by Julia Donner
“No, you will not. You are leaving. While you were out, your belongings were packed. They are waiting for you at the end of the lane with your vehicle and team. Good-bye, Sir Harry. We won’t be seeing you again.”
His belongings were packed? The portmanteau was in the same room where Olivia napped. Why didn’t she come down?
Harry had to talk with Olivia before he left. If her father made the worst of this situation, she needed his support and reinforcement. He didn’t want her thinking that what they had shared was in any way sordid.
First, he had to get around an angry parent. His brain hopelessly muddled, he took a step forward and raised an imploring hand.
Before Harry could attempt an explanation, the bishop snapped, “Not another word. You must be aware of the fact that this dwelling is well known throughout the village. Unseemly conduct is to be expected in someone with your reputation, but my family and daughter are not of your ilk. Be satisfied that you have achieved yet another conquest and ruined one more innocent’s reputation.”
“I beg you to listen, sir.”
But any form of coherent thought fled, leaving him without a comment or an answer to the bishop’s valid opinion. He’d spent years mocking the ton, playing with their fickle notion of popularity. He’d manipulated society into believing that his pretty face and man-milliner antics made him extraordinary. In the process, he’d ruined any respectful estimation of his character. A sense of helplessness slid through him, chilling his vitals.
Olivia’s father waited, his steel-eyed glare expectant and knowing there was no way to weasel out of the hole Harry had dug for himself. Pinching his lips together to steady the telltale quiver, he forced a swallow down his constricted throat.
When his mind refused to work, he latched onto the first thought. “Sir, you must understand. I love her. I’ll do anything to have your permission to pay my—”
“You presume to address my daughter?” Scorn flared within his stare. “I am not surprised that you should consider your deplorable conduct in my house as paying your address to my only child. I am a man of God, but I am also flesh and blood. You have contributed in the sullying of her otherwise exemplary life and name by dragging her to the depths of your depravity.”
“On my honor, sir, I would never do so!”
“Your honor is none of my concern and of its existence I shall make of myself no judge. But I will not have you in my house or within speaking distance of my daughter nor any other member of my family.”
Harry involuntarily stepped back from the vehemence of this scathing attack. A prickling burn began behind his eyes. What could he say? It was true. He’d seduced and disgraced the lady he loved. Choking on fierce emotion, he jerked a nod when the bishop suggestively opened the door.
He stopped at the foot of the staircase and looked up. Olivia stood on the top step, her clothes awry and long hair hanging past her waist. She looked mussed and well-loved. Humiliated.
Harry started for the steps, but Bishop Mainstay stepped into his path, blocking the way. “Daughter, say good-bye to this person. You won’t be seeing him again. Ever.”
His heart twisted when her expression changed from pleading confusion to shame. She bowed her head and whispered, “Farewell, Sir Harry.”
Poor eyesight didn’t blind him as he walked out the door and up the lane. Tears worked well enough for that. Olivia had sent him on his way without protest. She hadn’t offered a single word of objection. But then, she was a widow living on the mercy of her family.
Climbing up onto the curricle, he accepted the reins from an expressionless manservant, who extended Harry’s missing coin purse. He ignored the pouch and sent the horses up the road at an extended trot. The vision of Olivia, standing at the top of the stairs, cowering in disgrace, filled his vision. He couldn’t forget that she’d risked everything for her husband’s calling, but had done nothing to stop him from leaving.
What did he have to recommend him but the popularity he’d achieved through wasting his life cutting a dash? There had been a time when Olivia proudly stood up to an intimidating father and straight-laced family for Reverend St. Clair, but in Handsome Harry, she found nothing worth fighting for.
Chapter 12
Olivia stumbled halfway down the steps. Dismay lodged words of protest in her throat. As Harry swept out the door, she used the back of her hand to swipe away strands of hair from her face. How could he take leave of her without a word?
