One Grand Season

by Sarita Leone

  William held a piece of paper loosely in one hand, a pencil in the other, as he walked beside him. They discussed the details of the upcoming fox hunt while strolling in the garden beside the greenhouse. It was a secluded area, and good for thinking.

  Oliver slapped his fist against his right thigh. The smack brought a sting, as he had intended it would. There were still times when he could not concentrate on the task at hand no matter how hard he tried to focus. His mind still seemed addled by the remnants of the substances he had poisoned his body with, and although he fought to reclaim every last bit of his cognitive abilities his brain did not always comply.

  Botheration! There are details for the fox hunt to go over, yet I cannot get her eyes out of my head. They are haunting me…

  “Did you notice her eyes, Will?”

  “Your Grace?”

  He scowled. He hated being called that. Someday he would have no choice in the matter but right now the address was like sandpaper rubbed on an open wound. One should deserve a superior acknowledgment. Oliver did not feel worthy of the label.

  Will, on the other hand, knew his lot in life required he speak in a certain manner to the man in whose service he was. On the matter of proper address, he would not budge. Oliver knew—they had brooked the argument repeatedly.

  A truce of sorts had been reached. It was an accommodation which both could tolerate.

  When in the company of others, Will was called William by Oliver. Conversely, when anyone might hear them, the assistant spoke deferentially to his employer. Otherwise, they were simply Will and Oliver, more friends than anything else. Had Will been born to a different family and had the same opportunities open to Oliver, they would have undoubtedly been the best of friends. Even without that circumstance, they were as close as brothers. Last year’s trial by fire had brought their relationship to the point, and there was no returning to the servant and master dynamic, at least not where it counted—in their hearts.

  “Stop that, right this minute. We are alone, with no one to overhear.” He shot an annoyed look to his companion. Will was not cowed by the display of displeasure. He grinned like a cat with a mouse hidden behind his molars. Knowing he would get nothing more than the idiotic smirk, he repeated the question. “Did you see her eyes?”

  “Her eyes? Of course I saw them. They were right there in the middle of her face, weren’t they?”

  With a sigh, Oliver nodded toward a stone bench set beneath a towering oak tree. The tree was at least a hundred years old, with a broad canopy of branches that seemed capable of withstanding any storm. They sat on the bench, and rested their backs against the tree trunk.

  “Don’t be a clown. It doesn’t suit you, my friend.”

  “Why are you so taken with the young lady’s eyes?” Will shoved the pencil and paper into his jacket pocket. They were not going to make lists or discuss details, that much was apparent. “It is not like you to be struck speechless by a woman’s eyes. Why, you generally pay more attention to her figure. The visitor, from what I could see, is nearly figureless, she is so thin. Not your type at all, is she?”

  The truth smacked Oliver in the face. Will was right. Typically he preferred women with curves, someone who did not look like she needed saving from her own self-denial. Secondly, he sought out women who were well-read and could chat about familiar topics. Theatre productions, current events, recent fiction novels…those were the interests he enjoyed discussing with a woman—regardless of the color of her eyes.

  What am I thinking? She is entirely unsuitable…but those eyes…

  “I cannot deny what you say.” In the flower bed beside the greenhouse, scarlet roses had begun to bloom. A sweet scent, tinged with a hint of spiciness, filled the air. His maternal grandmother had planted the hedge long before his father was born. As a boy Oliver had braved the needle-sharp thorns to pick armfuls for his mother. Now, he admired the blooms from a distance, taking a deep whiff of the cloying scent before continuing. “You are right. Mother’s guest is much less…” He glanced over his shoulder to be certain they were alone. “She is considerably less well-endowed than normally attracts me. Even if that weren’t the case, she does not seem, at least not if our first meeting is any realistic indication, to be someone who might share my interests.”

  The woman could not manage to elegantly remove herself from a carriage. She had practically fallen at his feet and, even after she claimed to be “fine” she could barely string enough coherent words together to manage minimal conversation.

