Six Degrees of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  Olivia huddled in stunned silence on her bed. Jamie must have forgotten to speak to his father before he left, or not been able to, or not thought it urgent. If only Mother had let her go to Haverstock House as usual . . .

  She scrambled off the bed and flung open her desk, dashing off an impassioned letter. A few tears streaked down her sore cheek and blurred the ink, and when she read it over, the words were illegible, incoherent, or both. Jamie would think she’d gone mad. Olivia hesitated, then ripped the page in half and took out a fresh sheet. She dried her eyes and took a deep breath, and wrote a much more civilized letter asking when he would be home. She didn’t want to tell him of her father’s furious rant, so she simply wished him luck in his journey, and signed it with her name—taking care to make the O look like a heart, to show her love.

  Feeling better, but still anxious, she walked to Haverstock House. Nothing was in uproar there, so Mr. Weston must not have taken alarm at her father’s visit. She was at Haverstock so often, the butler merely told her where to find Abigail and Penelope. They were in the garden, Abigail dutifully sketching a rose and Penelope plucking the petals off another.

  “There you are!” Penelope cried at her appearance. “You’ve abandoned us for over a whole week now!”

  “I’m sorry.” Olivia sat down at the table where they worked. “Did you write your essay?”

  Penelope rolled her eyes. “Yes, horrid thing. Mama made us read each other’s aloud at dinner that night, and Jamie laughed at mine.”

  Olivia twitched at his name. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it. I—I understand he’s away from home now?”

  “Thankfully,” murmured Abigail, still sketching.

  “All the way to Wiltshire,” Penelope added with satisfaction. “He won’t be home for months.”

  “Oh?” Her voice rose an octave. “Why so long?”

  “Jamie doesn’t go anywhere directly,” said Abigail. “The last time Papa sent him somewhere, it took him over a fortnight to arrive. He kept stopping off to see interesting libraries or inventors along the way. And once he gets to his destination, he wanders off. I daresay he won’t spend half his time at the canal; he’ll find his way to see the boat builders’ workshop, and the bankers’ offices, and landowners who live nearby. Papa says he does a good job investigating, but he takes forever at it.”

  “Good riddance,” Penelope declared. “He’s been like a caged bear this week! Three weeks in Sussex, and he couldn’t wait to be off.” She put down her ruined rose. “Livie, are you ill?”

  “No,” she said faintly. “I just . . . I had a question to ask him. Could I write to him?”

  Penelope shrugged. “Who knows?”

  Olivia wet her lips, which were bone dry. “Is your mother home?”

  The girls directed her to the morning room, where Mrs. Weston rose to greet her. “How are you, Olivia? Your father was here this morning.”

  “I know.”

  “He was quite agitated, and hinted at a match between you and James. Neither you nor James ever mentioned such a thing to either of us, and Mr. Weston didn’t know what to say.”

  Put that way, neither did Olivia. Jamie hadn’t told his parents. His sisters said he was wild to be out of the house. Had she imagined the whole thing?

  At her dismayed silence, a slight frown touched Mrs. Weston’s brow. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Mr. Weston put your father off because he didn’t want to presume there was more affection between you and James than he knew. You’re both so young. We would never encourage a match between you if your hearts were not engaged.”

  “No, I—I am fond of Jamie,” she said in a faltering voice. “Very fond, Mrs. Weston.”

  “I see.” The older lady’s eyes were keen and direct, so like her son’s. “Did he make you any promises, Olivia?”

  Her composure wavered. “I’m not sure,” she said softly.

  Mrs. Weston smiled and clasped her hand. “I wouldn’t be disappointed, my dear. You’re like a daughter to me already! James couldn’t do better than choose you, and if you love him in return, you would have my blessing—and Mr. Weston’s as well.”

  That made her feel marginally better. She took a deep breath and pulled out her letter. “Could I send this to Jamie? I didn’t know he would be gone so long . . .”

  “Of course. We’ll make this right. Give me your letter and I shall send it to him, along with one of my own. Weston men can be oblivious to all outside their immediate interest unless something smacks them in the face.”

