“What do you mean?”
“Shush.” She placed her finger across his lips. “My turn.”
* * *
After they had sated themselves in each other’s bodies, Olivia drew herself up and crossed the room to the window, looking out from behind a shabby curtain.
“Why would you come here alone, Olivia? You have been assaulted and threatened. What if they intend to kill you, or worse?”
“Why do you care? You ignore me for years, then when it becomes clear that I am leaving you, you return home and think you can tell me what I can and cannot do.”
“But you don’t understand. I have experience in these things.”
Olivia felt her years of fruitless longing well up into words, and she could not contain them. “You don’t understand, Harrison. I do too.” She paused, remembering that she should keep her secrets, but she had grown tired of hiding from him. “You don’t think that your father just happened across me at the secluded estate of some rakish lord, discovered I was desperate to escape his petty children, and decided I’d be the perfect bride for his son? No, I went to Mrs. Flint’s school.”
His face fell with the realization.
“I work for the same men that you do. Joe, Mr. James. I once even worked for you. You knew me as Peggy. You might remember her: She discovered a series of murders in the North.”
“Peggy died.”
“And like the Phoenix rose again. New name, new mission, but still not the kind of woman you’d want for your countess.”
“But my father described you as the perfect wife.”
“No, your father described me as perfect for you. We both assumed that meant I would be docile and compliant, and I tried—for two weeks, and then for six years of letters. But I’ve started to wonder if we misunderstood him. Of course now, it’s too late.”
“Why did you accept his offer? Why resign yourself to a country life when you’d been living a life of adventure?”
“I’d been abandoned as a child, left cold and hungry in a cottage with no money and no friends. I wanted a father, a family, a place to feel loved and cared for. Something to balance all those years of standing on street corners hoping to beg or steal enough to ease the hunger in my belly. I had the first part at least. Your father was that for me, and I mourn him still. I remained on the estate for him. But he’s dead, and it became perfectly clear you didn’t want me.”
“How do you know I don’t want you? All these years, and I’ve remained faithful to you.”
“Faithful?” Incredulous, then angry, Olivia let her whole body change. Her stance became more open, and she leaned forward provocatively, shoulders back, breasts forward, one hip canted out. “Perhaps, my lord, I misunderstood your offer. I thought that dinner at your club was merely a euphemism for other delights.”
He colored, the light flush of embarrassment quickly turning dark with anger. But his voice when he spoke was cold and controlled. “As you have told me repeatedly, we are not married. I had received your papers that very day.”
“And that very night, you propositioned the first actress whose performance spoke to your blood.”
“You spoke to my blood, Livvy, even in disguise. My body knew it was you.”
“If I believed that, I would be a fool. I’ve been a fool to believe you before.”
“Why? Did I ever promise you I’d come home? Did I ever tell you I wanted to be lord of the manor? Or from our first moments together did I not tell you I was meant for a different sort of life, for the sea, for adventure?”
“Yet you left the sea for Parliament.”
“I thought you were happy. I thought you wanted a quiet sort of life, that you enjoyed the fields and crops and adjudicating the woes of your tenants. I didn’t know you were one of Flint’s girls.”
“And had you known, what difference would that have made? On our best days, you would only have distrusted me. You would have wondered what my game was and why I was marrying you instead of seeking some adventure. On our worst, you would have wondered if I had been sent to spy on you. A marriage without trust is no marriage at all.”
“I’ve already told you that you can trust me. Would it mean anything to say that I wish we could go back, back to that moment when there was a possibility?”
“As a sentiment, perhaps. But would you have made a different decision?”
“If I knew then what I know now?” He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“That’s the seduction of it, isn’t it?” Olivia shook her head. “The idea that, if you could, you would make a different choice. But at that moment, you made the best decision you could, given the set of choices you faced. It might not be the choice I or your father would have preferred, but it was the choice you believed was right for you.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“Perhaps, but we were wrong—your father and I. We wanted to help you, to give you a home to come back to, but we would have done better to let you alone, whether you came back home or not.”
“He was a very determined man.”
“As are you. But I’m tired, Harrison. Every room in the abbey reminds me of all I’ve lost, or never really had. My father, yours, my hopes and dreams.”
“Give me a little more time, Livvy—”
At the sound of approaching footsteps, both of them grew immediately silent. Olivia reached into her reticule and tested the powder in her pistol. Before Harrison could stop her, she stepped into the light.
“Ah.” The well-dressed man stepped into the half-light, a pistol in each hand. “I see you have your father’s daring and foolhardiness in equal measure.”
“My father taught me resilience and ingenuity as well.”
“Perhaps.” The man tilted his head as if listening to an unheard melody. “Your father left a great many men angry. Even after all these years, some of those men would like to find him, if, of course, he is to be found.”
“Is he?” She hated the note of hope in her voice.
