by Diane Farr
“Yes.”
Something like anguish flickered in his eyes. He reached up dazedly and scrubbed his face with his hands, as if trying to shake the grip of a nightmare. “No money,” he muttered, and then his head came up like a beast scenting danger. He straightened and turned to her, white-lipped. “They’ve begun clearing the weeds. They’ll be starting on the roof tomorrow. I must go back and stop them.”
And in a few quick strides, without another word to her, he was gone. The sound of the door slamming downstairs as he left seemed a death knell to her every hope of happiness. Olivia’s last ounce of strength left with him. She put her head down on her desk and wept.
She must have cried herself to sleep. Shadows slanted across the carpeting and the room was cold. The window behind her was rattling in the wind; a storm was blowing in from the west. The rattling must have awakened her. She sat up, stiff from the awkward position she had held, and reached automatically for the bell. Then she let her hand drop with the bell unrung. No sense in wasting coal—or lamp oil, for that matter. She had to consider such things now.
Culpepper had advised her to economize, but by taking only tiny steps that would not excite comment. Her house would fetch a better price, he said, if no one knew she was desperate. This had seemed like good advice and she had agreed to it, but it was hard to keep such a terrible secret. Mrs. Pratt would stare, for example, if she suddenly asked for tallow candles instead of wax. They had always burned wax candles, everywhere in the house. Even the servants used them in their own quarters. This now seemed extravagant to the point of profligacy, but what could she do? A sudden fit of thrift would doubtless alarm her household and the rumor of her bankruptcy would erupt like wildfire.
Too tired to think, Olivia dragged herself wearily up to her room and lay down on her bed, trying to recapture the sleep that had unexpectedly seized her in the morning room. Lying on her bed, of course, it would not come. She stared, unseeing, at the dark canopy of bedcurtains above her. It would be too much to say that she thought, or pondered. She simply lay and suffered, like a wounded animal, while her mind raced in circles, uselessly going over and over the same territory.
She would be alone. Now that she no longer wished to live alone, she would have to live alone. Bessie and Edith would move to Rose Cottage. They would probably welcome her, but she could not go with them; the only meaningful thing left to her was the Fairfax School and she could not leave it.
Why, oh why, could this calamity not have struck six months ago? She would have been able to bear it then. The loss of wealth and position meant nothing to her. It would be embarrassing, perhaps, to find herself an object of pity for a time. It might be uncomfortable as well, to dramatically reduce her household and live in straitened circumstances. But all that was nothing compared to losing George.
Tears burned her eyes as her jumbled thoughts returned to that miserable point again and again, forcing her to face the unfaceable. Now that she had had a taste of what life with George could be, life without him would be insupportable.
She even regretted losing Rye Vale. As part and parcel of the man she loved, Rye Vale had captured her heart, too. She moved restlessly against her pillow as she thought of all the promises she had made that must now be broken, all the people to whom she had given hopes—hopes that must now be dashed. As her present pain starkly illustrated, it was easier to live with no expectations at all than to watch a joyous future slip through your fingers.
If only . . . if only . . . there were so many if onlys. It did no good whatsoever to torment herself with them, but her mind kept returning to them regardless.
If only she had known the investments that comprised her trust, she might have realized how risky they were and known that something like this could happen. For that, she could rail impotently against her father and Culpepper, but she had only herself to blame for her complete lack of savings. If only she had set aside portions of her income while she had it! Instead, she had spent whatever it occurred to her to spend and had given the rest away. There was always a worthy cause or a needy soul to give her money to. It had simply never occurred to her that her father’s legacy might dry up and disappear. Her lingering resentment toward her father and the way he had left his money had caused her to fling away whatever he gave her that she did not need. With breathtaking conceit, she saw now, she had congratulated herself on her benevolence and told herself that setting money aside for a rainy day would be miserly and greedy. Too late, she realized that her true motives had been childish and petty. What a shortsighted, prideful ninny she had been. She deserved to lose George.
