The thought created mixed feelings—dancing with George in a crowded ballroom would be a real thrill. Such a handsome partner! Dancing with Jem would be challenging in a different way—she must keep her heart from him. She would not risk being hurt a second time.
‘Jem, you will not like what I have to say.’ It was Lizzie, looking at her brother with mischief in her eyes.
He sighed. ‘Do your worst!’
She laughed. ‘You have guessed it, I see. Yes, I shall need a new ballgown. I know that you will want your only sister to be properly attired for such an important event! And I do know that we brought evening wear, but that was before I knew we would be attending so prestigious an event as the very first Monkton Park ball!’
He agreed resignedly and before long a trip to Farnham had been agreed, to visit the dressmaker’s. Lizzie, Amy and Olivia were going and Jem, Charles and George gallantly offered to accompany them.
‘You do know what this means?’ Charles asked the others. ‘We shall be required to carry dozens of parcels and will all end with sore feet and sore arms, and sore ears from the chatter!’
‘Oh, no!’ the ladies all clamoured to reassure him. ‘It won’t be like that at all!’
Chapter Seven
‘I told you! I knew this is exactly how it would be!’ Charles, with an air of Cassandra in Troy, reminded Jem and George of his prophetic words, as Lizzie handed another parcel to George with a smile and a word of thanks.
‘It is a pleasure and a privilege to accompany the ladies!’ declared George, fixing Lizzie with a warm smile. Charles muttered a profanity under his breath.
They had been in Farnham for two hours. Olivia, Lizzie and Amy had all been measured for new ballgowns—the men retiring to the Jolly Farmer for cool beers while the ladies deliberated over French lace, blue silk and frothy gauze. They were to return on Tuesday for a first fitting.
Afterwards, the ladies had led the gentlemen up and down the town, in search of bargains. Between them, they had purchased stockings, gloves, ribbons and fichus—for, they assured the gentlemen, a fraction of what the items would cost in London. Despite Charles’s jesting complaint, each gentleman had no more than two small parcels to carry.
The carriage was stabled at the Jolly Farmer and so, finally convinced there was no more shopping to be done, they began retracing their steps up Bear Lane towards South Street and the Long Bridge. Olivia was feeling happy and content. She loved Lizzie and Amy and it had been wonderful spending time with them in the dressmaker’s. Charles was a dear and the other two...
No, she could not think too much about Jem right now—mainly because George was making it impossible to think of anything other than him. He complimented the ladies and gave them small gifts. When no one was watching, he sent her smouldering looks that made her pulse race. Even now, he had fallen in beside her—displacing Jem, who dropped back to walk with his sister. Further back, Charles and Amy were contentedly bickering over her parcels. Olivia tried to concentrate. George was telling her a convoluted tale from his time in Rome—involving an elderly lady who was robbed of her reticule. George had managed to catch the assailant and retrieve the reticule, but the old lady had berated him anyway.
‘How unfortunate!’ said Olivia ‘She was probably upset about what had happened and mistrustful of everyone.’
George replied, but Olivia barely heard him. They were passing a rundown-looking tavern and her eye was caught by a young boy sitting on the ground outside. His shoulders were slumped, he had a black eye and he looked rather woebegone. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up and their eyes met.
In an instant, Olivia recognised anguish, such as she had never seen in the eyes of a child. It took her aback, made her catch her breath. She kept walking, but turned her head so as to maintain eye contact with the boy. He was around seven or eight, she guessed, a sturdy boy with fair hair and empty blue eyes. Too young to bear such pain.
Later, as the rumbling of the carriage home lulled them all into silence, all she could think about was the child.
* * *
Tuesday dawned cool, dull and grey, with the threat of rain. The prospect of another trip to Farnham, so soon after their last interesting excursion, was daunting. The roads were poor in places and the journey long. Yet the young ladies were determined.
