The Makings of a Lady

by Catherine Tinley

  Mrs Logan looked at her keenly. ‘That was ergot of rye,’ she said. ‘It can awaken a dormant womb and cause it to tighten. It can stop women from bleeding out after the birth.’ She looked at Olivia directly, then spoke quietly. ‘I was here, the night your mother died.’

  Olivia gasped.

  Mrs Logan kept her voice low. ‘The doctor and I did all we could, but we could not save her.’ She stared reflectively into the fire. ‘I will never forget it.’ She shook her head decisively and turned back to Olivia. ‘I swore it would never happen to me again. So I wrote to every midwife and doctor I knew of, to find out what they do in such cases. Some of them had no answer, save to call the priest, but two granny midwives suggested ergot. I’ve used it ever since, though in very small amounts. Thankfully, it has always worked.’

  ‘Yes, but what is it? What is it made of?’ asked Olivia. This medicine could have saved Mama. She could barely take in what Mrs Logan was telling her.

  ‘It is a spur that grows on rye. It is dangerous when too much is taken, but in tiny amounts, it can be helpful.’ She took Olivia’s hand. ‘I am so sorry that we could not save your mama, but what I learned from losing her has saved many women since.’ Olivia nodded. Strangely, it made sense. Mama’s death had saved other lives—including Charlotte’s.

  Mrs Logan squeezed Olivia’s hand, then returned to the new mother. ‘Now then, my lady, would you like some tea before we allow that husband of yours to see his son?’

  Adam! He would still be worried. ‘Charlotte, can I go to him, to tell him all is well?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Olivia, please do. Tell him to come directly.’

  Olivia bent to kiss her cheek and to gently stroke her new nephew’s soft face. ‘I shall.’

  Olivia stepped outside the chamber. The house was still quiet, it being too early for the servants to be up and about, but at least one servant was awake. Olivia had forgotten about the housemaid stationed outside Charlotte’s chamber. As soon as the door opened, the girl jumped to her feet, ready for orders, an apprehensive look on her face. ‘Some food for the new mother, please,’ said Olivia with a smile, ‘and for us as well—it has been a long night!’

  ‘Yes, my lady, right away!’ said the girl, with a relieved smile.

  ‘Where is my brother?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘In his study, my lady. He has been there all night, I understand.’ The maid curtsied and disappeared towards the servants’ stairs.

  Olivia went directly down the main staircase to Adam’s study. She entered without knocking, keen to give him the good news immediately. He was slumped in a high-backed armchair by the fireplace, his cravat lying in a crumpled heap on the floor and an empty bottle of brandy at his elbow. His head was leaning against the back of the leather armchair and he had clearly fallen into a doze. Opposite him, in a parallel pose, was Charlotte’s father, Sir Edward.

  Stirring already, Adam rose from his chair as soon as he opened his eyes. Seeing his anguished expression, Olivia made haste to reassure him. ‘All is well,’ she said. ‘Charlotte was amazing and you are a father.’ She beamed at him, loving the way the fear left his face, to be replaced by incredulous joy.

  ‘Truly?’ His voice was gruff from emotion, alcohol and lack of sleep.

  Olivia nodded happily.

  ‘Congratulations, my boy!’ Sir Edward, wearing a similarly relieved expression, rose to shake the hand of his son-in-law.

  ‘And to you, Grandfather!’ Their grip lasted longer than normal, both men seemingly struggling to contain their emotions.

  ‘You can go up and see her and the baby.’ Olivia spoke softly to her brother, her voice shaking a little.

  Taking two quick strides towards her, he enveloped her in a fierce hug. ‘Thank God!’ His voice cracked with emotion. ‘I have been imagining the worst!’ She hugged him back, feeling gratitude for the hundredth time for being part of such a family. Was it even possible that she had been feeling so restless, so ill at ease with her life, just a few short weeks ago?

  After he had gone, Sir Edward accompanying him, Olivia slumped into Adam’s armchair, tiredness finally washing over her.