But this conclusion wrenched a sob out of her. No one deserved a catastrophe like losing George. She pressed her hands against her swollen eyes and struggled to compose herself, scolding herself for her wretched self-pity. She would still see George from time to time. Their friendship could continue.
Friendship. Friendship with George would be the torment of the damned. To see him and never touch him might, she feared, prove impossible—and she did not want adultery on her soul. Why, he would doubtless marry within the year. Whoever he next approached would be no more able to resist him than she had been. He would succeed. He would marry his fortune.
Then it occurred to her that once he had married a fortune he would no longer need Beebe’s annuity. So she would not, after all, see him from time to time. And now she could not decide which fate was worse: to see him and never touch him, or to not see him at all.
How she survived the next twenty-four hours she could never afterward recall. She was plunged into a grief deeper than any she had experienced—deeper than she had believed possible. Life seemed to hold nothing further for her. She could neither eat nor sleep. It was worse, even, than the twenty-four hours she had endured after her mother’s untimely death. And she could seek no comfort, since Bessie and Edith had left for a few days to ready Rose Cottage for their habitation. She told Mrs. Pratt she was ill and stayed in her room, spending the interminable hours alternately pacing the floor and tossing fitfully on her bed.
She finally fell into an exhausted sleep but, in the way of grief, woke after only an hour or two. Gray daylight dimly illuminated the room and rain pattered monotonously against the window. It seemed fitting. She dragged herself out of bed, washed her face, and dressed. She told herself she had indulged her emotions far too long. She could not hide in her room like a coward. She could not cry forever. She was a woman, not a child, and it was time to get up and get on with life.
She would distract herself with work. There were always letters to write and ledgers to balance. She walked down to her morning room and, this time, remembered to open the curtains. She rang for coal, lit a lamp—since the pouring rain let little light or cheer into the room—and sat down to sharpen a pen.
She heard the knocker downstairs and shrank back in her chair. Visitors! Oh, dear God, no. She could not face visitors today. Unfortunately, ringing for coal had alerted the household to the fact that she was up and about. She would have to rely on Mrs. Pratt’s good sense to deny her—after all, she had been pleading illness for the past two days. The murmur of voices floated up to her and then, to her alarm, she heard booted feet swiftly mounting the stairs.
She knew that tread. Disbelief held her frozen as the door flew open. He took two steps into the room and halted, staring at her.
He looked like a madman. His greatcoat was covered with raindrops and his boots were splashed with mud. His hair, wet and disheveled, was plastered to his neck and forehead. Rivulets of water streamed down his person and dripped onto her carpet. He had obviously not shaved, and his face was pale and haggard above the dark line of stubble.
She spoke without thinking. “You look terrible.”
“So do you.” His voice was hoarse.
Neither of them moved. A strong sense of unreality gripped her. “I thought you went back to Rye Vale.”
“I did.”
“What are you doing here?”
/> “I came back.” He cleared his throat. “I canceled the work orders and sent everyone home. And then I came back.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I haven’t slept.”
She rose unsteadily to her feet. “Would you—would you care for some tea?” It was a perfectly natural thing to say to a just-arrived guest, but somehow it sounded idiotic.
“No. Thank you.”
She gestured feebly to the sofa, inviting him to sit. He glanced at it, then back at her. “I’m wet. I’d spoil it.”
She managed a crooked smile. “I’d like to say that it doesn’t matter, but I suppose it does.” The thought was still strange to her. “I can’t afford new upholstery.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw, making him look fierce. “That’s what I’ve come here to ask you. Or part of it.”
“I don’t understand.”
He crossed toward her, his dark eyes burning. “Have you given any thought to what you will have? After all is said and done. The house sold, the staff pensioned off and all that.”
His nearness was overwhelming. She reached behind her and clutched the edge of her desk for support. “Certainly. A little.”
“Well?” He suddenly seemed to realize the invasiveness of his blunt question. Some of the heat left his gaze and he gave her a rather strained smile. “Sorry, Ivy. But it’s important.”
