One Grand Season

by Sarita Leone

  A slanted grin made him look slightly roguish. “Mother will not worry overmuch. She has high hopes of you and I…well, let us just say my mother is hoping—as I think yours must be, as well—that you and I find pleasure in each other’s company. I believe Mother would see our tarrying as a good sign.”

  How could she have been so naïve? Of course their mothers hoped they would get along. Marrying Oliver would be the answer to any mother’s matrimonial dreams. She supposed there must be something about her, be it her character or the feelings of indebtedness felt toward her mother, which made her a suitable candidate for Oliver’s attention.

  With a burst of clarity came a loss for words. Vivian could not think of anything to say, nothing to do and, trapped as she was in the carriage, nowhere to go to escape the reality of her situation. She tugged her hand, but the fingers threaded through hers tightened.

  She saw what he meant to do a scant second before he did it. Feeling like a mouse caught in a trap, she did not even turn her head away. There was no time, and it would have done her no good anyhow. If there was one thing she had learned during her short association with Oliver Gregory, it was that he did not tolerate failure. He got what he wanted, when he desired it and by whatever means necessary to achieve success. His behavior at Tattersall’s had illustrated that clearly.

  The touch of his lips on hers was subtle, as if neither knew where the moment should take them. Then, he pressed his mouth firmly against hers. The feel of his lips was pleasant but did not inspire any warm emotions within her. There were no sparks, no trembling hands or fluttering heartbeats. While his kiss was nice, it was not captivating.

  When the kiss ended, she saw her feelings reflected in his eyes.

  Whatever their mothers might want, theirs was not a match destined for romantic history. Vivian knew it, and she saw Oliver did, as well.

  Releasing her hand, and inquiring as politely as if he had not just stolen a kiss, Oliver cleared his throat. “So we shall indulge ourselves at another time, then? Persimmon ices will taste just as refreshing later in the week. Shall we plan on getting some then, and heading home now? Would that suit you?”

  “It would suit me perfectly.”

  Regardless of what their mothers wanted, Vivian did not see how she and Oliver could ever be more than just friends. And, if today’s difference of opinion meant anything, she was not even certain they could maintain any kind of friendship. After all, friends needed to at least like each other, and liking the man who had just stolen a kiss was the furthest thing from her mind as the carriage rolled to a stop before the manor’s front door.

  ****

  Vivian’s skirt switched alluringly as she dashed up the front stairs. Oliver watched, thinking she looked as if a bevy of ghouls were on her tail.

  Was he so gruesome that he inspired such fleet-footedness? Surely he could not be that distasteful. She had seemed to enjoy herself at Tattersall’s—so much so he had decided to invite her to accompany him on his next jaunt to the horse market.

  But that was before their unfortunate squabbling had begun. She had seemed so level-headed, with a keen intelligence and candid observations. How had it happened that she was witty and fun one moment and unreasonable, inflexible, opinionated and a wealth of other equally unflattering characteristics the next? Vivian was like one of those pinwheels made of double-sided paper. When the breeze blew, one pattern turned to the next. Then, when the wind blew a second time, the pattern reversed. They had made him dizzy when he was a little boy. Now, dealing with a woman who reminded him of a child’s toy made his childhood dizziness look like nothing.

  How to figure a woman out, especially one unlike any he had met before? It seemed utterly beyond his reach.

  He followed her inside, handed his gloves to the servant beside the door and would have gone directly upstairs had his arrival not been discovered.

  “Darling, is that you?” His mother’s sweet voice could not be ignored, so he headed down the wide hallway toward her private sitting room. He found her as he thought he would, with her embroidery hoop in her hand and a length of colored floss trailing from her needle. She looked up and placed the needlework on her lap when he walked in. “Oliver? Is something wrong?”

  Dropping none-too-gently into a heavily upholstered chair designed, he was certain, for a body much more compact than his tall, muscular frame, he slapped a hand against his thigh. A tiny cloud of dust rose, remnant of the ride in the open carriage. “What do you mean? Why should anything be wrong?”

