by The Rival
She faced him abruptly, arms akimbo. “Yes. You may do as you will. Arlen, I am upset!”
“I can see. Should I shut the doors?” he asked.
Elizabeth eyed him, not in a pleasant manner, almost as if he were hardly as clever as she. She rushed across the salon to close the two doors, then turned. “You don’t know, do you?”
He wet his lips. “What are we discussing?”
“Your wife and Caedmon!”
He stiffened and then came forward. “I beg your pardon?” Stanhope’s shocking claim of the night before returned forcefully to his mind. Yet Stanhope had not said that he had seen them do anything other than meet in the park.
Wouldn’t he have said something if he had seen a torrid embrace? Arlen had not been able to ask. A proud man did not make such inquiries of another man. Besides, it was impossible. Olivia’s character was so staid she should have been a nun.
“Did you not hear? That meek little mouse of yours was with Caedmon at St. Bartholomew’s fair. I cannot believe it!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
Neither could Arlen. “They rendezvoused at the fair?”
Elizabeth eyed him. “Arlen, dear, I doubt it has gðne that far, for your daughter and the governess were with them. He drove them all back to the Laytons’, you know.”
His pulse went wild. Hannah, at the fair? In the public eye? Hannah should remain cloistered! How dare Olivia saunter about publicly with her. Did she intend the whole world to know of their tragedy? “You were there?”
“No. But Lady Cynthia Steele saw them.” Elizabeth’s eyes darkened. “I saw the way she was looking at him at the Laytons’ last night. Your little wife has discovered passion, my dear. She appeared ready to eat him right up.”
Sometimes even Elizabeth went too far. “That was crude,” he said coldly.
She waved at him dismissively. “Please. Cynthia said there is a great attraction between them, and if something has not yet transpired, it soon will. How dare he!” She whirled, pacing the length of the entire room, halting only in front of huge, oversize windows.
“I cannot believe this,” Arlen said, aware now that he was shaking. “For Stanhope saw the two of them outside in the park last night, at the Laytons’.”
“Believe it,” Elizabeth said. “For I have heard that bit of gossip myself. Apparently Caedmon thinks to cuckold you again.”
Arlen faced her, his pulse wild. “The bastard. I will kill him,” he suddenly said. “I will kill them.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Well, I do not think you need go that far, dear,” she said, gliding forward. She slid her arms around him, her eyes bright. “Enough of mousy Olivia and her paramour. He is not coming home for several hours,” she whispered, and they both knew she referred not to Garrick De Vere, but to her husband.
Arlen hesitated, but only briefly. He wrapped her in his embrace.
CHAPTER NINE
The note came well before noon. It was from Arlen, and he demanded that she return to Ashburnham immediately. A coach, he wrote, awaited her convenience. He expected her to depart with Hannah that morning. There were urgent matters, he ended, awaiting her attention at home.
Olivia was already dressed. She had taken Hannah for an early morning walk in the quiet neighborhood, mist still heavy upon the leafy treetops. Now she stared at the note, filled with trepidation and dread. This was what she wanted, to return home, to flee London. Why was she dismayed? And she could not help but conclude that it was yesterday’s fiasco at the fair that had suddenly caused Arlen to change his mind and send her back to the country.
She was afraid.
She left her bedchamber, relieved that Arlen had not instructed her personally. Some of her fear abated. If he was suspicious of her feelings for Garrick De Vere, if he suspected anything, then he would have confronted her himself. It seemed likely that he did not know anything, but then why was he sending her home? Was he merely toying with her in his usual perverse manner?
Olivia worried now, recalling the earl of Stanhope’s barely disguised threats. She was beginning to feel that it was only a matter of time before Arlen learned of her longing for another man—before the situation she had somehow become entrapped in exploded in her face.
And her heart must not ache now. Olivia reminded herself that she was eager to be home, very eager; and once there, she would soon forget that Garrick De Vere even existed. It was a promise she made to herself.
And once there, all temptation would be removed from her life. Her existence once again would be calm, routine, and trouble free. There would be peace.