  No, she was definitely not his type.

  This might be a long Season, he thought.

  Oliver once again slapped his thigh, this time in a burst of annoyance. Leave it to his mother to dream up a scheme to find him a wife—for that was surely what this summer’s visitor was, a potential matrimonial match.

  “I will not do it, you know. I adore Mother but I will not be pushed into becoming engaged with some church mouse-poor distant relation she believes will be a steadying influence on me. I flatly refuse to do it!”

  Will shrugged a philosophical shoulder. “I do not recall your mother asking you to wed the newcomer. Did she do so when I was not present?”

  “Of course not. If she had done such a thing you would have surely been the first to know—if only to keep me from drowning in the brandy bottle.” The last was a joke, which they each acknowledged with smiles. He did not imbibe in alcohol at all, having learned a lesson about overindulgence he now applied to anything with even the slightest hint of addictive potential. “No, Mother has not mentioned marriage to me since announcing her cousin’s daughter was coming to visit. She is much smarter than that, old man. My mother has more up her sleeve than she lets on, even to Father.”

  “Of that there can be no doubt.” Will chuckled.

  The Gregory marriage was somewhat unusual in that both partners shared fairly identical footing, and each kept a different—yet equally effective—store of tactics by which marital harmony was maintained. Lord Gregory had no lack of candor, making his intentions simple to decipher. His wife, on the other hand, was much more subtle in the manner with which she brought about what she thought appropriate for the family.

  “If my mother wants Miss Fox to find a husband who will better her circumstances—and there can be nothing else Mother might wish for her—she will pull out all the stops to achieve that goal. I pray I am not the fatted calf ready to be lead to slaughter, although I believe I just might be, at that.”

  “Are you saying marriage is like being slaughtered?” Will’s eyebrows lifted so high they disappeared beneath the fringe of chestnut brown curls on his forehead. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Oliver paused, and then shook his head, hoping to find a clear thought amidst the jumble racing through his mind. “At least I don’t think that’s what I’m saying.” He stopped again, stared at the ground between his toes for a long moment, and then said, “No. I am most definitely not saying that marriage is like being slaughtered.”

  Will let out a short laugh. “Well that’s a relief!”

  Oliver turned to face him, hoping to find assurance in the other man’s eyes. Serious thoughts occupied his mind. They were spurred on by the appearance of their houseguest but they had been ideas he had mulled over for some time. Perhaps now was the appropriate time to give a voice to his views.

  “I can only imagine that being married to the wrong woman—say a woman with whom one is not entirely compatible but who does, on the face of things, seem suitable for the position—must be like being led to slaughter. I cannot fathom how hopeless one must feel waking morning after morning beside someone who might be nice but does not stir the heart. It must be…”

  Heaving a deep sigh, Will finished, “Like dying. Yes, now that you put it that way I quite agree.”

  Relief washed over Oliver, brightening his mood. Since last year’s chaos he was not fully certain all his views were socially acceptable. There had been too ma
ny wild, crazed moments for him to believe he always saw a situation in its proper light.

  Will was his voice of reason, and hearing the other’s validation sent doubts scurrying.

  It was not that Oliver was opposed to marriage. He was not—especially after witnessing his parents’ devoted union. But when he married a woman he wanted to be certain he was doing so for the right reason, and not because someone decided it was in his—or her—best interest.

  Then he recalled Miss Fox. She wasn’t his type, but she had certainly made a lasting impression.

  With a burst of enthusiasm, he turned, grabbed the other man’s wrist and gave it a squeeze. The effect was instantaneous. Will gave him his undivided attention.

  “Her eyes! Did you see her eyes, Will? I mean, did you really see them?”

