Smiling, he held out his hand.
It was noon and Max was hungry when he dismounted in the stable yard of The Pelican less than an hour later, tossing the reins to an ostler.
Olivia’s parting had reaffirmed the promise that existed between them. The promise of a future that could withstand the perilous present and the lies of the past.
Olivia was true of heart and her heart belonged to him.
‘Regular beauty, ain’t he?’ The stable-lad’s tone was admiring as he stroked the horse’s steaming flank. Hopeful, too, as he asked, ‘We’ll be stabling him for the night?’
‘Only an hour or so,’ replied Max, nodding as the publican appeared on the back step lacing his hands across his impressive belly as he welcomed him.
Max shrugged off his greatcoat as he entered the low-ceilinged room. He’d expected to find it empty but a returned soldier muffled against the cold sat drinking in the shadows.
‘Don’t mind Dorling over there. Known him since we was lads together afore he joined ’is Majesty’s Service,’ said the publican, with a dismissive wave in the soldier’s direction while he poured Max an ale.
Dorling, eyes not meeting theirs, jerked his head in acknowledgement, his expression sour.
‘Never bin the same since his daughter died,’ the publican explained in a stage whisper, as he pushed Max’s drink across the counter top and lowered his bulk on to a stool behind. ‘So,’ he added in regular tones, ‘you’ve just come from the big house, I gather. Me wife, Mrs Mifflin, used to be lady’s maid to Lady Farquhar.’ There was pride in his tone.
‘To the good lady,’ muttered the soldier, raising his tankard.
Max’s response was cut short as the publican slammed his fist down on the counter.
‘You keep yer thoughts to yerself tonight, Dorling, or you’ll be kissin’ Jack Mifflin’s great fist,’ the publican warned, wagging a menacing finger in the old soldier’s direction. ‘Mr Atherton ’ere is a guest of the Misses Dingley.’ The pewter ware rattled and a great log in the fireplace shifted noisily in the threatening silence.
Max raised his eyebrows but kept silent. The publican’s response seemed excessive, especially as he heaved his great bulk to his feet and continued to glower in Pat Dorling’s direction.
Dorling looked almost smug.
‘Guest of my lady, eh? He who is smitten shall be smited.’ The old soldier cackled at his obscure joke, baring an incomplete set of yellowed teeth. He squinted at Max. ‘Acquainted with Lady Farquhar already? I’s sure you was amply rewarded, a handsome gennelmun such as yourself.’
Steadily, Max regarded the odorous creature, the tattered scarlet uniform visible beneath his greasy greatcoat. The dirty, unsteady hand that reached for his drink told its own story. The man was drunk and had some grievance against the elderly sisters and their niece. Perhaps he’d been a former employee, dismissed for his fondness for the bottle. Perhaps he’d harboured a tendre for Olivia and been given his marching orders.
‘Observe the respect due to Lady Farquhar,’ he warned.
The publican settled himself back upon his stool. ‘Or you’ll be out on your ear,’ he threatened.
‘Even without your good lady to issue the orders?’ Dorling fixed Max with a baleful look, adding, ‘Ain’t allowed to cross the threshold when Madam Viper’s around.’
‘Well, you’ll ’ardly get much sympathy from that quarter, mouthing off at them refined ladies at the dower house when you know my missus’d give ’em ’er last farthing if they’d only say the word, poor as church mice they all be. Now be off with yer afore you say summat you really regret.’
‘Ah, Jack, that ain’t no way to treat a friend of forty years an’ more. Leastaways let me finish me drink wot I paid good money for, then I’ll go, quiet as a lamb.’
The man laced his fingers round his mug, settled himself more comfortably in his corner chair and looked morose. ‘I hear The Lodge is all shut up now.’ He sighed. ‘The widow Farquhar hadn’t the funds to keep it up so it’s kept in dust sheets until it’s leased again, or the boy comes into his inheritance. Ah, there was merry times there afore the merry widow were a widow.’
He sucked his gums loudly in the silence, his quick darting eyes showing he knew how to play to an audience.
