The Passing Bells by Phillip Rock

hazel, he noted, and her hair the palest shade of brown. Yes, a very pretty girl, and if she lost a stone or so in weight she would have quite a fetching figure. The Most Honorable Winifred Sutton, only daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Dexford. A substantial yearly income when she reached the age of twenty-one. A dowry of—ten thousand pounds?
    â€œAre you going up to London for the season, Winifred?”
    â€œOh, yes,” she blurted, staring down at her feet. “Mama will open the house next week. Number twenty-four Cadogan Square.” She looked up at him, and there was a wistful look in her eyes. “That isn’t very far from the Guards’ barracks, is it?”
    â€œNo. And it’s just a short walk from my flat on Lower Belgrave Street.”
    He detected a sudden change in her breathing. The exertion of the dance? Hardly, she was barely shuffling her feet across the floor. A faint line of perspiration had formed on her upper lip.
    â€œPerhaps . . .” she said hesitantly, “perhaps . . . you could attend one of our . . . entertainments. That is . . . if . . . if your social schedule isn’t completely filled.”
    â€œWhy, no, it isn’t. I’m quite flexible this season. Quite flexible indeed.”
    Her hand tightened on his arm. “My debut ball is on the twenty-second of next month. Alexandra will be there, of course . . . and Charles . . . and I know that Mama would be pleased if you could come, also. Do you think that you could?” she added anxiously.
    He appeared to think about it. “Why, I believe so, yes. You can tell your mother that I’d be honored to receive an invitation.”
    She smiled brightly and her dancing improved to a remarkable degree.
    Passing them, Lydia caught part of the exchange and the smile and decided that Fenton was toying with Winifred. The Fenton charm. Was it just for her benefit, Lydia wondered, or did he have a serious motive in mind? Winifred Sutton was rich, as Fenton well knew. Rich and dowdy, with a good deal of poundage and not an ounce of chic. No one knew that more than her mother and father. A dashing, handsome man like Captain Fenton Wood-Lacy, son of the late Sir Harold, nephew of Major General Sir Julian Wood-Lacy, would hardly be ignored if he asked permission to call on their daughter. Would he do that? He was smiling at her and Winifred was smiling back. Lydia looked away.
    Charles bent closer to her. “Let’s dance out onto the terrace.”
    â€œOh,” she said, forcing her attention back to him, “if you wish.”
    They stopped dancing as soon as they had tangoed out of the music room. Taking Lydia by the arm, Charles led her across the terrace and down the stone steps into the Italian garden.
    â€œYou’ve been practically ignoring me all evening,” he said, his hand pressing into her bare arm. He stopped at a stone bench and pulled her down on the seat beside him. “You look so beautiful tonight, Lydia . . . that dress . . . your hair . . . everything about you is like music . . . poetry. You knew I wanted to talk to you alone before dinner, but you deliberately stayed in . . . in groups! ”
    â€œIt would have been rude not to mingle.”
    â€œSo much has happened today,” he said excitedly, running a hand through his hair. “I told Winnie, in a very nice way, that I could—well, that I could never become emotionally involved with her. She took it quite well.”
    â€œSo I noticed,” she said stonily.
    â€œBut that doesn’t really solve anything, darling. I’m afraid that Father is going to be as intractable as ever as far as we’re concerned.”
    She smoothed her dress over her knees. It was a long evening dress of pale-green silk embroidered with seed pearls, the bodice cut with a discreet plunge.
    â€œCharles, I think that the time