by Diane Gaston
Cecilia winced in pain. ‘You must ask Papa about that.’ She knew, of course, she was not welcome home. ‘But tell me, Mama. Are you in good health?’
Her mother continued to hold Cecilia’s hands as she related a list of minor complaints to which Cecilia listened sympathetically. When her mother finished, Cecilia turned to Agnes. ‘What of you, Agnes? How do you fare?’
Agnes seemed surprised Cecilia asked about her. ‘I am married to Mr Higgins, Sir William Higgins’s son.’
‘How nice,’ Cecilia said. ‘Do you have any children?’
Agnes faltered. ‘Not yet.’ She changed the subject. ‘Joan is married, too. To Mr Pottinger, an earl’s younger son. She has no children either.’
Cecilia gave her a warm smile. ‘I wish you both happy.’
Agnes turned her face away.
‘Where are you staying?’ Lady Dorman asked. ‘Are you living here in London?’
Cecilia glanced to Oliver before answering, ‘I rent a room in Mr Gregory’s property.’
‘How do you live?’ her mother asked, then gave an answer. ‘I suppose you have a widow’s pension.’
Agnes interrupted. ‘Mama, can you not see she is in Mr Gregory’s keeping? She is his mistress.’
Cecilia paled.
Oliver calmly spoke up. ‘She is not in my keeping, Mrs Higgins. She does let a room, however.’
‘What a silly thing to say,’ her mother chastised Agnes, who gave an obstinate look.
‘Mama, we should go,’ Agnes said, rising from the chair. ‘Lady Ashton is expecting us to call.’
Lady Dorman clasped Cecilia’s hands again. ‘You will call upon me soon, will you not?’
‘Mama,’ Cecilia replied. ‘I cannot. Papa has forbidden me.’
Her mother looked puzzled. ‘You have seen him?’
‘I called once,’ she prevaricated. ‘I was told not to call again.’
Oliver stepped forward and handed Cecilia’s mother his card. ‘If you should need to speak to your daughter, you can send a message to me. I will see she receives it.’
Agnes gestured with her hand. ‘Mama, we must go.’
Cecilia helped her mother to stand.
‘I am quite all right now,’ her mother said. ‘It was the shock, you know.’ She embraced Cecilia. ‘My darling daughter. You are alive.’
‘Goodbye, Mama.’ Cecilia’s voice cracked.
‘Mama!’ Agnes demanded.
Her mother bustled out of the room behind her other daughter, turning at the doorway for one more glance at Cecilia.
* * *
Cecilia collapsed on to the sofa as soon as her mother left. She was a hair’s breadth from bursting into tears. Her mother had not disowned her! Her mother had cared about her.
Oliver sat at her side, but said nothing.
She could not look at him. ‘You made me confront her. I would never have known otherwise.’ It meant everything to her.
His voice turned soft and low. ‘She is your mother.’ He cleared his throat and his tone turned more conversational. ‘I liked her better than your father. I cannot say the same about your sister, though.’
‘She was brought up to despise me.’
Their father had reminded her sisters frequently that Cecilia, the youngest, was the reason they did not have more dresses, more visits to London, a larger dowry. If only she had not been born.
Cecilia suspected her father had not mentioned to them that Cecilia had been given no dowry. That money was certainly lost to gambling.
‘I would like to write to my mother again, when—when I go away,’ she said.
‘Go away?’ he asked.
‘After the baby is born,’ she said quietly. ‘I plan to move away where no one knows me.’
He frowned and turned away from her. When he turned back his eyes were filled with resolve. ‘If you ever want your mother to receive a letter from you, send it to me. I will make certain she receives it.’
She believed him.
Chapter Thirteen
The next day turned cold and rainy and Oliver could think of no reason to go out, not even to Vitium et Virtus, which would be closed this night. He holed himself in the small room that was his library and opened the book he’d borrowed from Hookham’s.
It was hard reading, but intriguing. Oliver had never paid much attention to things like the value of land and how much workers should be compensated. It stimulated his thinking. It also expanded his thinking beyond the offerings of Vitium et Virtus, to ideas about producing food and manufacturing essential items, of paying wages based on the value of the tasks performed, and a concept of minimum wage that provided workers enough for food, clothing and shelter.
Perhaps there was more to life than a scandalous gentlemen’s club.
His butler came to the door. ‘Sir, do you recall the gentleman you asked me to take heed of?’
Bowles? It would be like Bowles to make more trouble.
Irwin went on. ‘The gentleman who might ask for Mrs Lockhart?’
Not Bowles. Lord Dorman.
‘Is he here asking for her?’
‘That he is,’ Irwin said. ‘What do you wish me to do?’
Irwin would probably throw the man out if Oliver wanted him to.
‘I’ll see him,’ he said instead. ‘Did you put him in the drawing room?’
‘That I did, sir. He was complaining all the way.’
Oliver closed his book. ‘Tell him I’ll be down directly.’ He rose from his chair and entered the drawing room a minute behind Irwin.
Dorman swung around to him. ‘I asked to see my daughter, not you.’