Ignoring her father’s disgust, she got the rest of the way down the steps, her limbs awkward and stiff from shock, and rushed to the doorway. He was gone, striding up the lane to the toll road. She’d always known he wouldn’t stay, but for a little while, she’d had him for herself. He left her with a splendid memory, only it would have been better had not the memory been tarnished by the ending of their idyllic interlude. It would take time to erase the stony expression he turned on her just before he went out the door. For a brief moment, she thought hope flared in his gaze when he looked up at her. Then came the shadow of hurt, which he immediately veiled with a mask of polite disinterest.
A week in Harry’s company revealed how rarely he showed his true self, but she’d seen the person hidden underneath the charm. With the protection of his brittle façade in place, he went back to his brilliant life and society’s adulation. But he’d left something behind—a memory she could hold fast to her heart—a sultry morning of shining white ecstasy.
It would have to be enough. Harry had reached the age where a man chose to set up his nursery with a vibrant, young girl or declare himself an inveterate bachelor. Either way, a plump, matronly widow was not the sort most men, least of all the most famous gentleman in England, chose for a wife.
“Have you quite finished mooning over him like a simpering schoolgirl?”
The revulsion in her father’s tone crushed self-pity and straightened her spine. She turned and went back to the stairs where she cupped her hand over the newel post. “One cannot argue that he is more palatable than a country squire with visions of cutting a political swath through London. Why did you send Quentin? I expect it was he who told you that I had a guest in residence.”
Her father closed the front door, blocking her view of Harry at the end of the lane, climbing into his curricle. “I never sent Goodfall here. Must have been His Grace.”
Olivia gathered up her straggling hair and twisted the snarls into a knot. Accustomed to being pinned up on top of her head, it would hold for the few minutes necessary to retrench with her father. There was no other choice but to pacify him and her grandfather. She had no money of her own. They were the sole source of her livelihood. Their dictates had measured the days of her life for a decade. Long ago, she’d given up on rebellion.
Turning to her father she said, “It doesn’t matter who sent Quentin. I don’t care for him.”
“You should reconcile yourself to just such a man and marriage. There is no other course, unless you wish to become a paid companion or live with some distant, impoverished relative. Nor can I picture you caring for some recalcitrant child for your crust of bread. You’re not the sort to tolerate them or their uncaring parents until they’re sent off to school, leaving you with searching for yet another situation.”
“Perhaps not but one does what one must.”
His features stiffened as he snapped, “You have no livelihood, Olivia. You gave it all away.”
“If that is all you have to suggest, then I shall start to apply.”
“Stubborn to the end. Very well, look for menial labor, if you wish, but you will do so in London.”
Dismay hitched her voice higher and tighter. “I do not wish to go to London. I can write letters of application from here.”
“Where you and Collyns can arrange to conduct your sordid visitations, such as that which you engaged in today, here, under my own roof? No, Olivia, you’ll come to London with me and reside with your grandfather.”
A piercing ache lanced through he
r heart, squeezing the air from her chest. London? How was she to bear it, knowing that Harry could be around any corner? What could she devise to stay indoors?
Her father and grandfather would insist that she socialize to dispel any rumors of her conduct. She detested the superficial gatherings, the rounds of endless balls and entertainments, all suffocating and tedious. She’d realized long ago that her aversion stemmed from her lack of vivacity and the stain of a mother who strayed. Her father could pretend that her mother’s behavior had never happened, but the beau monde never forgot. No matter how long the carcass had lain, they came to scavenge. The girls who shunned her at school were now society’s arbiters.
How many times had she been reminded that she was a product of sin, told that she possessed nothing to recommend her—a flat personality and indifferent looks? She couldn’t help that she’d been born bland, overweight and uninteresting.
Her only talent was a singing voice, but she never had the confidence to display her one gift, to entertain others of an evening, as gentlewomen were expected to do. Teachers despaired her lack of artistry with needlework. Her tiny, neat stitches always ended up with an utterly uninspiring result. Her French and Italian came out halting and poorly accented. She had nothing to recommend her or note upon, except having so little in the way of accomplishments seemed shocking after so much effort had been poured into her to create a suitable wife. Even her presentation at court had been uneventful, forgettable, exactly as Aunt Charlotte had prophesied. Perhaps if she’d had a more nurturing mentor in her impressionable teen years she might have developed some sort of style.
