Deeper Than Desire

by Cheryl Holt

  For days, she'd been anticipating this moment of reckoning. Mr. Sawyer hadn't tattled right away, and she couldn't figure out why. Every morning, she'd arisen, expecting to be ordered into Mrs. Graves's office. Each hour had passed with agonizing slowness, each approaching footfall causing her pulse to pound, as she was positive it would be the message commanding her to report downstairs.

  Now that judgment was upon her, it was almost a disappointment. Her fears and dread had sprouted into a tempest of fret and worry that had left her amazingly detached. There was nothing Mrs. Graves could do, no punishment she could impose, that would have much of an effect.

  She didn't regret her actions, and she had no feelings over the possible sentence. She was benumbed, though she was distracted by Helen's presence in the room.

  Was Helen to suffer the same fate as her? How could she have brought such a result onto the child?

  "Jane, I'm very surprised at you." Mrs. Graves tossed a file onto the desk, and it smacked against the wood. "With any of the other orphans, I could have predicted mischief like this. But you!" She tsked, making an

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  irritating clucking sound. "You've been with us so long, and have such a stellar record."

  Jane knew this was the point where she was supposed to apologize, and plead for mercy, but she'd bite off her tongue before she would.

  Mr. Sawyer loafed in a chair in the corner, tipping it so that it was balanced on the rear legs. A piece of straw dangled from his mouth, as he chewed on it and silently surveyed the proceedings.

  "As to her”—Mrs. Graves indicated Helen—"what's her name?"

  She searched her documents, trying to deduce whether she'd listed Helen as Martha or Mary, but Jane offered no hint, mutely, furiously declining to speak.

  "Yes, Martha," Mrs. Graves continued. "Considering her lunacy, I had reservations about admitting her, but to learn that she can turn so violent. My, my ..." She tsked again. "Such a little mite, too."

  Jane scowled. Helen hadn't done anything during the altercation except run. "Violent how?" she demanded.

  "Don't pretend to innocence, Jane. It doesn't become you." She gestured to Mr. Sawyer. "You know how hard she bit him. Why, Mr. Sawyer had to have it sewn."

  Jane glanced at the despicable swine, and saw that he had a bandage across three of his fingers. The wrap was dirty and colored brown with dried blood that had seeped through. The wound looked genuine, but he hadn't obtained it from Helen.

  "How convenient," she sneered, and he straightened and flopped the chair down on all four legs as if he might lunge for her.

  "Jane!" Mrs. Graves barked. "Cease your belligerence!" Refusing to be cowed, Jane met the woman's angry glare. Mrs. Graves was unaccustomed to such insolence,

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  especially from a ward as meek and helpful as Jane had always been, and she shifted uncomfortably. "Due to your exemplary disciplinary history, I will allow you the courtesy of a defense. What do you have to say for yourself?"

  Suspicious, Jane studied her. Any explanation was useless. The consequences would be the same, no matter what she did or didn't do. Still, Sawyer was such an evil man.

  "He brings girls down here." The words rushed out before Mrs. Graves could thwart her. "In the evening. He touches them under their clothes. The really young ones, who can't fight back."

  "Honestly, Jane!" Mrs. Graves scoffed.

  "It's true," she declared. "I don't care what lies he's told you. And Martha never bit him. He had her on his lap, and he was—"

  "Desist!" Mrs. Graves snapped. "Your prevarication just makes this worse." She stared at Jane, then sighed. "You leave me no choice. You'll have to be put out. Martha, too. She's far too demented to be in the company of the other children."

  Jane swallowed. "As you wish."

  Mrs. Graves nodded. "Go upstairs and pack your possessions. There's no need to stop here for a goodbye, but Mr. Sawyer will be waiting to check that you haven't taken anything that doesn't belong to you."

  With that tepid farewell, Mrs. Graves enmeshed herself in paperwork, ignoring them.

  Jane's heart plummeted to her feet. While she'd realized this crossroad was drawing nigh—with her thirteenth birthday for a certainty—she hadn't believed it would ever arrive. The speculation and the reality were very different, and with her recent apathy, she'd thought she was beyond fear, but apparently not.

