by June Calvin
“You thought that part of his will was aimed at you, but he planned that trust long ago for Livvy’s protection, no matter whom she married.”
“I realize that now. My foolish pride cost me much. Now I mean to gain it back. With your help, hopefully.”
Jason nodded eagerly. “I’ll help as much as I can.”
“Then you’ll sell me your land?”
“As to that, I will have to convince my uncle. He is my guardian until I am twenty-one.”
Corbright nodded. “I know. Allow me to try to convince him, will you?”
Jason still hesitated, so Corbright changed the subject. “Do see if you can get Livvy to go about socially, will you? I know I’ve a good deal of ground to make up with her. Can’t do it if I can never see her.”
“That I will, Frank. That I will.” Jason grinned as he held out his hand to Corbright. “She can’t be entirely indifferent or she wouldn’t have set Aunt Lavvy to sewing a new gown, would she?”
“Ah! Then that wasn’t a project already begun before our confrontation?”
“Lud, no.” Jason chuckled. “You hit just the right chord, saying she was wearing the willow for you. Touched her pride on the raw, that did.”
“I thought as much.” Corbright smiled with satisfaction. “Are you going to the Hervilles’ party?”
“Yes, but Olivia does not plan to attend.”
Corbright tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t tell her I know she doesn’t plan to go. Perfect way to work on her—tell her she has to, or I will realize she lied to me. One way or another, get her to go.”
Jason once again assured Corbright of his cooperation. After the older man took his leave, Jason paced up and down on the terrace, his mind whirring with possibilities. He tried to picture his life without the responsibility for Beaumont. What a difference it would make to Livvy, too! Edmund had suggested much the same thing: she would find time upon her hands once his estate was off them. He grinned at the thought. He could just picture her consternation.
He groaned and dropped into one of the veranda chairs. His uncle would cut up rough. How could Corbright hope to persuade that staunch traditionalist that he should be allowed to give up the land that was his birthright?
Chapter Eleven
Jason did not know if he could convince his uncle to let him sell his land, but Corbright had given him a very good idea how to get his sister to attend the Herville affair.
“Hullo, Liv. Still at it?” he asked, sticking his head in the door to her office.
Olivia looked up from her column of figures. “One moment,” she said, and penciled in a number. “Come in. Corbright gone?”
“Yes, it’s safe to come out. But something has come up. I hope I handled it as you would have wished.”
Olivia’s brow wrinkled. “What?”
“He asked if you were going to the Hervilles’ next Saturday. I said yes.”
“You did? But Jason, you know I don’t—”
“Want to go? I know, but you told Corbright you had already planned to resume your social life. I thought if I let him know you weren’t going, it would show you up.”
Olivia slumped back in her seat. “Oh, that’s right.” She thought a moment. “Thank you, brother. That was clever of you. You think very fast on your feet!”
“You’ve no idea, Livvy. No idea at all.”
“No doubt about it, Miss Olivia. ’Tis an abundant harvest!” Mr. Bleck forgot his antagonism for his female employer in his countryman’s enthusiasm for a good year. He waved his hands to encompass the Ormhill lands. “Barns all full and hay cocks standing everywhere!”
“Indeed, Jeremiah. And our grain crops near ripening. We can begin cutting the wheat soon. Do you think this weather will hold?”
The old man squinted up at the August sky. “Never see’d such a year when the rain fell just as you’d wish, then held off when you needed it to, as if you’d got the Almighty on your side.”
She smiled at him. “You’ve been a great help to me. I’m glad you came back.”
“Aye, well . . .” Bleck’s sun-bronzed face turned even redder. “That ’ere Lord Corbright ’n’ his fancy machine’ll be a long time getting in his hay! Serves ’im right, putting honest folks out o’ work.”
Worry clouded Olivia’s eyes. Corbright’s mowing machine was broken more often than working, if reports were accurate, but she had no doubt future machines would be improved. Would they do for agriculture what machine looms had done for weaving? If so, the results could be as devastating for the country folk as they had been for the weavers. What would happen then to the people who had worked on the land from time immemorial?