The chill in her father’s voice pulled her back from regrets. “You have no choice in this, Olivia. I’m closing the cottage. Pack only the essentials. We can’t have you presenting yourself in town as you look here. Suitable clothes will be made.”
“These were Mother’s.”
With that reminder, his tone that had been cold, turned to ice. “I realize that. Put them away. We leave within the hour. And Olivia, speak to no one. I will send a message to Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins.”
He went into the parlour. The door closed with a snap that made her wince. Her father rarely showed an emotion, but he’d flinched as if struck when she reminded him of her mother.
Girding her courage for the return to a life she despised, Olivia climbed the steps, hoping she’d never see Sir Harry again, while her heart mourned his loss. After his treatment by her father, she deserved nothing less that the cut direct.
Chapter 13
Lady Asterly set aside the letter and picked up her cooling cup of chocolate. “Peregrine, stop reading for a moment.”
Asterly, who sat with his back to the breakfast room window, lowered the newspaper to look over its rim. “What is it, m’dear?”
“Are you certain you’ve checked through all of your correspondence?”
He re-lifted the paper so it caught the sunlight beaming through the windowpanes. “There’s nothing from Harry. He’ll contact us when he’s ready.”
“But I know something is wrong. We haven’t seen him all summer. The season is about to start and we’ve heard nothing.”
A tap on the door waylaid the subject. A footman swiftly moved to open it. A slender, solemn-faced lady came through. “Excuse me, Lady Asterly, your lordship, for intruding.”
Lady Asterly gave her companion an encouraging smile. “Don’t be silly, Evangeline. You should be sitting with us, not tapping on the door for admittance.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Merrick,” Asterly said as he stood. “Please, join us.”
“Thank you, your lordship, but I breakfasted earlier. My lady—”
Lady Asterly interrupted, “Elizabeth.”
“Of course…Elizabeth. It was brought to my attention that the midnight blue slippers you ordered have not yet been delivered. I am about to leave to visit the lending library, which is nearby the shop. I can retrieve them, if you wish.”
“Evangeline,” Lady Asterly carefully began, “you stopped being my dresser and became my companion almost two years ago. There is no need for you to run errands. The only thing you are required to do is walk out with me when I wish to do so, look pretty at table when we entertain, and enjoy yourself. Now, if you won’t behave, I’ll embarrass you further by increasing the stipend you already consider exorbitant.”
Lady Asterly watched the proud woman force herself not to argue. Showing pity, she added, “I would appreciate it if you gave some thought to interesting reading selections while at the library. We can sit down later today and order them from Hatchards.” She nodded at the footman. “And take him with you to carry your parcels.”
“As you wish, my…Elizabeth. I shall return before luncheon.”
Lady Asterly pinched her lips together to halt a fond grin when Evangeline noticed with discomfort that Asterly still stood. She gave them a prim smile and quickly left the room. The footman hurried to follow her. Asterly sat and shook out his newspaper.
Lady Asterly squinted at the newsprint. “I’d like the front page if you’re finished with it.”
“Almost, m’dear.”
She stirred tea that didn’t need stirring, clacking the sides of the cup. She did it in an attempt to annoy him, which wouldn’t work, but she liked trying. He never read at the table and was doing so to tease her.
“Peregrine, have you ever noticed how Evangeline looks so much taller than she actually is?”
Asterly said from behind the newspaper, “Never gave it much thought. I suppose it’s the way she carries herself.”
“Precisely. What a good eye you have. Yes. She’s regal. I always wondered how she came to be a dresser when she so decidedly is not.”
“I will say that she makes a superior sort of guard dog. When I caught up with you, after you acted so silly as to run away, I thought she was going to take a swipe at me with her embroidery scissors.”
