A Love So Dark (The Dark Regency Series Book 4)

by Chasity Bowlin

  “I can’t do that,” he said firmly.

  “Why not?”

  He glanced at her. “Because it’s my fault she’s here… like this. And it’s my responsibility to care for her.”

  “She was broken when she was born, my lord, and because she was broken, she was an easy target for those that would harm her. It turned something inside her… made her vicious and cruel—savage. I remember how your mother cried when she killed that little dog… when she lashed out at the servants. You did not see it because you were away at school.”

  “And while I was away at school, laughing and playing with my friends, she was at his mercy!” he said stiffly. He looked back at Cassandra, crouched on the floor, her hair in wild disarray and her eyes wide with a kind of fear he had never known. “I failed her once, Mrs. Webster. Whatever it takes, I will not fail her again,” he said emphatically. “Bring me the new mixture. We’ll get enough of it in her that she will sleep tonight.”

  The woman approached cautiously, keeping a wary eye on the young woman in his arms. Together they forced her mouth open and poured a small amount of the sedative in her. Mrs. Webster rubbed her throat to coax her to swallow.

  The housekeeper sat down with her then, taking the half wild young woman into her arms and rocking her like an infant. It never ceased to amaze him that a woman so cold and vicious to others could be so tender with his sister. Still puzzling over that fact, Griffin left the room, but couldn’t shake the heavy yoke of guilt that seemed to be growing heavier by the day.

  ***

  In her room, Olympia had poured over the contents of the letters. They were difficult to read, the ink faded with time and often smeared from what she assumed were tears. With what Griffin had said to her in the library and with certain things explained in graphic detail in those letters, she now had a better idea of what he meant. It did shock her, but it also excited her. But it was the journal that proved more interesting reading.

  She was nearly halfway through the book before she realized precisely who Patrice Landon was. The woman who’d been written to so passionately and who had clearly been so well loved was Griffin’s mother. As she neared the end of the journal, with Patrice outlining the discovery of her pregnancy, Olympia wondered if the unborn child she spoke of was actually Griffin.

  As the night wore on, the crying began. Olympia closed the book and listened to the wailing that reverberated down the darkened halls. He’d made promises, offered reassurances that nothing untoward was occurring in the house. But the sounds she’d heard made that nearly impossible to believe.

  Only untold suffering could result in a human being producing such agonizing cries. She couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. Rushing toward her door, she flung it open and rushed out into the hallway, smacking directly into the broad and immovable chest of her husband.

  “You should be in bed,” he chided softly.

  Stepping back, Olympia looked up at him. The light spilling from her room illuminated his face and the bloody scratch that marred his cheek. Reaching up, she touched it with her fingertips and he winced.

  “It is impossible to sleep in a house where one clearly suffers so much. Who is she, Griffin? Who is it that wails so in the night?”

  “At one time, she was my sister,” he said.

  “She is no longer your sister, then?” she asked, puzzled by his answer.

  He looked away from her as he answered, and his voice was thick with emotion. “If there is aught left inside her of my sister, it is buried so deep that I doubt I will ever reach it again… but I will continue to try. To do less would be a disservice to her and to our parents.”

  There was such pain in his voice, such guilt and remorse that Olympia was overwhelmed. She thought of the journals and letters in her room, things she’d essentially stolen from him. If she offered them to him, would they give him peace, make him feel less alone? Or would it simply reopen old wounds?

  Uncertain of what else to do and possessing no other way to convey her sorrow for him, she stepped closer and closed her arms about him. “I would help you if I could.”

  His hand curled around the fall of her braid, tugging her head back until their gazes locked. “You have helped me. More than you know… Go back to your bed, Olympia, while I have the strength to let you occupy it alone.”

  Twelve

  Accompanied by a footman and Collins, Olympia made her way along the main thoroughfare of the village. The snow had not amounted to much, but the temperatures were cold enough for the ground to be frozen solid rather than the soggy, muddy mess that they’d first arrived in.

  The village of Easton on Ryburn was small, incredibly so, as Griffin had warned her. Still, there was a milliner, a haberdasher and a linen draper all within a short distance of one another. It would be a quick trip for them, she thought.

  “You may wait out here,” she told the footman.

  “But, m’lady, I was instructed not to let you out of me sight,” he said, his voice panicky and high pitched.

  “And she won’t be out of your sight. There are windows right here where you can watch her the entire time we’re in the shop,” Collins said impatiently. “Your job will be complete and her ladyship can order personal items without either of you dying of the humiliation.”

  The young footman blushed and then nodded furiously. “Yes, Miss Collins! M’lady?”

  “That will be perfectly fine, Thomas,” Olympia agreed as she tried to make sense of Collins. As a scullery maid, she’d been meek and quite timid. With her elevated station, she’d become quite a force to contend with. Still, referring to the purchase of unmentionables in front of the footman was hardly appropriate.

  Of course, her patience for Collins was also challenged by her lack of sleep. She’d lain awake for the better part of the night thinking of Griffin and his confession in the hallway. Had he not been so distraught he would not have told her about his sister. She was certain of it. But he had, and now she could not put it from her mind. Nor could she put the journal and those letters from her mind, and all she’d learned of his parents and the passion they’d shared. It all pressed heavily upon her and she wondered what course of action to take. To tell him and damn the consequences, or to keep the secret and let it fester inside her?

