“Constance died of childbed fever,” he said.
Olivia nodded. “Bearing your child, Mr. Hardacre.”
The full realization dawned on him. Constance Denton has been dead these past twenty years.
He rose to his feet slowly. The smell of Olivia’s honeysuckle scent touched a once potent memory in him. Her hand fell away as he stood.
“I’m more sorry than I can say,” he said. “I didn’t know. How could I?”
The woman before him stood also. She picked up the writing box and shawl, placing them on the stone that had been her seat.
“Please, don’t misunderstand me,” she said. “No blame attaches to you. Constance felt she was being watched every time she left the house. She kept the secret of her condition to herself until it was unmistakable. By that time, the squire had had you impressed into the Navy.”
“Well…” Adam couldn’t think what to say. So many emotions roiled in him as he tried to fully process the meaning of everything he had just learned.
“Thank you for letting me know,” he offered blankly, taking a step back from the woman before him. “You’ve told me much I’d wondered about these many years. I’ll be sure to go back to the cemetery and pay my last respects…”
He got as far as three yards away when Olivia Collins called out to him. “She’s not there, Mr. Hardacre. You won’t find her interred at Ponsnowyth.”
He spun about. “What the hell?”
The profanity was out of his mouth before he could censor himself – too much time at sea and not enough time in drawing rooms – yet the woman in front of him did not seem disconcerted in the slightest. Rather, he saw in her the righteous anger of an avenging angel.
At that moment, Olivia Collins was beautiful.
“Her father, in his deference to his own reputation,” she continued, contempt clear in her voice, “refused to accept charge of her mortal remains. He also refused to let anyone else in the family aid her. There was an aunt, I believe, with whom Constance was close.”
The recollection of Squire Denton’s own grave marker in the church cemetery – the large and ornate marble headstone boasting his status to the world – lit the spark of Adam’s anger.
Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye are like unto whited sepulchers, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness.
He gave vent to a volcanic rise of fury. “That vicious old bastard condemned his only daughter to a pauper’s grave?”
Tears sprang once more to the woman’s eyes.
Before he knew what he was about, Adam had advanced and has his arms around Olivia, holding her close as she wept into his chest. The force of her emotion, not his, touched something deep in his soul. A desire to protect, to comfort, reached in and took hold. For a moment, with the scent of honeysuckle in his nostrils and the gentle curves of a woman in his arms, Adam embraced, and accepted the embrace, of both Olivia Collins and Constance Denton.
When he closed his eyes, Constance’s face finally appeared before him as though only twenty minutes, not twenty years had passed. He rained kisses in her hair, grateful someone as wonderful and beautiful as she would ever give him the time of day, let alone her body. Having once touched her, he wanted – needed – that feeling again. He kissed her with increasing passion.
Adam tasted a protest on her lips at his last open-mouthed kiss.
He stopped and opened his eyes. The lips did not belong to Constance.
Olivia pulled out of his arms, eyes wide with alarm and hand across her mouth, her neatly pinned chignon in disarray with one long lock tumbling down her shoulder. And, in a split second before she had raised the hand to her mouth, he had seen her lips, full and red with the force of his. To his shame, Adam felt his body stir.
He took a few paces back to protect himself as well as her.
“That was unforgivable. Miss Collins, Olivia, I…” He tried to fashion the words for an apology. He had none.
“That was unforgivable,” he repeated. “I’m sorry…”
Olivia licked her lips to wet them – or perhaps soothe them – before taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“I…I fear that, in the moment, too much emotion overwhelmed us both, Mr. Hardacre.” She was still breathless. “I hold myself equally to blame.”
He shook his head slowly, refusing to allow her to take responsibility for his actions. She paused, as though about to say more.
Instead, she glanced at the writing box and then back to him.
“I shall leave you the box. It contains your notes to Constance. They belong to you.”
Chapter Nine
The writing box didn’t fit completely in his creel, large though the basket was. One end stuck out so the lid wouldn’t close and the sharp edge banged against Adam’s side as he stalked back to the village. Fitting he should have a bruise close on his ribs, a proxy for the ache in his heart.
Shit.
Tearing open scars of his past wasn’t a complication he was expecting when he woke up this morning.
Poor Miss Collins.
Poor Miss Collins, like hell.
He’d dealt with this years ago, he told himself. Constance was a youthful summertime infatuation he fondly remembered, and what her old man did to him, he’d managed to shrug off after a while as the actions of a father protective of his daughter.
But now, having learned the true aftermath of their affair…damn!
He punted a loose stone in the road as hard as he possibly could. It was all well and good for the estimable Olivia Collins to lay no blame at his feet. If she didn’t want him to feel bad, she could have just not told him and kept it to herself. But she had, because she was a decent woman who simply wanted to tell the truth.
So…if it wasn’t for him, Constance might still be alive. Well, what could he possibly do about it now?
And he’d kissed Miss Collins. He got so caught up in the poor governess’ romantic tragedy that he forgot himself and kissed her.