  What a day! It had been almost a full twenty-four hours since she had braved family breakfast and been rewarded with not only a walk with Jem, but passionate kisses! Then to have accompanied Charlotte through the birth of her child. She had much to think about, but, it seemed, no brain with which to do so. Food, then sleep, she decided, wrenching herself out of Adam’s chair.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jem strode up Horse Guards Parade, keen to press ahead with the business of the day. During his three days in London, he had been frustrated with the lack of information on George Manning—though that in itself tells a tale, he thought grimly. Town was still busy—most families having not yet retired to the country or one of the spa towns for the summer—and there were quite a number of Jem’s set in London. Yet none—not one—seemed to know George Manning or his sister. It was as if the Mannings had appeared, like ghosts, in the park on the day that Mrs Buxted befriended them.

  Having also failed to find any trace of them in Mr Debrett’s book, Jem was now working on the assumption that they had never lived in England at all. He recalled Lizzie and Olivia being impressed that the Mannings had lived and travelled in various parts of Europe—he was frustrated with himself for not listening more carefully. Even then, if they had moved in the first circles as they claimed, someone would know them, surely?

  He himself had spent time in Brussels before and after Waterloo—though, afterwards, he had been confined to his bed with his injury. He could not recall having met Manning at any of the social events attended by the officers, yet Manning had specifically told him that he had fought in the great battle.

  The Major will know, Jem told himself, as he followed a young clerk to his old commander’s study. Major Cooke was a fount of knowledge and was renowned for his ability to ferret out information. Jem had written to him in coded terms about his concerns—he and Major Cooke had an understanding forged in the corridors of the War Ministry and the battlefields of France. Jem trusted him.

  ‘Captain Ford—that is to say, former Captain!’ Major Cooke rose to greet him, pumping his hand vigorously, a great smile creasing his lined face. ‘Well, and how do you?’

  Jem exchanged the usual pleasantries, enjoying being back in the building where he had first served in the Army and with the man he had first served. In fact, thought Jem, somewhat ruefully, were it not for the Major putting me with Harry—then a captain in need of an ensign—I might never have met Olivia and might not now be investigating George Manning!

  As soon as Jem was seated, the Major, never one for prevarication, came straight to the point. ‘This chap you wrote to me about, this George Manning—where did you encounter him?’

  Jem hesitated.

  ‘A delicate matter, perhaps?’ asked the Major, one eyebrow raised.

  Carefully, Jem explained about Monkton Park and the Buxteds, but did not openly refer to Olivia. He did, however, mention that he himself was spending the summer at Chadcombe with his sister.

  ‘So that’s it!’ said the Major. ‘Dangling after her, is he?’ Jem returned a non-committal response. ‘Well, anyway. I looked him up.’

  Jem leaned forward in his chair. ‘And?’

  The Major grimaced. ‘I could not find him.’

  Shock washed over Jem. It was true, then. ‘So Manning is a fraud?’

  Major Cooke shook his grizzled head. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. Believe it or not, some of the records from 1815 are incomplete. If he was one of the volunteers who signed up after Napoleon escaped from Elba, we may not have his details recorded fully. There are quite a few—and as you know, Jem, it frustrates me to no end—where there is only an incomplete record—registration but no payment for soldiers who died or successfully deserted, payment but no registration for t
hose who made their own way to the battlefield out of patriotism or a hunger for glory. He may have been one of those.’

  Jem’s heart sank. For a moment, he had thought himself the victor in this subtle battle of wits with Manning. ‘I see.’ It was time, he thought, to play his final card. ‘I did wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘if you might have encountered him—I know it was four years ago, but you have a great memory for faces and he is quite distinctive.’

  He took from his pocket Lizzie’s sketch of Manning, carefully unfolded it and passed it across. Major Cooke scrutinised it closely, then started. ‘By God, it’s that chap!’

  ‘You do know him!’

  ‘Tall chap?’ asked the Major. ‘Handsome, all tan and teeth?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Jem replied. All tan and teeth... That was a perfect description.