  Entering the shop, Collins at her heels, the few women gathered inside immediately fell silent. The hush that swept through the shop was immediate and the atmosphere palpably tense. Ignoring the curious stares and those that bordered on hostile, Olympia approached the shopkeeper. “We are in need cloth for day dresses… wool, preferably, something warm. And velvets for dinner dresses, I think.”

  “You’ll need to go to Liverpool, my lady,” the shopkeeper said. “We don’t have anything here for you.”

  Olympia looked at the table to her left, piled high with bolts of wool in an array of colors. “Are these not suitable for me, then? Are the colors unflattering to me perhaps?”

  The woman’s ruddy complexion deepened with either anger or embarrassment, or perhaps both. “You’d be happier with the finer fabrics available to you there, Lady Darke.”

  Olympia’s smile did not waiver, though her eyes were cool and hard as she stared the woman down. “No doubt I would be, but Liverpool is a journey I am unprepared to make today. And I need several lengths of wool… enough to complete at least three day dresses. I like the green, don’t you? I think it would look lovely on me.”

  “It would indeed, my lady,” one of the other women in the shop spoke up. Her voice was thin and high, tremulous as though she were terrified to even speak up. “I have one in the same fabric, but it would be much finer on you, I’m certain.”

  Given that one of her other customers had shown support, the shopkeeper was left with no other option but to assist her. Clearly, it was against her will, as the woman bristled visibly as she began collecting the bolts of cloth.

  “The blue, as well,” Olympia added, pointing to a bolt dangerously cl
ose to the bottom of the pile. “And the pink. Those should do nicely for now.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” the shopkeeper ground out from between clenched teeth.

  Olympia turned her attention to the woman who had spoken up. She was tall and rail thin, her blonde hair swept back into a lovely cascade of soft curls. She had a delicate quality about her, fae-like, in spite of her impressive height. “Thank you so much for your assistance. May I have your name please?”

  “Elizabeth Marsters, Lady Darke,” the woman answered. “Forgive me, but I cannot stay. I must get home quickly.”

  The woman was gone in an instant. Another woman in the shop spoke up then. “Don’t mind her, dear! It’s a bit much being confronted with the woman who has the title meant for you!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Olympia asked, not certain she’d heard the woman correctly.

  “Miss Elizabeth was quite close to the eldest son of the late Lord Darke… It was common knowledge he meant to ask for her. But then the tragedy occurred,” the woman said, dropping her voice to a low whisper that managed to be everything but discreet. “But, of course, you know all about that.”

  The last was uttered in a smug way, as if the woman fully well knew that Olympia was being kept in ignorance. But she wouldn’t admit it, not to her, even if it meant her ignorance continued for far longer. “My husband has spoken of it,” she said. It wasn’t precisely a lie.

  “I’m sure he has. Such a shame,” the woman continued. “You made an excellent choice.”

  “The green?” Olympia asked. “I do hope it will be flattering.”

  The woman laughed. “That too, my dear, but I meant in husbands. Fine looking man, rich as Croesus, and if the luck of the Lords Darke holds true, not long for this world to plague you.”

  Olympia was still gaping after the woman as the bell of the door tinkled from her exit.

  “I’d say she won that round,” Collins intoned solemnly.

  “Be quiet, Collins. Or you may be begging her for work.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  “I’m only teasing, Collins,” Olympia said. “We’re in this together, you and I?”

  The maid nodded but then flushed guiltily. “Yes, m’lady. There’s something I need to tell you, but I don’t think to I ought to say it here.”

  “Then tell me in the carriage on the way home. We’ll be private enough there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After choosing several lengths of fabric for gowns, Olympia chose muslins and linens for undergarments. Her own were sadly worn. With arrangements made for their order to be delivered to Darkwood Hall, they left the shop.

  The experience was eerily similar to the first. The shopkeeper was rude. The other shoppers were clearly nonplussed by her presence. Brazening it out, Olympia found herself exhausted by the whole debacle. As they left, she knew there was one more stop that had to be made. As the new Lady Darke, it was her duty to inquire at the church and see what the community’s needs were. She could only hope the vicar would be more welcoming than everyone else had been.

  As they walked toward the church, which was at the heart of the village, people crossed the street to avoid her. Others simply turned their backs. Whatever had happened at Darkwood Hall, it wasn’t simply a tragedy. It was also a scandal. While she despised gossip, not knowing would only make her life more difficult and would make it increasingly hard to fulfill her duties.

  Having a purpose in her life was vitally important to her. She’d realized it more so of late than ever before. While her parents had not been wealthy, they’d always encouraged charity and good works. Much of her time as a younger woman had been devoted to helping the poor and the sick, but when her parents had passed and her Aunt and Uncle had taken over their home, they’d dismissed most of the servants and instead used her for labor. She didn’t mind the work, but it was unnecessary. Her parents had left more than enough money to see to her care, and yet she’d been subjected to a life of penury, working in the kitchens as a servant rather than living there as a respected daughter of the house.

