by Carla Kelly
“I would have come sooner, but I wanted to finish these,” she said as she held out a sheet of paper to him. “I could hardly pry them loose from Papa at breakfast, he was enjoying them so much.”
As a smile spread across his face, he stared down at the little figures Olivia had sketched. She had taken his stupid stick figures that accompanied his treatise, and turned them into clever drawings. Olivia’s dainty lady of pen and ink, looking remarkably like her, stooped and bent and lifted across the page, perfectly illustrating the motion he had tried to duplicate with his own crude efforts. He laughed out loud at the last figure on the page, which was turned out, hands on hips, facing him. It was Olivia herself in miniature, down to the top-knot.
“My dear, these are charming,” he said. “Please say you will permit me to use them instead of my own apologies for figures.”
“They are yours,” she assured him. With the same enthusiasm, she handed him his paper. “Lord Crandall, I so enjoyed reading your treatise! Mr. Ketchum himself will be completely impressed. I am certain he will want you to brave an Atlantic passage and lecture at Harvard!”
He smiled rather with what he hoped looked like modesty. “I wanted to share it with you. Any corrections?” he asked. “I never could spell.”
“I can’t either,” she confessed. With a grin that made her look like a child again, she handed him several sheets of paper, closely written. “What I did was correct your argument beginning on page ten. Right there,” she said, coming closer to ruffle through the pages of the treatise in his hand. “Somehow, you lost the gist of the argument. See. Right there. You pick it up again on page twelve, but something had to be done about ten and eleven. It took me the better part of the night, but I couldn’t stop until the logic was right.”
Dumbfounded, he stared down at both sheaves of paper, as though they writhed and hissed at him. “There was nothing wrong with my reasoning,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
“Not up until page ten,” she told him, her eyes narrowing slightly as he watched her face. “It was the only place where you lost the thread, Lord Crandall, and I knew you would want it back.”
“Oh, you did,” he said. “That was a bit presumptuous of you, wasn’t it?”
As irritated as he was, if he could have taken back his words and swallowed them whole, he would have. To his dismay, her eyes widened, and then she stepped back until she was no longer peering over his arm to look at the paper he held.
“You did say that I could make corrections, did you not?” she asked. “You didn’t mean it?”
“I thought… spelling… grammar…” He paused, confused, and waved the paper in her direction. “I didn’t think you would ever…” Words failed him, but not long enough. “This won’t do, Olivia.”
She stepped back, her eyes shocked, as though he had suddenly reached out and cuffed her. Sick at heart, not sure if he was angrier with her or with himself, he watched as she visibly swallowed words on the brink of speech, drew herself up a little taller, and then seemed to retreat within herself. She looked at him and then managed a smile.
“I am sorry,” she said, her voice so low he almost leaned closer to hear her—except that he was angry, and would not. “I should not have presumed that you meant what you said.”
He felt her softly spoken words like a shot to the heart, like an indictment; a blue-covered subpoena slapped into his hand by a grinning summons-server.
“Well, I…” he began. “Olivia, I…”
To his everlasting shame, she put her hand on his arm. There was nothing in her eyes but contrition.
“Do forgive me,” she said. “You are welcome to the drawings. You can use the other pages to start a fire in the book room, Lord Crandall. My cloak, please.”
He watched in stupefaction as Olivia accepted her cloak from the footman, who stood carved in marble.
“Perhaps we can look at the attics tomorrow, my lord,” she told him as she stood by the door. “Perhaps you will not be so angry with me.” And she was gone. Transfixed, he stared at the closed door, then down at the papers in his hands.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” the footman asked, his tone detached and entirely proper. To James’s sensitive ears, it sounded perilously close to reproach.
“No. Go away.”
“Very well, sir.”
He stood in the entrance hall a full five more minutes, his mind in a perfect tumult. How dare she presume to correct my work? he asked himself. I have been at this for four years, and she only just read it last night! Amazing cheek for a girl, I would say.
It wasn’t enough to think it. In a rage, he stormed down the hall to the library and threw open the door, startling his father from solace. He paced up and down, venting his displeasure, throwing his arms about, until finally he paused before the fireplace.
“I think the flames are the only fitting venue for such impudence, Papa!” he declared. “Who does she think she is? I ask you!” Breathing heavy from his indignation, he glared at his father.
“Yes, indeed,” his reply came from the depths of his favorite chair. “After all, son, you have double firsts from Oxford and everyone sings your praises now at London Hospital. What presumption from a mere child. By all means, throw the wretched thing on the fire.”
It was said so quietly, which was not unusual, James knew. His father was ever the best and calmest of men. He frowned and stared at Olivia’s paper, crumpled now in his fist. Slowly, he straightened the paper against his thigh hardly aware of what he was doing.
“Son, you alone know how hard you have worked on this paper.”
It was a statement, and James could only nod in agreement, glad that his father understood his position. I knew he would see it my way, he thought.
Lord Waverly got himself up and held out his hand for the paper. “You are certainly justified in your anger, lad, but maybe you might wish to consider one thing.”
“I doubt it.”
His father shrugged. “Or possibly not. I have observed Olivia Hannaford for years, Jemmy, and I always come away with one nagging suspicion.”
