How desperately she had tried to find the words to unburden her soul, to tell Max the truth when they had been in the attic. How close she had been.
And she would have followed through on her promise of the truth in the morning had it not been for Nathaniel’s visit.
Max was the light in her life. He made her believe the truth could be overcome.
Nathaniel’s visit reminded her it could not.
Quietly, she sobbed, hunched beneath the covers, racked with despair. What should she do? She was torn asunder by her feelings for the three males beneath this roof but Nathaniel held the trump card. It wasn’t just his insidious threats of revealing the truth about Julian. Before Nathaniel’s visit Olivia had resolved to do just that, herself.
It was his judgement. With time Max would regard her as Lucien had – venality masquerading in a cloak of beauty.
A thwarted Nathaniel would turn her sins into moral outrages and evidence of corruption not even the most besotted suitor could countenance.
Head pounding, she tried to crystallize her thoughts. With the brightening dawn her courage returned.
At the heart of every decision she’d made since Julian had been born was his future.
Marriage to Nathaniel ensured the safety and welfare of her son. But how would Julian judge her when he was grown?
A woman too afraid to trust her instincts? Too weak to stand firm against threats and coercion?
Miserably, she reflected on the two men who held her hostage: Max with his love and the fact he deserved an unpalatable truth she was too afraid to risk. And Nathaniel with his threats and his promises to hide the truth.
Drawing in a rasping breath she struggled upright on her pillows, her heart racing.
The truth lay at the heart of everything.
Only the truth would answer. Aunt Eunice had sent her to Elmwood to ‘set the record straight’ so she could regain her son but from the outset she had lacked the courage to tell Max the truth.
Yet Max’s love had held firm in the face of her shameful deception. Why? Because he believed she was pure of heart.
She was!
She shivered, her mind engaged in a battle between hope and fear. Unless she conquered her fear she’d never realize her dreams.
Nathaniel had made her believe Max represented Julian’s greatest threat; that only he, The Rev’d Nathaniel Kirkman, had the power to protect Julian’s future. He’d used veiled threats to conjure up a future unimaginably perilous for young Julian.
Oh God, she thought, her pulses racing, why had she not seen the truth before?
Max was not Julian’s greatest threat: Nathaniel was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AFIRE WITH ANTICIPATION, Max waited for her at breakfast. After a night in which doubts and fears chased firm resolves to forgive her everything, he now needed simply to see her.
One frank smile and a murmured reinforcement of her feelings for him would be sufficient. He freely admitted he was enslaved.
Olivia had suffered appallingly during her marriage to Lucien. However shocking the truth, she was the victim of forces beyond her control.
With an effort he forced down his smoked haddock – and the impulse to jerk his head round to Aunt Eunice on his left and give her the reassurances she had wanted last night: that regardless, he would be Olivia’s knight in shining armour. He would protect her to the end.
And he would.
He just wished he could reassure Olivia, but her chair remained empty and he was barely able to hide his disappointment when Dorcas appeared with the announcement that Olivia was still sleeping and seemed feverish.
Finally the moment of departure was upon him. He could delay it no longer. Olivia’s aunts, Eunice and Catherine, exclaimed their pleasure at his company, pressing him to return soon. Kirkman merely nodded stiffly.
A thick covering of snow whitened the curving driveway that led to the main road. He’d said his farewells at the front step, exhorting everyone to return to the warmth of indoors.
Now, from astride Odin, Max gazed up at Olivia’s casement window.
In three seconds he would be out of Olivia’s life, but not for long.
Hadn’t she avowed her love for him? Surely all she required was affirmation of his understanding and forgiveness. Even if his worst fears were confirmed….
Ignoring his apprehension he held firm, reminding himself of what was at the heart of Olivia’s forthcoming admission: she was not to blame.
He lowered his head to whisper encouragement to his horse, twisting in the saddle when he heard the crunch of footsteps upon the gravel. Light, running footsteps.
Wearing nothing warmer than a flimsy Norwich shawl over her dress, Olivia was hastening across the few yards which separated them.
Lord, she was beautiful. With her hair hanging past her shoulders in two plaits she reminded him of one of the Vestal Virgins in a book of illustrations he’d had as a child.
Having been tormented by Olivia’s unfinished tale, the myriad possibilities as to why she was unable to commit herself to him – each more lurid than the last – his heart now soared. Her haste and the look in her eye could mean only one thing: she was here to confess and crave his understanding.
And she would have it.
Drinking in those spectacular blue eyes and the full, curved lips he could kiss forever, he would forgive her anything.
‘Max! You ask why I believe I cannot marry you.’ Her voice came in breathless gasps. ‘There is no easy way to say it and no time to dress up the truth but if you will hear me out—’
‘Come with me now,’ he urged, reason turning him into an impetuous schoolboy as he reached down from the saddle for her. The urge to protect her thundered in his breast. ‘If you are frightened of Kirkman, don’t be, for I will let nothing harm you. Ever.’
Tears formed on her lashes. It could have been the cold and the exertion but he did not think so.
‘Oh Max!’ Her voice disappeared on a cry of pain. ‘I have wronged you so greatly but Lord knows it was not my intention at the time.’
