by Candace Camp
“Olivia.” He reached out and took her hand, bending a little and brushing his lips against it in a courtly fashion. “Thank you. I shall look forward to your arrival. My mother will write you an invitation posthaste.”
Olivia firmly squelched the little flutter in her insides that his words caused. He wanted her help, that was all. “What—who are you going to tell her that I am?”
“A friend,” he replied, and his mouth crooked up into a grin. “Mother will be so delighted that a duke’s daughter is coming that I am sure she will not inquire too deeply into it.”
Olivia said nothing, but she had her doubts. Mothers, in her experience, rarely required so little elaboration as that.
Her own family, predictably, reacted to her announcement of her intended journey with a plethora of questions. She told them at the supper table, feeling that it was easiest to get it over with all at once.
Her mother, naturally, narrowed her sharp green eyes and said, “St. Leger? Who is he? How does he feel about the women’s vote?”
“I don’t know, Mother. I haven’t actually asked him.”
“Well, what could be more important to know about a man?” her mother countered. Tall, with flaming red hair now somewhat tempered by streaks of gray, she was a commanding woman, and Olivia generally felt inadequate when talking to her.
“Some would say the condition of his pockets,” Kyria put in lightly.
The duchess favored her red-haired daughter, so much an image of her in looks, with a grimace. “Honestly, Kyria, one would think you were frivolous, the way you talk.”
“Yes, Mama, I am afraid so.”
“Who is this chap?” the duke put in mildly. “Lord St. Leger? Do I know him?”
“He’s back from the United States.” Olivia’s brother Reed spoke up. “Younger brother. Inherited his title from Roderick St. Leger. He died some time back in a hunting accident.”
“Didn’t know the fellow,” the duke said dismissively.
“I knew Roderick somewhat,” Reed added. “He went to my club.” He shrugged. “An ordinary sort, I would have said. I don’t know the present earl.” He looked at Olivia. “What I am wondering is how you know him. I heard he’d been at his estate ever since he came back to England.”
“He is here now,” Olivia replied, adding, “I met him at a social gathering a few days ago.”
“Social gathering?” Thisbe’s husband Desmond asked, looking surprised. “You went to a par—ow!” He broke off and cast a wounded look at his wife, reaching down surreptitiously to rub his leg.
“Yes, Olivia told Kyria and me about him the other night,” Thisbe said airily. “We were discussing the, um, party where she met him.”
“You mean you barely know the man?” Reed asked, frowning.
“Oh, don’t turn big brother on us,” Kyria said, shooting him a loving but teasing glance. “As if Olivia doesn’t know what she’s doing! If Olivia feels that it is all right to attend this house party, then that is all we need to know, isn’t it, Mama?”
“Quite right, Kyria.” The duchess leveled a stern look at her son. “Reed, dear, Olivia is a grown woman and quite capable of deciding what she should or should not do without having to answer to the men of the family.”
“Yes, of course, Mother.” Reed sent Kyria a disgruntled glance. “If it were Kyria, of course, I would not say anything.”
“Liar,” Kyria stuck in.
“Kyria, don’t be disrespectful,” the duchess told her.
“But Olivia is not as sophisticated as Kyria,” Reed said.
“Yes, but I’m not stupid, either,” Olivia flared. “I think I can tell whether a man is a villain or not.”
She would have liked to tell them that she was going in a professional capacity, not attending a social function, but, mindful of her promise to St. Leger to keep the matter quiet, she felt she could not. She could trust Reed, of course, not to tell anyone, but she wasn’t as sure about the rest of them. They were not gossips, but such social matters held little interest for her mother, and her father was rather vague; there was no surety that they would remember that they were supposed to keep the matter quiet. They would all be likely to talk about it among themselves, too, and servants soaked up the gossip. It would soon be all over town. So she kept quiet. Besides, it was, she thought, rather pleasant to have them think that she was actually the object of a man’s interest.
“I did not mean that, Livvy,” Reed protested.