“That she is an impertinent baggage?” James asked.
“No, actually,” his father said, his tone almost apologetic. “I am probably wrong—your own irritation at her meddling will bear me out, most likely—but I have often suspected that she is even more intelligent than you are.”
James sucked in his breath as his father took the pages from him and set them on the table by his chair. “Perhaps you could just look them over when you feel less miffed. Excuse me now, son. I think I will have a walk. The air is a little stale in here, wouldn’t you agree?”
After the door closed quietly, James threw himself into the chair his father had vacated, and stared into the flames. He closed his eyes, seeing Olivia again, her expression so hurt, and then so calm, as though she was determined not to let his petulance matter to her. The thought made him wince. I love her and want her, he thought as his anger cooled. She will have to learn that there are areas where I am her superior, and that is all there is to it.
He sat in the chair for over an hour until his mind was finally at peace again. I think she will be inclined to forgive me, he told himself. I mean, she did not scream and shout… as I have done, he thought next and writhed inside. He reached for the paper.
“I suppose I can at least read the thing,” he muttered out loud. “Olivia Hannaford, I would like to know how you think you can do this better.”
He read her addition once, set it down, and then picked it up and read it again. A third reading followed, and hard upon its heels, a fourth. When he finished the pages, he closed his eyes and gently banged his head against the back of the chair. “James Enders, you are so far removed beyond a fool that there are no words to express such abysmal stupidity,” he announced to the world at large. “Someone ought to use you for a bad example in cautionary tales.”
He looked at the page before him, dismayed as it began to blu
r and swim before his eyes. “My love, you are absolutely right,” he said. “I lost the argument, and you found it, corrected it, and strengthened it.”
It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he stood up, walked to the fireplace, and took a long look at himself in the mirror. James, are you so arrogant and sure of your own scholarship? he asked himself. You claim to be a modern man. If this is so, how could you ride so roughshod over Olivia Hannaford? You claim to be in such sympathy with her because she has been denied the education lavished so freely upon you. You are a hypocrite.
He did not like what gazed back at him in the mirror. Without stopping for his coat, he went outside and found his father in the shrubbery beside the house. “Father, I read Olivia’s addition, and it is a masterpiece. She was completely right.”
His father nodded serenely but offered no advice.
“I wish you would tell me what to do,” James said, the words torn from him.
“I did, son,” his father replied. “It’s the only advice any man needs with a woman. Weren’t you listening to me, either?”
James stopped his pacing about, looked at his father, and thought a moment. “You told me to listen to what she says, didn’t you? That’s it?”
“That’s it. The corollary ought to be obvious to you, son. Take her as seriously as you would any man. If she gives you sound advice, take it.”
He was right, of course, without question. Only now I am listening, James thought ruefully. “Where did you learn this?” he asked.
“From your mother.”
It took him the better part of the afternoon to work up the courage to go to the Hannafords’ estate. He had vowed earlier that he would never apologize again to Olivia, and here he was with the biggest apology of all. He stopped several times on the short walk, struck all over again by the notion that even though he had been wickedly, perversely unkind, Olivia would probably smooth it over and accept his mumblings with far more kindness than he deserved. I have bumbled about in her life for only two weeks now, so I know that it cannot be love on her part, he told himself. Of course I love her, but surely that is different. Why it should be different, was his next thought. I want to wed her, have children with her, and enjoy her company and that of our children, he thought, stopping again. And now there is this added dimension of her excellent mind, which, if I am far luckier than I deserve, she will give to me—no, share with me—as freely as her body. I wonder if she feels that way about me?
His heart sank as he walked up the lane to the Hannafords’ estate. All mud-spattered, a traveling coach was stopped at the entrance, luggage still strapped on top. Pete Winston, could you not have waited another week? he asked himself in real irritation when he recognized the coat of arms on the door. Whatever Olivia thinks of me, she may find you far less trouble.
The butler showed him into the sitting room, where Charles and Lord D’Urst were standing, Charles with his arm about his sister, and Sir Waldo and Lady Hannaford close by. To his everlasting relief, Olivia came forward and took his hand.
“How good of you to come, Lord Crandall,” she said, as pleasant as though they had parted on the best of terms. “I knew you would be eager to see Lord D’Urst.” She grinned at him in that heart-stopping way only she possessed. “And, of course, old Charlie.”
Wishing Lord D’Urst someplace due east of Madagascar, he shook hands with the man and clapped old Charlie on the back, mouthing some inanity about what a pleasure it was to see them both. They carried on a stupid conversation, and then all paused to pass smiles around again.
Oh, but I am as insipid as everyone else, he thought as he took Olivia’s arm. She had not left his side in the whole meaningless exchange, and this gave him some heart.
“Sir Waldo, do allow me to borrow your daughter for a moment or two.”
Sir Waldo beamed at him, “Did you like her little cartoons?”
“I did, sir. They were splendid.” So far, so good, he thought, except that Lord D’Urst was frowning at him and trying hard not to look at Olivia’s arm linked through his. “In fact, it is that paper I wish to discuss just briefly, if you can spare her.” Make this good, he told himself, noting that Olivia’s arm gently resting in his had stiffened at his words.
