Lady Farquhar's Butterfly

by Beverley Eikli

  Olivia thanked Mrs Watkins for the clean, dry clothes with which she supplied her. She was quiet as the housekeeper combed and dried her hair then helped her into the handsome blue velvet gown Max’s sister had lent her. The fashions had changed since she had last paid attention to what she wore.

  Where was Julian? Her heart thundered as she sat at the dressing table, forcing herself to sit still. Since the moment she had entered this house it had taken all her willpower not to leap to her feet and go dashing up and down corridors, like a madwoman, calling his name.

  She nodded dismissal to Mrs Watkins and pressed her fingertips to her eyes. Why could Mr Atherton not have simply escorted her back to the White Swan?

  If he were the antithesis of his cousin, Olivia had not the first idea how to appeal to the instincts of a man who was charming, kind and well meaning and would no doubt be horrified to learn of Olivia’s past.

  Olivia had learned how to play the devil.

  However that was of no account. She would be gone by dinner time. Her mission now was simply to discover what distinguished Max Atherton from his late cousin so she could better craft her next anonymous entreaty to have her son returned to her care.

  Dropping her hands she stared, distracted, at her reflection, then rose gnawing her little fingernail.

  What should she do? What should she do?

  For so long she’d not made a single important decision on her own. Everything had been decided for her from what she did each day to what she wore.

  Leaning toward the mirror she studied herself properly. The simple blue gown flattered her light hair and peaches and cream colouring. She looked young and – frowning – she thought, innocent.

  Innocent? She gave a mocking smile as the familiar poisonous misery flooded thickly into her veins.

  Carefully she smiled again: the kind of smile she’d practised so many times as a seventeen-year-old debutante determined to rise above the rest and waltz off with the season’s most eligible catch.

  Then she thought of young Julian, her darling baby, and her whole body throbbed with pain and longing. With a sob she covered her face with her hands. Forcing herself to breathe steadily, to slay the demons that mocked her from the darkness, she focused on the task at hand. Max seemed as unlike Lucien as it was possible to be. What if his kindness wasn’t an act? The interest in his eye when he’d looked at her suggested he—

  The flare of excitement she felt was quickly extinguished by self disgust.

  How she hated the effect she had on men. Turning quickly away from the sight of her reflection, she knocked the silver-backed hand mirror to the floor.

  She froze. Her breath caught and dread engulfed her as she waited, ears attuned to the sound of approaching footsteps and a possible witness to her crime. Lucien had been violently superstitious. He’d have beaten her if she’d broken a mirror in his house.

  She stared at the object at her feet, at its back of figured silver which gave no indication as to whether the glass were shattered. There was no sound of footsteps, but of course it was ridiculous to imagine Mr Atherton or his servants would keep such a vigilant eye upon her. Those days were gone, though it was often hard to believe it.

  Slowly she bent. If the mirror were smashed she would leave immediately.

  But if it was not …

  Heart racing, not knowing what outcome she wanted, she turned the mirror over.

  And stared into her unfragmented reflection.

  A strange cocktail of emotions flooded her: hope and despair, excitement and terror, but overall a renewal of courage that perhaps this time she could use her charms to find happiness.

  Mr Atherton had read her poetry. He had remained at her bedside for nearly an hour earlier in the day, chatting with her as if he enjoyed her company. And all the time she’d had a bandage on her head!

  Perhaps she really could entrance Mr Atherton as she had entranced Lucien, and be happy for it. Then she thought of the dangers. Perhaps Mr Atherton’s kindness was simply an act, a prelude to the seduction of his unexpected house guest. Lucien would have found such a challenge amusing.

  Sickened, she retreated from her simple idea that Mr Atherton’s inherent decency was such that he would be so overcome by the emotional reunion between mother and son when he finally produced Julian he’d understand the boy’s place was with his mother, with Olivia.

  She had no idea what kind of man Mr Atherton was. It was far too early to judge, though she was inclining towards the opinion that he was nothing like Lucien. That he was kind.