“I’ve never heard they were villains,” Great-uncle Bellard piped up suddenly, surprising them all. They all turned to look at him as he continued. “Old family. Title goes back to Elizabeth, or maybe it was Henry VIII. Unbroken line, I believe. There are a few legends surrounding them. I’m not sure offhand…I think one of them hid King Charles I from the Roundheads. I’ll have to look them up.” He smiled at the prospect of doing some research. “Their ancestral home is something oddly named. Bleak—no, Blackhope! That’s it. Blackhope Hall.”
“Ooh,” Kyria said, wiggling her eyebrows. “That sounds ominous.”
“Really, Kyria, you read far too many gothic novels,” the duchess said disapprovingly. “I am sure there is nothing ominous about the place. Old houses frequently acquire the most peculiar names. Isn’t that right, Uncle Bellard?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” the old man agreed, nodding happily.
“Well, I think it sounds romantic,” Kyria said decisively. “You know, the sort of place where one might get swept off one’s feet.”
“I should hope not!” the duchess exclaimed, and turned to give her youngest daughter a worried look.
“I am not going to get swept off my feet,” Olivia retorted firmly, casting her sister a dark look. “I promise.”
“I suppose not,” Kyria admitted with a sigh. “Still, there’s nothing to say you can’t make a conquest. Let’s go to your room after supper and look through your wardrobe. Surely we can find something that Joan can give some spark to.”
“My wardrobe!” Olivia squeaked. “But why? I don’t want a spark.”
“Nonsense. Whether you want one or not, you deserve one,” Kyria retorted firmly.
Olivia suppressed a groan. She had no desire to have Kyria exclaiming in horror over her clothes all evening, but she knew that she hadn’t a hope of stopping her strong-minded sister. She gave in with ill grace, trailing up the stairs after Kyria when the evening meal was over.
“I don’t see why I can’t wear what I always do,” Olivia complained, even though she knew it was useless.
Kyria turned and cast an expressive look at Olivia’s plain brown skirt and bodice. “Olivia, this is a party. You can’t go looking as though you are the family governess.”
“I am not trying to ‘catch’ Lord St. Leger,” Olivia retorted huffily.
“Then why are you going?”
Olivia looked into her sister’s clear green gaze, and her own eyes fell. “I—well, that is, Lord St. Leger and I are friends. That is all.”
“Then it is up to you to change that.” Kyria yanked on the bellpull and, when one of the maids popped in a moment later, sent the girl to fetch Joan, Kyria’s personal maid.
“I don’t understand why you are always trying to set me up with someone when you yourself are so set against marriage,” Olivia said feelingly.
“I am not set against marriage,” Kyria told her. For a flickering moment, sadness seemed to shadow her face, then was gone as she said, “It simply isn’t for me, you see.” She went to Olivia’s wardrobe closet and threw open the door, continuing, “But for others, it’s exactly right. Look at Thisbe, for instance. She’s happy as can be with her scientist.”
“I can’t imagine why you think that I am right for marriage. I have never had the slightest success with men.”
Kyria looked at her. “Being an accomplished flirt and being a good wife are entirely different things. Trust me. You are exactly the kind of person who makes an excellent wife, someone whose life is completed b
y having a husband and children. You are sweet and kind and generous, utterly loyal and enormously loving.”
“But so are you,” Olivia protested.
Kyria let out a light laugh. “That you think so, my love, is an indication of your sweetness, not mine.”
Kyria went through Olivia’s clothes, sighing now and then or shaking her head. “Honestly, Livvy, must you always choose such plain things? Where is that shawl I gave you last year?”
Olivia opened a drawer and pulled it out, caressing it as she handed it to Kyria. It was a beautiful silk shawl, patterned in golds and browns, with brown tassels hanging from it.
“Now, this will dress up your brown silk,” Kyria told her, draping it over the aforesaid gown.
“But, Kyria, I won’t be needing anything so—so fancy.”
“Why not? You will need nicer than this, my dear.”
“But it will not be a—a festive gathering,” Olivia said. “I—he—we merely have common interests. And it is a small group. His brother, you know, died not long ago.”
“A year. They are out of mourning by now. I’ve seen the girl at parties—small ones, of course. I suspect there will be a party or two, at least. There always is. And there is supper every evening. You have to dress for that, after all.”