  “Of course I did, although I must admit that it took a while before the truth sank in. I saw, but I did not believe my eyes. When I finally reached the steps and she looked at me my heart stopped—only for a moment, mind you, but there is no other way to put it. Actually, it was as if everything stopped, just for a second, when she looked at me.” Raking his hand through his hair and sending his curls standing on end, he shook his head in disbelief. “Her eyes…they were…”

  “Lavender. I have never seen anyone with lavender eyes before but it was no trick. Her eyes were really and truly nearly purple,” Oliver finished.

  They sat back against the tree trunk, each once again lost in his own musings. After a few minutes, Will broke the silence.

  “Saints preserve us—a woman with lavender eyes at Willowbrook. What on earth will happen next?”

  Chapter 2

  “I am so happy you have come to stay with us, my dear. I have been begging your mother for years to allow you to visit. She always seems to have other plans for you.”

  Lady Gregory’s sitting room was a riot of pastels, palest pink and butter yellow melding effortlessly and giving the feeling of being inside a fabulous painting. The surroundings were homey, yet obviously expensive, and, most importantly, immeasurably welcoming.

  She knew all too well what other plans her mother had for her. Vivian had never been without work to occupy her hands or lessons to fill her mind. She taught Liam while she sewed, so her mother’s claim there were plans for her was the plain truth.

  Setting her teacup carefully on its matching rose-adorned saucer, and then placing the pair on the low wooden table beside her armchair, Vivian formulated a suitable reply. She was fearful of once again making a fool of herself, so she guarded her words more judiciously than was ordinarily her manner.

  Hours had passed since she had created a spectacle in the front drive but she still felt the heat of embarrassment upon her cheeks. The butler had given orders she be shown immediately to her rooms, where a hot bath as well as a pot of tea arrived almost at the same instant as she. Once she had refreshed herself, she was grateful when a maid knocked and said Lady Gregory wondered if she was up to taking tea with her.

  Meeting her mother’s cousin did not have any of the awkwardness she thought it might. Lady Gregory was a charming, gracious hostess who put her somewhat at ease in no time at all.

  Still, she had no intention of letting her guard down too far. She had done so earlier, and look at how that had turned out.

  “Yes, well my mother does need my help, you know.” She spread her hands in the air in front of her, palms raised to the ceiling.

  Lady Gregory already knew the truth about her cousin’s living conditions, so why pretend about any of it?

  The Foxes were poor, and needed every shilling they could get. It would not be long before Liam was old enough to do odd jobs, and while neither Vivian nor her mother would wish the little fellow’s childhood shortened they would have no choice but to allow him to earn whatever he could.

  “I understand that, my dear.” The eyes that held her gaze were compassionate. She was glad there was not pity lurking in their depths because pity for pity’s sake seemed a waste of energy. Her newfound relation seemed above such nonsense, thankfully. “I also understand that you are quite an accomplished seamstress. Your mother’s letters indicate that you have worked on gowns that are sold in some of the City’s most elite shops.”

  Modesty kept her from doing more than giving Lady Gregory a fast nod. “It is true. I am fortunate to have found a situation that allows me to stay at home with my brother while I work. It is, I think, the best of circumstances for someone like me, to be able to tend to family matters while putting food on the dinner table.”

  Immediately Vivian regretted her words.

  The idea that her hostess might believe her mother had sent her in search of a handout chilled her blood. She put her hand over her chest, where her heart fluttered madly, and shook her head.

  “Oh! I did not mean that how it came out—I-I—why, I only meant that there would be no one to watch Liam if I went out to a shop all day. He cannot be left alone in the flat—at least he could not, when he was smaller, you know. But now he is old enough to be left on his own—for short spells, mind—although Mother and I both worry when there is no one to supervise him.” She was babbling, but there seemed no way to stem the flood once it had begun. “Boys—they will be boys, you know.”

  Lady Gregory stared at her for a heartbeat. Then, she threw her head back and laughed. Vivian was momentarily stunned but there seemed nothing else to do so she released the breath she had been holding and smiled. The release, and Lady Gregory’s apparent understanding, steadied her nerves. The past days had left them frayed, and with the debacle upon her arrival and now this unfortunate conversation she was nearly done to a tick.

