Ottilia smiled but hastened to reassure her. “You need have no fear on that score. Alice was fetched early this morning to attend her, and we will say that Evelina sought refuge with Mr. Netherburn in the early hours when she heard of Miss Beeleigh’s demise.”
Lady Ferrensby fairly glared. “If you imagine anyone will believe that for one moment, you must have windmills in your head.”
“Yes, my husband is apt to say the same.”
“I am not in the least surprised.”
A gurgle escaped Ottilia. “But I wish you will not fret, ma’am. I am persuaded Mr. Netherburn will do the honourable thing and take Evelina off your hands within a se’nnight.”
As Ottilia relayed this passage to her spouse when they were at last at liberty, Francis looked at her with horror. “Do you tell me this cursed village is about to be engulfed by a spate of weddings?”
“Well, two perhaps.”
“Two too many,” Francis said flatly. “Where the devil is Ryde? I will send him straight off to discover when that wretched carriage is going to be ready.”
Ottilia sipped at her coffee, a fresh pot having been supplied by Hannah Pakefield, once more upon her feet and pathetically grateful.
“I think I will suggest to Mr. Netherburn that he hold his wedding breakfast here,” she said, heedless of the exasperated snort that escaped her spouse. “Poor Hannah is going to be one patron short as of now.”
“Not at all,” said Francis. “Don’t forget that Cassie, shortly to become Mrs. Kinnerton, is pledged to take care of Evelina Radlett. Severally or together, the four of them should amply supply Hannah’s shortage.”
“Yes, and now I think of it,” Ottilia agreed eagerly, “there is no Molly to fret poor Hannah with her jealousies, so I daresay she may open her doors to lesser men. I will suggest to her that she court Mr. Uddington’s custom.”
She took another serene sip of her coffee before she noticed an alarming look of frowning indignation in the features of her husband. Her brows rose as she stared at him.
“What?”
“If you imagine, my Lady Fan, that you are going to remain one moment longer than is necessary in this Godforsaken village, merely so that you may go about rearranging the lives of the inhabitants —”
Ottilia broke in without ceremony. “Nothing of the sort. Merely an idle whim, my dearest love. You may remove me at any time you choose.”
He regarded her with an eye quite as scorpion-like as that of Lady Ferrensby earlier. “You are not, then, planning anything further?”
“Not in the least.”
“Such as helping Bertha Duggleby to search for this fictitious pot of gold?”
“You know, I believe it does exist,” said Ottilia cheerfully. “I daresay she will tear the place down brick by brick, and I hope she finds it.”
“Or ridding Cassie Dale of this tendency to have visions?”
“Kinnerton will do that, though I daresay she will be far too fearful of consequences to divulge a word if she does have them.”
“Nor attending these pestilential weddings,” pursued her spouse doggedly.
The word threw Ottilia’s mind out of kilter. An abrupt desire to weep caught in her throat, and she could not speak. She stared helplessly at Francis and saw his expression alter. Concern leapt in his eyes, and he rose swiftly from his chair and came around the table.
“What is amiss, my darling?”
Ottilia felt the stinging tears and tried to sniff them back, swallowing on her thickened throat. Francis seized her, catching her up from the chair and pulling her into the safe haven of his arms. Ottilia clung, gulping down the rising sobs.
“My love, my dear one, what in the world is the matter?”
The murmur in her ear served only to make things worse. Unable to help herself, she wept briefly into his shoulder, hiccoughing on her breath as she tried desperately to say what was in her heart.
“Oh, Fan, I love you so.”
Finding her voice at last, she drew away a little, gazing up into his beloved features. His dark eyes were tender, but puzzlement warred a little with dismay.
“Is that why you are weeping?”
Ottilia’s breath shuddered in her chest. “No. It is because I never want to go through that again.”
He drew her head back into his shoulder and held her so. “Nor I,” he said feelingly. “I will never forget the moment when I realised it was you tied to that infernal stake.”
Ottilia jerked her head up. “No! I don’t mean that. I care nothing for that.”