  He should have known better than to try to fool her. She cast a look that needed no words. Then she crossed her hands, the same way he guessed her ankles were crossed beneath het skirts, and waited.

  Mothers and tax collectors had one thing in common: One could only avoid dealing directly with them for just so long. Then, the piper got his due.

  With a sigh, Oliver shrugged. Whatever speculation she had was probably fairly close to the truth. There was no need to keep her in suspense, so he did not try to do so.

  He chuckled. “I shall tell you what you want to know if you tell me how you knew anything was amiss. Even before you saw me, you knew something was not quite right, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did. And it was an easy deduction, too.”

  “How?”

  Lady Gregory shook her head, as if the explanation was obvious. “I heard Vivian fly up the stairs. It can only mean one thing. Either you have angered her, or you have insulted her. Which was it?”

  “Both,” he admitted.

  “Oh, Oliver, you didn’t. Vivian is a guest in this house—you simply cannot annoy and insult the guests. It has never been done before and I will not have you setting a precedence.”

  He wished he knew how to undo the events of the latter half of the morning, wanted to take back most of what he had said and almost all of what he had done—including the humdrum kiss—but he could not. What was done was done, and there was no retracting his words or behavior. Miss Fox would just have to deal with it—all of it.

  “I am afraid it is too late, Mother.” He made a regretful noise deep in his throat and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I have already done both, and there is nothing that can be done to erase that fact.”

  She pulled her eyebrows together, looking uncharacteristically cross with him.

  “Stop that—you already look like a porcupine and mussing your hair again is only going to make it worse. That is not a good habit, pulling your curls askew every time your mind is challenged. Why, it is no wonder you insulted poor Vivian, with a hair style like that. It is a miracle you did not scare the poor girl to death.”

  Poor Vivian?

  “I will stop but I promise you, your ‘poor Vivian’ is much more porcupine-y than I ever will be. She is…she has…oh, and her temper. Why, that is—oh, dash it all! Why are we discussing her anyway? Don’t we have something more agreeable to talk about?”

  Women were supposed to be a joyful addition to a man’s life, not a thorn in his side. How did he get so involved with such a difficult female?

  Then, he relented. “Oh…she is not all that bad-tempered. Not really.”

  “Bad-tempered? Vivian? Surely you cannot mean that.” The scandalized expression on his mother’s face was as readable as any of the volumes in the family library. She was wondering if he was beginning to lose his mind again; he saw it in her eyes and in the set of her mouth. Then, he heard it in her voice. “Oliver? Are you sure you are seeing things as they truly are? Are you sure you are not imagining Vivian is someone else?”

  “I am not imagining anything. There is no need to worry. I am not going daft and will definitely not need a room at Bedlam—not this week, anyhow.” The joke fell flat, so he went on. “We had a quarrel, that is all. It was actually a minor row, now that I think back. She fell in love with one of the horses I bought for the fox hunt. That was fine but she went on and on about how wonderful it must be to be able to place such a beautiful animal in such a
fabulous setting, with a roomy stall and all it will be able to eat…you get the idea.”

  His mother removed the embroidery hoop from her lap and placed it on the low mahogany table beside her chair. “It sounds like you had a perfectly ordinary conversation. Where is the quarrel in an exchange like that?”

  Had he withheld information there would not have been a quarrel but he had not known his being forthright would send her into such a tizzy.

  “We only fell out when I told her the animal would probably be sold after the hunt.” He wished he had not told her. “I tried to explain that I bought today’s horses as spares, in the event someone came up without a mount. She did not see my point of view—not at all—and insisted I am heartless.”

  “Oh, my dear, you know you are not heartless,” Lady Gregory said softly. A mother’s gaze made the statement a caress. “She is not used to horses being stabled in private homes. Why, Vivian is thinking the horse will become a family pet.”

