the ethereal whisper of potential scandal.
‘Yes, it is,’ replied Lydia, who was considerably more composed. She surveyed the indulged, coddled people with indifference. She was accustomed. She had grown up with them and was aware of all that they had to offer and all that they lacked. The Duchess of Feversham was a soured woman who existed within a loveless marriage; both she and her husband regularly took younger lovers. Lydia was not judgemental; she just found their set-up depressing. However, the war had limited Beatrice’s exposure to society, and she was still considerably more romantic about the aristocrats she hailed from. Lydia considered that the war had changed the playing field so significantly that it was unlikely that Bea would ever become as weary as Lydia found she was tonight. Bea would not have the resources to fund a continued association with this society, or even a role within it. Lydia found this particular train of thought upsetting and so shied away from it. She preferred to pretend that Sarah and Beatrice had the same money and opportunities as she
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