“Pete, Charlie, I know you have just arrived. Do not let me keep you from the removal of your traveling cases from the carriage. Olivia, take me to the library.”
Without a word she ushered him from the room. To his utter relief, no one followed them. She led him to the library, not looking at him but not pulling away from his arm, either.
“You didn’t need to bring back the sorry thing,” she told him when he closed the door behind them. “The fire would do.”
Now or never, he thought. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her as hard as he could. With a sigh, she clasped her hands together around his back, as though she did not wish him ever to depart from the circle of their embrace. “You do forgive me,” she said finally, her words muffled against his waistcoat.
He sighed and pulled her away to look into her eyes. “No, Olivia,” he corrected her. “Do you forgive me? I was so entirely wrong about your corrections, and I am thoroughly ashamed of my hypocrisy.”
“Done, then,” she said softly.
It was the perfect moment to sweep her into his arms again and kiss her, but he was reluctant at so bold a step and merely stood looking down at her. How do shy men ever marry and breed? he asked himself in some despair.
Olivia solved his problem by putting her hands on his shoulders and standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips. He knew what to do after that, and he did it, without any demur from the object of his admiration. He would like to have done more, but the winged harpy of good manners clattered into the room and flopped down to roost on his shoulder.
“Goodness. What got into me?” he said as he released his grip.
That was not precisely true. It was Olivia who was gripping him. With what he liked to think of as reluctance, she let go of his neck.
“Do you know, James, there is one other place—on page twenty, I think—where the argument strays again,” she whispered. To his ears it was an endearment of provocative proportions.
“I will look at it when I go home, my dear,” he told her. “Thank you, Olivia.” He wondered if it was proper to thank a woman for a kiss, but he knew that he was thanking her for forgiving him so freely.
She must have known as well. To his heart’s everlasting ease, Olivia placed her hand on his chest.
“I only wanted to do what I felt was right,” she said.
“You did,” he assured her. He took her hand and kissed her fingers. “When you come tomorrow for the attic expedition, we will spend more time in the book room. I want to share the conclusion of the paper with you. And please call me James. Everyone else calls me Jemmy, but I want you to call me James.”
She blushed quite becomingly, which made him smile. “Very well, James. I will see you tomorrow.”
“Happy Christmas,” he murmured after she left the room. He went to the mirror to straighten his neckcloth and allow his high color to recede.
“Olivia, do you suffer all fools gladly, or just me?” It was a good question, and it carried him down the hall and out the front door.
The sun was setting. He stood a moment in quiet contemplation on the front steps, breathing deep of winter and smelling snow on the way. As he watched, Lord D’Urst joined him.
“Nice night, isn’t it, Pete?” he asked, full of charity in this most charitable of seasons.
Lord D’Urst shrugged. “I thought you and your father generally spent Christmas in London,” he said, turning to admire the same sunset.
“And I thought you had gotten married a year ago,” James commented.
Lord D’Urst waited a moment to reply. “So that’s it?” he asked, but it was more of a statement. “Silly me. I was certain you had given your soul to All Souls.” He smiled at his own witticism.
“Not entirely, it wou
ld seem,” James replied, unruffled.
They remained silent another moment, and then the front door opened and Olivia joined them. “I do not know why Mama has not invited you to dinner, James,” she said.
Lord D’Urst laughed. “She is afraid he will amaze us with his scholarship and we will quite forget to eat! That’s it, isn’t it, Jemmy?”
Ah, the Lord D’Urst I know and love, James thought. He can make his barbs sound funny, and no one is the wiser. He smiled.
“I’m certain, rather, that she is dismayed at my frayed waistcoat and shirt almost out at the elbow.” There, Pete. I beat you to it. “She fears I will put diners off their feed.”
Lord D’Urst only looked him over. “I would have thought it was because your hair is uncombed.” He leaned companionably close to Olivia. “Do you know, Miss Hannaford, that we in the upper form used to wager the times in one term that Jemmy would remember he had hair and comb it?”
To his dismay, Olivia put her hand to her mouth, but was unable to entirely stifle her own laughter. His spirits rose a notch when she touched his arm. “We don’t mind here at Hannaford, my lord.”
Take that, Pete, he thought. I don’t notice her touching your arm. “Olivia appreciates the finer things,” he said, knowing that it did not sound at all clever, but pleased because she beamed at him. They started down the steps together, Lord D’Urst taking the moment to inform Olivia that he needed to retrieve his document case from the post chaise.
“Treaty making is tedious business, my dear Miss Hannaford,” he said. He sighed. “Of course, one must make sacrifices for the good of one’s nation.”
Well, rally and jab, James thought, knowing that he could be magnanimous. I will yield the field tonight, Pete, but then again, she won’t be accompanying you to my attic tomorrow. He nodded to Olivia and continued down the steps with Lord D’Urst.
He thought he knew the steps well, considering the years and years that he and Tim had pounded up and down them, but to his chagrin, pain, and amazement, he took a wrong step, and then another. Quicker than a snap of the fingers, he found himself on his back, his ankle on fire, staring up at Pete Winston.