  “Exactly.” His shoulders were heavy and a sudden tiredness swept over him. The weight of the estate, its inhabitants and entertainments, as well as his personal feelings of unrest made the very air seem denser, harder to breathe.

  “You tried to explain?”

  He nodded. “I did.”

  “She could not see your side of the transaction?”

  His fingers itched with the desire to plow through his hair again but he grasped the arms of the chair and held on tightly. “She could not. No matter what I said, she would not be swayed. I angered her with my—how did she put it? Oh, right…she called me cold-blooded, that was it.”

  An amused snort, so unladylike yet so fitting, came from his mother. Oliver’s load lightened, her understanding making his burdens seem much less strenuous. He chuckled, shaking his head.

  It was almost beyond belief that an outing designed to discover thievery could end so badly.

  “So, you annoyed her with your callous indifference to the fate of the horse. You said you annoyed and insulted her. I am almost afraid to inquire, but how did you insult Vivian?”

  It was Oliver’s turn to snort, and he did so with more gusto than his mother had.

  “I kissed her.”

  Chapter 7

  The only reasonable explanation Vivian could fathom for Jenny bringing her breakfast tray in the wee morning hours, long before she typically rose, was through some kind of below-stairs telepathy. There was no other rationalization for the maid’s providing that which its recipient did not yet desire.

  Jenny had long since collected the breakfast tray. And while she had not known she was hungry before its arrival, Vivian managed to polish off every bite of each delectable morsel. The wide array of food and in such copious quantities quite turned her head, as well as filled her stomach. This morning there had been blueberry scones, cinnamon toast and a pineapple-and-lemon puree which literally melted on her tongue.

  She was sure to gain weight eating so well but she did not care. Her figure was much less shapely than was currently the fashion so a bit of extra padding could only be in her favor.

  No matter how hard she tried, this morning she simply could not become interested in anything, not even the novel she had been practically inhaling since Lucie loaned it to her. It was futile to pretend to care about practical Elinor’s yearning for a man promised to another. She was equally indifferent to Marianne’s sentimental romantic journey. It had nothing whatsoever to do with Miss Austen’s flair for storytelling. Thus far Vivian had loved every passage in Sense and Sensibility and would, no doubt, continue to be enchanted through to the very last word—another time.

  Even with her belly full and soft murmurings of the household coming awake, she simply could not concentrate. Try as she might, there seemed nothing capable of holding her attention for more than a fleeting moment or two.

  She paced the room like a caged animal.

  I cannot walk circles about the room. I shall wear the floorboards out.

  Taking one last turn around the space, she weighed her options. It was mid-morning, but there was still an air of just waking in the hurried footsteps and hushed snippets of conversation that passed in the hallway. It would not do to engage in a noisy endeavor—not that she was overly skilled at any of the loudest of ladylike hobbies. Vivian did not play the pianoforte, having never been given the opportunity to learn, but she considered it the loudest leisure pursuit. A walk in the gardens might be nice, especially with the sun far from its zenith, but interrupting the groundskeepers in their early pruning and clipping duties seemed somewhat forward. What if there was some unwritten rule that denied guests from meandering before, say, noon? How would it look if she appeared suddenly amongst the roses like an unwelcome insect?

  Neither strolling nor exercising her non-existent musical talents seemed the proper way to pass the time.

  The only thing she knew how to do well was sew. Even thought she had come to the manor hoping to broaden her horizons, she was still woefully inadequate at any genteel art that did not involve holding a needle above fabric.

  Sitting heavily on the cushioned window seat, Vivian lifted an embroidery hoop holding a large square of Irish linen tautly in its grip. A length of lilac floss dangled from the fabric. She threaded the floss through the tiny eye of her needle and surveyed the project with a critical eye.

  It had been ages since she had worked a sampler. Her hands were ordinarily occupied with stitching to produce an income that this simply-for-pleasure endeavor was a real treat.

