When Mother answered, it wasn’t to confirm whether she had any memory of anyone with such name. Instead, she latched on to his first comment. “So you’ve come not to see your mother but to visit an old friend. And to attend his ball.”
“Not just to see Mr. Clement. To see Mr. Blakemoore, too,” Emma said, her tone clearly trying to be helpful.
Mother threw her a scathing look, then asked Andrew, “And who, pray tell, is this Mr. Blakemoore?”
“Another friend from Eton,” Andrew said sheepishly. “He’s visiting Dunstead Manor, and the ball is in his honor.” Andrew’s cheeks had drained of color almost completely, no doubt an effect of realizing his misstep. He forced a chuckle and said, “It’s quite amusing, really. Blakemoore has no desire to wed, but his mother insists he look for a wife, so when Mrs. Clement offered to host a ball, it seemed a good way to keep Mrs. Blakemoore happy for a little longer.” He smiled, clearly expecting Mother to understand and soften after hearing the fuller explanation.
“I see,” she said, her tone every bit as icy as before. “What is Pine Park to you, then? A convenient inn?”
Olivia winced. Had she known Andrew would attempt this line of conversation, she could have told him to avoid talk of a ball and Misters Clement and Blakemoore altogether. But he didn’t know Mother as she did, so he went on with further attempts to smooth any ruffled maternal feathers, and Olivia sat there helpless to stop it.
“N-no,” Andrew stammered. “I—we—wanted to visit you. The timing of Clement’s ball is a happy coincidence. We don’t have to attend at all, do we, Emma?”
“Of course not,” she said swiftly, though Olivia detected disappointment in her eyes.
“We’ll stay here with you,” Andrew said. “I’m sure you have plans for us—meals and outings and such—and we certainly have no desire to ruin any of that.” He finished with a quick inhalation and a sigh, then seemed to hold his breath, waiting for Mother’s reply.
She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she stared at the grain in the wood floor, and did so for fourteen full seconds—Olivia counted. Any silence lasting more than seven portended an eruption. She braced herself and wished for Andrew’s sake that he’d experienced at least a modicum of Mother’s outrage over the years so he’d have known to make no mention of Mr. Clement’s ball until the time was right.
Mother finally stood in one swift movement. “I have a headache,” she announced as Aunt Matilda stood at her side, ready to leave with her. Mother addressed the butler, who stood at the door. “Pierce, tell Betty I need some laudanum.”
“Right away, ma’am,” Pierce said with a slight bow before leaving to relay the message.
With a great show of pain—Mother excelled at such theatrics, which made certain that anyone in her presence knew of her ailments—she walked to the door, accompanied by her sister. At the threshold, the women paused, and Mother spoke. She didn’t turn around, only tilted her head ever so slightly toward her right shoulder and said, “I shall see you at breakfast.”
With that, she walked out, leaving Olivia breathing a sigh of relief. Mother intended to punish them with her silence, but sometimes that was easier to tolerate than a string of bitter insults that lasted for days. Andrew and Emma, however, appeared uneasy and anxious.
Chapter Four
Emma lifted a palm to her chest and stared at the empty door. “Goodness. That did not go at all as I’d hoped. She hates me. She genuinely hates me.”
“Nonsense,” Andrew said. He took her hand between both of his. “Mother is merely tired, so she behaved a bit more harshly than she intended to.”
Olivia had to hold back a snort. Their mother did nothing without full intention. If she’d offended Emma and given her the sense that she was disliked, then that message was every bit intentional. Olivia held her peace on that subject, however, not wanting to hurt her sister-in-law further. After all, Olivia considered it a point of pride that she didn’t inherit her mother’s sharp tongue. Or rather, she put her energies into cultivating a sharp mind instead, while keeping observations to herself instead of wounding those around her.
Olivia could never understand how her mother could purposely hurl verbal barbs, whether her aim sent them toward family, friends, or society. Everyone was alike unto Mother in that regard. At Emma’s wilted expression, Olivia had to at least attempt to soften the wounds Mother and Aunt Matilda had left behind.