Olivia was, of course, looking forward to trying on her new ballgown. She had opted for deep blue satin, with a gauze overdress and embroidery of silver thread. If the dressmaker had done as good a job as she promised, Olivia’s dress was likely to be stunning.
The Foxleys would now be in full preparation for the ball, which was to take place on Tuesday night, exactly three weeks hence, under a full moon. Amy had stayed at Chadcombe last night, ready for their return trip to the dressmaker. She was patently excited about her first ball and she had plagued Olivia and Lizzie with a thousand questions about what would happen.
Although she had had lessons with a dancing master, Amy was nervous about forgetting the figures and begged the ladies if they might practise. On this basis, they had persuaded her to stay tonight as well. Charlotte had promised to play for them and so they would have their own, private practice.
Despite her gaiety, Olivia’s thoughts kept returning to the small boy and wondering how he was. He was most likely an orphan, doomed to a childhood of servitude. Officially, the parish authorities talked of apprenticeships, but everyone knew that, in many cases, the orphans were not well treated. There were simply too many of them. The parish authorities, relieved to have placed another waif into a settled situation, just moved on to the next child, the next family.
Today, she was determined to walk by the tavern again, in the hope that she might get a glimpse of the boy and reassure herself that his situation was not as dire as she had made it in her own mind.
Charles, citing their unreasonable behaviour on the last trip, had pleaded pressing engagements and excused himself from today’s excursion. And so it was that the three young ladies had only two escorts today—Jem and George.
Seated in the carriage, facing the two gentlemen, Olivia could not help but compare them. Both were similarly attired in the breeches, waistcoat, cravat and well-fitting coat that society dictated was de rigueur for young men. Both wore dark boots, polished to a gloss. In the carriage, they had removed their hats, which rested on their knees. George’s was a smart beaver, while Jem had favoured a stylish Parisien. Olivia’s gaze wandered—to two pairs of long slim legs, closely encased in tightly fitting inexpressibles that revealed hard muscle beneath.
Exhaling slowly, she allowed her gaze to travel upwards, past stylish waistcoats hugging firm chests, before coming to rest, in turn, on their two faces. Judicious use of her fan allowed her to do so surreptitiously, she hoped. Two handsome men with dark hair, attractive features and strong jawlines. But—and here was the difference—the eyes!
Jem, whose familiar blue eyes still caused her heart to flutter each time she looked into them. George, his dark brown eyes full of secrets and dangerous intent when he looked at her.
Jem, whom she knew and trusted—who offered her friendship, nothing more. George, who had kissed her and flirted with her—a stranger yet, but one who intrigued her. Could he be the one who might rescue her from the well-meaning protection of her family?
If only Jem would look at me in the way George does! she thought fleetingly. Stop it! she told herself firmly. There is no sense in it. No point. Jem hurt you and made it clear that he was not interested. At least George is interested! It is best to focus on a man who might prove to be a perfectly good option as a husband. If I ever marry, that is.
But what of love? Choosing a husband should not just be a case of availability. Seeing Adam and Harry so content in their marriages—and their wives so adored—made her yearn for the same for herself. Could she love George? Would she want him to love her? She simply did not know.
Chapter Eight
The young ladies emerged from the dressmaker’s satisfied with their gowns. They were loosely pinned and needed finishing, but the dressmaker was doing a great job. Both George and Jem had indicated that they had separate matters of business to deal with in the town, so George had suggested they all meet up afterwards at a coffee house on Castle Street.
As they entered, they heard a call. It was George Manning and they waited while he crossed the road to them, dodging a lumbering carriage. He made his bow.
‘Well, this has worked out perfectly! Who would have thought that we should all arrive at exactly the same time?’
‘All?’ asked Olivia. ‘Is Mr Ford with you, then?’
‘Mr Ford? Oh, no, no. I know not where he might be. But I am sure he does not mean to be rude, or to neglect you. I have learned,’ he reflected, a hint of sadness in his tone, ‘that not everyone is as considerate as I was raised to be. Now, do let us go in and enjoy some refreshments. I am sure he will be with us shortly.’ He stood back and ushered them inside with a sweeping gesture.