  ‘I do remember him,’ said the Major. ‘Signed up as a volunteer in Brussels the day after we got there. I thought he was after the glory myself—a bit soft. Never been in battle. Much like you at the time, young Jem.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know. Green as grass, I was. But what of Manning? I don’t remember him at all.’

  ‘No reason why you should. As I recall, from the minute we arrived in Brussels, Captain Fanton had you both volunteering for every duty he could find! I barely saw either of you, except to give you new orders. No, it’s the name that threw me. I don’t think that was his name—or perhaps I never heard his name.’ He eyed the sketch again. ‘So he survived, eh? I wonder how he got on in battle?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Jem. He was still coming to terms with the fact that Manning, it seemed, had fought at Waterloo after all.

  ‘Well, if you have a few hours to spare, we can trawl through the records again—now that I know the date he signed up!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ said Jem smartly and they both grinned.

  * * *

  Five days. Olivia sighed and came away from the window. Five days since she had seen him, since they had walked in the rose garden. Since he had kissed her so unexpectedly, so vigorously.

  She sat at the little table in her room and gazed at her reflection. He filled her thoughts at every moment—and not always in a pleasant manner. Oh, yes, there were the times when her heart raced and her nerve endings tingled as she relived those precious moments in the garden and the other kisses, in Gunn’s cottage. Those were breathtaking, wonderful memories, and she revelled in them. But, rather like a poem one had heard too many times, or the many beautiful paintings that she walked past on her way to dinner and took for granted, the memories were beginning to lose their potency and sharpness. Like delicate fabric, they had begun to fray and fade with time and over-use.

  I am being silly!

  Yet, after only five days, she felt creeping doubts slide into her heart. They were whispers only, but she heard them. They said things like, You are making too much of these kisses, and, His intentions are not serious. And the longer he was gone from her, the more she doubted.

  What right had she to assume Jem’s intention was anything other than pleasant kisses? Why, George Manning had kissed her just a month ago and she had no notion of serious intent on his part!

  That kiss on the stepping stones had been so long ago, it seemed now. She tried to recall the details—George’s mischievous expression, the smell of maleness and smoke emanating from him, then the kiss itself. Knowing it was wrong to do so, yet she could not help but contrast the feeling she had had when kissed by each man. Mr Manning had caused a reaction, yes, but she rather thought now that it had been partly fear, mixed with elements of feeling flattered and a very large dose of irritation. There was no comparison with what she felt when Jem kissed her.

  Once, when she was fourteen, she had tried to land a fish that Harry had caught in the home lake. He had warned her not to lean over too far but she, stubbornly, had insisted and had toppled over the side of the small boat. As the water had closed over her head, green and cold and everywhere, she had lost track of her body and her limbs, flailing around in panic with no sense of up or down, sight or sound.

  Harry had been smart enough to reach down and grab her by the left leg, hauling her back out without the need to dive in after her straight away. ‘Well, it was obvious where you were, you know,’ he had said when she had railed at him for not rescuing her properly. ‘You were thrashing around like a leviathan and the lake is only a couple of feet deep in that part.’

  She smiled now, remembering the outrage with which she had reacted to this sally, as she had sat shivering in the boat, coughing and spluttering. ‘I knew when you were denouncing me so bitterly,’ Harry had confessed afterwards, ‘that you were perfectly well and that the damage was limited to a ruined dress and some very fetching weeds in your hair.’

  Her smile faded as she realised why the memory had come to her now. When Jem kissed her, she had that same sense of losing all awareness, of being tumbled in a maelstrom of feeling. Only this time, it was passion that took her so entirely away from the everyday, prosaic world. Now she knew what the great writers spoke of, what the poets sang. This was what love and passion truly felt like. It was, in fact, a little like drowning. And it was real.

  She had often wondered if it happened in real life. From the outside, she could see devotion in some of the couples around her—Adam and Charlotte, the Foxleys, Harry and Juliana. Did they, too, feel this passion? Did they lose themselves in each other?

  No. She frowned. That was not quite right. She did not lose herself when Jem kissed her. In fact, she could not remember another time when she was more alive, more gloriously herself. She was lost in him, with him. Nothing else existed—not even time. She still had no real sense of how much time had passed while they had been kissing.