Tears stung her eyes again at the sound of her nickname on his lips. She laughed a little, shaking her head. “If you are hoping that it will be enough to justify marrying me, George, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I think I might realize three to five thousand. No more than that.” She added softly, “But I thank you for the thought.”
It did heal something, in a bittersweet way, to know that he had hoped. To see him so drawn and pale, and discover that giving her up had cost him a sleepless night.
His powerful hands gripped her arms. “Olivia, hear me out.” His voice was thick with emotion. “If I stay in town and continue working with you, I can continue receiving the annuity. That’s eight hundred a year. Many couples make do with far less.”
That sense of unreality returned. Was he still speaking of marriage? She stared at him, bewildered. “But . . . what about Rye Vale? There would not be enough for Rye Vale.”
“No. Restoring Rye Vale must wait.” Pain flickered briefly in his eyes, but his smile was tender. “Our children will have to marry money, my sweet. For, by heaven, I can’t do it. I love you.”
If he hadn’t been holding her up, she might have fallen. She stared at him, eyes wide with shock. “What?” she said faintly.
“I love you. I’ve been an idiot, a complete and utter jackass, thinking what I wanted was your blasted money. Damn the money. It’s you that I need.”
Incredibly, he went down on his knees before her. “Forgive me,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve been shallow and blind and selfish. I’ve lived in darkness for so many years, my dear, that when the sun finally shone on me I hadn’t the wit to recognize it.” His dark head bent over her hand, gripped tightly in his. “Marry me, Olivia. I beg you. Marry me and save me from ruin.”
“But—but—I can’t save you from ruin,” she stammered.
In a flash, he was back on his feet, emotion she had never seen blazing in his eyes. “You’re wrong. Financial ruin is nothing, less than nothing. What is misspent money compared to a misspent life? You can save me from the only sort of ruin that matters.” He stripped off his wet gloves and threw them impatiently to one side, then took her face in his hands. The intensity in his voice and features contrasted oddly, movingly, with the gentle reverence in his touch. “Don’t you know, my darling girl, that you are the only breath of air my sorry, stale heart has ever breathed? I was a dead thing until I met you.” His fingers moved achingly, caressingly, to cup her cheeks. “For God’s sake, Ivy, don’t send me back there,” he whispered. “Don’t condemn me to a wasted life.”
A strangled sob escaped her. She flung her arms around his neck and he hugged her tightly. His coat was wet and cold against her face. “You do love me,” he breathed. “Thank God.”
“Of course I love you,” she sobbed. “I’ve loved you for ages. Oh, George, what shall I do?”
“Do?”
“I love you too much to not marry you,” she moaned, “and I love you too much to marry you.” She pulled back and determinedly dashed the tears from her eyes, the better to see him. “Our marriage would prevent you from obtaining your heart’s desire. Loving you, how can I allow that?” She took a shaky breath. “Abandoning your plans for Rye Vale is no small thing.”
He smiled, but strain showed at the edges of his mouth. “I may go back and repair the roof, even if I have to do it with my bare hands. But as for the rest of it—” He shrugged. “I can’t marry an heiress. If some other way presents itself, I’ll take it, but marrying for money is no longer possible.”
“Well, it’s possible,” she began, but he placed a warning finger against her lips.
“Olivia,” he said gently, but with great finality, “I will marry you or no one.”
She spent a last few seconds struggling with her conscience, then gave up. If George said it wasn’t possible, it wasn’t possible. Relief and joy flooded her and she melted against him, savoring the miracle. “Then marry me, please,” she whispered. “Oh, George. Marry me.”
Their lips met. For the first time, they kissed with nothing to hide. For the first time, there were no barriers between their souls and no game to win or lose. For the first time, both knew that they loved, and each knew that that love was returned.
It was a fairly shattering kiss.
26
Culpepper burst agitatedly into the breakfast room. He was waving a newspaper before him at arm’s length, as if fearing it carried the plague. “Lady Olivia, it is an outrage,” he began, but stopped in midsentence, goggling in astonishment.
