by Julia Donner
Logic stirred, forcing her to question the true reason for her flight from Harry. She pushed it away to stiffly ask, “And how do I explain to my child that his father has dozens of mistresses and fields full of slaves?”
“Does he? That is what you imagine through relying on hearsay. That is merely the legend that is Handsome Harry. But have you bothered to uncover the truth?”
Lady Asterly’s affronted, steely glare stroked a hidden seed of understanding from deep within, where a shaking began. What had just been said was either terribly right or awfully wrong. She’d hidden from the world for so long that she’d lost her way and the will to face her fears.
Fright raised defensive barriers. She couldn’t hold in the scorn, the need to strike out and release the shame she suffered by association with a slaver.
“He owns slaves! He personifies all that is to be despised, the very evil I wish to abolish!”
Lady Asterly reacted to the embarrassing outburst with a smile that wasn’t pleasant. “And what, precisely, have you done for the cause of slavery abolishment, other than professing strong sentiment?”
Stung by the scathing undertone, Olivia stood. Something uncomfortable and vaguely frightening twisted inside—a truth about herself just out of reach. The need to understand warred with a desperate urge to flee from that truth, which heightened, when Lady Asterly stood and began to draw on her gloves.
“Mrs. St. Clair, I do not consider myself a model of perfection. No one is, but Harry seems to that think you are. He envies your ability to forgive, but I have seen nothing of that fine quality in you today. Before I leave, I shall expose the true Harald Collyns.”
Afraid to hear and weeping inside to know, to find some sort of miraculous reprieve for herself and Harry, she stood with her chin up, ready for any blow and feared this one would bruise deeply.
“You obviously know about the plantations in the Caribbean, but you failed to ask what happened after Harry acquired them in that fateful card game. He sailed south at the first opportunity. Once there, he walked through the cane fields and slave quarters. Open-air sheds, really. He found workers deemed as recalcitrant, chained and starving. Children in the fields, children who had been separated, bought away from their mothers. Children expected to toil as an adult. And worse. He admitted to nausea and casting up his accounts after seeing what he now owned. Then he took matters in hand. There are no slaves on his plantations now. He wrote to Mr. Bates. They spent months working, searching for the children that had been sold off.
“Harry is not a slave owner, Mrs. St. Clair, but he does own sugar cane, coffee, and banana plantations. His workers are free men, women and children. They’ve each been given part ownership.”
Shivering from a thrill of pride for him, Olivia closed her eyes to picture the wonderful thing Harry had done. Shame for her weakness, for not believing in his goodness made her want to curl into a ball and weep. Undoubtedly, this was not all Lady Asterly had to say on the matter. Olivia waited for the final blow, knowing the condemnation she deserved would come out at the last.
Lady Asterly took a step closer. “I must apologize for the tone of this visit, Mrs. St. Clair. I have been rude and judgmental.”
“But not altogether off the mark. I’ve felt disappointed in myself the past years for giving up on my dreams. Letting go of what is important.”
“Perhaps if you would allow me to suggest something instead of offering up an ill conceived opinion.”
Please do, Lady Asterly.”
“Elizabeth, please.” After Olivia agreed with a nod, Lady Asterly continued. “I confess that a past mistake of my own spurred me forward to Harry’s defense. You see, my lack of trust in Asterly almost ended our excellent understanding of one another. I point this out because I sense that you are undergoing now what I went through with Asterly.”
“The old adage of new marriage beginning with fits and starts?”
“Yes, but add to that the fact that Asterly and Harry have such forceful personalities. They are quite different and yet they have a something about them that feels driven, fully confident. So much so that they unknowingly give one a feeling of…not smallness…but inadequacy. I allowed that lack of confidence in myself to nearly destroy our marriage. To be frank, who could feel equal to either of them?”
“Yes, so much confidence and energy. The two of them have such…” she halted when she couldn’t find the word. “It’s so difficult for me to believe he can…find me even the slightest bit interesting. They are both so—”
“Daunting,” Lady Asterly said. “I had the same questions about my husband in the beginning, but I can assure you, once their devotion has been given, it will not be moved. It wasn’t their mother who taught them to be steadfast. It’s their nature.”
In the quiet that followed, Olivia stopped fleeing from the truth, from her cowardice.
Lady Asterly softly said, “Please ask yourself why you blindly believed Goodfall and your father and not the man you so obviously love.”
After Olivia nodded, Lady Asterly said, “Thank you for allowing me to speak so frankly. I shall leave you now. But before I go, I beg you to give Harry another chance. He is truly heartbroken. He’s not only lost you, he’s struggling with having yet another child that he cannot acknowledge.”
Olivia swallowed and found her voice, hoarsely saying, “I appreciate your candor and now must wonder how you can think me worthy of him.”
Hazel eyes softened. “My dear, as we’ve acknowledged, beginnings are always difficult. And none of us get away from this life without it dealing us a painful lesson or two.”
“And my lesson is?”
“I think you know.”
Lady Asterly wrapped fingers encased in buttery soft leather around Olivia’s wrist, as if understanding that support was needed for what she had yet to say. “It’s all well and good to read improving works and write impressive tracts about the sad conditions of this world, but…it is our actions that make the difference.”