“Well, yes, I suppose….” Olivia cast a look at the gown and shawl. It warmed her a little to think of wearing them, of looking, well, if not beautiful, at least not drab. After all, this was an occasion where she really did not have to look professional. They were hiding what she was doing under the guise of a house party. She was supposed to look like nothing other than a woman enjoying a social occasion.
“This gown will do, as well, I think,” Kyria went on, taking out an emerald-green evening gown, “though Joan will have to pull out all this lace in the bodice.”
“But the neckline will be far too low!” Olivia protested.
“The neckline will be fashionable,” Kyria countered. “And you have a very nice bosom. It’s time you showed it off a little.”
Kyria’s maid, Joan, a thin, plain girl with a haughty manner, came into the room. She was, according to Kyria, a jewel, having an excellent sense of color and style and being handy with a needle, as well as possessing a deft hand when it came to arranging one’s hair, and Kyria was much envied by other young women and matrons for having her. However, there was little chance of any of them being able to entice her away from Kyria, since Kyria had plucked her out of an orphanage at the age of thirteen, recognizing her artistic bent, and had taken Joan’s younger and rather slow-witted sister, as well, when Joan had pleaded that she could not leave without her. Joan was intensely loyal to her mistress and quite proud of her position as personal maid to the daughter of a duke, a far higher rung up the ladder of employment than she had ever hoped to reach.
With Joan’s help, Kyria went ruthlessly through Olivia’s clothes, pulling out the pieces she thought would do and deciding how to give them the desired “spark”—a smattering of lace at throat and cuffs to soften too severe a line, or a brooch or necklace to brighten a dull color, or a bit of embroidery to color a pale gray bodice. But nothing that Olivia owned satisfied either Kyria or Joan as a gown to wear to a dance or party, and they at last brought in two of Kyria’s own gowns—a peacock-blue satin and a dark gold silk that were both so beautiful that Olivia could not imagine them on herself—and Joan set to shortening and tucking and taking in here and there to fit Olivia’s shorter, slighter frame. Joan, Kyria assured her, was a marvel and would have the dresses done in time for her trip.
“Or she can finish one of them while you are there, of course,” she added casually.
“What?” Olivia stared at her. “What do you mean, while I am there? Joan will not be with me.”
“But of course she will. You must have someone to do your hair, after all, and since you haven’t a maid of your own, this will be the perfect solution. She’s an absolute wizard with hair. You’ll see.”
“But I don’t need a maid. That is precisely why I haven’t one. I can do my own hair, and all my gowns are made so I can fasten them without help.”
“Yes, I know you are very independent and self-sufficient,” Kyria said. “But you simply cannot go to a house party without even one servant. How would it look to Lady St. Leger?”
“As though I am sensible?” Olivia retorted. “No one needs the full-time services of a maid, least of all me.”
“Yes, yes, I know your views on the subject. But just this one time? For me?” Kyria smiled persuasively at her. “And think of Joan—she would love a trip, wouldn’t you, Joan?”
Joan looked faintly surprised but quickly agreed. “Oh, yes, my lady, a trip would be lovely.”
Olivia sighed and, after a few more token protests, gave up. A maid was unnecessary, and she did not, after all, need to appear any lovelier than she really was, but…she could not help but think with pleasure of how she would look in the made-over dresses and wonder what Lord St. Leger would think of the changes.
So it was that when she set off the next week for her trip to Lord St. Leger’s estate, she carried in her trunks two stunning gowns made over from Kyria’s stock and a number of her own clothes remade into far prettier frocks, and was accompanied on the train ride by two supposed servants. It was pure vanity, she knew, that she could not help but admire the new look of her travel-durable plain brown gown, now softened by a collar that framed her throat gracefully and decorated at the shoulder with a jaunty bit of gold braid. Joan had insisted on doing Olivia’s hair this morning, and though she had kept the general style of a bun at the nape of her neck to which Olivia was accustomed, she had somehow made the hair around her face softer and fuller instead of pulled back tightly into a knot. It was strange, Olivia thought, how she could look so much the same and yet so much prettier. She was unaware of how her own inner excitement had added a glow to her cheeks and a sparkle to her brown eyes.