Jason and Edmund waved from the hill above, and she turned her mare to join them. She meant to show them the plantation project she had begun to improve Jason’s woods. Her brother told her eagerly of the hares they had coursed earlier in the morning, while Edmund rode silently beside him. Olivia’s attention wandered from her brother’s story to wonder at the taciturnity of their guest, for such she insisted on calling him, to herself and others.
That midnight kiss might never have happened. Had her last jape at him about his seeking to seduce her offended him? Or merely convinced him it was a hopeless task? Or was he behaving in accordance with his own notions of what was proper, given their relative status? At any rate, he behaved toward her with a stiff correctness that prevented their almost constant association from being other than professional.
She knew she should be glad that, whatever the reason, he had conducted himself with perfect propriety toward her, yet she found him often on her mind, and knew she felt a disappointment at his withdrawal that wisdom would condemn.
Of one thing she had become utterly convinced: Edmund sincerely wished to know all there was to know about farming and managing an estate. After putting in long hours during the day at various farm chores, with Jason by his side, he spent the evenings reading in her agricultural library. Her brother, who had taken the physical involvement in farm-work in stride, had drawn the line at such dull study.
At least Jason had not resumed his restless rounds of local taverns, looking for games of chance and other forms of low entertainment. Lord Edmund Debham’s advent and the subsequent wager had given him enough physical activity during the daytime that most nights he was content to dine at home or with neighbors, shooting billiards and gossiping.
This train of thought brought her to the Hervilles’ party that evening. Lavinia had admonished her sternly to return by noon to have a bath and a rest, so she could dance late into the night. She hoped her refurbished gown would look well for her reappearance in society.
Edmund studied his image in the mirror critically. His evening clothes fit him well. Too well, perhaps? He had half hoped they might not pass muster, because he had no desire to go among the gentry of Norvale. He felt sure his lack of fortune would cause the parents of young females to look at him askance. Plus he would have to watch Franklin continue to pursue Olivia. The evening they had sat together on the couch, occasionally holding hands and whispering together, had convinced him that Olivia was open to a rapprochement with Corbright. Edmund felt sure a persistent wooing would win her again for her handsome, wealthy former fiancé. After all, hadn’t she been wearing the willow for him for three years?
As promised, Edmund had been firmly suppressing any inclination to seduce Olivia or win her affections, and just as firmly suppressing any inclination on his own part to feel more than he ought. Whenever he felt any flutterings of tender emotion, as he often did as he watched her go so intently about her work, he had but to remind himself of her own harsh and accurate words summing up how little he had to offer a wife.
Still, the thought of her as Corbright’s bride gave him a gut-wrenching pain that he hoped he would feel for any young woman in danger of coming under that man’s power.
“It will have to do,” Edmund said, dismissing Morton with a sigh. He had little experience in matters of civilian
dress, but felt sure he looked ridiculous in such tight-fitting clothing.
“It will do very well, my lord,” the servant who had become his de facto valet assured him.
Jason bounded into the room just then. “I say! You put me completely in the shade!”
Edmund smile deprecatingly. “Cut line. I won’t shab off, even though this suit is too tight, so no need to flatter me.”
They went into the hall, to find Lavinia waiting for them. When she caught sight of Edmund, she sighed. “Magnificent! Not Meyer’s work. Let me see. Stultz?”
Surprised that she had recognized his tailor, he nodded.
“Edmund thinks it’s too tight.”
“Nonsense. Now if it were Weston, it would have taken two men to get you in it!”
Edmund shook his head in wonderment. “Glad I took Stultz, then.”
The three of them started toward the stairs, when Olivia emerged from her room down the hall. “What do you think?” she asked them anxiously, smoothing a nervous hand down the side of her refurbished gown.
Edmund stopped short to stare unabashedly at the vision before him. Olivia’s hair had been arranged to display all of its natural curl, upswept at the crown and with short ringlets teased forward around her face. Longer curls fell from the crown, fat dark curls that trailed alluringly over one shoulder. Her dress showed to perfection her lovely bosom and fell in graceful, clinging folds that delineated her long torso and legs. The deep rose color made her eyes seem even more brilliantly blue than usual.