Francis was frowning now. “What then? I don’t understand you.”
She drew an unsteady breath, and her hands came up to rest against his chest. “I never want to doubt again. Not for an instant. I could not bear to think we had made a mistake to marry.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then, to her incredulity, he let out a laugh, and she read relief in it.
“Is that all?”
“All?”
Francis shifted back and caught her hands, holding them hard. “My darling Tillie, for all your brilliant mind, you are a hopeless idealist.”
A little of the darkness she had been harbouring these several days began to lift. “How so?”
His smile was tender as he released her hands, instead using his fingers to wipe the straying wetness from her cheeks. “Do you imagine we can possibly get through a marriage without doubting its wisdom? Either of us?”
“I want to, Fan,” she uttered on a desperate note.
Francis kissed her. “Then try. For my part, I am prepared to doubt with all the power at my disposal.” Then he grinned. “Don’t look so crestfallen, my dear one. The joy of it is the repeated realisation that marrying you is the wisest thing I could have done.”
She sighed, a little comforted. “Even if I should involve myself in another such imbroglio?”
Francis’s eyes narrowed. “If you ever dare to so much as whisper any such intention —”
Upon which Ottilia thought it prudent to demonstrate her affection in a fashion that must prevent her darling Fan from completing whatever dire threat he had been about to utter.
BOOK THREE: THE OPIUM PURGE
Chapter 1
The cloak splashed red against the pristine snow. Arms uplifted to the heavens, bare fingers catching at fresh flakes, the girl twirled on the vanished lawn of the Dower House, her countenance alight with pleasure.
Watching from an upper window, barefoot and inadequately clad for early January, Ottilia Fanshawe was struck by the ethereal beauty of this dawn trespasser. Who she might be was a mystery, for Ottilia’s mother-in-law had made no mention of a stranger so worthy of notice. Although this was no surprise, with the Dowager Marchioness of Polbrook’s concentration centred upon the perfidy of her elder son.
The tirades, endured with ill-concealed chagrin by Ottilia’s long-suffering spouse for the duration of their stay, showed no sign of letting up. The sheer delight of the scarlet-clad girl in the garden was thus refreshing to Ottilia’s jaded patience.
If one were to imagine a fairy princess, this creature embodied the vision to perfection. The hood of her cloak had fallen to her shoulders, revealing a cluster of fair curls framing a glowing face fit to set a painter groping for his brushes. A row of pearly teeth showed within the luscious open mouth and a pair of sparkling eyes were just visible.
Yet even as she enjoyed the sight, Ottilia’s innate common sense could not help but deprecate the lack of gloves and the foolhardy excursion into the cold of a winter’s day without proper protection. She doubted the billowing cloak offered much by way of warmth, especially since the girl had apparently donned a diaphanous gown more suited to an evening party. Its folds twinkled in the light, suggesting a spangled confection nestling beneath the concealing cloak.
All at once it was borne in upon Ottilia that the girl had ceased her twirling dance in the snow, and had discovered herself to be observed. She was looking directly up at the window, with
an intent stare that was oddly disturbing.
Obeying a half-formed impulse, Ottilia lifted a hand and waved. The girl’s features exploded into life, opening into a huge smile that could not but draw an answering one from Ottilia. Two bare hands came up, and the fingers waggled in a fashion that reminded her irresistibly of a toddler’s attempt at waving.
Laughing aloud, Ottilia watched as the girl abruptly turned and darted away. She was quickly lost to sight around the corner of the house, and Ottilia found herself leaning into the glass in an effort to catch a last glimpse.
“What in the world are you about, Tillie?”
Lord Francis Fanshawe’s sleepy voice caught Ottilia’s attention and she straightened, turning her head. Her husband had partly emerged from between the bed-curtains on her side, which Ottilia had left closed. She threw him a darting look of mischief.
“I’ve been watching a fairy dancing in the snow.”
“At this hour?” And then her words seemed to sink in. “A fairy?”