  “Oh!” Her hostess, impeccably groomed and wearing a tea dress of the softest-looking fabric imaginable, flapped a hand before her cheeks. Apples bloomed on her creamy complexion, making her look like a schoolgirl wearing adult clothing. The laughter had disturbed her upsweep, and a curl dangled by Lady Gregory’s right ear. It hung beside an emerald earring whose color matched exactly the shade of its owner’s dress.

  “Are you all right? Shall I find someone?” When Vivian rose, thinking to find a cool glass of water for her hostess, she was waved her back into her seat. Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, she sat.

  “Oh, I am fine, really I am,” Lady Gregory gasped. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips as she touched a lace-edged hanky to her eyes.

  It was Vivian’s experience that those who claimed to be fine were the ones who were the furthest from the state. She knew, having sworn to be fine when she most definitely was not.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a glass of water?”

  “No, no, my dear. I am really fine—in fact, I think I may be finer than I have been in longer than I care to admit.”

  Lady Gregory finished wiping her eyes. Then she folded her hands in her lap so elegantly Vivian wished she would do it again, just so she could watch the genteel motion, and sat back in her chair.

  With a small smile tickling the edges of her lips, the older woman swept a long, lingering look over Vivian. She began at the tips of the serviceable-yet-worn shoes peeking out from beneath the hemline of the seen-better-days brown broadcloth day dress. It was her best dress, a castoff taken out of the bin at the dressmaker’s shop. She had done the bodice of a ball gown as payment for the dress. It was the cheapest way she knew to furnish her closet without depleting her purse.

  Allowing such an open appraisal should have been disconcerting but she was far too tired to feel anything much. The long ride, debacle upon her arrival and now having to extricate her foot from her mouth had left her entirely drained. She sat, waiting for the commentary that was sure to eventually come.

  When it did, it was gentle. Moreover, the words stirred her nearly to tears, they were so kind.

  “You are truly something else, Vivian Jane Fox.” When her eyes widened at the sound of her middle name in the elegant room, her hostess smiled. “Oh, yes, I know your middle name, my dear. It is no co
incidence that my own daughter, Lucie, shares the name. You see, your mother and I were very, very close when we were younger. When we were both newly married our differences seemed to matter less, and the feelings of sisterhood we shared counted more.” She sighed, a sound that seemed pulled from her toes.

  Waiting for her to continue, Vivian digested the conversation. The nature of her mother’s past had never been something they discussed. She imagined it was because they were too busy trying to keep a roof above their heads and food in their bellies. Reminiscences seemed the extravagance of those with less to occupy their hands and nothing but time to waste.

  It sounded harsh, but there had not been much about her life that had been easy.

  “We are cousins through marriage, you know,” Lady Gregory said with a wistful voice. “Not related by blood, but by marriage.”

  “I did not realize. I always thought…why, Mother never said…”

  “She would not.”

  Her hostess leaned forward, raised the china pot on the tea tray and held it questioningly between them. With a quick shake of her head, Vivian declined the offer. She looked down into her cup. It was still half full, surely cold by now but she was more interested in the secrets unfolding between them than the promise of a hotter cup of tea.

  Lady Gregory filled her own cup, added a splash of cream from the small pitcher on the tea tray and then swished her spoon around in the liquid. The tinkle of sterling on china was musical, a calming interlude in one of the strangest days of Vivian’s life.

  Sitting back without tasting her tea, the older woman cast a shrewd eye her way. The gesture felt like a test of sorts, so Vivian remained as she was, still and attentive. It did not take long before she saw she survived the assessment.

  With classic good looks and a figure that did not announce her age, anyone might have guessed Lord Gregory had robbed the cradle when he chose his wife. The truth was, her third cousin had chosen him and while there were several years separating their ages, she was not all that much younger than he.