  She bit her lips and pinched colour into her cheeks, checking her smile one last time. Yes, she looked pretty and ingenuous. There would be no sultry pout and sinuous sashaying as she made her entrance: the kind of entrance she’d used to captivate Lucien. Stupid, ignorant child that she’d been! Mr Atherton wanted a demure, honest young woman, and that’s what she’d give him, though in truth she had no idea what she was, anymore.

  When her host turned from where he’d been lounging against the mantelpiece and she saw only kindness and concern in those disturbingly familiar eyes she felt even further emboldened.

  Admiration was something she’d had enough of to last a lifetime yet this man’s was somehow comforting. She need no longer check over her shoulder in case Lucien was silently observing, interpreting the lust he saw in other men’s faces as a deliberate lure she’d set for which he’d punish her in private, later.

  The genuine pleasure in Mr Atherton’s expression caused an unexpected lurch in the space her heart once occupied.

  ‘Amelia’s gown becomes you, my dear Mrs Templestowe. It’s the colour of your eyes.’ He advanced, his hands outstretched as if he’d known her far longer than a few hours. ‘No limp?’ He looked almost disappointed.

  Olivia gave a little shrug and smiled. She strove to sound lighthearted, though her heart thundered. How strange that she should feel such an overt attraction to the type of gentleman she had once derided for being tame and unexciting. Well, anyone had fallen into that category when she had been seventeen, simply because he were not the dangerous and alluring Lucien, Viscount Farquhar whom she must have at all costs. She dropped her eyes, her shyness not an act. ‘I must have just bruised it. I’m sorry for disrupting your plans for today, Mr Atherton. You have been very kind but as soon as convenient I will return to the White Swan.’

  She saw his disappointment as he led her to the seat closest to the fire, saying, ‘It is not often storms around Elmwood result in such charming strays. But look.’

  She was still taking in the possibilities as he pointed to the window. He was attracted to her. She should not be so surprised at that. It was not vanity, simply a fact. When she was married to Lucien it was something to be frightened of. As a widow she had grown weary of the desire and derision she received, in equal parts, as if her beauty were somehow a mask for the corruption within. She saw that snow was falling fast in flurries of fat, floating flakes, but all she could think of was Lucien’s lies. And how readily people had believed them.

  ‘You can’t possibly travel in weather like this, Mrs Templestowe.’

  Briefly he squeezed her hand before indicating the white, frozen landscape. ‘For one thing, you’re not dressed for it and, until my sister returns with the carriage, I have no way of conveying you to your lodgings.’

  He looked rather pleased at the state of affairs. Nor could Olivia deny she secretly felt the same. Though not in the same, uncomplicated way. Out of the corner of her eye, as she pretended to gaze with dismay upon the thickly falling snow, she realized that acknowledging an attraction to this man would be deeply dangerous.

  Impossible, even. She needed to appeal to his obvious kindness, and she believed she could do that. Anything more would end in tears for both of them. She acknowledged the truth with weary resignation. Regardless of the temptations, she could not pander to her heart. Certainly not in this instance.

  ‘And here is tea.’ On cue the door opened to admit the
parlour maid bearing a tray. ‘Surely you don’t object to a dish of strong hot tea while we wait for Amelia and the boys? They are staying with me while renovations are carried out on their home which is not far from here.’

  ‘The boys?’ Olivia knew she’d jumped at the phrase with too much feeling. Her mind had not been in the present. ‘There is more than one, Mr Atherton?’

  ‘There are three,’ he replied, rolling his eyes with a smile as she settled herself back into her green wing back chair. ‘But only one is mine.’

  Oh, no, he’s not. Somehow, Olivia managed to keep her smile from faltering. ‘How old is your little boy?’

  ‘Julian is two-and-a-half. He’s been with me the past year since his father, my late cousin Lucien, Lord Farquhar, passed away.’

  ‘The poor child is an orphan?’ Anger and mortification threatened to swamp her.

  It was small consolation that Max Atherton hedged his reply and obviously took care with his words, as if he were uncomfortable at having to explain the situation further.

  ‘The lad was put into my keeping to avoid contagion when his father succumbed to fever. When Lucien died the following month and the will was read I discovered to my surprise – amazement, really – he’d made me the boy’s legal guardian.’

