Eleanor informed Lydia on their ride over to Lady Pickler’s in her ducal carriage. She eyed Lydia’s newest gown—as it would happen, a purple one—sardonically. Lydia chuckled. “Come now, Eleanor. I am not so enamored of my own reflection as that. I simply asked for a heliotrope-colored gown.” “Well, you are in marvelous looks,” Eleanor declared. “I hope you realize your gown is responsible for adding to my sins.” “How so?” “Envy. I am loathsomely envious.” “I am certain you will overcome such unworthy sentiments as soon as you remember that circumstance makes it imperative that I show to advantage whilst you show to advantage simply out of habit.” “Blatant flattery,” Eleanor declared. “Nonetheless I will accept it as my due.” “Eleanor is right,” Emily roused herself from her corner of the carriage to say. “You look most dashing, Lydia.” There were shadows under the older woman’s eyes. Lydia suspected Emily was not sleeping well. Not that she ever did, but Lydia’s decision to seek a spouse had clearly awoken troublesome memories for Emily.