Oliver raised his brows. ‘Now she is your daughter? I thought she was dead to you.’
Dorman huffed. ‘You know my meaning.’
‘Why call here to see her?’ Oliver asked.
Dorman gave him a smug look. ‘I asked around. I know she lives here.’ He sneered. ‘With you.’
There was no use in denying it. ‘What is this business you have with Mrs Lockhart?’ Oliver asked.
‘Why should I tell you?’
Oliver came close to him. ‘Because I will not have you distressing her. You have done damage enough.’
‘What concern is it of yours?’ Dorman persisted.
‘She is my employee and my friend,’ Oliver said. ‘Both mean I care that she is not distressed.’
‘Humph!’ Dorman’s expression was of disdain. ‘My daughter Agnes tells me she’s more than that.’
‘Ah.’
Cecilia’s sister informed her father about the meeting at the circulating library. And, of course, his wife now knew he had destroyed Cecilia’s letters.
‘Perhaps you can tell me what you wish to say to Mrs Lockhart. I will pass on the message...’ Oliver paused. ‘Unless it is hurtful.’
‘She is never to contact any member of this family again!’ Dorman cried. ‘Tell her that. Or show me where the chit is hiding and I will tell her.’
‘I doubt she finds it necessary to hide from you.’ In fact, Oliver had no more right to keep her from seeing her father than her father had to order her presence.
It should be up to Cecilia to decide.
‘If you care to have a seat, I will ask if she wishes to see you.’ He gave Dorman a steely glare. ‘But I warn you, if you are not civil, you will be tossed out on your ear.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Dorman lifted his chin. ‘A man of my station.’
Oliver gave him a sarcastic smile. ‘Ah, but I have no station, as you indicated in our last...encounter. What trouble can you cause me?’
Dorman pursed his lips, no doubt frustrated that he had no clout at all with Oliver.
‘If you pardon me, I will sp
eak to Mrs Lockhart.’ Oliver did not give Dorman a chance to say another word. He walked out of the room and went in search of Cecilia.
* * *
Cecilia sat reading by her window when there was a knock at the door.
Oliver.
The last time he’d knocked on her door had been after dealing with Sir Nash. ‘Come in,’ she said.
He entered the room and sat in a chair near her. ‘Your father is downstairs.’
Her stomach turned to lead. ‘My father.’
‘He wishes to see you. I almost tossed him out, but the choice should be yours. Do you wish to see him?’
He made it her choice? Considered her feelings? She felt a crack in her resolve not to let down her guard about him.
‘Did he say why he came?’ she asked.
‘I suspect he wishes to speak to you about seeing your mother and sister.’
Of course.
‘If you do not wish to see him, I will deal with him for you,’ Oliver said.
‘I will see him.’
He stood and extended his hand to help her rise. His hand was warm. And strong.
They walked out of her room together and descended the stairs. Irwin, looking serious, was attending the hall.
‘Stay nearby,’ Oliver told him.
Irwin nodded.
Cecilia hesitated before entering the room. She straightened her spine and lifted her head. Her father would not see how much his rejection wounded her.
She strode into the room. ‘You wished to see me, Papa.’
As before, at the club, and at the Circulating Library, Oliver remained by the doorway, but she knew he was there.
Her father turned to her. ‘You’ve caused me more trouble,’ he spat out. ‘Talking nonsense to your mother.’
‘Nonsense?’ Her eyes widened.
Her father went on, ‘We washed our hands of you, remember.’
She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Oh, I remember. Did you come merely to remind me?’
His nostrils flared. ‘I came to forbid you to see your mother or your sisters. You stay away from them. I said you are dead to us. Stay dead.’
She placed her hand on her abdomen for a brief moment, before saying coolly, ‘You can no longer order me, Papa.’
He went on. ‘I’ll not have you filling your mother’s head with your stories and making life difficult for her.’
‘Do you mean telling her of your membership at Vitium et Virtus? Of your gambling and debauchery? Of destroying my letters?’ She kept her gaze steady. ‘Or of sending me away when I came to call upon you?’ When she’d felt in such need of her mother.
‘You have already told her about the letters,’ he snapped.
It was Agnes who had told their mother, but Cecilia did not have the heart to put her sister in her father’s black books.
‘And I am free to disclose anything I know to my mother or to anyone else. I have been disowned by you. I have been married and widowed. You have no say in what I do.’
He took several steps and leaned into her face, but she did not back away. From behind her she heard Oliver move closer.
Her father shook his finger in her face. ‘You will do what I say or else.’
She did not flinch. ‘Or else what?’
His expression turned smug. ‘I will tell your mother you work in a brothel.’
Oliver stepped up, his eyes shooting fire. ‘Enough, Dorman!’
Her father backed off.
Oliver’s voice rose and shook with anger. ‘You dare to threaten us? Recall that I have powerful friends. You cannot harm me. I will not allow you to harm your daughter. I assure you, I will destroy you if you try!’
Cecilia trembled at Oliver’s fierce tone and dangerous expression. She felt his repressed rage. It frightened her.
Her father stormed out without another word.