Through the blur of brimming tears, Olivia watched the door click shut. She stood alone, pilloried, exposed as a fraud, and acknowledged her shame, not Harry’s. Her father’s lectures rang in her memory. “A Christian may be recognized by his actions but he will not be entered into Heaven by his works.”
She knew her father from a distance, looking down from the pulpit or as she sat repentant on a chair while being lectured. Did Father perform actions of mercy? Had her fear of him and his strictures kept her from seeing the true man underneath the rules and righteousness? Were we all, as Shakespeare said, merely actors on the stage of life, helpless in the grip of fate? That might be the case for others, but it was time for her to stop standing still and move forward—time to rediscover who she had been before she buckled under the weight of a decade of her father’s will. She was worthy of Harry’s love.
Harry was not and would never be like her father but was still something of an enigma. He’d made a caricature of himself and by doing so, kept his faith in the oddest sort of way. There had been a time when her love for him swept away all sense. It hadn’t mattered what she knew or what was right or wrong. There was only the rightness of being with him. She couldn’t understand why he felt it necessary to continue flaunting himself as something he wasn’t. Perhaps it was time to discover why.
Chapter 27
The neat, brick house in Mayfair didn’t fit the flamboyance of Handsome Harry’s style. Olivia expected something more whimsical and less staid. Her next discovery came after she rapped the metal ring attached to the plain, brass doorknocker.
A housekeeper answered the door. The woman’s unabashed shock at seeing a lady on the doorstep sent Olivia’s mind spinning. She hoped, not with the wrong assumption—that a brazen light-skirt stood on the doorstep—but how could the woman think otherwise? The housekeeper’s surprise might be due to the problem of Harry presently entertaining a woman. Did women involved in clandestine affairs depart before dawn or boldly remain for
breakfast? She would soon find out.
It had been weeks since the fiasco with Quentin, days since her enlightening talk with Lady Asterly. Time had been needed to confirm all she’d heard and to bolster the audacity for this confrontation.
The telling of a small lie might be necessary to get through the front door. She had prepared to present herself as a relative with a fictitious appointment, grains of truth. She had plans for a lifetime of appointments with him. He didn’t know it yet, but she’d been waiting to marry him for years. It was his own fault for being so loveable and charming to a gauche schoolgirl, endowing her with dreams she never hoped to achieve.
She gave the hesitant housekeeper no opportunity to turn her away. Olivia extended her card. “Sir Harry is expecting me.”
The woman blinked, curtsied and opened the door wider to reveal a narrow foyer of gleaming black marble, its austerity warmed by the swirling designs of Egyptian wool-and-silk carpets. Flemish paintings had been hung for the pleasure of the master’s coming home or a visitor’s enjoyment while waiting. Porcelain bowls and cut-glass vases held colorful flowers. The hothouse blooms saturated the area with the scents of spring in contrast to Autumn’s musty chill at her back. All of the hallway doors stood open, which allowed early morning daylight through, revealing that much of the dwelling had an open and airy layout, welcoming and peaceful.
Olivia didn’t pause to enjoy the art on the walls or wait to be announced. She swiftly and quietly followed the housekeeper’s heels to another open doorway at the end of the passage, expecting and finding a morning room. She startled the housekeeper, sweeping by her and entering the room without permission.
As she set the calling card on a sleekly polished mahogany buffet, the housekeeper quickly announced, “Mrs. St. Clair to see you, sir.”
He stood by a bay window that looked out over a barren, back garden, his arms crossed over his chest—a brooding expression that was powerless to darken his features.
With his focus still on the frost-withered plants, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Brinkley.”
Olivia set down her reticule by the calling card, then removed her hat and gloves. She unfastened the double row of buttons down the front of her spencer, while casting a slow, appraising gaze over the morning room as she prepared for battle.
A saucer and half-full cup was all that remained of his breakfast. No sign of crumbs or empty plates. The precise and immaculate state of his house evoked the odd memory of dusty Beechgate Cottage and the cobwebs on the ceiling of the bedroom Sir Harry used. Here, as in the foyer, all was grace and style, elegance and perfection—mirrors of Harry’s exquisite sense of taste and order. He’d never made mention of her poor housekeeping skills, when it was obvious in the way his house was maintained that he had strict personal habits. He understood what was important. Again, another fact that didn’t fit the fiction of his reputation.
She dropped the jacket on a chair seat. “Good morning, Harry.”
He didn’t look at her. “Why have you come, Olivia?”
She crossed the room and halted beside him, wishing he would relent, not knowing how to proceed. She wished he would kiss her and hold her so desperately, as he usually did, but he stood resolute and stared out the window. The tiny scars of her handiwork were slowly being absorbed by his smooth complexion, as if any imperfection found it impossible to exist on so fair a face. She didn’t give a tinker’s damn for his prettiness, never had. Time had made her accustomed to his looks. What made him fascinating for her was what he hid under the shell, the mercurial passion, his sharp intelligence and superb understanding of beauty in contrast to the despising of his own. He was contradiction personified.
“So this is your stubborn side, Harald?”