Forgetting his determination to keep his distance from her, he spoke directly and from the heart. “I know nothing of fashion, Miss Olivia Ormhill,” he said, “but you are paradise to look upon. May I take this opportunity to request a waltz? For the second you step in the door you will be inundated with beaux.”
Her eyes shone with something he had not seen there before except perhaps briefly in the moonlit garden when they had shared that magical kiss. For a moment the usually self-possessed Miss Olivia Ormhill looked quite flustered. She lowered her eyes, and with a small, shy smile, nodded her head.
In truth, Olivia’s head buzzed with improper thoughts about the man who stood so close to her. In a formfitting evening coat and breeches he looked sophisticated, cultured, and overwhelmingly male.
“Right, then.” He stepped forward and offered her his arm. He supported her down the stairs, followed by her brother and aunt, strangely silent behind them.
“Olivia, my darling, you look marvelous. Not anywhere near as brown as I feared you might. And Lavinia! Not one more inch of avoir du pois. How do you do it?” Thus Mrs. Herville greeted the female members of the Ormhill party. Edmund braced himself for similar treatment, but their hostess surprised him.
“You do us great honor, my lord, to grace our humble gathering. I was never so glad as when Lavinia told me you would accept our invitation.”
He scanned her puffy face for signs of sarcasm, but she seemed genuinely glad to see him. Her husband, too, shook his hand with great cordiality. As he stepped into the room, he could hear Mrs. Herville crowing over Jason. “Dear boy! You have grown a foot this summer!”
Ahead of him, Lavinia and Olivia were laughing behind their fans. Glad to see the woman’s insults had not bothered them, he stepped up in time to hear Olivia saying, “No, Aunt Lavinia. You have not won, for Mrs. Herville did not insult me in her very first sentence.”
“I insist that saying you looked marvelous was the beginning of the insult, for she was being sarcastic.”
Edmund chuckled. “So the Ormhill females wager, too.”
“Indeed, sir, but I never bet except upon a sure thing, and Mrs. Herville’s insults are that!” Olivia giggled, then turned back toward the room.
It immediately became apparent that they were the objects of intense scrutiny by the assembled guests. In knots of two or three, people stood in attitudes indicative of interrupted conversation, their eyes fixed upon the party by the door.
“Well, it begins,” Olivia said, drawing herself up to her full height. “I knew my returning to society would cause comment, but this is more than I had dared to hope for.” Head held high, she stepped forward. Lavinia took Edmund’s offered arm and followed her niece as she made her way to the nearest group. There Olivia presented Edmund to each of the three young ladies present. As he acknowledged the introductions to the misses Herville and a sweet-faced young woman named Mary Benson, he heard Corbright’s voice.
“Olivia. You look enchanting. That gown surely came from Paris?” He winked at Jason, for it was the one he had seen Lavinia remaking.
“Certainly not, nephew,” another masculine voice argued. Edmund turned to see a short, rotund man of about fifty standing at Corbright’s side, eyeing Olivia speculatively. “If you will but give me a moment, I will tell you exactly which London modiste made it.”
“May I present my uncle, Mr. Peter Barteau?” Corbright went around the circle, introducing all of the people standing there in turn, except for Edmund.
Olivia, mouth tight, interrupted his conversational gambit upon the weather. “Lord Corbright forgot to introduce our houseguest and my brother’s good friend, Lord Edmund Debham,” she said to Mr. Barteau, turning her back on his nephew as she spoke.
“Ah, yes.” Mr. Barteau surveyed Edmund up and down. “Coat by Stultz, what?”
“Indeed, sir. You have it, the second this evening to guess it at a glance, leaving me to wonder if this tailor sews his name somewhere on the outside of the garment.” Edmund smiled at the friendly face lifted to his.
“Certainly it is, though I fancied no other but me would be able to read it. Who is my rival in fashion knowledge?”