  ‘So his mother also died of fever.’ Olivia made it sound a statement. She gave a pitying sigh, masking her anger with an expression of regret, as if it were the only explanation since not even the cruellest husband would exercise his legal rights to deny a mother her child.

  ‘The mother was unfit to rear the next heir to Lord Farquhar’s estates.’ Yet not unfit to be Lord Farquhar’s wife? A terrible rage blackened her vision. She dropped her gaze, unable to give voice to her real feelings, instead murmuring, ‘How terrible. I think perhaps I recall having heard something about Lady Farquhar.’

  Max sighed and looked even more uncomfortable as he fiddled with his cufflink. ‘Alas for the boy, she was a fortune hunter; a vain, showy creature who trapped Lucien into marriage, ran into debt and led an altogether dishonourable life.’

  ‘Yet she was a mother. I cannot believe she behaved so heartlessly towards her son. Did it surprise you, Mr Atherton?’

  ‘I never met her—’

  Olivia relaxed with grim satisfaction only to jerk forward in alarm at his next words.

  ‘—though I saw her at a ball, once, two years after the pair eloped.’

  She waited, breathless.

  Mr Atherton indicated to her to pour. With shaking hand she lifted the teapot while he elaborated. ‘She was with her husband, my cousin Lucien, but Amelia refused to meet her and as I was accompanying her I didn’t make it an issue.’

  ‘What did she look like?’ Best to get it over and done with, if an unmasking were inevitable.

  Max smiled as he accepted his tea and leaned back in the armchair opposite her. ‘Beautiful. Like you, Mrs Templestowe.’

  She swallowed; opened her mouth to speak but the words would not come.

  He seemed not to notice. ‘But obviously not a lady, like you, for her gown was ostentatious and’ – he shrugged – ‘the way she carried herself I could see the truth in the rumours.’

  Lucien had decided what she wore. She had given up selecting her gowns herself, merely waiting and wondering in her dressing room whether he wanted her to flaunt herself like a trollop, or deport herself like a nun. With her husband’s moods increasingly erratic towards the end, she had learned to accept his last dictate with the meekness of a child.

  Still, it took all her willpower not to slump, defeated, into her chair. The fact that the sight of her, albeit from a distance, only strengthened his belief in the rumours was somehow doubly devastating.

  Licking her dry lips she whispered, ‘So you never sought her out after … after Lord Farquhar gave you her child?’

  Max raised one eyebrow. The façade of genial, almost overeager host, slipped. Wearing a look of censure he suddenly resembled Lucien once more, and she clasped her hands together to stop them trembling as he added, ‘One would expect she would make contact with me.’ His voice was clipped, and his nostrils flared, as if he were speaking of someone utterly reprehensible. ‘I suppose she did,’ he eventually conceded, stirring his tea with a frown. ‘But not until a good eight months had elapsed. I heard talk she had been gallivanting across the Continent in bad company until then.’ He looked up, apology in his eye. ‘I should not have spoken like that, Mrs Templestowe, yet I feel such a great anger on behalf of my ward as well as sorrow that he cannot know his mother.’ He shrugged. Then his mood lightened and he smiled as if encouraging her to move on to another topic.

  Olivia was not ready to let this one die.

  ‘How would you receive Lady Farquhar if she did contact you and ask for the return of her child?’ She tried to keep her tone offhand though her breath came in staccato bursts of anticipation as she waited for his answer.

  Her host levelled at her a faintly quizzical look. Deliberating over his choice of words he said, ‘I am bound to do whatever is in the best interests of the boy and as Lady Farquhar had taken a lover—’

  ‘Surely not!’

  Olivia’s gasp of outrage was thankfully misinterpreted by Mr Atherton. ‘I fear it is not as uncommon as you might believe, Mrs Templestowe, however discretion is required. It seems Lady Farquhar had neither discretion nor wit. My cousin was not a man to take such a matter lightly.’

  On that they were agreed at least, Olivia thought silently as she racked her brains to think who her imaginary lover might have been. But then, Lucien had always imagined conspiracies when there were none.