“I have never known—and I suspect neither did Sir Roderick. But your father’s enemies would be equally happy to take their vengeance on you. When you were young, Sir Roderick claimed you had died in a shipwreck, then he changed your name and hid you away at a boarding school that would give you the skills to survive. His actions kept you safe, but by looking for your father you are removing yourself from the protection of the Walgrave name.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I owe your father my life, and warning you is my repayment. Stop looking. If you stop now, you should be safe.”
“Why? What harm would it do to find him, if he is still alive? To know where I come from and who my people are?” Olivia heard her voice break with tears.
“Did you trust Sir Roderick, Lady Walgrave?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever know him to act in any way that wasn’t in your best interest?”
“No.”
“Then you have your answer.” The well-dressed man began to back into the darkness. “But I offer one more piece of advice. Given that you are dead twice over, your marriage is as valid as Sir Roderick could make it. Go home to your husband, Lady Walgrave. Don’t court this scandal.”
Olivia watched the shadows for some time, wondering what her father might have done to create such an enemy or such a friend. But at length her thoughts turned to Sir Roderick, who had, in all the ways that mattered, been her father. Perhaps the well-dressed man was right. If Sir Roderick had gone to such lengths to protect her, maybe she should trust his decision.
She looked over at Harrison, still hidden in the shadows. If Sir Roderick had believed so strongly that she and Harrison were a match, perhaps she should trust him in that as well.
“Have you learned what you needed?” Harrison’s voice was gentle.
“I suppose, but it’s hard to let go of wondering.”
“You can always trust me, Livvy. I do what I say.” He put his arm around her shoulders. �
��What would you like to do now?”
She touched his face. “I think I’d like to spend some time in London . . . getting to know my husband.”
His smile was brilliant, lighting his eyes. He picked her up, her small frame against his, and swung her around in a circle. “Then, wife, let me show you London.”
Chapter Thirty
“Miss Livvy?”
Olivia started in surprise. After five glorious days in London, seeing every sight, and spending every moment in Harrison’s arms, the couple had returned to the estate late in the night. If love was what she had felt for him before, then she had no word for what she felt now, except that it was also love, just quieter and more confident and less troubled by questions of who he or she was.
But the voice—Lark’s—was anxious, almost frantic.
Lark almost stumbled over his own feet as he hurried toward her, one hand extended holding a piece of paper. When he got closer, she noticed the sheen of tears on his cheeks.
“Miss Livvy, please tell me it isn’t true. I have nowhere to go, no family. I gave up my rooms at the university years ago.”
“What has upset you?”
“This.” He held out the paper. His hand shook as he extended it. “Don’t you know?”
The letter was from the firm of Leverill and Cort, and signed H. W. Aldine, solicitor. She read it once, then shaking her head, read it again. By the time she lowered the sheet to look in Lark’s face, she felt both sick and angry. She could not believe that Harrison would be so petty, so callous, but the evidence was here. He had told her she could trust his word, that the scholars would be safe, that the library would continue as his father had intended. How had she believed him? Harrison pretended he told the truth, but everyone lies. Quickly, she began to reconsider how much money she would have when she left.
“Then it is true.” The old man searched her face, and his shoulders began to shake. “But you, the others, are my family, my home.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, felt the bones frail beneath her fingers. “I can’t speak to how Lord Walgrave will admit scholars in the future, but I can assure you, you will not be abandoned. If his lordship does not relent on this plan, then you may come to me. I won’t be able to offer you the ability to continue your research, but you will not be alone.”
The old man folded himself into her arms and wept. As she held him, she felt trapped, torn between love for Harrison, duty to country, and concern for the men who had become like benevolent uncles. There was little she could do to change what was going to happen, but at least she could try to ensure that as few people were hurt as possible. But, she thought with her stomach turning cold and hard, at least he had made it easy to leave him.
* * *
She entered the library a short time later, having reassured Lark that he would have a place with her. The old man had drawn himself together admirably. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he had announced, “Then I will begin to copy all the materials I need before I leave,” before shuffling away.
The library was quiet, without even the quiet sounds of research. No pages turned, no pens scratched across paper, no inkwells clinked with the dip of each pen. The scholars looked forlorn, even broken. She could not take them all, not on the settlement she’d requested, but she couldn’t abandon them either.
All eyes turned to her on her entrance, and not a few hands hastily wiped their faces, but she could see from their red eyes and noses that more than Lark had been crying.
“All of you received dismissals?”
Slowly each head nodded as she surveyed the room.
“I never imagined he would dismantle the library entirely. Had I known . . .”
“We don’t blame you, Miss Livvy. It is Lord Walgrave’s decision.”
Seven heads nodded in unison.
“Not all of us will be destitute,” Otley began to explain. “Quinn can go to his sister.”
“Since her husband died, she’s been lonely, and her house is not so far from the British Library,” Quinn explained. “I can continue my work there.”
“Smithson can request to return to Lord Marlby’s employ.”