“Miss Ormhill,” Edmund responded, motioning toward Lavinia.
“Uncle, would you not like to join Mr. Perry? He is a tulip of the ton, and doubtless would like to learn your opinion of the latest fashions.”
“Bah. A geranium is more like it. Color-blind, too. Now, Lord Edmund here has exquisite taste, and needs no padding, I’ll vow. That silver embroidery with burgundy accents makes your vest an object of beauty.”
“And just that touch of color makes the corbeau and white of evening dress stand out, don’t you think?” Lavinia chimed in. Edmund felt like an object on display in a store window as the two perused him. Only the friendly, open face of Mr. Barteau, and the clear irritation of Corbright, kept him from excusing himself.
“Exactly. So you are Miss Ormhill?” Mr. Barteau looked at Lavinia with interest. “My nephew did not tell me his intended was a fashion maven.”
“Not her, Uncle,” Corbright growled, turning Barteau about by the elbow. “That is Lavinia Ormhill. This is my fiancée—Olivia Ormhill.”
“I am not your fiancée,” Olivia hissed.
“Ah, yes, she of the lovely gown,” Mr. Barteau boomed. He turned immediately back to Lavinia. “You and your niece clearly have the same fine mantua maker, but I am puzzled. The fitting technique has something of Mrs. Triaud to it, but the drape speaks more of Mrs. Bean. Oh, if I could only get a glimpse of the stitching and the hem. The finishing tells the tale.”
“Indeed it does.” Lavinia nodded. “No matter how well cut or draped, a dress looks second-rate unless the—”
“Come, Olivia,” Corbright said, taking her by the elbow. “You cannot wish to listen to this any further.”
She pulled free. “Indeed, I am quite fascinated. But Mr. Barteau, I am sure you cannot guess the mantua maker, no, not even if you have a look at the construction.” Her smile was mischievous. “Don’t you agree, Aunt?”
Barteau bristled. “I am sure I can, young woman. It was made in London, I know that. One does not find such dressmaking in the provinces.”
Olivia laughed at that. “Made right here in Norvale.”
“No, by Jove! You are bamming me! And your gown, Miss Lavinia Ormhill. Clearly by the same hand.” Mr. Barteau hopped from one foot to the other in his eagerness to work out the puzzle. “Do tell me
what local mantua maker has such ability?”
“Oh, put him out of his misery, Miss Ormhill,” Corbright snapped. “She made the wretched things. Now do come away, Olivia.”
“Yes, do,” the elder Miss Herville, Jane by name, pleaded. “I wish you to meet some more of my guests, for I do not believe you know George and Arthur Swalen. You, too, Lord Edmund.” She led the young people away from the older couple’s fashion discussion, which continued unabated.
“So this is the prize of that famous wager,” the elder brother, George, cried, upon being introduced to Olivia. “I have had it incorrectly, for I heard you lost, Lord Edmund, and thus had to marry her. Meeting you, Miss Ormhill, I cannot believe it to be thus.”
Edmund frowned. “That drunken wager was null and void the minute it was made. Please do not further any discussion that causes Miss Ormhill embarrassment.”
“Hear, hear!” Corbright threw in. “For once we are in complete agreement, Edmund. I intend to have a word with that innkeeper, to stop such talk.”
“One look at Miss Ormhill will put it to the lie. At least the part about Lord Edmund losing and being forced to wed her.” George smiled down at Olivia. “May I hope you will favor me with a dance after dinner?”
“And me?” The younger brother chimed in.
Olivia would have preferred to say no. She saw little to like in either of these young men, with their bold, roving eyes. Politeness dictated that she agree, however.
“Good,” George crowed. “I shall have your waltz.”
“I am sorry, it is already spoken for, sir. Another dance, perhaps.”
A few minutes and all of Olivia’s dances were bespoken, as the informal evening would include only a few sets. Dinner was announced, and Corbright, who had stood at her elbow during the entire discussion of her dances without reserving any, offered Olivia his arm to escort her to the table. She accepted reluctantly.