  The sampler was still more in her head than on the fabric, but she could already see her vision coming to life. A ribbon of ivy leaves wound down the left side, and would anchor the profusion of flowers she planned to embroider in the remaining space. One of Lady Gregory’s flower gardens was her inspiration. Located near the greenhouse a short distance from an orderly row of crimson rosebushes, the wildflower garden was a riot of colors and textures. Naturally, it smelled heavenly but that could not be captured by her needle and thread.

  The soothing rhythm of pushing thread through the fabric and smoothing the stitches into place was calming. Her breathing slowed and her heart stopped beating in her chest like a trapped bird hammering against a window pane. The tightness in her throat eased and the turmoil of the past days slid from her mind.

  Time passed swiftly. Palest pink peonies, ruffled yellow-and-red tulips and lavender wisteria bloomed on the linen. She worked quickly and efficiently, her fingers moving almost without any conscious direction.

  Relaxation brought an ease in decorum. Vivian’s slippers had been kicked off and her feet tucked beneath her almost as soon as she began embroidering. The window seat, with its long, wide cushion cradled in a deep nook, was the ideal spot for letting her guard down. She had pushed up the window casing at the far end of the window seat, and a gentle draft caressed her face and hands.

  She was so content, and so entirely caught up in her embroidery, that she almost did not hear the call. It was faint, borne on the slow breeze. Had the room not been so still she surely would have missed it.

  “Help…”

  She stilled her needle, wondering if she had imagined the cry.

  Then, it came again. The sound was weak, but it was real.

  “Help…”

  Vivian stuck her needle in the edge of the linen so it would not get lost. She pushed the floss and scissors aside, dropped the embroidery hoop over the smaller accoutrements and tilted her head toward the open window. Patience did not come easily but she waited, slipping her feet into her slippers as she did so.

  Finally, she heard the cry again. It seemed to be coming from nearby—but where?

  She crossed the room, opened the door and stuck her head into the corridor. It was empty and this far from the open window she could not even hear the elm leaves in the big tree outside her window rustling together. Vivian waited, tapping her toe against the wool carpet runner.

  When the plea came, it was a trifle louder and came from the far
end of the corridor. She hurried down the hallway, stopping every few steps to listen in case the call came again. It did not. She made it all the way to the end of the hallway, to a junction with two stairwells. One led down, the other went up.

  I am truly at a crossroad. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, gazing at both sets of stairs.

  The cry sounded still louder when it came once again. There could be no mistake; whoever was calling for help was upstairs.

  Gathering her skirt in her hand and hiking the hem up high, she began climbing the steep stairs. They were not like any of the other staircases she had traveled in the manor. After the short ascent to a landing, these steps grew narrow and led upward at an almost dangerous incline. A cobweb dangled a corner above her head as she passed beneath it. There was a general air of disuse about the flight of steps.

  By the time she reached the last step she was winded, so she paused for a moment to get her bearings. The staircase left off in a hallway. It was not as grand or as wide as the one below, but there were doors lining it in a similar fashion to the floor where her room was.

  The dusty air was silent. Where could the call for help come from? There did not seem to be anyone about, yet she was sure the noise had come from somewhere up here.

  A bead of perspiration slid down her neck and into the back of her dress. If she did not hurry she would, no doubt, be entirely wilted. The temperature was near scorching, and without any current the place felt like the inside of a bread oven.

  She did not want to venture further, and would have loved to seek the comfort of her cozy window seat, but it did not seem right to simply turn around and leave. Suppose someone was in desperate need, and she disregarded the fact in favor of her own ease? She had not been raised to be selfish, and could not begin to favor the trait now.

  Vivian proceeded slowly down the hallway, opening each closed door she passed and peeking in. Most of the rooms were filled with sheet-shrouded furnishings, and looked like they had not had a footstep cross their floors in years. Every time she checked a room and found it lacking a human presence, she closed its door firmly behind her. Before long, she had checked more than half the rooms and had found no one in need of assistance.