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  She'd been excused, but she couldn't force her feet to move. This was the only home she'd ever known, Mrs. Graves the sole adult with whom she'd been friendly for years. She wanted to cry.

  The orphanage was her last connection to her parents, the final link to her past. What if they came for her after she'd gone? Would anyone remember that she'd been there? How would they find her?

  And what about Helen and her rich family? Where were they? What if they changed their minds and wanted her back?

  Jane recalled the fine clothes Helen had been dressed in when she'd been dropped off. She was kin to somebody. Somebody wealthy and important. She wasn't some ragamuffin to be pitched out into the streets.

  Their penalty was too cruel to be borne. It would be difficult enough to support herself, but having the weight of Helen's custody foisted on her, as well, seemed too high a hurdle to vault over.

  Was life ever fair? Would justice ever prevail? What had she done to deserve any of this? She'd been obedient, obliging, kind, and where had it landed her?

  She yearned to kneel before Mrs. Graves, to hug her and beg her pardon, to weep and describe how frightened she was, to ask for some compassion, some understanding.

  Mrs. Graves glanced up. Her eyes were cold, dismissive. "Was there something else?"

  "No," Jane murmured.

  "Be off with you, then. And Godspeed."

  "Come, Helen." Jane squeezed Helen's hand and led her into the hall.

  Behind her, the door closed, as Mr. Sawyer's malevolent, victorious chuckle wafted out.

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  Olivia walked down the regal staircase, destined for the receiving parlor and the dining room beyond. As per Margaret's instructions, she wasn't alone. A few steps ahead, Penny strutted down, too.

  Tension between them was so intense that Olivia felt she was suffocating. An antipathy and temper she'd never previously experienced had overtaken her. She was ready to throttle the wicked shrew, to simply wrestle her to the floor and beat her black and blue.

  Though Penny was full of aspersions and wily smirking, they hadn't talked about what had happened, or the role Penny had played in Olivia's downfall. Margaret had been a buffer between them, so Olivia hadn't had a chance to state her opinion, but she was eager to let loose.

  Given the slightest opportunity, Penny would receive a blistering castigation she'd never forget.

  Supper would be tedious. Surrounded by Margaret and Penny, Mr. Blaine and Edward's other neighbors, she would have to smile and chat, to feign delight over her pending nuptials. All the while, she'd be burning inside, a caldron of animosity and anguish.

  She couldn't erase the vision of Phillip riding out of the yard, his satchel tied to his saddle. The argument he'd had with Edward rang in her ears, until she longed to clasp her hands over them to drown out the sound.

  How could she have betrayed him? Would he ever forgive her? Would she ever forgive herself?

  She was trying to be pragmatic, to accept the shattering outcome of her rash conduct with a stoic acquiescence. Every boon she'd hoped to gain through marriage to Edward would be achieved. Time would heal the damage she'd inflicted on Phillip. They would all carry on.

  Edward was humane and generous—not the inflexible

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  ogre Margaret had painted him to be—and Olivia imagined they would find common ground, once they adapted to each other's routines and habits.

  Her loss of Phillip cut like the prick of a sharp blade. but her affection for him would fade. In the subsequent months and years, she would recollect less and less of their
affair, until very likely, it would seem that she'd never known him at all.

  Eventually, he would be naught but a fond, distant memory.

  If she could just get through the remainder of the week! If she could just endure the wedding fete and folderol! She was strong, and she could persevere to the end! Despite how terrible she felt, she was positive that no one had ever expired from excessive sorrow.

  "Three more days," she grumbled. Soon, it would be over, the house would quiet down, and she would have plenty of opportunity to rue and regret her decisions.

  For now, she had to put one foot in front of the other, had to smile and nod and be cheerful.

  Penny had reached the foyer, and she halted and looked up. "What did you say, Olivia?"

  "Nothing." Olivia refused to converse, for she was afraid that any discussion would deteriorate into a shouting match.