“He’s written me for years to come write his family history. I’d resisted only because this was my home, and his family is so uninteresting. No rebellion, no heroics, they changed sides every time there was a new side to change to, no character in them at all.”
Olivia tried not to cry as Otley told her each man’s plans. Their family—strange as it was—would be broken up. It was even now in the process of separation. And there was nothing she could do to change their fates.
“As for me, my letter asks that I remain to oversee the sale of the books.” Otley sighed. “He doesn’t care how much he gets for each book, only that they be sold. I was hoping, however, in honor of Sir Roderick, you could help me value the items.”
Suddenly Olivia knew what she would do—could do—for them. She walked deliberately to the catalogue and opened it. “Of course. We can begin now. Would each of you bring me the ten items you need most for your research?”
The men looked confused, then hastily collected their books. After a few minutes, the men came to her with piles of books of varying heights. Partlet’s books, all heavy folios, were tucked up under his chin.
“Do you have ten pence, Partlet?”
“Why, yes”—he balanced the books, then patted his coat until he found a pocket—“I do.” Then he looked puzzled. “But these books would cost twenty pounds together.”
“Not today, Partlet, not today.”
“Then, Miss Livvy, might I change the books I’m choosing?”
“Of course.”
The men scattered again to the ends of the room, coming back with very different books than the ones they had chosen before.
For the next hour, she and Otley “valued” the books, pricing the books at whatever she knew the scholar could afford.
Nathan got the nine-volume set of Boydell’s Illustrations of the Dramatic Works of Shakespeare that he had often petted over the years; Martinbrook a set of rarely used maps of the world, including a volume on the various counties of England.
None of the men chose the most valuable or the rarest books. Instead, knowing somehow that she was giving them a precious gift, each one took only what he most loved and what he would most miss.
“We won’t sell them, you know. None of us could part with these.”
“I know.” She smiled sadly. “It will be a remembrance of our family here.”
Each man brushed back tears, until no one could brush them back anymore. Then they all wept together.
Later that afternoon, having wrapped each man’s books carefully in oil cloth, she sent Pier to the village to post them to her solicitor in London, with instructions on how to distribute them once the scholars had moved to their next lodgings.
Later that night, she took the ledger and wrote in more reasonable prices. She would not cheat him, not even of books he didn’t want. When she added up the row of figures, she sighed. She would still have enough, but barely. Leaning back in bed, she turned her face to the wall and wept for all her losses.
* * *
The next morning, Olivia instructed Calder to rig a carriage and instructed two footmen to come to her room in twenty minutes. The trunks had been packed for weeks; all she had to do was put in the final pieces and pack her valise. She could be in London by nightfall.
The footmen’s eyes widened at the sight of her luggage, but they said nothing. The news would travel quickly through the staff, and she would have to rely on Mrs. Pier to pass on her regrets for not saying goodbye. But who would expect her to remain after he had dismissed the scholars? No, she could not stay, not when her heart was broken into too many pieces ever to heal.
Finished, she adjusted her hat, and gathering her courage, knocked on the door of her study, which Harrison had slowly made his own. She did not wait to be invited in.
He was seated behind the d
esk, reading one of the household account books. When he looked up, he smiled, broadly. Then taking in her coat, gloves, and hat, his face changed. Wary, perhaps. Guilty, more likely.
“I thought you didn’t visit in the afternoon. I could have gone with you.”
“I’ve decided to leave, my lord.” She didn’t care if her voice sounded cold or angry. “We do not suit. Our values are too different for us to find any lasting peace in each other’s company.”
Even now, his surprise looked genuine. If she had not seen the letters to the scholars for herself, she might have thought his face revealed hurt and dismay. As it was now, she didn’t know what emotion it was, but she didn’t care. He had lied to her, and that was enough.
“You’ve hidden for years behind that logical façade. I thought for a while it was just a pretense, a wall you put up to protect yourself from further harm, but perhaps that is the real you. Aloof, disengaged, interested only in facts. The Harrison I knew . . .”
“You never knew me. All you knew was what a lonely girl thought she wanted.”
“Yes, you are right. I had only a dream of you, and now I’ve woken up. I had always hoped that, when I woke up, the dream and the real man would be the same, but I was a fool.” She looked away, blinking back tears.
“I’m sorry not to have been that man, Olivia.”
She felt the corners of her mouth turn up in a sad half-smile. “As am I, Harrison.” She turned away from him, picking up her shawl. “But I take my leave of you. It’s past time. I will wait, of course, to petition for a determination of invalidity until after the end of Parliament’s session.”
“Why do you want to leave me?” Harrison rose and started towards her, but stopped.
Olivia stared him in the eyes, wondering how he could even ask such a question. “I’m putting to rights your father’s injustice. The laws say marriages like ours should never happen. Perhaps, had we met in a marketplace or at the theater, or any of those places where young men find their brides, you might not have hated me. You might have eventually decided I was the sort of woman you wished to marry. But Sir Roderick went about it wrong, and we have suffered for it.”
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