Oliver still seemed like a powder keg that might explode at any minute. ‘He had better not threaten you again.’
She was too shaken to say anything. She nodded and fled the room.
* * *
That evening, for the first time, Cecilia asked to dine alone in her rooms. Oliver’s anger had frightened her and she simply could not sit in the dining room with him.
After Mary took away her dinner dishes, however, she’d calmed down and guilt seeped in. Oliver’s anger had been in her defence, after all. Running off and avoiding him were shabby ways of expressing her gratitude.
She ought to apologise. She rose with resolve and left her rooms to go in search of him, hoping he had not gone out.
She found him seated at a table in the drawing room, gazing down at it and apparently not hearing her approach.
‘Oliver?’
He raised his head. A desolate expression on his face changed to a neutral one. He nodded a greeting.
She walked over to where he was sitting and glanced down at the table. It was made of light and dark wood inlay forming long triangles on two sides, their points meeting in the middle. There were chips of white and black marble on the triangles and two sets of dice, one set white, one black, with cups in which to shake them.
‘It is a game!’ she exclaimed, glad for something else to talk about than explaining why she’d avoided him at dinner.
He moved one of the pieces. ‘Backgammon.’
‘I have seen this game before,’ she said. ‘Some of the soldiers played it.’
He looked up at her. ‘Do you know how to play?’
She shook her head.
‘Would you like to learn?’ he asked.
The anger she’d sensed in him seemed to have been supplanted by a sadness that evoked sympathy, not fear. She ached to dispel it. Perhaps to ease her guilt.
‘I’d be delighted to learn,’ she said.
He gestured for her to sit and rearranged the game pieces. ‘Backgammon is an ancient game, known to the Romans and before, but I’d never heard of it until I found this table. I bought it and found a book about the game—A Short Treatise on the Game of Backgammon. I taught myself to play.’
‘Can only one person play?’
He gave a soft laugh. ‘If one plays both sides. You’ll be my first true opponent.’
He showed her the rules by playing a couple of practice games. The game was simple enough, easier than chess where each piece moved differently. It took her a few games—a few losses—to grasp that there was strategy involved. She focused even more on her play, wanting to win.
They began to compete in earnest. Both ignored anything but the roll of the dice and moving the pieces. Cecilia let go of her fear of his anger and forgot her guilt at avoiding him. She merely wanted to protect her game pieces as she moved them around and off the board.
‘Gammon!’ she cried, taking her final two pieces off. Oliver was left with all his pieces still on the board. Gammon gave her an extra point. ‘I won!’
‘That you did,’ he said with some dismay. He immediately set up the pieces again. ‘You caught on quickly.’
‘I’ve played some chess and draughts,’ she responded. ‘When I was following the drum.’
‘Not as a child?’ He handed her one of the white die.
‘Not really.’ She put the die in the cup. ‘My sisters hated it when I won, so I rarely had an opportunity to play.’
‘You have a talent for this game,’ he said.
* * *
Oliver put his black die in the cup, shook it and rolled it onto the table.
Earlier he’d been plunging into depression when she had come into the room, willing to play.
He’d missed her at dinner. He relished her company then and it had been lonely without her.
It would be even lonelier when she left for good. He di
d not want to think about it. He wanted only to enjoy this moment with her.
She rolled her white die. ‘Did you play games as a child?’
From the time he could remember he’d played games. With his friends at school. Occasionally with his father. But his earliest memories were playing games with his mother.
He smiled. ‘In India, I used to play a game called Snakes and Ladders.’
‘Snakes and Ladders?’
‘Snakes and Ladders.’
He closed his eyes and could see the board with its black snakes crisscrossing the squares and ladders. The writing on the board was foreign, but he could remember reading it.
He opened his eyes again. ‘The board consisted of squares. Each square was a house and each house represented an emotion. You threw the dice to see how far you could go. The ladders represented good feelings and you could rise to the top of the ladders on good feelings, but if you landed on a snake, a bad feeling, you slid back down the board and slipped further and further from nirvana.’
‘What is nirvana?’ she asked.
Another memory, this time of his mother, flashed into his mind. Wrapped in her brightly coloured sari, her face beatific, she told him of nirvana. ‘It is the highest happiness, but also perfect quietude, oblivious to the world of pain and worry.’
Cecilia looked at him with a sober expression. ‘Imagine a game all about emotions where one tries to win happiness and peace.’
He held on to the memory as if it were a precious jewel. Emotions had been free-floating in his mother’s house. She displayed them generously. Joy. Love. Anger. Sadness.
Grief.
When he arrived in England, though, expression of emotion was forbidden.
Cecilia reached across the table and grasped his hand. ‘You’ve turned sad, Oliver.’
He blinked. ‘I was remembering India.’
She kept her hand in his, and he held on to her until the wave of unbidden and forbidden emotion washed through him.
She did not speak until he relaxed his grip. ‘Shall we put the game table away?’
He smiled. ‘Not until you give me a chance to win another game.’
She returned a smile, reminding him of Paris. ‘If you think you have a chance. I believe I have caught on.’