Hannah was in the midst of a French lesson, but Miss Childs immediately stopped the verbal examination, turning to Olivia with a pleasant smile. “My lady?”
“We are returning to Ashburnham immediately,” Olivia said, her tone falsely cheerful. “We must begin packing at once.”
Miss Childs was surprised. “Very well,” she said, standing.
“Mama!” Hannah cried sharply, an indignant protest. “Why? Why do we have to leave now? We had so much fun yesterday! I like London,” she said passionately.
Olivia walked to her and stroked her hair. “Your father has ordered it, my dear, and that is that.”
Hannah was silent, her expression dismayed.
“I am sorry. But perhaps it is for the best,” she said softly.
“Will I ever see Lord Caedmon and Treve again?” Hannah asked with bitter sorrow.
Olivia was stricken. And she could not lie, because Hannah could practically read her thoughts. “I do not know. Probably not,” she said hesitantly.
Hannah’s face turned down, as if she were gazing at her hands. She kicked her slippered feet against the legs of her chair.
“I’m sorry,” Olivia said again. She turned to Miss Childs. “When can we depart?”
“In a matter of hours, if the household maids will help us,” Lucy answered, already opening the armoire.
Olivia nodded and left the room, slowly going downstairs. As she had thought, the Laytons were in the dining room, Sir John with his head buried in a journal, Lady Layton munching toasted bread, Susan with her embroidery. Susan looked up with a pleased smile.
“Good morning,” Olivia said, hesitating on the threshold.
Sir John stood, laying down his paper. “Do come in,” he said, his gaze steady upon her.
Olivia entered but did not sit. “Sir John, Lady Layton, my husband has instructed me to return home, where urgent matters await my attention. I am so sorry to have to leave in such haste, but apparently I must do so within a few hours. And I have so enjoyed your hospitality,” she said earnestly.
Susan was on her feet. “Oh no!” she wailed.
Sir John gave his daughter a reproving look but came forward and put his arm around Olivia in a fatherly fashion. “My dear, I understand. In fact, Arlen spoke with me last evening upon this matter, so the news is no surprise to myself or Lady Layton.”
Olivia was surprised. “I see.” She studied him and could not read his thoughts, but clearly he was not unhappy that she was leaving. She hoped she did not flush. Did he, too, guess at the attraction that had so blatantly arisen between herself and De Vere? Had he not, just days ago, insisted she attend Susan all the way to the altar if need be? “Thank you for being so kind about such a precipitous departure,” Olivia added.
“I imagine it is for the best,” Sir John said.
Lady Layton came forward to clasp Olivia’s hands. “We will see you at the wedding on September fifteenth, won’t we, my dear?”
Lady Layton’s relief was all too apparent. Clearly she wished Olivia to be gone. Olivia managed a smile, feeling awful for having carried on with De Vere, even for the briefest of moments. “Yes. I would never miss the event.” She glanced at Susan, in that moment imagining her and Garrick De Vere standing at the altar in a magnificent cathedral, exchanging the vows that would join them together for a lifetime. That vision was so disturbing that Olivia immediately forced it aside. She did not kn
ow if her imagination was at work or her peculiar gift.
Susan came forward, teary-eyed. “I will help you pack,” she said forlornly.
They left the dining room. As they walked upstairs, Susan was strangely silent. In Olivia’s room, a housemaid was already filling her huge trunk with gowns, chemises, corsets, and petticoats. Miss Childs was ever efficient.
“I wish you could stay,” Susan said.
“I know you do. But we shall still be friends. Always.” Olivia smiled.
Susan stared at her. “I heard them talking last night, you know.”
Olivia tensed. “Who, dear?”
“My parents. They think you are fond of him.”
Her heart did stop before resuming a slightly frantic beat. She swallowed. “They think I am fond of whom?”
“Lord Caedmon.” Susan’s blue gaze was steady, her expression dismal. “Are you?”
She wet her lips, trying to choose a careful, suitable reply. “I do not dislike him, Susan, and I find it appalling that society condemns him so shamelessly for ancient crimes he may have never committed.”
“You do like him!” Susan cried.