  She sighed again. Yes, being kissed by George Manning so recently only served to underline the contrast with the whirlpool that Jem’s embrace created. Thinking further back, she remembered the chaste kisses she had permitted Mr Nightingale—the poet—to plant on her lips. Yes, her heart had sped and she had been flattered—briefly—by his poetry and his devotion, but when he began to turn a little possessive she had gently, following Harry’s advice, withdrawn her favour.

  But what does it mean? she wondered now. My response to Jem is very different to George Manning or Mr Nightingale. Why?

  Her heart immediately gave her the answer.

  I love him.

  Well, of course she did! It was obvious. Although wary of him because he had hurt her before, it had not prevented her own foolish heart from doing what it wanted—which was to fall in love with Jem all over again.

  But could she trust him with her heart? She had never truly trusted another man, apart from her own brothers, and Jem was, she believed, cut from the same cloth as them. The fact that he was also handsome and strong, and had the most interesting taut and lean body, might also have influenced her. Yet none of it gave her any clue as to his intentions or his feelings for her. She trusted him as a friend—but their shared kisses had changed everything and she knew not what to think.

  Picking up her embroidery bag, she went downstairs. The drawing room was surprisingly quiet. Juliana and Harry—who had returned to visit their new nephew now that the worst of little Jack’s affliction had passed—were out walking, Great-Aunt Clara was having her usual afternoon nap and Adam was closeted with his steward. Which left only Lizzie keeping Charlotte company, as she sat nursing her infant. Charlotte did not even lift her head as Olivia entered, so intent was she on studying her child as he fed. Olivia smiled at Lizzie and went to her sister-in-law.

  ‘He is so beautiful, Charlotte,’ she said softly.

  Charlotte looked up at her mistily. ‘I was just thinking the same thing!’

  ‘Do you need anything?’

  ‘Only for everyone to stop fussing over me!’ Charlotte smiled to take the sting out of her words. ‘Between Adam and Papa, and G
reat-Aunt Clara and Priddy... I have had a baby, but we are doing just fine.’

  Lizzie stood. ‘There! I have completed it.’ She showed Charlotte and Olivia her latest sketch. ‘Charlotte and her baby as Madonna and Child—though nothing like the Old Masters, of course.’

  ‘Oh, how beautiful!’ Charlotte’s face lit up. ‘Thank you, Lizzie. May I keep it?’

  ‘Really? Of course you may have it—though I do not claim any particular merit.’

  ‘Nonsense, Lizzie,’ said Olivia, ‘Why, we all know your great talent for drawing. May I?’ Lizzie handed her the book and Olivia flicked through the recent sketches. ‘See? This is a sweet study of little Frederick Foxley. And there is one here somewhere of Mr Manning—I remember you showed it to me at the time and I declared it an excellent likeness. Now, where is it?’ She flicked through a couple more pages and was a little surprised when Lizzie took her book back.

  ‘Oh, it was not so great as you say, Olivia. But I am glad,’ she rushed on, blushing slightly, ‘that you like my sketch of you and the baby, Charlotte.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ confirmed Charlotte.

  There was a discreet knocking on the door and, on hearing Charlotte’s invitation, Priddy entered.

  ‘Oh, Miss Charlotte—my lady—there are visitors arriving and you should not be downstairs!’

  ‘What visitors?’ enquired Charlotte, slipping her little finger into her baby’s mouth to break his feed. He sighed and settled back to sleep.

  ‘It is the Monkton Park carriage, my lady,’ confirmed Priddy, receiving the baby as Charlotte adjusted her clothing.

  Charlotte grimaced. ‘I confess I do not feel ready to face visitors just yet.’ Unspoken, yet understood by everyone, the spectre of Mrs Buxted and her ‘kindly advice’ loomed over them all. ‘I shall retire to the sanctuary of my chamber.’

  Too late! Charlotte had not yet reached the door when it opened, admitting Mrs Buxted. Behind her, looking decidedly uneasy, was her daughter, Mrs Foxley.