by Goodman, Jo
It had been a pretense, but she hadn’t known it. He was not indifferent then, and he was certainly not indifferent now.
And that made her fear for him.
She found him stretched out on their bed, his head cradled in his palms, his feet crossed casually at the ankle. He’d removed his frock coat and waist coat, loosened his cravat, and tugged at the tails of his shirt so it was bunched negligently about his waist. She imagined him in such a pose on a grassy bank, dappled by sunlight and disturbed by a light breeze. His fishing pole would be resting beside him, the hook merely dangling above a swiftly running stream. His face would be similarly set in contemplation, but the nature of his thoughts on that occasion would be far less troubling.
Griffin lifted his head a bit to acknowledge Olivia’s entrance. His eyes followed her to the dressing room, then he closed them again as he heard the familiar sounds of her washing away her painted face and removing her auburn wig. He said nothing when she took longer than usual to make her ablutions and dress for bed. Some evenings he played the lady’s maid for her, but tonight she did not ask for assistance and he offered none. It was not her way to avoid him for long, so he respected her unspoken wish to be permitted these private moments.
When she came to the bed, he held out his hand and invited her to sit. His occupation of the mattress on the diagonal gave her room enough on the edge. She turned sideways, drawing one leg up under her and supporting the other by hooking her heel on the frame. His thumb absently brushed the back of her hand.
“You are certain you want to know?” she asked quietly, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation.
Griffin nodded. “It will not change what I think of you, feel for you.” He held her eyes. “You were a child, like Nat. Remember that when you suppose there was something you could have done. Think of him and know you were without weapons.”
“I am not without weapons now,” she said. “And neither are you. Promise me, Griffin. I would have your promise that you will take no action on my behalf.”
He considered her words carefully, then his own. “As you wish.”
Olivia took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Very well. I feel certain you understand more than you let on, but since you cannot yet know the whole of it, it is this: Sir Hadrien regularly came to my room at Coleridge Park. I do not know how old I was that first time. I am not even certain I recall it. He didn’t hurt me, though, I am sure of that. What I have come to remember is there were many occasions that I was simply invited to crawl into his lap. That was pleasant enough, or it seemed so at one time. Later, I was invited to touch him. It was a game, the touching. Tickling. Squeezing. He touched me also, praised me warmly. Such a good girl. My own dearest girl. I might have invited him to touch me as well. I don’t know. It is difficult to know now what was my idea and what was his. I know I wanted to please him. It was important to me. There was his wife, my stepmother. And Alastair. My family had changed and my place seemed secure only as long as I was in my father’s lap.”
“It was his idea, Olivia. All of it was his idea.”
She shrugged lightly, unconvinced that it mattered. “I cannot say when Honey Shepard made her discovery or how long she might have held on to the secret before she approached my stepmother. You comprehend that so much happened out of my sight, out of my hearing. I suppose my sense of what must have occurred came to me over time, first in the convent school, and later still after I was sent to Miss Barnard’s Academy in Crawley. They are a constant companion, those memories, but I try to keep them at my side so they do not creep up behind me or block my way.”
Her gaze had drifted away from his, but now it returned. “Honey was dismissed. My stepmother’s doing, I am sure. I don’t suppose she thought she had any other choice. Knowing the nanny was in possession of such a secret, it would have been difficult to tolerate, so she removed her from the house. It was a great loss to me, but I had little time to accustom myself to her absence. In very short order, I was sent away.”
Olivia fell silent. Griffin’s hand anchored her, kept her from moving. Her heart hammered wildly, and she waited for it to calm. “You know what came to pass while I was at the convent school. I don’t know how it was chosen, though I have always believed it was my father’s doing. I told you I learned to expect nothing from my family while I was there. No visits. No gifts. That wasn’t entirely…”
Griffin waited, watched her swallow hard. He kept his gaze steady, patient, but not urging her on. Finally, he finished what she could not. “He was one of them.”
She nodded slowly, grateful that he could finish it. “After so long a time, you would think I’d be able to say the words. I cannot. What you said about them buying my silence, I suppose that is true. My father certainly did. I kept the secret, and he never tired of telling me how proud he was, just as if I had accomplished something important. I suppose that is how he thought of it, so perhaps it was not entirely a lie. I was not his only little girl. I knew that. But I also knew I was his favorite.” She swiped at the tears that hovered on the rim of her lashes. “He gave me to them, Griffin. He sent me to them when it pleased him to do so. To sit at their table while they played cards, to deal for them as I’d been taught, perform on command, and later…as any one of them was struck by a fancy…” Olivia shuddered once, then was still. “I was a present on some occasions…his marker on others.”
This last squeezed Griffin’s heart. He could not help but think of his own role in re-creating the ugliest scenes of her childhood. It hardly mattered that he’d known none of it. Alastair, also. They’d opened a door to her past and pushed her through it.
He swore so softly it was hardly more than an expulsion of air. He would have pulled his hand from hers, but this time she was the one who held fast. It made him remember that he’d told her he was prepared to hear all of it, and now he knew the cost. The full weight of what he’d done bore down upon him.