  Gratefully Olivia handed over the note. By the time she reached home her confidence was restored. Jamie would get her note and come home; he would speak to his father, then to her father, and everything would be fine.

  Except it was not. A week later no reply had come, nor had Jamie. Another week passed the same way, and Sir Alfred abruptly told them to pack. They were going to Tunbridge Wells the next day. No explanation was given, and no opposition was tolerated. The whole house felt quiet and tense as they obeyed, and the atmosphere didn’t improve when they reached Tunbridge. In fact, Olivia was just as happy not to speak to her parents at all, until she discovered the reason they had come to town.

  One evening a gentleman named Mr. Walter Townsend dined with them, and the next night he brought his son Henry. Henry was an amiable fellow, moderately handsome and not too tall, who chatted merrily with everyone. Olivia was seated next to him, and when dinner was over and her father asked how she found him, she agreed that he was very charming.

  “Very good,” said Sir Alfred. “You’re to marry him Monday next.”

  Olivia thought she’d misheard him. “What? No—I’m engaged to Jamie Weston! I cannot marry someone I only met tonight!”

  “You can. Walter Townsend is an old friend of mine from university. His son needs a bride, and you need a husband.” He fixed a hard look on her. “Especially one who won’t mind that you’re not as fresh as you look.”

  She felt a rise of panic in her chest. “I won’t!”

  “Thomas Weston said his son is too young to marry. The boy himself told you he wanted to wait a year. Why do you think he did that? He only wanted under your skirt, Olivia.” He shrugged as she recoiled. “It’s not just him, it’s all men. You were a silly fool to let him, and now you’ve got to pay the price.”

  She sat gaping. By now she knew she wasn’t carrying a child, which meant there was no reason not to wait until Jamie returned. But then . . . I cannot wait a year, her father had said. This wasn’t about her honor at all. “How much is Mr. Townsend offering for me?”

  Her father scowled. “None of your concern.”

  “I think it is.” Her voice rose shrilly. “Why must Mr. Townsend resort to buying a bride for his son—is he a lunatic? Will I end up murdered in my bed?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Henry’s a good man in need of a wife to settle him.” Her father turned to go, but paused. “And the answer is four thousand pounds. A handsome sum that will save Kellan Hall.”

  When Olivia went to her mother, the answer was the same. Lady Herbert’s only consolation was an offer to buy her bride clothes in Tunbridge Wells. The marriage contract was signed, the days sped by, and Olivia prayed every night that Jamie would arrive in time. If he appeared even a moment before the wedding service was done, she would run away with him, and damn the marriage contract. She sent a second note and then a third, but deep in her heart she feared there wasn’t enough time. Wherever he’d gone, her letters weren’t catching up to him. She lay awake at night plotting how she would refuse to speak during the ceremony, but her father had taken care of that. The curate was paid well and he plowed right over her stubborn silence. With a bemused look, Henry slid a ring on her finger, and it was done.

  Four days later Jamie arrived. Olivia heard his voice, echoing urgently through Henry’s small house, and then she heard him pounding up the stairs. He burst into the drawing room, dusty and disheveled and wild-eyed. “Tell me it’s a lie,” he demanded. “Tell
me . . .” His voice died as she deliberately folded her hands to show her ring.

  She’d had four days to prepare for this. Four days to acquaint herself with the knowledge that Jamie would never be hers, that the stolen day by the pond in the woods was a halcyon moment of bliss, not a portent of her life to come. So far Henry didn’t seem a bad sort—he was so charming, everyone liked him immediately, and he had a generous allowance from his father—but he would never be Jamie.

  And part of her blamed Jamie for everything. He’d made her a vow, then carelessly walked away without securing her father’s permission. If only he’d come to see her father right away. If only he hadn’t gone rambling about the countryside without so much as a farewell visit. If only he’d stayed in posting inns where her letters could have reached him. But he hadn’t, and now she was paying for it.

  “How do you do, Mr. Weston?” she said evenly. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “No!” He strode across the room, stopping only when she took a step backward. “Why, Livie? What happened?”