“A girl. A stranger, I think. She seemed a childlike creature, but very beautiful.”
Francis swung his legs out of the bed, and a frown creased his brow as his gaze dropped. “You’ll catch your death, standing there in your nightgown.”
Ottilia shivered, belatedly becoming aware of the cold in her limbs. She looked about for her shawl, but her spouse was already on his feet and moving to seize it off the back of the daybed where she had left it last night. He crossed to the window and draped it about her shoulders, his arms enwrapping her from behind over the top of its woollen folds.
“There. Though I’d prefer you to snuggle between the sheets with me. Even if we are pledged to be circumspect for a space.”
Ottilia sank into the warmth of his embrace, but she could not withstand a spurt of irritation. “An old wives’ tale, Fan.”
One of Francis’s hands slipped down to cradle the swell at her abdomen, slight as yet. “When Patrick gave much the same warning?”
“I shall have something to say to my brother when he arrives,” Ottilia said on a slightly acid note. “Between you and him, I shall be driven demented before ever I get through the next six months.”
Francis held her tighter and she felt his lips caress her cheek as he mouthed tender endearments that could not but damp her rising annoyance. She sighed a little, aware of the unaccustomed emotional turmoil that seemed to attack her more as her pregnancy advanced. Her usual calm had deserted her, and although she was no longer nauseous, she was apt to be snappy and prone to unwarranted distresses. Ottilia was becoming wearied with apologising already, and the weeks ahead of her seemed to stretch into eternity.
Francis relaxed his hold. “Tell me about your fairy.”
“Oh, the girl in the snow!”
The memory sprang back into Ottilia’s mind, and she at once realised that the girl’s joyous appearance of freedom had spoken to the deeps within her, where frustration was king and life had lost something of its savour.
“She’s exquisite. A picture book doll; or a princess. I wonder who she is.” She turned a little, surveying her husband’s strong-featured countenance, with the untied lush brown hair falling attractively about his lean cheeks. “Sybilla has not spoken to you of any odd neighbours, has she?”
“What, with every second word that comes out of her mouth a fresh curse for Randal? I doubt she has room to notice.” Francis released her, moving to locate his dressing-gown. “The only girl I know of that lives around here is young Phoebe.”
“You mean the girl Giles is supposed to marry? Lady Phoebe Graveney, is it not?”
Her husband shrugged on his robe and tied it. “That’s the one. Hemington’s daughter. The family was away over Christmas, I believe, but I daresay she’ll be in evidence shortly.”
“What does she look like?”
“She’s well enough, as I recall.”
Ottilia clicked her tongue. “A trifle more detail, if you please, Fan. Is she blonde?”
He frowned in concentration. “Dark, I think.”
“Then it cannot have been she.” Ottilia glanced out of the window, her mind’s eye supplying the missing image of the girl she had seen. “Besides, I can hardly suppose a girl foolish enough to run around in the snow in a spangled evening gown is likely to be the future Lady Polbrook.”
“Lady Bennifield, to begin with,” corrected Francis, adding feelingly, “And I wish you would not mention that name, Tillie.”
Ottilia had to laugh. “Yes, it hardly bears repetition after the manner of your Mama’s saying it.”
The dowager had formed the habit of laying savage emphasis on the title now borne by her new daughter-in-law, which had made a marchioness of her son’s erstwhile French mistress. Randal had married the moment his year of mourning for his unfortunate first wife had come to an end, in secrecy and without reference to his afflicted family.
Upon being apprised of the deed, his mother had vented her scorching fury in a letter to her younger son. Francis had sworn there were flames coming off the paper. The letter had ended with a peremptory summons for Ottilia and Francis to spend Christmas at the Dower House, Sybilla declaring that nothing would induce her to share Polbrook’s board for the festivities.
In the event, Ottilia had succeeded in persuading her mother-in-law at least to attend an invitation for dinner on the twenty-fifth, if only for the sake of her grandchildren, who had both been present.