His features hardened. When he continued to refuse to acknowledge her, she said, “I see that you require a stern hand and a demonstration of my determination to be heard.”
He winced when she hauled a chair from the table by dragging its back legs across the glossy floor. She knew he didn’t worry about the parquetry. Not assisting a lady horrified his sense of gentlemanly duty. The so-called polite world thought his manners a game, all for fun and show. She knew otherwise and had come to set him straight about her knowing the mesmerizing being that existed underneath Handsome Harry. She aimed to set the real Harry free. It didn’t bother her that she wouldn’t play fair.
He watched her from the corner of his eye while she positioned the chair in the window well, cornering him. When she sat, her knees almost touched his strong legs encased in form-fitting, cream pantaloons. He wore a cobalt-blue jacket that nearly matched his eyes and a gold-and-cream striped waistcoat. Plain for Harry, but then he was at home and had no one to please but himself.
She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him, as he unsuccessfully tried to pretend to be unmoved by her presence. She sensed the raw desperation under the sullen mask. He had a temper, and if he wouldn’t behave, she would provoke it.
“Stop pouting, Harry. You must know that I have come to sort this out.”
“This?”
“Was that snide comment meant to pierce my determination? You have played your game overlong, Harry. We cannot have a marriage with so many unspoken issues between us.”
In a voice deeper and harsher than she’d ever heard, he said, “There will be no marriage.”
Undaunted, she tilted her head and asked, “Why? Because Father thinks he can render the papers you signed null and void? I wish him luck with that endeavor.”
“You returned my gifts.”
“I can make my own way in the world. That has been my mistake. I thought I needed my family to support me. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather starve.”
After a moment, he said, “There is a child to think about.”
“I am sensible of all that is entailed with that responsibility.”
He slid her a quick glance before returning his gaze to the garden. “I see that you plan to make me pay for publicly jilting you.”
She brushed aside that remark with a negligent wave of her hand. “Pish-tosh. You’re referring to the gossip you’ve been spreading. You’ve told everyone that I had no choice but to turn you away after I discovered your true colors here in town. Although, I rather like the silliest one, that Father is too high in the instep and scorned your suit. Well, it won’t wash, you know. None of it.”
He said nothing. She huffed a sigh and tried another tack to loosen him up. “Why do you have no man at the door?”
“Don’t need one.”
“Who does the household accounts?”
“Cook.”
She pinched back a smile at his sulky tone. “How many servants do you employ?”
“Four maids, my valet, a footman, two grooms. The men report to me. The women to Mrs. Brinkley. She showed you in here. Without asking me.”
“Don’t be waspish, Harry. The poor woman acted genuinely shocked. I take it that your infamous bevy of paramours do not call on you here.”
That got a response. His entire body tightened. His answer came through stiff lips. “I’ve never had an unmarried female in this house. I allowed Cass to visit once with Rave. Lizzie comes by with the children. And lastly, never include yourself in the same sentence with my former affiliations.”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t be included in their number, since I still carry your child and we’re not wed.”
From the sound of it, he was grinding his teeth to keep silent. She smiled inside and allowed him a few moments to cool. She rather liked his passionate outrage in her defense.
Again, she felt sad about the fading of the tiny scars. The silvery lines gleamed in the sunlight, making him look more like an angelic pirate than a marked highwayman. She’d take either, as long as they were Harry. She needed to be stern and confident for this next bit and couldn’t let him bolt, because he would, if she allowed it. She discovered that very little frightened Harry, but he’d lost all tolerance for emotional pa
in. He felt things too keenly due to the unhealed wound of his childhood, a scar that her father had ruthlessly, if unwittingly, reopened.
When she deemed it safe, she happily commented, “You run a tidy ship, as they say. No waste and possibly the most elegantly appointed house I’ve ever seen. I have no talent for such things, but I do have an appreciation for esthetics.”
He fisted his hands when she tentatively touched the outside of his thigh. He cleared his throat and said, “It’s time for you to leave, Liv—ma’am.”
She used one finger to make little circles above his left knee. Peeking up through her lashes, she saw that her efforts weren’t in vain. She slid her fingertip a little higher. “No, Harry. I’m not ready to leave. And if you try to show me the door or throw me out, I shall make an appalling scene.”
Harry snorted and managed to make the crude response look adorable. He sent her a dismissive glare. “You aren’t capable of it.”
“You’ve never seen my stubborn side, the one that forced my family into accepting an impecunious curate with nothing to his name but his visions of missionary work in the wilds of the colonies. It took over ten years for Father to work every vestige of independence out of me, but the old me is back. Renewed. Ready for a new fight.”
This time, she smoothed her palm up the outside of his leg from knee to hip and slid her hand under his jacket. He tightened his fists, knuckles gleaming. Closing his eyes, he whispered, “I’m begging you, Olivia. Please, leave.”
She leaned forward to lay her cheek against him, felt a bottom vest button score her skin. “You don’t love me, Harry?”
“I love you till I’m sick with it!”
Her fingertips traveled up under the coat hem to his waist, then down until she touched buttons, twisting one. “All the more reason for us to marry.”