  The anguish in his voice was real, and it tore at her heart. Whatever else he was guilty of, Jamie did care for her. Her composure wobbled. “My father arranged the match. He was concerned for my reputation.”

  He flinched as if struck before his horrified gaze dropped to her midsection. “My God. You’re not—?”

  “No!” She glanced uneasily at the door, but a helpful servant had closed it behind Jamie. “I’m not carrying your child.”

  Relief flooded his face, followed quickly by angry confusion. “Then why such haste? Even if he feared such a thing, I should have been the one he turned to.”

  “But you weren’t here,” she said tightly. “You left without a word of where you would be or when you would return.”

  He flung up his hand in a gesture of impatience. “I only intended to be gone for a few weeks. I wrote and told you so.”

  “But you gave him no reason to wait!” Her temper was fraying. “You never came to ask his permission—”

  “As if he would have refused,” Jamie scoffed. “We both know he would have squeezed my father for every last farthing and fetched a curate as soon as the contract was signed.”

  It was true, and it made her furious. “Oh, you know he would have consented, but still you couldn’t be bothered to speak to him? What does that say about you, James Weston?”

  He flushed. His mouth compressed. “I didn’t know he was so anxious to marry you off.”

  “Neither did I!” She pressed her hands to her face, which burned with anger and humiliation. “You didn’t even tell your parents . . . Perhaps you didn’t really mean to go through with it, and that whole day was a lark to you—”

  “Don’t say that,” he interrupted. “I meant every word I said!”

  “But those were only words, Jamie—they were not binding, and they couldn’t be exchanged for money!” She was breathing hard now, vibrating with agony. “That’s all my father wanted—the money. If you’d been there, he would have got it from you, but you weren’t, so he got it from Mr. Townsend. And I’m married to someone I don’t even know.”

  Jamie stared at her, looking stunned and angry and very young. For the first time Olivia felt like the older and wiser one of them; it seemed as though she’d aged a decade in the last week. “I didn’t know. You—you didn’t tell me!” Growing agitated again, he plunged one hand into his pocket and pulled out her letter, crumpled and stained. “I was all the way to Wiltshire before it caught up to me—my mother sent it to the wrong inn. You didn’t hint at anything like this! Livie, you only asked when I planned to return home. If my mother’s letter hadn’t scolded me, I wouldn’t have taken any alarm at all. I turned back but I would have raced like the wind had I know how urgent it was . . .” He shook his head, frustrated and perplexed. “Olivia, we talked about waiting a year. I didn’t think there was any rush to speak to your father. I wanted to establish myself first.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time now,” she replied before she could stop herself.

  Jamie’s eyes flashed. “You never told me how bad things had become at home. I knew your father was in debt but I’d no idea he was this desperate.”

  Olivia gave a despairing laugh. “Well. That hardly matters now.”

  The wild, mad light went out of his eyes. All the light, in fact. He stared at her ill-fated letter for a moment, running his thumb over it to remove the creases. “No. I suppose not.”

  For a long moment, so long it seemed to last an eternity, they stood in silence. Olivia’s fury had vanished and now she had to blink back tears. The urge to fling herself into Jamie’s arms and beg him to take her away was almost overpowering. She knew it would be fruitless, and unfair to Jamie, but at this moment, when her life seemed to be ending just when she’d thought it was about to begin, she felt she would gladly throw away any chance of respectability if only they could be together.

  “Jamie,” she began, then stopped. She mustn’t think of him that way any longer. “Mr. Weston. I hope we can remain friends. Anything else between us”—her voice shook, and she paused—“would be improper.”

  In the days since her wedding, she’d had time to think about whether she wanted to shut Jamie, and all the Westons, out of her life. It might be easier, but they had been everything to her for years. Her own family had never loved her as much as the Westons did, and now she could barely stand to think of her parents.

  But to keep her friendship with Abigail and Penelope, she would have to maintain a civil relationship with Jamie. The only way she could do that was to keep him at arm’s length, now and forever. To lose her love was terrible, but to lose everyone she cared about was unbearable.