“And I do like you, and your parents, and most of this world,” Olivia said.
Susan sighed. “You are too kind. They think you have a tendre for him. And they do not blame you, but they are worried, and think it better for you to return home at once.”
Olivia flushed. “I do not like him that way,” she said. As she uttered the words, she was aware of how monumental her lie was. And Garrick De Vere mocked her inside of her mind.
“I do think he likes you as well,” Susan said softly. “He is always staring at you.”
Olivia smiled weakly. “Susan, I am sorry if, in some way, I have interfered in your relationship with your fiance.”
Susan grasped her arm. “You have not interfered! I wish he were marrying you! I do! My feelings have not changed.” She shuddered. “I think he is a savage and a boor. I do not like him one single bit!”
Olivia regarded her with despair. And she said, “You must change your heart, Susan, in these next three months. Or your marriage will be a disaster.”
Susan stared.
While Olivia knew that it was going to be a disaster anyway.
They had been traveling since noon, and within two or three hours it would be dark. A light rain had begun but an hour ago, what was so fondly called an English mist. The Surrey countryside was green and verdant, the land gently rolling. Roses bloomed along the roadside hedges and at the country inns and old stone chapels they passed. They intended to spend the night at the Alcott Abbey in Haslemere, which bordered west Sussex. Had they left earlier, they would not have had to stop for the night at all.
Olivia sat stiffly, leaning forward in her front-facing seat, staring out the window at the road ahead. They had just driven past the village of Harwood, and they were three-quarters of the way home. It was crossing her mind that she wished for a carriage wheel to break.
How foolish she was.
Hannah plucked her sleeve. “What is it, Mama?” she asked.
Olivia stared at the abrupt fork in the rutted road, not many yards distant. “Stanhope Hall is but a few miles from here. Of course, everyone is in London.” Her pulse drummed. She was thinking the unthinkable.
Miss Childs eyed her. “Have you ever been to the Hall, my lady? It is very grand. The central part was built in the days of Henry the Eighth, you know.”
Olivia was trembling. This is madness, sheer madness, she thought, do not even think of doing what you seem inclined to do! She looked at Lucy Childs. “Have you been to Stanhope Hall?”
Miss Childs nodded. “During a former employment, the entire family spent a fortnight there as the Stanhopes’ guests.” She added, “Of course, that was many years ago. I was only twenty years old.”
The fork was looming before them. Olivia jerked, looking at Miss Childs, who was probably thirty-five or so. Breathlessly she asked, “That was before the eldest boy vanished?”
Miss Childs nodded. “Both boys were about, I do remember, because they were an inseparable pair——causing quite the ruckus with their comings and goings and the boyish pranks they pulled.”
Olivia could not smile. “You must have been at the Hall just before the vanishing?”
“I do believe it was less than a year before Lionel De Vere disappeared.”
Olivia turned forward abruptly, staring now at the fork in the road so hard and unblinkingly that the dirt road finally began to undulate.
“Should we stop there, Mama?” Hannah asked with eagerness. “Wouldn’t it be nicer to spend the night there than at the old, cold abbey? They will not turn us away, you know. I am sure of it.”
Olivia looked at her. Why did she wish to go to Stanhope Hall so badly? He would not be there. He was in London. Of course, he had spent a large portion of his childhood there. He and the missing Lionel De Vere. It was as if a mystery awaited her at the Hall, one that might be unraveled if only she dared to go. It was as if she had to go.
Olivia folded her arms tightly beneath her breasts. If she went, she would become more deeply involved with him. She knew that. She was already deeply involved. Somehow, inexplicably, against her will. And she suddenly rapped on the roof.
“Godfriend. Take the right. We shall spend the night at Stanhope Hall,” she called.
“Very well, my lady,” the coachman replied, and a moment later the team of bay horses veered onto the new, smaller track.