“You didn’t know,” Olivia said.
“I’m not sure that should matter.”
“Of course it does. I am no longer a child, Griffin, and I did not have to accept becoming Alastair’s marker. Do you think I didn’t realize I could have left this place? All of your words to the contrary, you would have allowed me to go. Alastair’s life and reputation would not have been worth tuppence, but you wouldn’t have made me account for his debt.”
“I’m not certain that’s true.”
“And I’m certain it is. I was an inconvenience to you, one more item in your expense column. From the very first, you understood better than I that Alastair would likely leave me behind. You were prepared. I wasn’t.” Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You did not come to my room. I went to yours. There was no force, no coercion. You never asked it of me. Never once.”
“Neither did I turn you away. I wanted you there, Olivia, and it served my own interests to have you come to me.”
Olivia inched closer. She leaned forward and touched his lips with her own. “I didn’t understand it then. Couldn’t. You wanted something more than what I gave you that night. Credit both my extraordinary experience and my impoverished imagination. I didn’t know what could be.” She kissed him again, sipped the breath from his mouth. “I’m learning, though. I’m learning that everything is possible.”
Griffin abandoned his sprawl in favor of making room for Olivia beside him. He lifted himself on one elbow and laid his other arm across her midriff. “What happened at twelve?” he asked.
The abrupt shift made her frown. “Twelve? I was at the faro table then. You know that I—”
He stopped her by placing a finger to her lips. “Not twelve o’clock. Twelve years. Your twelfth year, to be precise. Why were you moved from the convent school to Miss Barnard’s Academy?”
“My first course.” She saw that he did not immediately understand that she was not speaking of her studies. “My first monthly course. I supposed then that it made me unattractive to them, and that was true after a
fashion, but I came to understand later that the possibility of carrying a child was a risk they were not prepared to accept. There were no expectations of the carnal kind at Miss Barnard’s. I continued my academic studies as if those carriage rides away from the convent had never happened.”
“And then?”
She raised her hand and touched the side of his face. “You know,” she said. “You always know when there is more.” When she saw the observation would not turn him from his question, she continued. “And then it was time to leave. I had been prepared all along, you see, to take my place at some gentleman’s side, or perhaps at the side of a succession of gentlemen. There certainly would have been a marriage arranged for me, but there would have been certain expectations in it that are not part of the vows one usually makes, and there also would have been expectations outside of it. That was all clearly explained to me. Better to make my own way, I thought. I demanded to be allowed to go.”
“It is difficult to believe Sir Hadrien let you go easily.”
“He didn’t, but I have always credited my stepmother’s touch in bringing the thing about. It is supposition only, gleaned from things my father said the last time he spoke to me. I barely remember her, never saw her again after I was sent away, and I have no illusions that whatever her objections might have been, they had little enough to do with me. She was protecting what was hers by marriage, most particularly her son. She wanted all ties to me severed—afraid, I think, that I might exercise some unsettling influence on Alastair. Though my father would never admit to any vulnerability, he feared exposure. I had no such power over him because he knew I would remain silent. The same wasn’t true of my stepmother. In the end, I think he believed he had no choice but to do as I wanted.”
Griffin caught her wrist. His thumb brushed back and forth across the fine blue-veined web on the underside. “Was there no compromise possible? My God, Olivia, to set out on your own…A young woman with no protection…” He fell silent as he realized how absurd his protest was. “I’m sorry. You never had benefit of anyone’s protection, did you? Your confidence in your own resources was not misplaced.”
“Sir Hadrien arranged a teaching post for me. I stayed a few months, long enough for him to suppose I was satisfied and would not be difficult, then I left. I went as far as my small savings would take me, then I found employment at an inn and disappeared into comfortable anonymity, greeting passengers, serving food and drink, making myself useful through industry. It is where I learned the rudiments of managing accounts. The facility I had with cards made me a favorite with the students traveling between university and town. The innkeeper and his wife were hard-working, pleasant folk, glad enough of my contribution to their enterprise that they looked after me.”
“You are speaking of Mr. and Mrs. Romney.”
Olivia’s eyebrows drew together. Her eyes darkened as her gaze narrowed. “I am, but I’ve never told you their names. What have you done, Griffin?”
“Spoken to them. No more than that. After Elaine died, I made a rather circuitous journey returning to London. It occurred to me that I might learn something about Mr. Rawlings.”
“Without asking me?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I presumed you were yet at Jericho Mews. The hell would remain closed, and arrangements for Nat to stay with my sister were easily made. I seized the opportunity.”
Olivia was slow to give up her annoyed expression. “Why am I only learning of it now?”
“Because I have not yet received confirmation of my suspicions. I could only do so much in the time available to me; the remainder I placed in Mr. Gardner’s capable hands. I expect to hear something very soon.”
“So you will owe him a second favor after all. I’m not certain that should have been your decision alone.”
“You are overly concerned with this matter of a favor and a debt and have asked nothing about my suspicions.”