  She’d told herself this several times over the last few days, and wept each time. Odd how it hurt far more now that she had to tell him.

  “This is not how I hoped our relationship would change,” she went on, forcing out each word, “but what’s done is done. It would be best if we kept our regrets to ourselves.”

  He raised his head. His eyes were dead when they met hers. “Yes. If that is what you wish, Mrs. Townsend.” The name sounded leaden and ugly on his lips, and sent another spasm of anguish through her. “I apologize for disturbing you. As you say, what’s done is done.” He paused, his gaze searching, almost as if waiting for her to beg him to carry her away with him. And Olivia’s resolve wavered. God help her, if he said they should run off, propriety be damned . . .

  “I suppose that’s all there is to say,” he said instead. “Good day.” His steps sounded heavy as he turned and left.

  A few minutes later Henry strolled in. “Who was that?”

  Olivia had retreated to the window. Below her, Jamie collected the reins of his horse and swung into the saddle. Without once looking up, he turned and rode off. Pressure built inside her chest until she thought she would suffocate. He was leaving, and all her hopes and dreams lay in ashes in his wake. She laid her palm against the pane of glass as if she would draw him back to her side

  “Are you unwell, Olivia?” Henry asked absently. He was reading the racing report and didn’t even glance at her. “Did the fellow upset you?”

  She swiped a stray tear from her cheek. Down in the streets below, Jamie turned a corner and disappeared from view. “No,” she whispered in reply to her husband’s question. “I’m fine. It was only an old friend.”

  And nothing more. Never anything more.

  Part Two

  They know not I knew thee,

  Who knew thee so well—

  Long, long I shall rue thee,

  Too deeply to tell.

  —Lord Byron

  Chapter 4

  1822

  Gravesend, Kent

  The clock above the clerk’s desk had stopped, and so had time itself, in Olivia Townsend’s estimation.

  “Will Mr. Armand be much longer?” she asked. Her back ached; she’d been sitting on the hard wooden chair for hours. She had no idea how many, b
ecause the clock had stopped, but it felt like a dozen at least.

  “I don’t know,” replied the clerk without looking up from his task. “He’s a very busy man, madam.”

  Olivia supposed that was true. While she had been sitting here, at least three other clients had come and gone, each one shown directly into Mr. Armand’s private office on arrival. The clerk had bowed and simpered for them, but otherwise he left his stool only to put more coal on the fire or to fetch a mug of ale from the tavern across the street. Since the fire was across the room from her and he hadn’t offered to fetch her a drink, neither of these actions improved Olivia’s opinion of him. She was beginning to imagine snatching the quill out of his hand and breaking it before she stormed into the inner office and confronted the solicitor. The last client had left some time ago and no other had appeared. Unless the clerk lied to her, Mr. Armand had been aware of her presence, and duly ignored it, since midday.

  The clerk turned a page, his pen scratching endlessly across the ledger. He must be transcribing a history of the world, Olivia thought in aggravation.

  “Would you please remind him that I am waiting?” She didn’t bother hiding the edge to her words.

  The clerk peered at her over his glasses. He was an older man, paunchy and graying, and there was no mistaking the disapproval in his glare. “He is aware of it, madam.”

  “I think he must have forgotten,” she exclaimed. “I’ve come in response to a package he sent me. He was my husband’s solicitor for many years—”

  “Mr. Charters was your husband’s solicitor, Mrs. Townsend,” interrupted the clerk. “Mr. Armand merely took over the practice.”

  “If he no longer handles the work, he may as well deliver all my husband’s files and records to me.” Olivia smiled at the clerk’s dour expression. “Since my husband is dead, I’m sure they’re only collecting dust. Give them to me and I shall be on my way without troubling Mr. Armand.”

  He turned back to his writing without the courtesy of an answer. Olivia’s fraying patience snapped. She stood up just as a door at the end of the room opened. “Mrs. Townsend,” said the gentleman in the doorway. “Won’t you come in?”