  "You said something," Penny goaded. "Surely you're not lamenting your marriage. What would the earl think if he was advised that you are?"

  Olivia advanced to the bottom of the stairs, and she and Penny were toe to toe.

  Evaluating her, Olivia speculated as to what was going on inside her devious head. Was she trolling for a reaction? Or was she bent on causing trouble with Edward? With her, it was so hard to discern her motives, which were invariably suspect.

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  Without planning to, she blurted out, "Are you happy?"

  "Whatever do you mean?" Penny queried.

  "You were intent on having me wed to Edward, but why is it so vital to you?"

  "You can't guess?"

  "No."

  Hatefully, Penny chuckled. "I heard that the stable-master has left the estate."

  "Yes."

  "Pity," she replied.

  Olivia could barely refrain from slapping her. She took a deep breath, held it, let it out, urging her anger to evaporate. "So you've brought about my wedding ..." She pretended scant interest, declining to give Penny any satisfaction. "Are you content with what you've wrought?"

  "Very."

  "Perhaps I should reciprocate by telling Margaret about you and Mr. Blaine."

  "Do it. I dare you." She nodded up the stairs, to where Margaret would be following along shortly. "Let's see who she believes, you or me."

  Olivia exhibited an equal amount of nonchalance. "You're bound and determined to ruin yourself, though I can't comprehend why. If you're caught, you'll end up wed to him. You realize that, don't you?"

  "Maybe, maybe not," she retorted.

  Olivia flashed a brilliant smile. "I can't conceive of a more grand event than your wedding to Mr. Blaine."

  Penny was instantly dubious. "What are you implying?"

  "You and Mr. Blaine were made for each other. I'll sit in the front pew at the church."

  "You're jealous."

  "Absolutely," Olivia gushed.

  "At least Mr. Blaine is still here," she caustically

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  remarked. "And he's welcome at the earl's table. Where's your precious stablemaster, hmm?"

  Where, indeed? Olivia pondered. It was a question that would haunt her forever.

  "Hurry, Olivia," Penny mocked, "your fiancé awaits."

  She flounced down the decorated hall, and into the parlor. Olivia watched her go, her bottom swaying, the ringlets on either side of her chignon bobbing with each step.

  What would become of Penny? What would become of all of them?

  Sadly, slowly, she trailed after her, steeling herself to confront the bevy of cordial, exuberant visitors who had traveled to Salisbury to celebrate her engagement. The moment she strolled into the salon, she would have to smile, exuding the sort of bubbly exhilaration that any recently betrothed woman should be feeling.

  Without warning, someone grabbed her from behind. A hand was clasped over her mouth, and she was dragged into one of the unoccupied chambers lining the corridor. The door was shut, and she whipped around, terrified of who she'd encounter.

  "Phillip!" she whispered, her heart leaping with joy, her emotions roaring with despair.

  "Shh..." He hauled her over to an open window, which he'd used to enter the house.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I couldn't leave you here." He gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging in to the soft part of her upper back. "I rode toward London all afternoon, but then I turned around. I couldn't desert you."

  Oh, God! Oh, God!

  Her mind was reeling. Her panic rising. He still wanted her? After all she'd done? She glanced to the door. What if they were discovered? What calamity would ensue?

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  Too much had happened! She couldn't take it all in! Her pulse was beating so furiously that her chest hurt with the tension, and she couldn't form any words to untangle the myriad sentiments shooting through her.

  "I'm going to speak with Edward," he was asserting, "and I'll inform him we're in love. That we wish to marry. That he can't have you, because you're mine."

  "You'd do that for me?"

  "Yes."

  She could picture the dreadful scene. There would be harsh condemnations, accusations of betrayal and treachery. All true. All well founded.

  After the fight Edward and Phillip had had over his resignation, she couldn't fathom how their relationship could survive another. While she'd naïvely and optimistically hoped that, in the future, the two men would reconcile, it wouldn't occur if the facts underlying their quarrel ever came to light. Should Edward learn how duplicitous she and Phillip had been, there would be no way to allay his justified ire.