Olivia’s eyes darted away and she fell silent. Her throat was at once too dry and narrow to manage even a few words.
“What I did, Olivia, was in aid of seeing you free of this fear you harbor. Like your memories, it is also your constant companion. Do you think I don’t know why you cannot say you love me?”
“Perhaps I don’t.”
“Look at me, and perhaps I’ll believe you.”
She did, but it was not a look she could sustain. “It signifies nothing,” she said. “You may put whatever construction you like upon it, but it still has no meaning.”
“So you say.” Griffin caught her chin as she would have turned her head and levered her back using only his fingertip. “I do love you, Olivia, and that is not predicated on you returning the same feeling for me. I choose to believe you do, though I will not insist upon hearing it. If it has not come to you yet, I hold out hope that it will. Mayhap it will strike you suddenly, for no reason that you can name, and you will know with the same certainty I do that it has always been love, if not from the first, then from only a few moments past it. You could not have known it then, but looking back, you will wonder how it escaped your notice, or why it was so important to deny what so clearly fit, and in our case, was so clearly inevitable.”
Now she stared at him, and because her throat closed again, she said nothing.
“Shall I tell you the rest of what you’re afraid to hear?” If he hadn’t been watching her closely, alert to the faintest change in her expression, he would have missed the slight parting of her lips and the soft, sibilant sound of her reply. “I could find no corroboration of your story, Olivia. No evidence that anyone ever died at the inn, no tales passed on about a murder on the grounds, no indication that there was ever an investigation related to a death by any authority.”
Olivia struggled to sit up and realized that Griffin’s arm about her waist now served to restrain her. Frustrated, she lay back and ground out, “It does not seem possible. When they lifted him away from me, he was so heavy. They struggled with his weight. I don’t know how he could have lived.”
“I don’t know that he did.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There was no death at the inn, but a Mr. Rollins—not Rawlings—was found hanged in his room at university. As best I could determine, the timing of his death connects closely to your departure from the inn.”
“But how could you know that? I never said any—”
“The Romneys,” he said, placing a finger to her lips when she would have protested. “You’ve spent these last years looking over your shoulder, Olivia, imagining the inevitability of being found out and alternately wondering if there was truly anything to be discovered.”
He was right, but that did not make it easier to hear. “I don’t understand about Mr. Rollins. He hanged himself?”
Griffin’s reply to her question was a noncommittal murmur. “I did not learn about that from the Romneys. There would be no reason for them to know of it. I visited Cambridge and made inquiries. You said you thought all five of the travelers at your table were students. It seemed the place to go once I located your inn.” He saw she was not entirely at ease with what he had done, but had little choice to accept it. “Your decision to go to Alastair while he was yet at university was not without risk. You must have known that. There was every chance you might have had an encounter with the students who came to your aid. Was that what you hoped would happen? You’d have had your answers then.”
Olivia realized she honestly didn’t know. “I’m not sure it was done of a purpose. At the time it seemed that Alastair could offer sanctuary, and I rarely ventured far from the residence he found for me. How curious it is, to think on it now, that I should have put myself in the very midst of a place where I might expect to find answers, then avoid every opportunity to look for them.”
“Curious, yes, but then we are all pieces of work, are we not?”
“I suppose.”
“There is another matter still to consider.”
She sighed. “There c
an’t be.”
He gave her a wry grin. “You assumed that Rawlings and his friends fled that night, but I can tell you now it wasn’t so. Rawlings never returned, but whiskey, gin, and two pints of ale were all present the following morning. If Rawlings’s friends were able to explain his disappearance to the satisfaction of others, especially the Romneys, what then accounted for your absence?”
“What?”
“Consider this. You disappeared, Olivia. If there was no evidence that anything was amiss, then it would seem you vanished without cause. The Romneys would have been concerned. You imagined you were leaving behind a body, but I am telling you one was never found there. The good innkeeper and his wife would have wondered at your absence. You have said they cared for you. You left no note, no explanation. What reason might they have been given that would have satisfied everyone?”
Olivia’s eyes widened slowly. “They believed I ran off with Mr. Rawlings.”
“And there you have it.” He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. “I have never accused you of being a slow top.”
“They told you?”
“It was not so straightforward a conversation as that. I may not possess Restell Gardner’s experience in eliciting information, but I could appreciate there was need for circumspection. Mrs. Romney in particular was quite willing to talk about the trials of managing the inn. Finding good help being chief among them. You can imagine how it went from there. She mentioned one young woman of whom she was most particularly fond, but discovered her to be as lacking in good judgment as those who came and went before her. ‘They meet a rascal,’ she told me, ‘posing as a gentleman who promises much in a fine, silky voice, and then they’re gone without so much as a by-your-leave.’”
He waited as she took it all in. “It was your disappearance that was remarked on by the Romneys. They would not have recalled anything about the students who stopped at the inn so many years ago if your departure weren’t fixed so clearly in their mind. It certainly gave me pause, Olivia. You also, apparently.”