  Fear crept into the deepest recesses of her brain. No! She would not think of it. Lucien could not truly have suspected Julian was not his. Taking a deep breath she quickly dispelled any reflections of what some would consider wrongdoing. If she had ever done wrong, then Lucien’s hand was behind it.

  She listened to the chink of silver against china as he stirred his tea. His expression was distant. ‘When I heard the boy had been made my ward I sold my commission and took up residence on this estate which I hold in trust for Julian until he comes of age.’

  Olivia studied his face, searching for more similarities with Lucien. The physical family resemblance was there, particularly in the eyes, the straight nose and firm chin. Now that he was speaking of serious matters the almost self-conscious banter had gone. He was precise and direct and clearly decided on what he considered right and wrong. Very different from Lucien’s arrogance.

  Amidst the turmoil of her emotions, she felt a flicker of surprise.

  ‘You gave up your career to look after a little boy?’

  ‘I’d seen enough horror on the Peninsular to last a lifetime; was more than ready to leave the soldiering life and resume my agricultural obligations and’ – he smiled – ‘find a wife who would love this home and, hopefully, find me not too objectionable.’ He cleared his throat.

  ‘The boy needs a mother’s love.’

  Pointing at the plate of seed cake he exhorted her to try some, adding with sigh, ‘Whatever Lady Farquhar’s sins, her son’s a lovelynatured little chap.’

  She could not trust herself to speak. Raising her cup to take a sip her hand was trembling so much that tea spilled on to the Wilton carpet.

  ‘My dear Mrs Templestowe, I think you are still in shock from your fall.’ Unexpectedly Mr Atherton moved from the mantelpiece to take a seat on the arm of her chair, relieving her of her tea cup and setting it down upon the table.

  Surprised and unsure what she should say as his hands gripped her shoulders, her heart quailed at his expression. There was blatant admiration in those slate-grey eyes and, like a traitor, her heart responded, just as it had with such dreadful results when she had cast in her lot with Lucien all those years ago.

  But no, she could only be sceptical of such admiration. She was certainly no longer susceptible.

  Yet his concern seemed genuine; and in addition to the
admiration was something that looked dangerously like tenderness.

  Tenderness? To succumb to tenderness would be too rash and much too dangerous. It was a trap!

  And yet …

  ‘I’ve no idea how long you lay in the mud, soaked to the skin.’ His voice was like a caress, full of comfort and reassurance. He leaned across her to pull on the embroidered bell pull, seemingly unembarrassed by their proximity. ‘I shall have a warm rug fetched for you. Let me feel your hands. Why, they’re as cold as ice. I’ll rub them for you.’ Olivia closed her eyes and surrendered to those dangerous, unfamiliar feelings: comfort, safety. Exquisite peacefulness.

  Mr Atherton held the key to her future happiness: her son. If he admired her and she could prove to him she deserved it, surely happiness might follow?

  Then insidious reality intruded and she had to steel herself against her despair, her defeat.

  She thought of Reverend Kirkman, imagining his outrage if he learned of the venture on which she had so rashly embarked.

  It was he who had cautioned patience. Patience, he had exhorted her, was what she needed when once again her impetuous nature threatened her happiness. Patience would be her salvation, he’d soothed her, when she’d leapt up from her chair at the reading of Lucien’s will and later, when he’d physically torn her from her carriage, overruling her determination to drive the horses herself in order to reclaim Julian.

  Olivia was pliant, her eyes still closed as she heard the maid enter, felt Mr Atherton tuck the blanket around her, making sure her feet were well insulated, bringing the warm wool up around her neck with tender, competent fingers.

  ‘You must be very tired,’ she heard him whisper, as he stroked a strand of hair back from her face. ‘And still in shock from your accident.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, her head falling to one side. Vaguely, she realized it was resting against his thigh as he sat on the arm of her chair. She didn’t move it. Didn’t want to.

  Mr Atherton could get her what she wanted.

  Her son … happiness.

  If Reverend Kirkman would sanction it. She could be happy. She could.