‘Hush.’ He dismounted and drew her, unresisting, into his arms.
‘Confess your secret, but you already have my absolution. I can see Lucien’s lies for what they are.’
‘Lucien’s lies have nothing to do with this. It is what I have done.’ Brushing his lips across her brow he corrected her. ‘What Lucien made you do, Olivia. With me you need no longer be afraid.’
She pulled out of his arms, wiping her streaming eyes with the back of her hand. Taking a deep breath she half turned, but her words were clear, misted in the icy air as she gasped, ‘Max! Though I have done wrong, things are not as they seem.’
‘Ah, Olivia, I am glad to see Mr Atherton is receiving the send-off he deserves.’
They hadn’t heard him approach. Flinching, Olivia swung round as Max’s shock hardened.
Mr Kirkman placed a proprietary hand upon Olivia’s shoulder and confronted Max with obsidian eyes.
‘Olivia will miss you very much, Mr Atherton.’ It came out a purr.
‘She told me so last night.’ His hand slid down her arm to clasp her small fist.
She made no move to push him away.
Max stared with confusion at the woman he loved. He wanted to repeat his offer. To take her with him, but her expression was suddenly closed as she half raised her hand in parting.
‘God speed, Max,’ she murmured. A spasm of fear crossed her face then boldly she took a step forward and placed her hand on his shoulder.
He had to lower his head to hear her.
‘I shall write, Max,’ she whispered. ‘I shall explain everything.’
I shall write.
The rebirth of hope gave him new strength. On impulse he halted Odin on a bend of the drive which led to The Lodge.
A gravel path led to the family crypt a few yards away. Dug into the side of the hill, halfway to the dower house, it had been a favourite hiding place during a memorable hol
iday when he’d been a small boy.
He decided to pay his final respects to his cousin. He’d try to remember Lucien as a boisterous playmate and pleasant companion rather than the violent despot who had tyrannized Olivia for seven years.
But the door to the crypt would not yield. Lichen-encrusted and swollen with age it seemed an impenetrable barrier between the past and the present.
Max stared at it, wondering if his body would be interred within the stone sarcophagus beside his cousin. Imagining Olivia, in black, reclaiming freedom only to lose it to the possessive churchman.
With a surge of angry longing he tugged at the key on its thin chain which he had placed around his neck.
‘The key to her heart’ she had said, just as the chain snapped and the key fell with a dull jangle to the flagstone upon which he stood. A cruel echo of Lucien’s meaningless words.
Bending down he picked it up and, without thinking, inserted it into the lock. It turned smoothly and the door swung open, admitting him to the hallowed precincts of the final resting place for all the Viscounts Farquhar for the past 400 years.
And their faithful dogs, he amended with a wry smile, as he stepped into the gloom.
A high window, just above ground level, admitted the weak spring sunlight and, as his gaze slid from the stately sarcophagus where Lucien was interred to the tiny sarcophagus beside him, he felt a rush of sorrow and sympathy for Olivia.
How must it have felt to have been consigned to no more than a vessel that must produce the next heir? Derided, abused and worthy of less consideration than the King Charles’ Spaniel Lucien showered with affection and which now lay in state in its miniature resting place beside him.
Olivia had been granted life tenure of the dower house with almost nothing to live upon, after being stripped of the one being that gave her life meaning: her child.
‘Ah, Lucien, it was ill done of you,’ he said, running his hand over his cousin’s inscription before turning away.
If only Mr Kirkman had no rightful claim upon Olivia he would stride up the hill and demand that Olivia return to Elmwood with him now. That he forgave her everything and he knew how to make it all right.
He pulled the door shut, blocking out the past but unable to change it.
For Kirkman’s involvement altered everything.
Nathaniel drew Olivia back to the house with him before Max had disappeared round the bend of the drive. How desperately she longed to prolong the moment before his beloved form was no more than a memory, but Nathaniel was a force too great to resist, alone.
Pleading a megrim as soon as she was indoors she gathered ink and paper from the drawing room while Aunt Eunice cornered Nathaniel, begging him with uncharacteristic interest to regale her with the details of the sermon he was writing for his forthcoming sermon in Nuningford.
Nuningford. A week from now.
Gazing from the casement window in her bedchamber Olivia watched Max’s straight-backed figure disappear round the bend that led to the main road.
She drew in her breath, her nerve ends tingling before setting her writing box on her lap and beginning the hardest letter she had ever written.
Max, her knight in shining armour.
Max, whom she loved more than she’d believed possible, whose love for her gave her strength and purpose.
How would he feel about her when he read her confession?
My dearest Max – she could feel the blood surging through her veins as the pen scratched over the rough surface – I promised you the truth and you shall have it. There is no easy way to say this—
The truth.
Dropping her pen, Olivia rose and went to the window.
The truth would change everything: Julian’s security, Olivia’s future and quite possibly Max’s love for her. But the truth was the only way to remove Nathaniel’s shackles and to move on with her life.
