‘Because her husband ordered her!’ Max championed, also leaping to his feet.
‘Because the reverend ordered it!’
Surprised into silence, they stared at the old man. Shaking like he had the ague he dropped his eyes, muttering almost sheepishly, ‘He were behind all the humiliations,’ as he sank back on to the wooden bench.
They absorbed this in silence as the wind rattled the windows and the fire crackled.
‘And did anyone think to have pity on her?’ Mrs Mifflin exhaled on a sob. ‘My beautiful mistress were forced to perform like a high-class whore so the reverend could wrap her up and whisk her away.’ She turned an appealing gaze upon Max. ‘Weren’t no use telling her the reverend didn’t deserve her gratitude. Not when he were so clever at making himself out to be her hero.’
Max recognized the passion that would see Mrs Mifflin defend her mistress to the death. If Charlotte spoke the truth there’d be no trouble getting the publican’s wife to add her testimony to the evidence that would vindicate Olivia. Olivia’s deceit with regard to Julian would be condoned; so would the behaviour that had branded her the notorious viscountess.
‘Why?’ Max waited tensely. It was the question behind everything.
‘Why would he want to humiliate a married woman? The wife of his benefactor?’
The old soldier hunched into his seat. ‘Why does it matter?’ he asked, sourly. ‘She were the one what danced naked on the table. Not the reverend. Not my Meg. Oi!’
With a squeal the old man dodged Max’s fist. ‘All right! All right!’ Recovering his bravado he grinned at their shock, chewing his gums a few seconds before adding self-importantly, ‘Meg said it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Said Lord Farquhar had sold his soul to the Devil and the reverend was paying his dues on his behalf. That ’is lordship could do whatever he chose so long as he did what the reverend said in return ’cos he were doing all the bargaining on ’is lordship’s account with regard to the hereafter.’
The publican shifted his gaze from Dorling to Max. ‘There’s others what’s made claims like this.’
‘That my cousin was mad?’ Max gave a hard laugh. ‘I admired him when I was very young though he fell into bad company shortly afterwards—’
‘After Miss Kirkman passed away.’ The publican nodded his head sagely. ‘A beauty she were, in a ghostlike kind o’ way with her pale skin and staring eyes, though she were right queer in the attic. It were ever a surprise to hear ’is lordship’s fancy had fell upon her.’
‘Farquhar, the old devil, sent her to her Maker, just like he did my Meg and the child she bore ’is lordship,’ Dorling said gloomily. ‘Same night the young viscount were born.’
Mrs Mifflin clicked her tongue. ‘The girl was introduced to society after convincing everyone she were better, but it were a big mistake.’ Glowering at Dorling she added, ‘Regardless of what we think of Mr Kirkman, his mother was a good soul. Let’s not rake up the past. Miss Dorothy’s in hallowed ground and that’s all that matters.’
But Max was not so interested in Miss Dorothy or the efforts to give her a Christian burial despite the fact she’d taken her own life.
Shocked, he realized he sat opposite Julian’s natural grandfather. The old man didn’t even know it himself, thinking Meg’s baby had been stillborn the night his daughter had died in childbirth. An irony that Dorling insinuated Kirkman was the boy’s natural father, though he was now still talking of Miss Dorothy.
Max had a flash of inspiration: Kirkman blamed Lucien for his sister’s death.
And Lucien accepted his guilt giving the reverend leverage over him. When his manipulation of Lucien proved so successful the clergyman made Olivia his next victim.
His veins seemed to ice up. Nathaniel Kirkman had brought Julian directly from Meg Dorling to Olivia. He’d brought her a living child, the fruit of her husband’s infidelity, but a living child and an heir. Olivia would be forever in his debt.
‘I can understand the benefits of having such a hold over my cousin,’ he said, slowly, ‘but why Lady Farquhar? Why would he orchestrate her humiliation?’
Mrs Mifflin drew herself up until she resembled a mighty galleon about to brave rough seas.
‘Why, it were so Lady Farquhar’s gratitude would know no bounds when he spirited her away after each debauch and she’d marry him after his lordship had drunk himself into his grave.’
