“Harrison, I need your help.” She grabbed one of the baskets and disappeared again.
At the back of the cottage, he found her lying on her stomach facing into a small shed. The basket was open at her side. What was she doing?
“Shhh. Don’t scare him.” She looked intently into the dark.
He saw no other option; he lay on the ground beside her.
“Him?”
“When Bertie’s parents fell ill, they made him stay here. It’s filled with blankets—he’s been quite warm—and some toys from his father. I’ve put them in the basket. Do you hear that?”
“What?” Harrison was rarely taken off guard, but this version of Olivia—sympathetic and daring—was baffling and fascinating all at once.
“That! Listen.”
Harrison waited, unmoving, then he heard it, a soft whimper or perhaps a grunt.
“I think it’s a puppy or perhaps a piglet. I’ve been throwing bits of food in to tease it out.”
“Have you considered that it might be something less pleasant? A skunk, vole, weasel?”
“Shhh. You’ll scare him.”
He fell silent as she threw a handful of crumbs to the edge of the shed.
A very long time later, after the damp of the earth had thoroughly soaked through Harrison’s waistcoat, a small red fox pup crawled to the edge of the shed. Olivia reached out slowly and scratched behind its ears, then patiently waited until it allowed her to scoop it up.
When she rose, the pup cradled against her chest, Harrison could see she’d been lying on a blue blanket from the wagon.
“You had a blanket!”
“And?” She looked at him as if he were mad.
“So, you’re not wet.”
“Wet?”
“You weren’t lying in the dirt, so you aren’t wet.”
She looked puzzled, then amused. “I suppose you are cold as well.”
“Yes, I’m wet, and I’m cold . . . and all for a fox who might well be shot in Heron’s next hunt.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Oh, no. We’re taking the pup back to the estate. Without his parents, Bertie is going to feel lost and alone. I won’t deny him his pet.” Her face was delightfully animated.
“Wait. Is Bertie staying at the estate?”
Her face fell, and he wished he had said nothing. “I forget that I haven’t the right to make those decisions. It is, of course, up to you. But Heron will put the boy in a workhouse. That’s why his parents sent him to the abbey.”
Harrison wondered if hers was the zeal of one orphan for another, and found he could not deny her.
“Then I suppose we should find a way to get that pup home safely.”
The smile on her face was worth the damp and the cold.
Chapter Nineteen
“Where are we?” A wiry man looked out the window of the carriage. “We should be smelling peat by now.”
“I changed the plan. I’ve secured us lodgings at an inn not far from here.” Archer leaned back into the shadow, the embers in his pipe providing the only light in the coach. “Our gypsy has continued her investigations, ignoring your warning. It seemed wise to follow her home.”
The wiry man rubbed his shoulder, remembering the hard shove from the actress’s rescuer. “I told her what you said—that she wouldn’t be the only one to suffer if she kept looking into other people’s business and that sometimes secrets are best left as secrets. But we were interrupted before I could tell her the rest.”
“That’s unfortunate. We will have to try again.”
“I don’t understand the game you are playing. We join forces with that madwoman. We hire Charters and his thugs. All to find out which journalist is asking all the wrong questions. But when we find out who she is and where she lives, you try to warn her off. If she keeps digging, Calista or one of the others will likely kill her. Why not let them?”
“I believe we can resolve this peaceably, Brinker.” Archer began to say more, then stopped.
“She didn’t seem peaceable.” Brinker chewed on a bit of a stick he used to pick his teeth. “Did I tell you she threatened me with her penknife? As if she thought she could best me.”
Archer laughed slightly. “She likely could. She takes after her mother. A hellion, that one was, with a pretty ebony-handled penknife she carried in her boot.”
“I thought you said she lost her mother in infancy.”
“She did. But the resemblance is uncanny—even under all that paint, no one could mistake it. When I saw her on the street last year, I thought I’d seen a ghost.” The man’s tone grew thoughtful, perhaps even wistful. “The cheekbones, the lips, the hue of her skin, that’s all her mother. In the right circles, she’d be recognized in an instant. Luckily those circles are far from here.”
“Do you want me to try again? Make it clear that if we found her, others can too?”
“For now, we’ll wait, perhaps on reflection she’ll take our advice. Ah, we are here. They should have rooms under your name.”
Brinker hopped from the carriage and pushed the door shut. Inside, Archer sat silently. He opened the window and rapped his pipe against the coach door to empty the spent tobacco. Then reaching into his boot, he pulled out a penknife and caressed its ebony handle.
Chapter Twenty
Olivia approached Sir Roderick’s room with Harrison close on her heels. She unlocked the door with one of the keys hanging from a watch-chain at her waist. An old-fashioned device, he noticed, like his grandmother’s chatelaine.
“You will find your father’s room much as he left it. His private papers and his favorite books remain here. If a scholar wishes to use one of Sir Roderick’s books, I remove it for the day, then return it before I retire.” She directed him to enter before her.
The room was recently aired, the windows open wide. Even so, for a moment, Walgrave imagined he smelled a hint of his father’s favorite tobacco, sweet-scented and mild. The furniture was heavily carved, a vestige of times past. Unlike his room in the tower, everything remained as it had been the last time he’d visited.