* * *
Jem took another sip of beer. He had completed his business within a short time and retired to the Jolly Farmer for another taste of their home brew, which was of excellent quality. The path before him was in no way clear and he continued to question why his thoughts turned to Olivia so frequently. He forced himself to look honestly at his own heart.
Olivia was, of course, beautiful and quick-witted, and her figure was extremely pleasing...but he had known many young ladies and surely some had been as beautiful as Lady Olivia Fanton. Other ladies had attractive figures and good minds...why should he have developed a preoccupation with this woman in particular?
Was it simply a sense of something unfinished from before—that he had wanted to kiss her and never had the opportunity? Or was it the fact that he was unsure whether she was interested in him now or not?
In truth, he could not read her. At times she seemed to welcome his company—she showed all the appearance of enjoyment when they walked together in the mornings, as they had used to. Yet there was nothing coquettish about her. She did not simper, or flirt, or encourage his attentions.
Apart from that incident with her shawl, he remembered. Manning had been paying her outrageous, insincere compliments—a game that Jem refused to join. He had helped restore Olivia’s shawl to her and had felt a rush of desire as his hand had brushed her bare arm. For an instant he could have sworn she had felt it, too, but afterwards he had come to doubt it.
Everything was complicated by George Manning’s presence. Manning preened and flattered, he complimented the young ladies and drew all eyes to himself.
Jem’s right hand formed into a fist. He would dearly love to land a jab right into the centre of that insincere grin! There was something about the man he just could not like. He reviewed his acquaintance with Manning, trying to identify when and how he came to abhor him. Ruefully, he acknowledged that it had begun on their very first meeting, when Olivia had sat up straighter and smiled more brightly when the interloper arrived.
Interloper? How could Manning be an interloper, when he, Jem, had not seen Olivia in four years and when she was only his friend? He had no claim on Olivia’s affections, beyond the ties of companionship.
Could his negative view of Manning be as simple as jealousy? He disliked the thought. As a rational man, there was no need to allow unwanted emotion to influence him. As it had four years ago.
His eyes became unfocused as he allowed his mind to drift back to the idyllic days of his convalescence at the Fanton townhouse. He had believed Olivia to be the ideal young lady—beautiful, kind and smart. She had plagued him and tortured him, he recalled with a chuckle, and without her, he was sure his recovery would have taken longer. But he had not tried to fix her interest—how could he?
How young and green he had been—wounded in body, mind and spirit, still reeling from Waterloo and the horrors of the battlefield. No fortune, no prospects, no position in society. Harry had seen him as a boy in need of protection—there was no chance he would have been seen as a suitable suitor for the Earl and the Captain’s younger sister.
Jem’s mistake had been in assuming he could forget her.
He laughed hollowly, uncaring of the curious glance of the farmer at the next table. He shook his head, reviewing his clumsy attempt to speak to her in the garden. At the time he had told himself that he wished only to be sure that she had taken no hurt from him. In truth, he now acknowledged, deep down he had been curious to know if any feelings she might have had for him had survived the years apart. His resolution had faltered at her warm but distant friendliness. Looking at her innocent, bewildered face, and hearing her refer to their friendship, had rocked him. Then she had said he was like a brother to her.
It had pained him, but self-preservation had taken over and he had managed to smooth over any awkwardness. In truth, he had not been aware of the true depth of his own interest in her. And, later that day, he was relieved to have not disgraced himself when he saw that she was interested in George Manning.
The wave of rage and jealousy that had threatened to overcome him had been unanticipated. He had had to use every vestige of self-control to hide it from her. If Olivia knew his thoughts, she would rightly be bewildered. He must let go of this disobliging and unhelpful fixation.