Olivia was rigid with tension and breathless. She leaned forward in her seat, straining to see. Hannah and Miss Childs had been rather garrulous up until this point, but suddenly the coach became oddly silent as it jolted and swayed along the dirt road, passing in and out of the murky shadows cast by huge elm trees. The pastures on either side were enclosed. Yellow wildflowers glistened at the foot of the split rail posts. Black-and-white-spotted cows grazed placidly by the road, oblivious of the rain, while in the distance large stone farm buildings could be seen, probably belonging to tenant farmers. The sky was darkening, perhaps with a summer storm.
“It was probably a good idea to detour to Stanhope Hall,” Olivia said, glancing at the threatening sky. It had been a rainy spring, and the roads had hardly been good to begin with. Then she thought of Arlen. He would be furious if he knew that they had stopped at Stanhope Hall. Her pulse rate increased. Why hadn’t she thought of him sooner?
And it struck her then that staying the night at Stanhope Hall might very well be the kiss of death.
Olivia instantly shoved that notion aside.
“Lady Ashburn, the Hall,” Lucy Childs said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Her brown eyes were bright.
Olivia had already spied the tall, pale stone palace with its many lower wings and rounded corner towers sprawling atop the crest of a hill, perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of them. Their coach traveled through the gloomy barbican, which looked as if it predated the reign of Henry the Eighth, and paused in the courtyard, a large grassy area the size of many country fairs. Here the dirt track had given way to pale, gleaming stone. The grounds remained immaculately manicured. Huge clipped hedges bordered the courtyard and filled the island in its midst, while large, shady oaks and elms dotted the lawns. A footman opened the door and the trio descended.
Servants appeared instantly from the house. Olivia walked forward slowly toward the two massive stone lions that guarded the front steps, chills sweeping up and down her spine. Glancing around, she felt almost as if she were being watched—which was ridiculous. No one, neither man nor ghost, peered down at her from the many tall, oval windows facing the courtyard on this side of the house. There was not a sign of life in or near any of the outbuildings, either, just the staff who had appeared from within the house itself.
A tall, thin woman stepped forward. “I am the housekeeper, Mrs. Riley,” she introduced herself.
Olivia summoned a smile and explained their predicament. “I am Lady Ashburn,
Mrs. Riley, and I do hope we are not imposing. But I think it is about to rain and we are still several hours away from Ashburnham.”
“Say no more.” Mrs. Riley smiled. “Yes, it is a good thing you decided to detour in this rain.” She glanced at the sky. A wind had begun to blow, pushing at them from the southeast. “We have plenty of room to accommodate you for the night. The Hall is empty, you know. Everyone is in town to celebrate the return of the Stanhope heir from Barbados and his betrothal to Miss Susan Layton.”
Olivia continued to smile, but the strain made her mouth ache. “Thank you, Mrs. Riley. We shall be gone at first light.”
“Pshaw,” the tall, thin woman said. She turned and began snapping out commands; their trunks were taken down and they were escorted inside. The foyer was vast, the size of most London salons, the stone floors speckled, a huge crystal chandelier overhead. As she stood in the cool, dark hall with its old, engraved, and relieved wooden paneling, Olivia could almost envision Henry the Eighth striding through the room, a huge ermine-trimmed cape flowing about him. Then she saw the two boys.
One was fair, one dark. They were racing through the hall in their soiled frock coats and stained knee breeches. Then the image was gone.
Chills rushed over her. She looked at Hannah.
Her daughter was pale, but her cheeks were flushed. She turned toward her mother immediately.
“What is it?” Olivia asked in a whisper.
“This is a sad place,” Hannah replied in the same hushed tone. “There is so much weeping.”
More chills. Olivia strained to hear, desperately, as if whatever Hannah was in tune with might answer her own questions. But she heard nothing, and she was dismayed. She bent closer to her daughter. “Who is crying?”
Hannah hesitated. “I don’t know her name. But her heart is broken. She is so sad, so alone.”
Olivia felt the sadness, too, but still failed to hear the woman. Perhaps, though, it was a Stanhope ancestor long since dead. Perhaps the countess’s grief remained, for the loss of her firstborn son. She wanted to ask Hannah if she felt the presence of Garrick’s dead brother but did not want to suggest anything to her daughter that was not meant to be—or that might frighten her.