He walked in, measuring his steps with memories. “You have been very scrupulous. I should thank you.”
“I preserved this room for myself, not you. Sometimes when I need advice on how to manage some aspect of the estate, I come in here to think it through.” She placed her hand on the table, rubbing the wood absently with her thumb. “I sit here, and I imagine what he might have done if he were making the decision.”
Her obvious affection for his father grated. “And does his ghost speak to you?” His words sounded caustic and dismissive, even to his own ears.
Her reaction was telling: a quick roll of her eyes, a slight disapproving nod of her head. “As I said in the music room, every house has ghosts. But while I would welcome your father’s, he does not visit me. You are the one he haunts.”
“What do you mean?” Harrison bristled.
“Your anger. You carry it everywhere. But I think I have the means to help you exorcise his ghost.” She opened the tall wardrobe in the near corner. “In the last months of his life, he dictated to me a journal of sorts.” She held out a volume in a limp vellum binding. “These were his last thoughts for you. I recorded the words as exactly as I could, hoping you might hear his voice once more.”
He took the book from her hands, not certain he wanted to untie the cover.
“I’ll be in my dressing room if you have need of me.” She walked to the door adjoining his father’s rooms, and he raised one brow quizzically. “In your father’s last illness, I removed to your mother’s room to be close to him.” She regarded him closely. “He loved you, you know. You might not have felt it was love, but he loved you all the same.”
Harrison sat at the table at the foot of his father’s bed and opened the diary. But at the first entry he stopped cold.
I did what I thought was best, son, in marrying you to Olivia. I hope you have come to see the wisdom of that choice.
<
br /> He flung the book across the room. Wisdom? He had never hated his father as much as he did when he’d discovered his father’s marriage plot.
“How did you do it?” His voice had been cold, and he’d felt a bone-deep anger that he could still taste, even after all these years.
His father hadn’t answered, only twisted his cane back and forth.
“I would bet on senna and valerian—two of your favorite remedies.” Harrison worked out the details as he spoke. “That would explain my sudden illness and my resulting stupor. Your men had only to wait, then help me into a carriage.”
“I’ve begged you to come home for months. I even offered to come to your club in London.” His father’s voice was quiet, his face worn and tired. “You left me no choice.”
“Forcing me to marry isn’t going to bring them back. Mother, Celia, my brothers—they will all still be dead. Marriage only gives me more to mourn—a wife, children.”
“It’s not about mourning, boy. It’s about living. You’ve been adrift, your eye always on the horizon. Marriage will settle you, tie you to this land. You are my heir, and I want to die knowing you will honor your responsibilities. A wife, children, that is your future.”
“The world is at war, and you want me to marry, have children, live a small life on a country estate. I want to live a big life, whether that’s abroad or in Parliament.”
His father had rammed his cane into the floor. “Big? What sort of criterion is that? What is a life of responsibility to others, to your family, to your tenants, if not a big life?” His father spat the word. “Here’s my offer—it’s the only one you will get—I’ll let you go abroad, test your wings, have the Grand Tour, whatever you wish, but only if you honor my wishes in this. You must marry before you go.” The old man fell back in his chair, coughing, blood on his handkerchief.
“My ship leaves in a fortnight, Father. I haven’t time to court some miss and marry her in only fourteen days’ time.” As an afterthought, he offered a gesture of conciliation. “If there were time, if some perfect miss wanted to marry me, then I would marry before I go. But there’s no time, and there’s no perfect girl.”
His father smiled, a smile that he’d seen too often, a smile that meant his father thought he had the game tied up. “I’m glad to hear that, boy, because I’ve managed it already. I’ve got a nice young miss for you to marry, even a pretty one. Knew her father years ago. All the agreements have been signed, got a special license from the bishop. All we need is the ceremony, and the parson comes tomorrow.”
Harrison had felt his heart grow hard. “Father, that’s not fair to the chit or to me. Let me come back in three years’ time. I’ll court her, and if we suit, I’ll marry her.”
“I’m dying, son.” His father’s voice had softened, and Harrison had turned away so his father wouldn’t see his tears. “I won’t be alive in three years’ time, and before I die, I need to know you are settled. I haven’t asked you for much. I’ve let you learn what you wanted, go to the schools you wanted, even to Cambridge—though, for the life of me, I don’t know why you had to have that school instead of Oxford with your brothers. Now I’m letting you sail around the Continent, while there’s a bloody war in France. I want you to have a reason to live through whatever it is you have planned.”
Harrison looked up, trying to read the old man’s face.
“Don’t think you’ve fooled me pretending to be all foppish and silly this last year. I’m not sure exactly what you are planning, but I’ve still enough friends in the government to confirm something’s afoot. I’ve even heard your berth is on a navy ship, but you know I would never allow that.”
Harrison sat down, surprised . . . and not. “Then you should understand why I don’t wish to marry.” He leaned forward, meeting the old man’s eyes, blue like his own. “The wars rage on apace. Why saddle a young woman with a husband who might not return?”