She smiled at him over the rim of her cup. “Good morning, Mr. Culpepper,” she said calmly. “Pray sit down. Would you care for coffee?”
He opened and closed his mouth a time or two, like a landed fish. “No,” he said at last. “No, I thank you. I beg your pardon, my lady. I had thought you were alone.” He seemed to recall his manners suddenly, and sketched a stiff bow. “Lord Rival.”
“Sir.” Lord Rival inclined his head graciously, but mischief twinkled in his eyes. “I hope you will reconsider the coffee, Culpepper. You look as if you could use it.”
Culpepper seemed at a loss for words. He glanced uncertainly at the newspaper, still clutched in his hand. “I never drink coffee,” he said absently. “Have you—I beg your pardon—but have either of you seen today’s Gazette?”
Lord Rival nodded kindly at Culpepper’s newspaper. “There it is,” he said helpfully. “In your hand.”
“No, no, I do not mean that I have lost my copy. I mean . . . that is . . .” He blinked confusedly. “Lady Olivia, perhaps I will take just a spot of tea, if you don’t mind.” He sank bemusedly onto one of the spindle-legged chairs at the breakfast table. “Forgive me, but it gives me quite a start to see you here. Together.”
Olivia raised an eyebrow. “My word,” she said mildly. “You must be easily startled.” She poured out a cup and handed it to him with a smile. “Come now, Mr. Culpepper. You knew of my friendship with Lord Rival.”
“I did not know it had continued, madam,” said Culpepper austerely. “I had thought all was at an end.”
“Really?” Lord Rival looked mildly interested. “You can’t have read this morning’s Gazette.”
Culpepper jumped like a frightened fawn, spilling a few drops of tea into his saucer. “Good heavens! You knew?”
“Of course I knew. I placed the notice.”
“Oh, did they print it already?” asked Olivia, pleased. She took the newspaper from Culpepper’s slackened grasp and began perusing it, a little smile playing across her features.
Culpepper stared from one to the other, looking more and more disturbed. “But this cann
ot be,” he said at last.
“Why not?” asked Lord Rival.
Culpepper hemmed and hawed for a few moments and finally said, “My lord, I fear that Lady Olivia has not been frank with you.”
Olivia looked up, frowning. “Well, if that is what you fear, Mr. Culpepper, you may set your mind at rest. I have no secrets from George.”
Culpepper set his untasted tea carefully down on the table. He appeared genuinely upset. “Oh, dear. I do hope this is not my fault. But it could very well be my fault. Perhaps I did not make matters sufficiently clear to you, my lady. Perhaps you misunderstood me, the other evening.” He took a deep breath and addressed Lord Rival earnestly. “My lord, if you have been misled, I heartily beg your pardon. It was not my intent and, I feel sure, it was not Lady Olivia’s intent, to mislead you. I’m afraid that what I have to tell you now may come as quite a shock—quite an unpleasant shock—but I must, I really must, disabuse your mind of any false ideas you may have regarding Lady Olivia’s circumstances.”
Lord Rival closed his eyes as if in pain. “Not again, I beg you. It was painful enough to hear the first time.”
Olivia’s eyes flashed daggers at her solicitor. “Culpepper, really, I find this insulting. I am neither too stupid to understand you nor too dishonest to inform Lord Rival. I told him that I am no longer a rich woman.”
Culpepper leaned forward impressively, still addressing Lord Rival. “Lady Olivia is bankrupt, my lord. Quite bankrupt.”
Lord Rival shivered dramatically. “There, now!” he said, in a complaining tone. “I asked him not to repeat it, and he did so anyway. Shabby, I call it.”
Olivia gave George her hand, her eyes alight with laughter. “Horrid,” she agreed.
Culpepper’s consternation increased as he watched this interplay. He plainly heard the undercurrent of affection in Lady Olivia’s voice, and there was something in Lord Rival’s eyes when he smiled at her that suggested . . . good God. He felt himself turning pale.