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. He was late! Lost in thought, he had also lost track of time. He drained his mug, threw a coin on the table and stalked outside.
* * *
‘So glad you have decided to join us, Mr Ford.’ Manning’s tone was smooth, but Jem detected a barb in it. He took his seat at the coffee-house table, between Amy and Lizzie. Manning, of course, was beside Olivia, with Lizzie on his other side.
‘I have no doubt you have been ably entertaining the ladies in my absence,’ Jem returned snappily.
Damn it—Manning had got under his skin!
‘Indeed he has, Jem,’ said Lizzie mildly. Jem was not fooled. His sister was not impressed by his tone. And Olivia had the faintest of frowns as she looked at him. Manning’s smile widened and the look he threw Jem was one of triumph. Under the table, Jem’s hand tightened into a fist once more.
‘Excuse me,’ said Olivia, rising. The gentlemen rose as she left the table, heading towards the back of the building, where a staff member directed her towards, presumably, the privy. Jem sighed inwardly. He had allowed his antipathy towards Manning to show and had let himself down in the process. Olivia had looked confused and a little upset as she had left. And with reason. Society’s rules were unalterable—rudeness in mixed company was inexcusable.
He quickly apologised to the others—making no excuses. When Olivia returned he would apologise to her, too. But for now, Manning’s air of triumph was grating on him. Fearing he might say something worse if he looked at the man’s smug visage an instant longer, he made his excuses and went outside into the street for a moment to clear his head.
The rain which had been threatening all day looked imminent. Dark clouds were visible overhead and a stiff breeze had sprung up. Jem walked up the street a little way, trying to shake off the rage that had gripped him. What on earth was wrong with him? He had endured much greater challenges in his military career without losing self-control. It was becoming increasingly difficult to smile and be civilised when he saw Manning with Olivia. For the sake of keeping both his pride and his friendship with her intact, he must endure, at least until this inconvenient fixation went away.
Now the rain was falling, silently and steadily, and the few people who were around raised their hoods and donned hats. As he turned back towards the coffee house, lost in thought, he almost collided with a large man hefting a heavy sack. Apologising automatically, he stepped to the side, not really seeing anything, as the man, his face obscured by his serviceable hood, deposited the sack into the back of a
farm cart. The man’s horse—a sorry-looking skewbald with brown markings on its face—was already soaked. If a horse was capable of looking miserable, this one did.
‘I know just how you feel,’ Jem muttered to it, under his breath. Pasting a polite expression on to his face, he ran lightly up the three stone steps and back into the coffee house.
* * *
Olivia crossed the yard, her thoughts full of the strange incident she had just witnessed. There was definite animosity between Jem and Mr Manning. She had never known Jem to be rude and she could not account for his antipathy towards George Manning. Why, Mr Manning was all charm! She was confused and more than a little disappointed by Jem’s tone towards Mr Manning. It had felt like an unprovoked attack and not something that fitted with her view of Jem.
Distracted by her own thoughts, she did not notice a shadowy figure emerge from the stable. Quick footsteps sounded behind her, but before she had the chance even to turn, she felt a painful blow to the head and the world went black.
* * *
Stepping back inside the coffee parlour, Jem threaded his way carefully towards their table, and took his seat. Amy, who had been midway through a tale, broke off to greet him, as did George and Lizzie. No one commented on his absence.
Of Olivia, there was no sign, which was surprising. She had left before him—surely she could not still be at the privy? Perhaps there had been a queue? It would be impolite to ask, so they all sat on, Jem gratefully moulding his cold hands around the hot cup of coffee he was given. How quickly the weather could change to autumn—even in May!
Manning responded to Amy’s tale with one of his own. Jem, determined not to allow Manning to rile him again, was not really listening. It was yet another of the man’s stories where he pretended to be humble yet managed to come across as the central figure in the tale. Glancing at Lizzie’s and Amy’s rapt faces, he wondered again why George Manning had such a different effect on him.
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