Her little party was met at the train station in the village by St. Leger’s carriage and coachman. Tom helped the coachman stow their bags, then climbed up to the high seat to ride with him, while Olivia and Joan got inside. The plush seats were comfortable and the carriage well sprung, and Joan soon nodded off as the coach swayed rhythmically along, but Olivia was far too tense and excited to rest. She pushed back the curtain nearest her and looked out at the countryside that rolled by, eager to catch her first glimpse of Blackhope.
Finally she saw it, its light stone walls glowing almost golden in the rays of the setting sun—a sturdy Norman keep with steep blank outer walls, castellated at the top, and behind them the taller upthrust of the round tower, its stone walls broken only by narrow archer slits in the traditional shape of a cross. She drew in her breath sharply, some deep emotion stabbing into her chest.
For a moment the image shimmered before her, and then, as she blinked, it was gone.
Olivia stared in amazement, her heart picking up its beat. The house that lay on the hill in the distance was no ancient castle built for warfare but a sprawling stone mansion of differing levels, obviously added onto and enlarged, its only resemblance to the keep she had seen a moment before the fact that it was built of the same sort of light stone warmed by the dying light of the sun.
She leaned closer to the window, scarcely able to believe her eyes. She closed her eyes and reopened them slowly. Still the more modern house lay there. There was no ancient Norman keep.
Olivia sat back, clasping her hands together in her lap. She was glad that Kyria’s maid was not awake to see the doubtless stunned expression on her face. What had she just seen?
She could picture the castle in her mind’s eye—flags fluttering from the top of the battlements, the drawbridge down and huge gates open. It had been so clear, so real! Olivia leaned over and once again looked out the window. Still no castle sat on the horizon, only the graceful house.
As they drew nearer the house, she stared at it intently, trying to determine how her eye had
somehow been tricked into thinking that she had seen an early Norman castle. She had spent too many years around her great-uncle Bellard not to recognize the type of castle she thought she had seen. It had been typical of the sort of structure erected seven or eight hundred years earlier, during the period after the Conquest—a castle built in times of war and unrest, the main purpose of which had been the defense of the lord of the castle, his family and men and the local villagers. Raised over the course of many years on a hill or some other easily defensible land, they were made of stone, with thick, strong walls and sturdy wooden gates, an outer wall surrounding the house itself, which was made of the same thick stone, a single tower rising higher than the rest.
The ancestral home of the St. Legers was clearly not such a castle. There was no outer wall, only the walls of the mansion, one end of it a blocky, almost castlelike structure with a squarish short tower on one end, with another wing added on to it in a style Olivia recognized as Elizabethan, and yet another wing running perpendicular to that one. It was a mixture of at least three different periods and styles, and yet somehow it blended into an attractive whole. Ivy covered one side wall, cut away from the windows and extended its tendrils partly across the front of the house, and despite its size, Blackhope Hall exuded a sense of warmth and hominess quite at odds with its sinister name.
As soon as the carriage pulled up in front of the house, a footman hurried out to open the carriage door for Olivia and help her down. “Welcome to Blackhope, my lady.”
He escorted her inside, while the carriage pulled around to the kitchen entrance to unload their trunks and let out Joan and Tom. Olivia walked through the front door into a large high-ceilinged room, which she recognized as having once been the great hall of the original medieval house. A more recent addition of a wide staircase rose to a landing, then split and gracefully arched in opposite directions up to the second floor. Lord St. Leger was coming down the stairs toward her, a smile on his face.
A thrill ran through Olivia, and she realized with some astonishment just how much she had been looking forward to this moment. She wasn’t sure why. She had met other men as attractive as Lord St. Leger—certainly others with smoother personalities—but she had never felt this excitement upon seeing any of them. She thought about her travel-stained appearance—crushed skirts and stray soft hairs no doubt escaping from the softer hairstyle into which Joan had fashioned it—and she wished she had been able to freshen up before facing Lord St. Leger.