“Evangeline would never do that.”
With a forefinger, he folded down one side of the paper to give her the gimlet eye. “At the time, I doubt you noticed, old thing. You were too occupied with making me beg and crawl for forgiveness for something I’d never done.”
Lady Asterly pushed her cup aside. “I see you’re never going to let me forget that episode, are you?”
This time he grinned. Before he could reply, the door swung open. Lady Asterly cried, “Harry!”
Her excitement vanished when she took in his drawn expression and fading scars. “What happened to your face?”
“I decided to adopt a highwayman’s complexion for a change. Curricle accident.”
Concern thinned her voice. “Have you been laid up since spring?”
He went to her chair, saying, “A few facial cuts and a knock on the head were the extent of it. All is well.”
She presented her cheek for him to kiss. “Then where have you been these last months?”
“Walking the Lake District fells. It fit my mood.” At the sideboard, Harry poured himself a cup of coffee and brought it to the table to sit across from her. “What did you do to Mrs. Merrick? When I passed her in the hallway, she looked positively frantic.”
Asterly folded the newspaper and set it aside. “She gets that way whenever Eliza threatens to increase her stipend. My clever-minded wife loves to tease.”
Lady Asterly slid her husband a look that warned him to behave, which caused Asterly’s grin to broaden. He selected a slice of toast from the rack and applied butter, saying, “Is that the truth about a curricle accident? Or merely a whisker to hide the fact that you were indulging in swordplay for reasons other than practice?”
Harry sat. “It’s no whisker. Drove a green team when I left you at the beginning of last summer. The wind and a bouncing hat did the rest.”
Lady Asterly’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, Harry, when are you going to do something about your eyesight? I don’t mean to sound the fishwife, but there must be something that can be done.”
He didn’t an
swer. Lady Asterly watched Harry stare at the coffee he didn’t drink. He slowly rotated the cup on its saucer. She glanced at her husband, sending him a scowl to prompt his assistance.
While spreading marmalade, Asterly asked. “Have you taken the time to check your correspondence, Harry?”
“Glanced at the stack but didn’t pay it much mind. Needed to come see Lizzie.”
Asterly inspected his handiwork with the toast. “Can scarcely blame you for wanting to do that. I mention it because I must have received five missives from a Bishop Mainstay. Have you gotten yourself in deep for neglecting to tithe?”
Harry jerked awake, the dullness in his eyes now sparked with interest. “Mainstay? Are you sure?”
“Blast it, of course I’m sure. Sorry for the rough language, m’dear, but the bishop writes that he won’t relent until he hears from my sib, whom I’m about to disown, if he doesn’t get the man off my back. I say, Harry, where are you going? You just got here.”
Shoving back from the table, Harry mumbled an excuse and fled. Lord and Lady Asterly exchanged frowns then speaking gazes. They looked at the breakfast room door that stood ajar, then back at each other, confounded.
Asterly shook his head and finished preparing the toast to his liking. “We may be twins, m’dear, but Harry and I are not much alike.”
Another footman started to enter and Lady Asterly gestured for him to stay outside. When the door closed, she said, “I’m very worried, Peregrine. Have you ever seen Harry behave this way?”
With his perfectly prepared toast in hand, he held the slice suspended above his cup and asked, “Which way? He has a dozen ways from Sunday and none remotely alike. He’s a chameleon. Always has been.”
“He’s not playacting and you know it. You’re not going to submerge that into your coffee, are you?”
He smirked and waggled his eyebrows. “You ask the same question every time I have toast and marmalade.” He dunked and snatched a quick bite.
“Disgraceful. Your mother spoiled the pair of you beyond all repair. Your attempts to taunt won’t distract me from worrying about Harry. I fear he’s gotten himself tangled up in a web too sticky to get free of. Did you hear his excuse—a walk alone through the Lake District? I think not. I shall hazard a guess that whatever is bothering him involves a female.”