  It wasn’t so different from the activities she’d engaged in while helping to feed hungry children at the church they’d attended. It was the blow to her pride that had been truly damaging. But that was all in the past now and she was once again in a position to do good works. Helping others had been incredibly satisfying. She’d looked forward to that with the change in her station— feeling useful again rather than simply used.

  “I must speak with the vicar, Collins. You may wait with the carriage if you like.”

  Collins nodded. “Certainly, m’lady.”

  It was clear that Collins was immediately relieved at not having to accompany her into the church. Recalling the pious and drunken ramblings of her uncle, she found she couldn’t blame her. Where she’d once enjoyed attending church herself, it no longer held any appeal for her after being browbeaten with religion for so long, especially by a man who could not have been a greater hypocrite.

  Entering the church, she found the vicar sorting through hymnals. The church itself was modest, but still lovely and clearly built with the ancient gothic cathedrals in mind. It mimicked them but on a far less grand scale.

  “Good afternoon,” the vicar called out jovially. “How may I help you?”

  “I’ve actually come to ask that question myself,” Olympia offered with a smile. “I am Olympia, Lady Albus Griffin, Viscountess Darke.”

  The vicar’s warm smile faded. While he didn’t exactly appear unwelcoming, he was concerned, guarded. “What sort of assistance would you offer, Lady Darke?”

  Olympia considered her answer carefully. “I was rather hoping that you might be able to tell me what is needed here? I volunteered with many charities while I was in London and was hoping that I might find some sort of purpose in helping those less fortunate here in my new home parish.”

  The vicar frowned thoughtfully. “I apologize for speaking so bluntly, your ladyship, but I fear that very few people in the area would welcome your assistance. The name of Darke is not well received.”

  “I have gleaned that from my interactions thus far.” Deciding to beard the lion in its den, she asked the question directly. “And why is that precisely?”

  His expression had been thoughtful before, but at that point, his gaze shuttered and any hint of welcome faded. “I couldn’t say, m’lady.”

  “You cannot say is not that same as saying you do not know,” she pointed out.

  “Regardless of whether I am simply unwilling or innocently ignorant, I have no intention of discussing the matter further. If you have questions about the history with the Lords Darke and the villagers, I suggest you take them to your husband.”

  And she was back to the beginning, she thought bitterly. Everyone wanted to whisper and point fingers, but no one would tell her anything worth knowing.

  “If you think of any way that I might be of service within the parish, please let me know,” she reiterated. “Obviously, you’ll know how where to reach me.”

  “Yes, my lady,” he said. “Good day, my lady.”

  The dismissal was quite firm. It was a first for her, being tossed out of a church on her ear. Turning on her heel, she left with her head held high though it goaded her to do so. There was only one solution. Griffin would have to tell her. Whether he liked it or not, she would not continue to blunder about in ignorance. It was long past time he told her the entire truth.

  Retreating to the carriage, she found Collins offering sweetly flirtatious smiles to the footman who appeared to be equally enamored of her. That was quite a turnabout. “Collins, we’re going home. Now, please.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Lady Darke! Lady Darke!”

  Olympia turned back to see a shopkeeper running towards her.

  Breathless, the man stopped a few feet away from her. “These came on the mail coach! Wanted to save me boy a trip to Darkwood Hall.”

  Olympia accepted the packet of lette
rs from him. “Thank you, sir. What is your name?”

  “John Short, m’lady. My wife and I run the mercantile, and our son does deliveries.”

  “And you are also the local postmaster?” she asked.

  He flushed. “No, m’lady. The local postmaster refused to hold mail for his lordship after what happened… so I do it.”

  “I see… Are there other merchants in town who have refused to do business with his lordship?”

  “Most of ‘em, m’lady. But I reckon he’s never been nothing but kind to me,” the man replied stoutly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Short. What sort of items do you sell in your Mercantile?”

  “Bit o’this, bit o’that, m’lady.”

  “Fabric and sewing notions?”

  “Only a bit. Nothing so fine as would befit a lady of your station.”

  Olympia smiled at that. Before the small bit of coin Swindon had provided her, her wardrobe had consisted of only two dresses and one of them had been worn until it was little better than a rag. “Collins, go cancel the order with the milliner, the linen draper and the haberdasher. We’ll purchase what we need from Mr. Short, and if he does not have it, he will order it for us. Won’t you, Mr. Short?”

  The man’s flush deepened but his chest puffed up with pride. “I certainly will, m’lady. You’ll always be welcome in our store.”

  “Take me to it now, if you please Mr. Short,” she said. “I am in the mood to shop.”

  While the selection of fabrics was smaller, she found several that were suitable. The buttons and other items were more plain and serviceable, but Olympia took no exception to that. With her shopping complete, she and Collins returned to the carriage.

  “Collins, what was it you wished to speak to me about?” Olympia asked, recalling the maid’s earlier statement.

  Collins ducked her head. “I overheard a conversation, m’lady, while I was in your dressing room. It backs up to his lordship’s dressing room and I suppose his chamber as well.”

  “Yes… what did you hear?”