“Mother is tired,” she began, attempting to agree with Andrew. But then she hesitated. How exactly could she explain why a woman of supposedly good breeding would say such things and then, as hostess, insist on staying in her bedchamber until the morrow, no matter who the guest? In this situation, even Olivia found the behavior baffling. Yes, Mother had felt unappreciated, and she didn’t like Emma—not that she’d taken the opportunity to know her—but Andrew, her beloved and only son, had just arrived. She’d never punished him in this manner that Olivia could remember.
“Has she fallen ill?” Emma asked. “She clearly doesn’t like me.”
“This has nothing to do with you,” Olivia said in a rush, realizing only after the words had come out that they weren’t particularly comforting. She hurried on in hopes of soothing her sister-in-law another way. “She’s offended that the lure of a ball would trump the desire to visit her alone.” Olivia shrugged. “And she doesn’t particularly approve of balls.”
A pity, that. Olivia had once enjoyed balls, but she hadn’t attended one in years, not since Mother decided that Olivia was past marriageable age and could therefore stop attending what Mother deemed to be nothing but a necessary evil for finding a spouse. Beyond that purpose, she had no use for them.
“Oh, Mother,” Andrew chuckled, shaking his head. “What are we to do with her?”
Emma looked up at him and then at Olivia. “She disapproves of balls?” she asked warily. “Even for a married woman?”
Olivia leaned forward. “Go to the ball and enjoy every moment. Mr. Clement will be eager to see Andrew again and to meet his new wife, and you shall see Mr. Blakemoore besides. It would be a pity to disappoint them or for you to miss a delightful social engagement simply because Mother happens to belong to a society of centuries past. She believes that balls are where the devil tries to lure people away from the paths of what we should be worshiping: proper etiquette and decorum.”
The others couldn’t hold back smiles at that, and Olivia found herself restraining a chuckle as well, although she felt quite evil having said such a thing. Mother would be horrified if she ever heard that her daughter had compared etiquette to religion.
“We’ll go,” Andrew said. “And don’t you worry about Mother.”
The last seemed to be directed at Olivia, but it was Emma who needed to hear it, so Olivia agreed. “You and Andrew will have a delightful evening. Don’t let thoughts of Mother sully a single moment.”
“We won’t,” Andrew said. “But I was talking to you. You will come to the ball with us, won’t you?”
“G-go to the b-ball?” Olivia had never been particularly vocal, but she’d also never found herself stammering so much. “M-me? You want me to go? To a ball? But I know no one in Glenworth, and—” She almost launched into a speech about her well-known spinsterhood, but Andrew cut her off.
“I know what you’re thinking—that balls aren’t enjoyable when you’re the eldest unmarried lady present.”
“It would help if I were widowed,” Olivia said flatly, but otherwise found herself speechless. Of course Andrew knew precisely what her concern would be, Mother’s protestations aside.
“Do come,” he said. “The ball will be the just the thing to lighten your mind and heart in the middle of the dreary winter when we have weeks yet until spring.”
She considered the long, gray days of drabness stretching ahead of her, at time when the earth was ugliest because the snow had lost its luster from dirt and smoke, but the tender shoots of new plants and leaves had yet to sprout. A ball would be a nice escape
, but it would of necessity happen only in her mind. Mother would have an utter apoplexy if Olivia tried to attend an actual ball without her there as a chaperone, no matter that Olivia was, as Mother regularly reminded her, well past marriageable age.
“James sent invitations to several surrounding villages, so there will be plenty of people who need introductions.”
“But Mother would learn of it and be impossible to live with,” Olivia said with a sinking feeling. She’d made the mistake of indulging in the fantasy a bit too much; oh, how lovely a ball would be.
Andrew pursed his lips for several moments, deep in thought. “Does Mother take callers?”
“Not recently,” Olivia said. “The move to Pine Park hasn’t been good for her spirits or her rheumatism, and only a few neighbors have left their cards.”