Max shifted in his seat, his discomfort growing. Could this pockmarked old soldier suspect the secrets Olivia hugged so closely to herself? The secrets she had promised to reveal to Max and which Max had sworn to forgive – he licked lips, suddenly dry – on the basis that Olivia was a helpless, unwilling victim of circumstance?
‘Lady Farquhar has mourned her late husband a full twelve months, sir,’ he said. His voice held a note of warning.
‘Oh, aye, she’s entitled to find herself a man to her liking, I’ll grant you that,’ Dorling conceded readily enough. ‘Spoiled for choice, no doubt, with all them gennulmen who’ve tasted ’er wares lining up at her door. Me being one of ’em, but o’ course she don’t remember me’ – he gave another plaintive sigh and fixed his rheumy eyes on Max – ‘when I were just one o’ so many.’
‘Out!’ roared the publican at the same time as Max rose to his feet, his hand going to his hip where once his scabbard hung; but it was more than a year since he’d swapped soldiering for farming and he no longer carried a weapon.
‘What would a man like yersel’ know of such a lady? You’ve insulted Lady Farquhar and I’ll not have it. Get out!’ roared the publican, towering over the little man whose disgusting appearance belied his insinuation.
The soldier rolled his red-rimmed eyes and made a smacking noise with his lips as he kissed the tips of his fingers in an extravagant gesture. He did not move. ‘I’s told you afore only seems you were a lot more eager for the details than seems to be the case tonight.’
Though a part of him hated himself for doing so Max needed to hear the worst from a stranger: from the lips of a coarse and common soldier who, under normal circumstances, should think himself lucky to kiss the hem of a lady so superior to himself.
Dorling drained his mug and pushed it across the counter with a nod for it to be refilled. He sniffed. ‘No doubt you gazed at the great lady with awe, sir, though I’d challenge you to ’ave said no to a taste of Lady Farquhar’s butterfly if it were presented to you on a platter.’ In the horrified silence he added with relish, ‘Aye, literally.’
Max felt the bile rise up in his throat as the publican yelled, ‘Slander!’ and wrapped his large, meaty hands around the little man’s neck.
‘God’s honour, ’tis the truth,’ gasped Dorling.
‘Let him repeat the story he no doubt tells any who’ll listen,’ Max said coldly as he finished his ale. ‘Then it’s my turn to wrap my hands around his neck.’
Reluctantly, the publican released his erstwhile friend. The little man chuckled as he resumed his seat, jauntily nodding his thanks as he picked up his tankard.
‘I were invited to the great house on account of my skill wi’ the cards and it pleased Lord Farquhar to put on a little entertainment for the assembled company.’ He leered at the two men, his beady little eyes greedy for their shock, undeterred by their hostility and contempt. ‘Just so happened it was his wife that were the main event. Served up on the most enormous silver platter all covered with fruit. Aye, sirs, fruit and cream with the lady revealed in all ’er splendour when the cover were removed. Then the music started and she did ’er little dance upon the table with the company roarin’ an’ cheerin’ their approval.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘You think the likes of me ain’t fit to lick ’er boots, but let me tell you, I licked a damned sight tastier morsel that night.’ He bared his yellow teeth in a parody of a grin as he said with satisfaction: ‘Lady Farquhar’s Butterfly. Taught ’is Lordship some rare tricks wi’ the cards that night and were ’appy not to ’ave to pay for the privilege of rolling that cherry round on me tongue like the others to whom ’is Lordship were indebted—’
The smack as Max’s fist connect
ed with his jaw was stifled by his bellow of fury as he threw himself upon the man. Gathering him up by the scruff of his neck he slammed him against the doorframe. Dorling squealed like a rabbit being skinned, but his expression was defiant as he glared at the two men who brandished their fists above his nose.
‘You think a lady’s above reproach just because she puts a fancy title in front of her name?’ He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grimacing at the blood. ‘Well, me blessed Meg, God rest ’er soul, were a hundred times more of a lady when Lord Farquhar took a fancy to ’er an’ do you think she had any say in the matter? Now she’s dead on ’is account while me lady who laughed and danced upon the table like a tuppenny whore sails on to greener pastures.’
With an air of injured dignity he shrugged himself free and headed for the door, rubbing his jaw. ‘Anyone’d think you had designs on the lady, yersel’,’ he muttered, with a narrow-eyed look in Max’s direction.