  Could she inflict such discord? . No!

  The loud answer reverberated through her, and she wanted to rail and rage, to moan and weep, over the unfair options available to her. She had acted so impetuously, had allowed herself to be inundated by ardor and passion, and she'd courted catastrophe with a reckless abandon. In every direction, damage had been accomplished through her imprudence.

  Would the ramifications of her selfishness never cease?

  "We can't confess, Phillip. He'd be devastated. He'd never forgive you."

  "I don't care."

  "Yes you do."

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  Phillip chewed on his lip, digesting her statement, and accepting it. Then he grasped both her hands, squeezing tight, making her feel as though he were a tether, securing her to the earth.

  "Then come with me. Right now," he declared. "We'll elope to Scotland. My horse is behind the stables. We'll take another one for you. We'll simply ride away from all this." He moved toward the window, tugging her with him. "Let's do it! We'll send a note later, explaining where we've gone and why."

  The window loomed like a yawning hole in the universe, ready to suck her through into the unknown. She was an unmitigated coward. She couldn't propel her feet toward it, couldn't step through.

  Could she lope off with only the clothes she was wearing? Was he mad? Was she?

  Phillip had no job, no income, no home to which they could return after a hasty trip to the north. Though Edward was a compassionate man, he had his limits. He'd never permit them onto the estate after they'd humiliated him.

  So what would they do? Where would they go? How would they support themselves? What about Winnie? And Helen?

  She understood the lengths to which Margaret would go to ensure the success of her machinations, and she was alarmed as to Helen's fate. If she trotted off with Phillip, what might Margaret do to Helen in revenge?

  Edward had offered to provide for the people Olivia loved, the only ones to whom she had any connection in the entire world. Dared she cast them to the vagaries of circumstance? Could she forsake them to Margaret's plotting and intrigue?

  Without a doubt, Margaret's retribution would be swift and horrible. She would never pardon Olivia for spoiling her scheme, but Olivia would be safe in Scodand, while

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  Winnie and Helen would be in London, unprotected and subject to Margaret's retaliation.

  Her head was spinning with
uncertainty. She yearned to escape with Phillip, to let him take her away from her predicament, but her rapaciousness had already caused significant adversity.

  Was there no end to her arrogant behavior? How much, precisely, was she willing to relinquish in order to gain her heart's desire? Could she renounce Helen and Winnie? Could she make an enemy of Edward when he'd been naught but kind to her?

  "I can't decide what's best, Phillip," she wailed. "There's so much you don't know, and so much I need to tell you. What you're asking is so difficult."

  "It's not difficult," he contended. "It's easy, and it will work out. I love you and you love me, and that's what matters. The rest will fall into place."

  He was so confident, so upbeat, while she was dying inside, overwhelmed by choices for which she wasn't prepared.

  He stopped their steady progress toward the window, shifted away, and scrutinized her. "Unless I was wrong," he said. "Perhaps this love is a tad one-sided?"

  "I love you, too," she affirmed. "I do, but..."

  There was a dangerous pause. "But what?"

  "This is so sudden, so unexpected. There are so many people counting on me. I need to reflect on what you're requesting." At a loss, she held her hands out, palms up, pleading for understanding. "You're demanding that I make instant, life-altering decisions in a thrice, but whatever I do, will affect many more people man myself. Helen has been—"

  "I don't give a bloody damn about Helen or anyone else," he claimed, cutting her off. "Just you and me."

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  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and they froze. Someone rapped on the door.

  "Olivia, are you in there?" Margaret summoned.

  She rattled and spun the knob, when thankfully, a person down the corridor distracted her. Hesitating, she conversed, furnishing them with a few more valuable seconds.

  Olivia's trepidation was spiraling out of control. She hadn't had the chance to apprise him of Margaret's threats to Helen, so he didn't comprehend her anguish. He was angry, thinking her flighty, fickle. After so many repeated upheavals, her nerves were raw, her strength depleted, her spirit crushed. She truly, truly could not abide one more tribulation.