“Then I suppose she doesn’t attend many social functions either?”
Olivia’s head slowly came up as she began to see what her brother meant. Perhaps her mother wouldn’t hear of her daughter’s attendance at the ball. How would she, when she’d taken steps to ensure the social isolation of the entire household?
A thrill shot through Olivia’s chest. Could she really take part in a ball the way other young women did—dancing and flirting with men who’d deliberately sought her out? The heat of a blush crept up her face as her mind conjured the details of such a magical evening. Oh, how she would enjoy such a night. It would be a memory she would treasure always.
While living at Landerfield, she was known as the gentle spinster sister of Mr. Wallington. Balls meant dancing with one or two older gentlemen, married or widowed, who’d extended the offer out of pity. Dancing as the object of pity was far worse than sitting at the edge of the room without a single partner.
But in Glenworth, no one knew her. With a proper ball gown and hair arranged just so, she wouldn’t look like a stodgy spinster. She could behave as if she wore such attire with regularity. She could converse with those in society without Mother’s watchful and disapproving eye. She could say anything that came to mind without regard for how it might be taken coming from a spinster’s mouth. The idea became bigger and shinier, more tempting than a blueberry scone.
“Perhaps I could . . . ” she said slowly, but then she shook her head.
How could she slip into the house afterward without Mother knowing about it? If she found out, Olivia would be punished for months to come. She shuddered. Such an existence would be only slightly better than being thrown into the Tower of London. “I misspoke. I can’t go, as lovely as it sounds.”
Oh, so lovely, she thought with an ache.
“My dear sister,” Emma said, “do reconsider, for my sake as well as your brother’s. We’ve both been anticipating the fun we’d have at the ball, and the evening simply would not be complete without your presence.”
She called me sister, Olivia thought in wonderment.
Emma reached out and took Olivia’s hand, then looked directly into her eyes. “I’ve wanted to become better acquainted with you, and what better opportunity than at a ball?” she said imploringly. “We are about the same size; you may borrow one of my gowns. And my lady’s maid will create something magnificent with your hair. It has such a beautiful shade of chestnut.” She turned to her husband. “Don’t you think so, Andrew? Her hair is positively stunning. But the severe twist doesn’t do justice to the color—or to the delicate lines of your cheekbones.”
Olivia was unable to form a coherent answer. No one had ever called her, or anything about her, beautiful, let alone stunning. She suddenly yearned to go to the ball and to prepare for it under the hand of Emma, almost like Cinderella under the hand of her fairy godmother in the Brothers Grimm story. She’d read the entire volume of stories—one of many books she’d collected secretly—some purchased, others given to her by Andrew without their mother’s knowledge.
“I’d love to go to the ball,” Olivia said, grateful her voice had returned. “But . . . what about Mother and Aunt Matilda?” She withdrew her hand and addressed her brother. “I don’t think you fully understand how difficult they would make things. They’ll never grant permission, and if I were to go without approval, well, that might be enough to stop her heart entirely.”
One side of Andrew’s mouth quirked up in the manner she recognized. He’d worn the same mischievous smile—the one that made his cheeks dimple—many times, such as the day when he’d been no older than ten and had stolen Father’s pipe. He’d tried to smoke it behind the stables—and nearly burned the building down in the process.
“Andrew,” Olivia said warily. “What are you concocting in that mind of yours?” She didn’t quite trust her brother when he wore that expression.
He lifted his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “Who says you need her permission?”
She rolled her eyes and was about to explain how the recent display was but a foretaste of what Mother and Aunt were capable of, but he held up a finger and shook his head firmly.
“Who says she must ever be told of your attendance?”
“Are you suggesting I lie to Mother?” Olivia narrowed her eyes. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“You won’t do a thing about it. You will busy yourself with getting dressed under the watchful eye of my dear wife,” Andrew said. The newlyweds looked glowingly into each other’s eyes for a moment before they seemed to remember that they were otherwise involved in a conversation.
It was Emma who spoke next. “Do say you’ll come. I don’t know what my dear Andrew is planning, but I’m sure it will do the trick.”