‘Reckon you ’as to be mighty plump in the pocket if she’ll flutter ’er lashes, or anything else, at you.’
‘Lady Farquhar is to become a clergyman’s wife,’ the publican said, brandishing a heavy pewter mug as he waved the man out.
Dorling turned, disbelief warring with ribaldry. With a guffaw he gripped the doorframe to steady himself.
‘Well, don’t that beat all!’ He shook his head. ‘Not that clinging little Reverend Kirkham who sprinkled holy water on ’er ladyship’s footsteps before ’e spirited her away after each debauch?’
Sick to the stomach, Max watched as the publican dealt the old soldier a parting kick.
‘Reckon it was the clergyman what fathered that child o’ hers!’ Dorling taunted from the doorway. ‘Ain’t no wonder ’e wants to marry her!’
Max steadied himself against the back of a chair.
‘Ain’t no more than wot the designing trollop deserves! Cursed my Meg, she did, and stole the reverend’s sister from ’is lordship!’ Dorling’s eyes were pinpricks of malice. ‘Well, ’e’s welcome to ’er, ’e is. Lord Farquhar took away her son on account of her loose morals and t’was no more’n she deserved, but my Meg didn’t deserve what she got.
’Twas the reverend wot let my Meg die and the child she bore, leaving me wi’ now’t!’
CHAPTER NINE
FOR FIVE DAYS Olivia existed in a haze of hope but as the week drew to a close a heavy resignation descended upon her.
She saw the dubious glances her aunts exchanged when Miss Latimer held up the bolt of dun-coloured fabric she’d selected for her wedding gown, and was unmoved.
‘That will do nicely.’
If she thought only of the fact that marriage to Nathaniel was still – as it always had been – her only alternative, she could survive.
She clasped her hands at her breast. The spark of hope which had flickered so brightly since she had met Max had died inside her. Her confession had killed his love.
His silence was killing her.
Nathaniel had played his trump card and Max had conceded. There could be no more testimony of his change of heart than his silence to the letter of confession she had written him.
Olivia gazed at her little boy who was playing with some wooden pegs under the table and her heart swelled with love.
Then constricted with fear.
What would happen now?
Perhaps Max would publicly declare Julian a usurper. The repercussions went further than public humiliation and an uncertain future. The small allowance Olivia was allowed as custodian of the child would be cut off.
‘Do you not think the gown will be a little … plain?’ Aunt Catherine ventured.
‘It’s not in your usual style.’ Eunice touched the drab coloured sarsanet and sighed. ‘Though I suppose it’s been eight years since I saw you clothed according to your own taste.’
‘My own taste?’ Olivia’s lips twitched. It was a relief for her mind to travel beyond the grief that held her hostage. ‘Do you remember the sparks that flew as we fought over the gown in which I was to be presented?’ She ran her eyes over the fabric and the sketch which Miss Latimer was holding up. It held no interest or meaning for her. Marriage was a bargain, after all. Few women married for love. What did the reasons for her impending nuptials matter? She and Julian needed a roof over their heads and now that Nathaniel was getting his way he may well be kind to them both. ‘I thought you’d be pleased at my new-found sobriety.’
‘You’re going to be a clergyman’s wife, not take holy orders.’
‘Is there no pleasing you, Aunt Eunice?’ Olivia sighed. Once she’d have flared up and flounced from the room. Now she strove for measured calm and her words contained a note of sorrow rather than recrimination. Indeed, she felt little real emotion. It was as if her heart were contained in a glass box. Now that her future had been determined she told herself she had little further interest in it.
‘Let us walk Miss Latimer to the garden gate and then take a turn around the garden,’ Aunt Eunice suggested with clearly an ulterior motive.
‘So you can try yet again to talk “sense” into me?’ Olivia whispered with deceptive sweetness, as Aunt Catherine helped the seamstress roll up the fabric.
She took her aunt’s arm and, smiling at Miss Latimer, ushered her to the door.
‘So, young lady, Nathaniel is determined to mould you to his own fashion, just as Lucien did. And once again, you’re following like a little lamb.’