He kicked another stone for good measure.
The black mood had not abated by the time he reached the inn.
“Fishin’ bad today, Mister Hardacre?” Will asked as he wiped down the tables in the dining room.
“Yeah,” Adam answered, keeping his body between Will and the bulging creel. “I’m a better sailor than angler.”
“Well that’ll be no good if ye’re wantin’ to get work – fishin’ is about all there is to do around here.”
“Then I’m just going to have to practice more.” Adam shifted the weight of the basket strap on his shoulder and headed for the stairs.
Will called him back. “There’s a man who’s waitin’ to see ye. Mabm insisted he sit in our parlor.”
“Did he give his name? Has he been waiting long?”
Adam received a shake of the head in answer to both questions. “But he did look like a gentleman.”
He sighed. “Tell Polly I’ll be down as soon as I’ve cleaned up.”
The man must be important if Polly invited him into her parlor, thought Adam. To the best of his knowledge, it was only ever used for high days and holy days – even then, she demanded the curtains always remained closed as not to fade the red woolen rug she had insisted had come all the way from Persia. As a consequence, the room was in permanent semi-darkness.
The settle bench on which the stranger sat in the gloom was high-backed carved oak with low squat tapestry cushions on the seat. Polished black boots stretched out toward the fire and, on a delicately proportioned drop-side Pembroke table, the fire illuminated a half-consumed glass of beer and the remains of a slice of cake.
Having entered the room silently, Adam ensured the door closed with a noise to draw the man from his fireside contemplations. The stranger rose to his feet.
He was aged in his forties, by Adam’s estimation. Close-cropped black hair showed flecks of hair gone white. His nose was prominent but balanced by full lips. He
was a man still in his prime, large in frame but not gone to fat, although that could change with any large amount of inactivity.
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.”
“Forgive this unannounced call, Hardacre. My name is Major Seth Wilkinson, retired.”
Adam observed the twist of the lips on the last word.
“Royal Marines?”
Wilkinson confirmed it with a nod.
“I wish to offer my sincere commiserations for your treatment at the hands of the promotions board. Those men are damned fools not to see your worth.”
Adam inclined his head to accept the compliment and found a wingback chair in dark blue damask. At that moment, there was a brief knock. Polly entered with a small beer and a slice of the cake – a buttery, raisin-filled hevva cake.
After she left, Adam sat and gestured that his visitor do the same.
“I had no idea that the misfortune of one petty officer would become such a topic of conversation, Major,” he said before wetting his throat with a mouthful of the malty brew.
“Well, you are not the first and you certainly won’t be the last. Hide-bound adherence to class will always disadvantage the talented. A civilization can’t advance on such a notion.”
A cold spot grew at the base of Adam’s skull, a warning. “Then what is one to do?” he asked. “We saw what upending the social order did in France; thousands of people dead…”
Wilkinson picked up his own glass. “One might equally argue that many millions more are freed from feudal enslavement. One might say England could benefit from such a revolution.”
The statement hung in the air as the major drank. The only sounds were the pop and crackle of the fire and the faint noises of the kitchen beyond. Adam could see he was being watched closely. His every word, every expression was being categorized and analyzed by the man before him.
Adam thought, then discarded, several responses before deciding on caution.
“A man might think such a remark treasonous,” he answered at length.
“And another man might think such a remark is the very essence of patriotism. You see, Mr. Hardacre – one man’s meat is another man’s poison. It is time to think long and hard about the things we once considered most self-evident.”
Adam smiled – he hoped convincingly. “That’s a fascinating philosophical discussion, to be sure, but I am a simple man of simple tastes and it’s generally my preference to get straight to the point.”
Wilkinson conceded with a raise of his ale once more. He drained the contents and put the glass back on the table.
“Your talents were wasted in the Royal Navy, but they could be more usefully employed elsewhere – to a greater good, if you will. Would that be something of interest to you?”
“It might be.” Adam took another mouthful of beer. “But I don’t plan to commit myself to anything until I know what it’s all about. I was pressed into service once. I won’t let it happen again.”
Wilkinson stood and fished out a card from his waistcoat pocket. “And we wouldn’t expect you to.”
Adam stood and accepted the card.
The Society for Public Reform. It was a benign sounding name – something of the sort that earnest bluestockings might attend.
“We meet at The Blue Anchor in Falmouth. Join us next Wednesday evening. You might find it of interest.”
*
Olivia spent the rest of the day ignoring the diary and letters from St. Thomas’ Hospital sitting on her bedside table. Even to glance at them reminded her of the disastrous interview with Adam Hardacre.
What must he think of her? A poor lovelorn governess so caught up in a long ago romance that she throws herself into his arms, imagining herself in the place of the tragic heroine? No wonder he bid a hasty retreat.
As Hardacre himself said, it was twenty years ago. Why did she possibly imagine that he’d want to know?
Because the child may still live.
Wouldn’t a man want to know that at least?