Andrew clasped his hands with excitement. “If we can make sure that neither Mother nor Aunt Matilda will have the slightest knowledge about your attending the ball, and if you needn’t tell any falsehoods, will you go?”
Olivia licked her lips uncertainly. Both Andrew and Emma smiled as broadly as wolves who’d had their fill in a chicken coop. Olivia considered their words and thought of the excitement a ball would hold for her. Of the additional details she could spin into dreams after an evening at Dunstead Manor. Thus far, they had consisted entirely of fictional events. What if she could relive actual memories again and again?
That might make the coming years at Pine Park almost bearable.
“But how can you be sure they’ll never find out?”
“I have my ways,” Andrew said. His dimples looked even deeper than usual.
He must already have a plan, she thought.
She took a deep breath to steady herself before saying, “Very well. I’ll go.”
She felt quite faint from the giddiness over the secret the three of them now held between them.
Chapter Five
Preparations for the ball increased, turning Dunstead Manor into a flurry of bustling servants and excited chatter. Edward, in turn, found a growing need to escape the confines of walls, to mount his horse, give her full rein, and gallop through the snowy countryside. Shortly after breakfast, he excused himself to do just that, though he’d already been out on a walk earlier. James and Fanny hardly noticed his exit, so involved were they in sharing a moment of affection between themselves.
Witnessing glowing love was enough to make one want to throw a brick at such a man’s head.
Not that James intended to flaunt his love and happiness—not by any means, Edward thought as his valet dressed him a coat, gloves, scarf, and hat fitting for the country winter temperatures. He wouldn’t be able to spend as much time outside clearing his head as he did in the summer months, but even half an hour was better than a full day staying indoors, where he would be with James and Fanny, continually reminded of the things he lacked.
When he’d gone on his earlier walk before breakfast, he’d told the stables to ready his horse, so by the time he arrived, a stable hand already held Topaz, fully saddled.
Edward mounted her and took the reins. “I shouldn’t be long,” he told the stable hand. He adjusted his gloves and hat, then nudged the horse into a trot. He wouldn’t gallo
p, quite yet; that was something he saved for when he felt truly alone—which, he realized with a smile, winter provided in better measure than other months. Somehow, with thick blanket of white, the world seemed hushed and at peace, a contrast to the budding life of spring and the excitement brought by riding through green summer meadows at a dead run. Perhaps a half hour’s ride would be enough.
As soon as he turned off the estate’s lane, he increased his pace to a good canter, enough to send bitter wind into his face, along with tiny crystals of ice battering his nose and cheeks. He grinned at the sense of feeling so keenly alive. The country road wasn’t highly traveled at this time of year, but he did encounter a few townspeople in carriages, which broke the illusion of solitude. When he noted a trail leading off the road, he took the opportunity to ride up it to see where it would take him.
Within minutes, enclosed within white-covered trees, looking like something from a dream, he at last found utter peace and solitude. He encouraged the horse into a full gallop, and she more than happily obliged. Edward had to hold his hat atop his head, and soon his cheeks burned with cold, but he couldn’t help smiling.
After a time, Topaz slowed to a canter on her own, clearly tiring. Edward reined her in to a trot and then an easy walk, gradually letting her catch her breath. He patted her neck. “Well done, my girl,” he said, stroking her chestnut mane, then sitting back in the saddle and breathing in the frosty air.
That’s when he looked about and realized he had no idea where he’d gone or how to return to Dunstead Manor. For all he knew, he could have galloped in a straight line, or in circles, or in figure eights. He turned the horse about and tried to follow his tracks to regain his bearings, to no avail—either someone else had come along, or he’d ridden over his own tracks, obliterating his chances of following them. If he could just find the main road again, surely he’d come across Dunstead Manor easily enough—or at least a passerby who knew which direction to go. The tingling in his nose and cheeks told him that he’d been out plenty long; he needed to find his way back soon, as much for Topaz’s sake as for his own.
Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball Page 11