“Giles at least appears to have become reconciled.” Ottilia moved to join Francis, who had flung aside the bed-curtains and was sitting on the edge of the bed. “We have not seen him since New Year’s Eve.”
“Reconciled? Don’t you believe it! I suspect it will be long before he forgives his father. As for being saddled with a French half-sister and brother —”
“Half-French.”
“Don’t quibble, Tillie.”
“And they are scarcely to blame, poor things.”
“No one is blaming them, but Giles’s objections are perfectly understandable.”
“Until your brother has legitimised them,” she pursued, unheeding, “they had as well be orphaned waifs.”
“You may be sure Randal has had the matter in hand for months.” His tone was hard. “I imagine Jardine was instructed long since.”
The family’s man of business had been instrumental in locating the marquis when he had gone missing in France after his wife was brutally murdered in the autumn of ’89. The ensuing scandal had rocked the family to its foundations, compounded by Lord Polbrook’s reappearance in company with Madame Guizot and her two children, whom he had rescued from the vengeance of a populace gone mad. Francis, left to pick up the pieces during his brother’s absence, had been sorely beset.
Ottilia reached to set her hand over his where it rested on his knee, lacing their fingers. “You have not forgiven him, have you?”
Her spouse shifted his shoulders in that way he had when confronted with uncomfortable truths. “I think he might have waited.”
“Well, you know why he did not, for he told you so.”
Francis snorted. “Yes, he wanted to secure his precious Violette’s future. It does not appear to have occurred to him to think of the effect upon his son and daughter. Or that Harriet had to postpone Candia’s come-out again until the scandal dies down. I know he does not give a fig for Mama’s disapproval, provided he is not obliged to listen to her complaints.”
The deep discontent in her spouse’s tone moved Ottilia to slip an arm about his back and lean her head on his shoulder. “My poor darling. There is no question but you have borne the brunt of it.”
For answer, Francis drew her closer in a convulsive hug and pressed a kiss against her forehead. Then he sighed a little. “I could wish Patrick and his family could have come here sooner.”
“Indeed, so do I, for I’m afraid the snow may prevent them coming altogether.”
“My God, I hope not!’
Ottilia laughed. “Well, let us be
sanguine for your sake. Their presence must at least stop Sybilla’s tongue temporarily. And I defy even your mother to rival Sophie’s ability to prolong a recital of her sufferings.”
Francis cast up his eyes and Ottilia remembered how vocal he had been on the subject of Patrick Hathaway’s wife, after the few days spent at her brother’s house from where they had been married in June last year.
“If you will tell me how Patrick is able to tolerate her whining, I may take a leaf out of his book with Mama. Has he some secret herb he uses? A potion to render one deaf for a space?”
Ottilia’s mirth bubbled over. “He merely retires to his surgery. Or invents a patient he must instantly visit. At least, I assume he invents it, by the number of times a message has arrived opportunely.”
“Well, I can’t use that excuse here. I could almost wish you might stumble upon another adventure, if it could divert my mother’s attention.”
This remark served to remind Ottilia of the strange girl she had seen. She got up abruptly. “I’ll ask Sybilla about my fairy. That may give her thoughts another direction.”
Francis caught her hand. “Now? Aren’t you coming back to bed?”
Ottilia sagged. “I cannot, Fan. I shall go mad if I have to lie there doing nothing.”
“Still so restless?”
“Yes! I shall dress and go for a walk, I think.” Francis let her go and made to rise, but she quickly set a hand to his shoulder. “I’ll be all right on my own, Fan. You need have no apprehension. I promise I will take the greatest care.”
He squinted up at her. “Very well.”
Ottilia knew that look. “You mean to dress in any event and follow me, do you not?”
Francis quirked an eyebrow. “I won’t sleep again now. But I’ll have to shave, so I’ve no doubt you’ll be well ahead of me.”
Despite a cheerful fire in the grate, the front parlour gave off a chill as Ottilia entered the room. She had barely taken in the fact when she was brought up short by the sight of the stranger in the scarlet cloak standing bang in the middle of the room.
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 69