She sniffed, adding, ‘But it weren’t Lady Farquhar the reverend wanted: it were the power e’d ’ave over the young viscount.’
Dorling cleared his throat. ‘That is, what we all thought were the rightful viscount until Lady Farquhar admitted her crimes to the whole world.’ Waving his tankard in the air to be refilled, he regarded Max. ‘Like I told you afore, I reckon that lad you’s looking after be the reverend’s son. Stands to reason, don’t you think?’
Mrs Mifflin gasped.
‘How dare you charge my dear lady with such wickedness? I were with her during her entire marriage and the birth. The only reason I didn’t stay after his lordship’s death was because there was no money for me wages, which is why I finally said yes to Jeremiah, here.’ She nodded at her husband who contrived a suitably grateful smile as she went on, ‘Miss Olivia were the truest wife ever, and that boy is his lordship’s son, I’ll swear it on me grave.’
Dorling looked morose. ‘The reverend wanted the boy, too. As much as he wanted Lady Farquhar, I reckon, though I dunno why he’d want to be leg-shackled to ’er when no doubt he could tup her anytime ’e liked, and I reckon he did.’
Max forced himself to breathe through his fury as the old soldier went on, ‘That’s why he got his lordship to change his will. So he could get power and influence over the new young viscount, have the beautiful Lady Farquhar for his wife, and live in the house where the gold were hid.’ Raising his head, he sent Max a challenging look through rheumy old eyes.
Like a fire-tipped arrow this information found its mark.
The Reverend Kirkman influenced Lucien to change his will, too?
‘Like you’d know, Pat me old friend,’ challenged the publican. ‘His lordship died long after your Meg. Reckon yer makin’ up what you think ’ud impress us.’
‘It’s true!’ protested Dorling. ‘Reverend Kirkman wanted Lady Farquhar that bad—’
‘I didn’t know you were such a confidante of my cousin,’ Max remarked, drily, while his mind turned over the possibilities.
‘’Twere one of the housemaids what told me wife,’ Dorling muttered. ‘Daisy, what were a witness at the end.’
‘Daisy’s a good girl,’ affirmed Mrs Mifflin. ‘She’d not tell lies.’
‘Did Daisy see it written down?’ Max asked.
Dorling chewed on his gums. ‘The girl couldn’t understand what were writ, but she heard them talking when ’is lordship were on ’is deathbed and the reverend saying as how ’e’d be just the man as would look after the boy right and proper.’ He sighed. ‘If my Meg hadn’t a’ died she’d bin the next Lady Farquhar with the key to the hidden gold and I wouldn’t be sitting here with you lot.’
The publican sniggered and Max leaned forward. ‘So what is this great treasure?’ he asked.
Dorling’s eyes shone. ‘A great cache of gold the late lordship’s grandfather put together to fund the Jacobite uprising after hocking everything of value that he had. That’s what the reverend were after – the key Lady Farquhar wore round her neck after ’is lordship passed away – and if he’s found it, it’s him you want to vent your spleen on, not me!’
The key.
Convulsively Max closed his hand around the key in his pocket he’d used to open the door of the crypt when he’d paid his respects to Lucien after leaving Olivia. The key with which he had replaced the key to Elmwood. The key he’d taken from around Olivia’s neck when he’d asked her to marry him in the attic at the dower house.
Leaping to his feet he strained to see how much daylight remained.
‘I know where Kirkma
n is – or has been!’ he cried. He was, perhaps, half-an-hour’s hard ride from The Lodge, from the crypt. For seventy years the cold, damp cavern dug into the side of the hill between The Lodge and the dower house had hidden the fourth viscount’s secret treasure.
Perhaps it was about to yield another hidden secret. One much more important.
CHAPTER TWENTY
HER BONES ACHED. Ached from the cold which seeped through her body despite the three blankets Nathaniel had brought and from the hard, cold stone of her bed: Lucien’s sarcophagus. She’d have chosen any other except that his was closest to the light. After so many long hours, including the endless night, she craved daylight.
Her teeth chattered as she rubbed her hands together, trying to find rest and comfort beneath the insubstantial layers of warmth.