Looking down at her white knuckles and the ink spots on her fingers, she reaffirmed her resolve. If she continued to evade the truth she would be worse than the creature beyond redemption Lucien had painted her. And if she had any chance of earning Max’s continued love and respect she had to take the risk now.
Returning to her writing desk she continued.
The truth is that Julian is not Lucien’s legitimate heir. He is not the boy born to me that terrible stormy night when Lucien was away hunting and my physician was delivering a breech birth many miles away….
The pain and horror of that night was engraved upon her mind. Charlotte and Martha had attended her as she had convulsed with birthing pangs upon the four-poster in which Lucien had been born, and his father and grandfather before him.
The raging storm had prevented the message being delivered to the physician for several hours. Charlotte had soothed her, reminding her that Martha had delivered her six siblings after news came that the squire’s wife was dying. The river was swelling and it was doubtful the physician would be able to cross when his painful job was done.
Picking up her pen, Olivia continued.
Our child was born strong and lusty. Charlotte and Martha put him to my breast and we celebrated that at last Lucien had his heir and perhaps I would have my peace.
Olivia forced herself to continue.
But the boy died within the hour. He started to labour in his breathing and in terror I had Martha fetch Mr Kirkman. Lucien needed to be reassured that this child would not burn in the fires of Hell.
Unable to continue, Olivia pushed back her chair and took a restless turn about the room. Twisting her hands, she tried to compose herself, formulate her words so that Max might understand the terrible grief that consumed her that night; her fear of Lucien’s anger and the maternal cravings which would grasp at any means of giving her the son she and Lucien wanted so desperately.
Even if it meant a terrible deception.
Slowly she lowered herself into her seat and picked up the pen once more. With thundering heart she dipped it into the inkwell.
The moment had come to commit to paper the words that would be the ultimate test of Max’s love.
Nathaniel came promptly. In his arms he carried a babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Its cry was as lusty as my own child’s had been, less than an hour before. But my own child was now silent. Blue and silent and the reverend was too late.
I fought Nathaniel as he removed my beloved infant then watched in wonder as this new child latched on to my breast.
Julian.
Olivia sat back so the tears would not spoil the ink. Wiping them away with the back of her hand, she wrote,
Julian is Lucien’s child by his village mistress who delivered the same night. When I saw the eyes and the shape of his jaw I knew Mr Kirkman spoke the truth: that Lucien was his father and that he would die unless a wet nurse were found soon.
It took a moment for Olivia to compose herself before she could continue.
Forgive me, Max, for doing what any bereaved mother would surely do.
From the moment I suckled the child, knowing its mother was dead, I could not give him up. A precious gift had been put into my safekeeping and it was my God-given duty to protect him … to the death.
Julian was not born within the sanctity of marriage but he is Lucien’s child, nonetheless. Lucien’s fury would have known no bounds if he’d returned to learn his son had died before he was baptized.
I confess that while my love for the child was instant and sincere I was also guilty of cowardice. I did not know how I could survive much more of Lucien’s brutality in his determination to father an heir.
Olivia put the pen down and ran the back of her hand across her brow before she was able to finish her task.
Darling Max, I paid no thought to your rights when I acted as I did. Only since I met you have I understood the enormity of my actions which have denied you your birthright. This letter sets out the truth and also begs your forgiveness. I would not hurt you for the world.
You have brought the sun into my life
and given me hope where none existed before. I love you like I never believed possible and can only hope your kindness and compassion will temper the disgust you have every reason to feel on account of my continued lies.
The time for lies is past, now, and I offer this full accounting so that you may decide how best to proceed in order for you to reclaim what my actions have wrongfully taken away from you.
Whatever you decide, please know that I shall understand and continue to love you.
Meanwhile I wait in fevered anticipation for a sign indicating your feelings and outlining the course of action you wish me to take in order to redress the wrong I have done.
For now and always, I remain your loving Olivia.
She had to allow herself to hope; to believe that Max’s compassion would ensure she would not be accompanying Nathaniel to Nuningford the following week.
After sprinkling sand on the parchment she folded and addressed the precious missive just as Dorcas entered to bring her some comfrey tea for her aching head.
‘I’ll take that with Miss Catherine’s letter to her Cousin Mariah, shall I?’ asked Dorcas, setting down the mug of steaming tea and picking up the letter.
Olivia turned her head away so as not draw attention to her excitement. ‘Thank you, Dorcas.’
‘An’ what shall I tell your aunts who are worried for your poor head?’
‘That I shall be down for luncheon,’ she said. ‘The rest has done me good, as I’m sure the tea will.’
Dorcas placed the letter in her apron pocket and picked up the breakfast tray she’d brought her mistress earlier that morning. It remained untouched.
At the bottom of the stairs she met Mr Kirkman who had just put on his gloves and greatcoat.
‘I hope Lady Farquhar recovers her good health soon,’ he said, as he reached for Aunt Catherine’s letter which lay upon the silver salver on the hall stand.
‘She seems better, sir,’ Dorcas said.
Hesitating, he looked at her as he put on his hat. ‘I believe, Dorcas,’ he said, ‘you have something from your mistress which is to go out with Miss Catherine’s letter.’
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