Page 1 of Hearts of Briarwall

Chapter 1

Lydia Wooding lounged at a nearly upside-down angle on her great-grandmother’s settee, her head hanging off the blue jacquard cushion, her feet propped on the raised end, a book clamped in her hands and hovering above her nose, blissfully forgetful that she was both expecting company and had nearly reached twenty-one years of age, a point of life where such postures were frowned upon.

Violet Whittemore entered the room and tilted her head. “I believe you’ve misinterpreted the design of that piece of furniture, my friend. You look excruciatingly uncomfortable.”

Lydia drowsily turned the page, reluctant to stop reading. “If you believethisto be the picture of discomfort, you’ve lived far too sheltered a life.”

Violet sighed and dropped down into a Louis XIV chair opposite the settee. “I can’t argue that one. You do realize your feet are supposed to rest where your head is?”

Lydia removed a hairpin and slid it in the book to save her place and slowly maneuvered upright. “I began that way, but by chapter four I was like this.”

Her friend squinted at the cover. “Good heavens, what are you reading?”

She held out the book. “Love Among the Chickens. It’s the latest from P.G. Wodehouse. I believe I’m in love.”

“No chickens involved, I hope.” Violet took the copy and perused it.

Lydia shook her head. “Just silly fun. Wodehouse makes me laugh.”

She took a moment to observe her friend. Violet always dressed smartly and conservatively yet often included a touch of the old, extravagant prosperity she came from in some whimsical form. Lately she’d been wearing the jeweled insect brooches she’d inherited from her maternal grandmother. Today, a large emerald stag beetle sat pinned at the waist of her deep blue skirt.

Violet handed back the book. “I shall read it next, then. I could use some silly fun.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” Lydia checked her gold watch pinned to her slightly crumpled blouse by a bar of pearl doves. “Is it time already?”

“I’m a bit early. Mama dropped me off on her way to a fitting at Beaumont’s.”

Lydia gave up on smoothing out her blouse and reached behind to straighten the bow at the small of her back. “However did you get out of it?”

“I told her we’d been reading Oscar Wilde.”

“You did not.”

“I did. She went on and on about him until we arrived. She’s simply obsessed with the man. For a moment, I feared she would invite herself here, but instead, she nearly shoved me out of the carriage, admonishing me to have a brilliant time and report back to her. Oh, let me.” Violet stood and pulled on Lydia’s bow, straightening the folds and giving an overly firm tug.

“Oof.” Lydia turned with a frown, smoothing her skirts. “What was that for?”

“For putting the Wendy League at risk. If your brother had walked in here and found you askew on the settee, he would’ve forbidden you from reading. And how could we hold a ‘literature club’ if you weren’t allowed to read anything?” Violet’s gray eyes challenged her beneath arrow-perfect brows and a silky, golden-brown coiffure—arranged today in a Psyche knot.

“Pooh,” Lydia said. “Andrew would never. He’d more likely forbid me from sitting.” She gave her friend an impish grin, daring her to argue.

On the verge of laughter, both girls turned at a commotion in the morning room’s entry. Florrie Janes swept in, a vision in pink, her blonde tendrils bobbing beneath the biggest hat Lydia had seen her wear. Nibs, Florrie’s small Jack Russell, yipped at her heels.

“What sort of cad would forbid you from sitting?” She eyed Lydia, pulled a hairpin out of her tiny silk bag, and then jammed the pin into Lydia’s updo. “There.”

“Ouch.” Lydia winced and sat back down, patting her skull. “With friends like you, who needs a lady’s maid?”

“You do,” both girls answered together.

Lydia frowned, knowing they were right. “Well, I have one.”

“Yes,” Florrie said as she seated herself and picked up her dog, now happily wagging his tail. “And she earns every penny.”

At that moment, Mrs. Parks brought in tea. “Will that be all, miss?” she asked Lydia.

“Yes, Mrs. Parks. I’ll pour out.”

When the girls were left to themselves once more, Florrie reached for a biscuit for Nibs. “Now, who is forbidding you to sit? As in Parliament? Or just sitting in general?”

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