Dear God, Nathaniel would surely not leave the country with no clue as to her whereabouts? He couldn’t hate her enough to let her die.
No … She shivered even more.
His revenge would be to orchestrate how she would be judged based on his lies and twisted truths.
Staring up at the ceiling she imagined all England gasping over her damning confession. Nathaniel had had it delivered to the printing press the night before.
Stiffly, she sat up and stared around the dim chamber. Her back ached; her stupidity mocked her. Nathaniel had orchestrated her fate since he had cast eyes on her eight years before.
What chance had she of convincing Max she spoke the truth, even if he did come for her?
The afternoon was closing in on her. Sobs rose up in her throat. Another night alone? How could she bear it?
She froze at the sound of a carriage. The slam of a door. Every sense moved to high alert, relief and desperation making her lightheaded as she swung her feet to the ground.
‘Help me!’ she screamed, the echo of her thin slippers resounding through the chamber as she ran across the flagstones and pushed her face against the bars. ‘I’m here! In the crypt!’
The sound of purposeful footsteps followed the gravel path that curved beside the high grassy knoll. Her rescuer was out of sight but surely he could hear her?
‘Help me!’ she cried again, so hard her lungs hurt, while she rattled the bars.
She saw the black hat before the rest of him came into view. The black coat and breeches and, as he raised his head to look at her, the smug, smiling, satisfied countenance of Nathaniel.
Terrified, she leapt back.
‘I was worried about you, Olivia.’ His voice was soothing as he unlocked the door.
Horrified she saw his smile of satisfaction, heard the whine of rusty hinges as he closed the door behind him, stepping into the crypt.
‘I left clues enough for Mr Atherton to have found you by now, Olivia, but perhaps he thinks you haven’t yet learned your lesson and no longer cares.’
‘Get away from me!’ she shrieked, backing towards the far wall of the chamber.
Putting his head on one side, he studied her from near the entrance, his heavy body thrown into relief by the fading sun behind him.
‘But I care, Olivia.’ He advanced slowly, his voice heavy with intent as he murmured, ‘That’s why I came back.’
With her heart in her mouth, like a mouse staring into the jaws of a serpent, Olivia watched his approach. She was his prey, just as she’d always been.
‘You left no clues, did you?’ she whispered. ‘You never intended Max to find me.’ Tears trickled down her cheeks. She was the reverend’s puppet, just as she’d always been.
He halted a foot away, close enough for her to see the parody of concern that twisted his features.
‘Tears of joy?’ His hand reached out, a finger extended to taste the salty evidence of her terror, her submission, before …
Before what? Before he led her to Lucien’s sarcophagus to dominate and possess her?
‘You bitch!’ With a shriek of pain Nathaniel whipped back his hand, choking on another expletive as he sucked the damaged member.
‘You’d bite the hand that feeds you? Where’s your gratitude?’
He lunged at her, cursing as she slipped out of reach to hurl herself against the grating.
‘Help me!’ she shrieked, rattling the bars, cringing as his large meaty hands snatched her elbows, screaming as he pulled her into him.
‘What do you want, Nathaniel?’ she screamed, struggling. ‘You have the gold. You’ve achieved my complete subjugation. You have damned me in the eyes of the world. Is that not enough?’
Gripping her chin roughly, he forced her face up as his other hand seized her round the middle.
‘I want you! I want you to understand how much you need me!’ he muttered, shoving his angry face close to hers as she convulsed with disgust.
She twisted her head out of his grip, clawing at his arms and face with flailing hands, stumbling free only to fall upon the sarcophagi, her body exhaling on one violent gasp as the air was forced from her lungs.
‘Just say it and you shall be free!’ he screamed. ‘The gold is in the carriage. Just say that you want me, Olivia, and together we shall enjoy riches greater than in our wildest dreams!’
‘Never!’ Her voice broke on a sob. Her spirit was nearly broken, too, but she had to resist with all her might, or her mind would splinter into a million shards.
Then how could she be a mother to Julian?
Once again his large body filled her vision.