Perhaps not. There were plenty of men who sowed their oats without a moment’s pause for the progeny that might be produced. Why should Adam Hardacre be any different? And he’d been a sailor. And sailors had a reputation.
And if it was none of his business, then it was damned certain that it was none of hers.
“Damn, damn, damn.” Olivia rarely said the word aloud, but being alone in the house gave her license.
She returned to the letters and stared at the dried and yellowed paper.
As pathetic as it was, she could not let it go. She had to follow this tragic tale through to the end.
She pulled out a piece of stationery from a compendium and filled her pen with ink.
To the Superintendent
St. Thomas’ Hospital
Dear Sir,
I write in earnest hope that you might be able to assist with information regarding the fate of a young woman who was in your establishment’s care some time past.
In early January of 1784, a young lady of quality, Constance Marie Denton, from Ponsnowyth outside of Truro, came into your care. She was five months with child and remained in your charge there to give birth to a boy on the twelfth of May, 1784.
I have a letter in my keeping from a nurse named M. Plowright, who writes to the family to give the sad news of Constance’s death from childbed fever. Her letter I have transcribed in its entirety in the hopes that some record will be found of both the location of Miss Denton’s final resting place and of the fate of her son.
Should such information be available, I will receive it gladly in care of…
Care of whom? Olivia lifted her pen from the page. What address should she put? She could find her new post halfway across England. There was only one reliable person she knew, and it would strengthen her claim if she used it.
…the solicitor of Miss Denton’s family
Mr. Peter Fitzgerald
3a Lemon Mews Rd,
Truro
Cornwall
Olivia picked up another piece of paper. She addressed it and folded it into an envelope to seal it, then put it to join five other letters – three answers to employment opportunities and two to agencies – one in London, the other in Manchester.
She would post them from Truro tomorrow.
And why not? Mr. Fitzgerald had extended his services to her as well. She would take him up on it. He had an interest in her, of that she was in no doubt – and, if the truth be told, she gained a small thrill in knowing that a gentleman would do her a favor just because he liked her.
It made her aware as a woman – of herself, for herself – not for the role or position she held.
So, too, did Adam Hardacre’s kiss make her aware of herself as a woman.
She touched the pen to her lips, emulating the press of his lips on hers and closed her eyes to capture the memory of the feel of his arms around her. Would a kiss from Mr. Fitzgerald feel the same? She was quite sure it wouldn’t, although she had no evidence for it.
She placed the pen back into its holder with a sigh. The silence of the house settled its oppressive weight on her once more.
I’ve done all I can, Constance, please leave me in peace.
The morning dawned overcast. Olivia decided to risk the walk to the inn to catch the coach to Truro, rather than wait for it to pass by the end of the Kenstec Manor. She was in sight of the Trellows’ tavern when the heavens opened.
If she stopped to open her small umbrella, she would have been wet through, so Olivia clutched her leather reticule close to her chest and ran the last few yards. By a miracle, the door opened as she approached. Olivia ran straight inside.
“Thank you,” she said to the unseen doorman while she attempted to wipe down the worst of the drops from her cloak.
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Collins.”
The flush started instantly. “It was very good of you to do so, Mr. Hardacre.”
She ventured a look u
p at him. He was dressed for town, dark blue breeches, a white shirt and matching blue jacket that was tailored for his broad shoulders and trim waist. Hazel eyes watched her fuss with her maroon cloak while she contemplated the idea of sitting for two hours or more beside the man who had besieged her dreams last night.
She opened her reticule to make sure her letters were dry. The sooner she secured herself a new position and had something more productive to do with her days, the better.
Olivia listened to the long, drawn out sigh from the man beside her.
“It’s going to be a long trip if you don’t speak to me,” he said.
“I should think that after yesterday, you’d hardly entertain the idea of speaking to me at all.” Yes, her voice was priggish and peevish – two characteristics Olivia detested hearing from women – least of all herself.
Hardacre laughed, a sound of genuine mirth, and her heart warmed a little at it. He didn’t hate her after all.
“Perhaps we should stick to safe topics.”
“Like the weather?” she asked, allowing a smile to play on her face. “And how is the weather today, Mr. Hardacre?”
With great exaggeration, Adam peered around her at the open door through which they could see the steady fall of rain.
“It’s wet, Miss Collins.”
The tension broke, like a long-anticipated summer storm.
Through the open door, Olivia heard the sound of the coach approaching. She looked outside and wondered how she might avoid the rain crossing to the carriage.
“Miss Collins…”
She turned back and those hazel eyes held her fixed once more.
“Please, call me Olivia,” she insisted.
He acknowledged the regard with a nod of head.
“Olivia? I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I had always hoped…imagined…that Constance had gone on to live a full life. So to learn that our summer was…” Adam halted. He shook his head as though abandoning the thought. “Anyway, thanks to you, she won’t be forgotten and, for that, I’m grateful.”
Before Olivia could respond, Jory and Will appeared at the front door wearing oilskin coats and brandishing large umbrellas.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 75