Olivia’s step faltered but she made a quick recover and continued resolutely along the pathway which had been swept clear of snow.
‘I can tell you are trying to provoke me into a passion, Aunt Eunice,’ she said, calmly, ‘therefore I shall not dignify that with an answer.’
‘Good Lord, Olivia, if ever there was a girl to try one. I don’t know what your mother would have made of you.’ She heaved in a breath. ‘I expect you’d have been at each other’s throats, you’re so alike.’
Olivia felt emotion surge through her veins. She did not want to talk of her mother, just as she did not wish to speak of Max.
‘Olivia.’
Olivia was surprised at the urgency in her aunt’s tone. Even more so when her aunt gripped her shoulders and held her clumsily against her for a brief moment before letting her go.
Resuming her footsteps, head bent, she went on, ‘Why do you persist in this madness of atoning for …’ Her words trailed off, though she did not slow her pace. Finally she added, ‘For I wish I knew what, exactly.’
‘Nathaniel has offered Julian and me a future.’ Olivia hurried to catch up with her aunt, still taken aback by the uncharacteristic show of affection as she struggled with the question. ‘I thought I was marrying for love when I eloped with Lucien. I do not intend making the same mistake twice.’
‘You married Lucien to be perverse because Catherine and I were so opposed to—’
‘Are you suggesting I’m marrying Nathaniel simply to be perverse? How little you understand me, Aunt Eunice.’
Her aunt looked at her sadly. ‘Yes, how little I know you, Olivia. How little I knew your mother.’ Shaking her head, she went on, ‘If it’s about money, we can manage. Come with us to Bath, Olivia. Enjoy yourself for a change.’
Olivia bit her lip as she looked past her aunt’s old, weary face, now bright with hope, to the fir trees beyond, limned with pink and gold light as the sun faded. Last week it had been a supernatural, ethereally beautiful scene, gilded with promise as she had walked this path with Max. He made her feel anything were possible. Even happiness.
But happiness had been fleeting. She should have known it.
Bone-jarring shards of pain stabbed at her once more. She had told Max everything. Seven days it had been and she had received nothing but silence. What choice did she have but to continue her current course?
To go to Nuningford with Nathaniel? To hear the sermon he had written for her on shame and atonement?
She shuddered as she thought of the man who swore to safeguard Julian�
�s future, Olivia’s future and …
Closing her eyes she sucked in a shaky breath.
… and the secret she had disclosed to Max, but which had been received by cold, stony silence?
The hope in Aunt Eunice’s eyes faded at Olivia’s lack of response. ‘If I thought you loved Nathaniel I’d have no reservations, but you don’t.’ She gave a grunt of frustration. ‘Ask him to release you. I don’t know what hold he has over you, but he will never make you happy.’ Squeezing her shoulder she tried again. ‘Your cousin Mariah and young Lucy would love to see you again. They asked if you would come.’
Olivia shook her head. ‘I am twenty-six years old, Aunt Eunice. Old enough to decide that marrying is in the best interests of my son.’ The enticing thought of going to Bath was stifled by her acceptance of her obligations: her visit to Nuningford to hear her husband-to-be preach.
She had no choice for she had to ally herself with someone who would provide for her son.
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Eunice,’ she said with genuine regret, ‘but I cannot accompany you to Bath.’
They returned to the house to find Julian in tears and an exasperated Nathaniel leaning over him.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Olivia hurried over and sank on to the drawing-room carpet so she could take her small son on to her lap.
For the first time he did not push her away, but clung to her, sobbing as he buried his tear-stained face in her shoulder.
Olivia held him tighter. How precious he was. The greatest gift of her life. A huge lump formed in her throat.
‘Puppy …’ he gulped. ‘I want puppy.’
She turned to where a soft mewling sound came from a cane basket. A pair of large eyes, as tragic as Julian’s, regarded her from over the top.
Nathaniel, frowning, reached across from his chair brandishing a piece of parchment.
Stifling the gasp that rose to her lips, Olivia took it, hoping he did not notice her shaking hand.
Max had written.
Barely able to contain her excitement, her eyes skimmed the sparse four lines of text: instructions for Julian on how to care for his new friend and the reassurance Max would see him when his new stepfather deemed fit.
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