“You can marry—and you will—or you won’t go.” His father’s voice grew hard, harder than Harrison had ever heard. “The old king might be ill, but he remembers an old friend.”
“You can’t expect an heir—not in only a fortnight.”
“It’s not an heir. It’s you. You need ballast, something to give you weight. A wife, the possibility of children—that’s the cure for your wandering. And Olivia, my boy, she doesn’t know it yet, but she’s the kind of woman who makes civilizations tumble. I’ve never met a woman who could match you but her. Meet her. If you would only give her a chance, you might find you want to marry her.”
Harrison looked at the door to his mother’s, now Olivia’s rooms, and he picked up his father’s journal from where he’d flung it. The cover was bent back, and the first pages torn, but he smoothed them out. Perhaps it was true; perhaps there had been wisdom in his father’s choice for him. Olivia was right as well: He needed an exorcism, but reading his father’s journal wasn’t the only way to do it.
* * *
Olivia stood facing an open trunk, her back to the door. Beside her a tall glass-fronted bookcase held a collection of... Harrison squinted . . . rocks? It couldn’t be, not when she was wrapping each one with the care one would give one of the crown jewels.
She was half turned away from him, giving him ample time to admire her form, her bearing. His eyes caressed the gentle line that led from her neck to the curve of her shoulder, then down the length of her torso until it flared smoothly at her hips. When she bent down to tuck the object in a safe position in the trunk and her skirt clung to her rounded bottom, he felt the ancient pull to take her in his arms. To convince her to remain his countess, he would need the careful words of a seasoned orator, not the heedless lust of a hot-blooded boy.
He turned to look at the room. Once again, nothing was the same. His mother’s wedding gift from his father had been furniture, and she’d chosen frivolous rococo pieces with dragon-headed finials, pagoda shapes, and painted monkeys. That damn chinoiserie, his father had called it, but he’d never refused her.
Olivia’s taste ran to simpler lines. A Pembroke table with reeded legs sat near an elegant, almost Egyptian-inspired settee. Incongruously, she’d kept his mother’s heavy tester bed, but replaced the curtains with lighter colors and more symmetrical patterns.
“You have refurbished the room.”
“Ah, there you are.” Olivia shut the doors to the cabinet holding her collection. “When I moved into her room, your father insisted on replacing the furniture. He claimed it was part of my wedding gift, allowing me to feel the estate was my home. But, in truth, he wasn’t ready for someone else to use your mother’s things. He loved her very much.”
“We all did.” He turned away from the sudden and unexpected well of grief. “She painted this room a cold slate-blue. This green is better, lighter, even sunny.”
“Your father picked it. He hired a firm of colourmen from London to make recommendations, then he threw them all out. He mixed the paints himself from pigments he ordered from Ackermann’s.” She looked at the walls. “If we ever need to make a repair, we will simply have to begin again.” She hesitated, then corrected herself. “I mean you, of course. It is hard to stop saying we.”
“Then don’t. Stop, I mean. We can work something out. Perhaps I could come to the estate more often, or you could come to London. We could have children.”
She hesitated, then looked away.
He didn’t press; he would convince her slowly. He walked to the window. The old dark brocaded curtains that had covered the window when he was a boy had been replaced with light-colored figural tapestries. “Let me guess: ancient mythology.”
“That’s not even a guess. The figures are all wearing classical robes. No, if you are to guess, you must pick the specific stories.”
He held the tapestry out, intending to look at the images. But before he could answer, a towheaded child—not more than seven—ran through the courtyard. The little girl turned and waved at his window. He tried to breathe, but the wind ha
d been struck from his lungs. It was a ghost, his childhood companion Trist, waving at him to come play.
“Harrison, are you well? Your face has gone quite white.” Olivia followed his gaze out the window, then waved at the child. “That’s Cora, Mrs. Pier’s granddaughter. She attends the village school in the mornings.”
“I thought she. . . .” He stood staring at the child by the servants’ entrance, then shook himself. “She reminded me unexpectedly of a friend who died too young.”
“You were close.” It wasn’t a question. Olivia stood at the window with him. The nearness of her, the sweet scent of her perfume, in a moment so fraught with grief, encouraged his confidences.
“More than that. Trist saved my life.”
“She did?” Her voice carried all the surprise he’d expected. He’d never told anyone, not even Trist, how much he owed her. But now that he was home, it was inevitable that he would remember all of it. But just because the memories were inevitable didn’t mean he had to bear them alone. Perhaps if he told Olivia, she might be less determined to leave. And he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his days missing her.
“My mother died from the whooping cough. For days, the coughs racked her body, turning her blue from lack of air. Between bouts, she would gasp for breath, until the next set of coughs began. Eventually exhaustion turned to pneumonia. I blamed—still blame—myself. I knew I was sick when I came home for the holiday, but I wanted to come home so desperately. I never fit in well at school, not even with the friendship of the Somervilles, and I thought it was merely a cold.”
“From what your father told me about your mother, she would never have left you at school if you were sick. She would have demanded to retrieve you.”
“She didn’t like me being gone any more than I liked being away. After she died, I would stay here for hours on end, lying in her bed, praying that my coughs would take me as well. But they never did.
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