Eyes wide with horror, senses screaming with revulsion, breath and vitality returned in time for her to thrust herself off the coffin and on to the floor.
Immediately she was upon her feet, but her slippers caught in the lavish trimmings of her hem, tripping her up so that she was flung forwards, arms upthrust to break the force of her fall as the flagstones rose to meet her.
Nathaniel was upon her before she could rise. Knees pinned against her sides, one hand forcing her face down upon the floor, he grasped her wrists behind her back and jerked her body upwards. She shrieked with pain, tears blinding her as he rolled her over then scooped her up, before dumping her unceremoniously upon Lucien’s sarcophagus.
Like a fly paralysed by the venom of a wasp, she felt his hands upon her collarbones, sweeping across the exposed skin to cup her now bared shoulders.
She could smell his excitement: the oil from his hair combining with the familiar smell of animal lust and the arousal of power.
‘I have your son!’ Pushing his thumbs beneath the lining of her bodice he gripped the fabric and ripped, his eyes feasting greedily upon the sight of exposed flesh above her stays. ‘You are in my power.’
‘Foul murderer!’ she screamed, twisting uselessly beneath him.
‘Damn you to the ends of the earth!’ She struck out at him with her right hand, but he caught it, pinioning both her wrists to the lid of the sarcophagus while his body came down to crush hers.
The fingers of his other hand dug into her shoulders painfully. ‘Take what I’m offering you!’ he shouted, as he pushed his face into hers. ‘My love and the gold! Do you want me to take you by force?’
‘Let me go!’ she wept, twisting her head away. ‘It’s Max’s gold!’
Wincing at the pressure of his grip she sobbed, ‘You damned me in the eyes of the world, but you will never get your final satisfaction for I love Max!’
His violence filled her with defiance. She would not give him the satisfaction of her submission yet again. ‘I hate you, Nathaniel! You are cruel and evil and your power comes from threats!’
He laughed at her struggles, his lip curling as she spat out the words, ‘Max is a thousand times the man you are and I will always love him for he is good and kind and he believes the best of people—’
Nathaniel drew in a venomous breath. She could feel the heavy beat of his heart and the oppressive thrust of his desire for her through her gown; the ultimate expression of his domination.
‘He doesn’t believe the best of you now, my love!’
She fel
t his hand fumbling beneath her skirts, his hot, foetid breath upon her neck as he panted above her.
Shrieking, she freed one hand and tried to push him away but he was too strong for her and his voice was triumphant as he delivered his verdict. ‘The sight of you … the mere mention of your name—’
‘Inspires me with love, respect and deep remorse! Get off her, God damn you, Kirkman!’
Sobbing, Olivia wriggled out from beneath her oppressor whose sweaty labours had been arrested by his shock.
‘Oh, Max!’ Tripping upon her torn skirts she fell to her knees as she tried desperately to reach him on the other side of the iron door.
Max had come for her.
Not only to rescue her from danger but to take her away … with him. Surely that was what his impassioned tone implied for his face had been in shadow and now she was on hands and knees like a cornered animal.
‘She led me to the gold, Atherton!’ Nathaniel crowed triumphantly as he whisked her up from the ground, her arms and legs flailing as uselessly as a cloth doll’s.
‘More lies, Reverend?’ Max’s tone was strained as he worked the key in the lock. ‘I know the truth.’
The truth. She tried to wriggle free but Nathaniel was too strong. Struggling to breathe, unable to move, she wondered how she was painted in the version of the truth Max claimed to know and if that was why he didn’t close the distance between them now he’d gained access to the crypt.
Her answer came as she felt the cold press of steel against her breast; looked down to see the small silver barrel of a pistol digging into her flesh below where her bodice gaped open.
‘No!’ she gasped. Swallowing down her terror she strained towards Max, wishing she could see the look on his face, to be reassured by the concern for her wellbeing endorsing the tension in his voice.
Had he come to rescue her despite what he believed? Or did his love for her transcend lies and half truths?
‘I shall kill her!’
She forced herself not to react. Fear motivated Nathaniel. It shored up his power; his belief in his invincibility.
Lady Farquhar's Butterfly Page 22