by The Rival
Olivia turned, looked at her terrified face, and was frozen.
Arlen grabbed her elbow from behind and yanked her away from her child. “Come,” he said harshly.
“No,” Olivia cried, struggling to stay with her daughter.
“Mama!” Hannah cried. “Mama, don’t go!”
But Arlen was dragging Olivia through the doorway, and outside of it, she saw several servants, including Hannah’s new governess, a horrid, dispassionate woman Arlen had himself hired.
Hannah. They were going to take Hannah.
“No!” Olivia screamed as Arlen shoved her into her room and closed the door behind them both.
“Shut up,” he said.
She panted, facing him, fists clenched, ready to take her nails and attempt to blind him herself.
“Why so distraught, Olivia? I merely wish to speak with you.”
“What are you going to do with Hannah?” Olivia demanded, unable to breathe adequately.
“Did I say I was going to do something to my own daughter?” Arlen was so calm, and now he walked over to the pitcher of water on her bureau and poured a glass. He walked back and handed it to her. “Perhaps this will help calm you.”
Unthinkingly, Olivia accepted the glass. “I am not thirsty. You will not hurt her? You will not send her away?”
He stared unblinkingly at her. “No.”
She stared back. He was impossible to read. She reminded herself of how vindictive he was. She did not speak.
“I am returning to town in an hour or so. I am leaving you here, my dear, to your simple country life.”
Olivia was as stiff as a board. Now, however, ever so slightly, she relaxed. “You are returning to town? And leaving Hannah and me here?”
He smiled slightly. “Why are you surprised?”
A new thought occurred to her. “Is Garrick dead?!” she cried.
“No.” He practically spat out the negation. “He is very much alive, and from what I gather, on the mend. Although”—now he smiled—“I have heard that Stanhope is about to announce to the world at large that Lionel is his heir.”
Olivia hardly heard the last, did not care; she was too relieved as she turned away from Arlen, trembling in all her limbs, to sink down upon the settee at the foot of her bed. With a shaking hand she lifted the glass of water to her lips and was surprised to find that lemon peel had been added to it, changing its flavor. She took two quick sips. He was alive. Thank you, God, he was alive.
Then her mind snapped to. If he was alive, why was Arlen being so reasonable? Slowly she lifted her gaze to his. “I do not understand.”
“No? What is it that you do not understand?”
“Why would you leave us here?” Olivia asked cautiously.
He came closer, staring. His eyes had never been so hostile. “Actually, Olivia, I am leaving you here … alone.”
She inhaled, stiffening. She had known.
“Hannah is gone.”
“No.”
He smiled. “Go look for yourself,” he said.
Seized by terror—by a horrifying terror the likes of which she had never known before—she rushed to the door and opened it. Hannah’s door was wide open—and the bedroom inside was vacant. Olivia cried out.
She thought Arlen chuckled behind her.
It was happening, the worst possible nightmare of a woman’s life.
She whirled. “What have you done with her? What have you done with my child?” she screamed.
He shrugged, clearly amused.
Olivia whirled and ran across her bedroom to the windows that gazed out upon the front lawns. She peered out,2 gripping the sill—and saw a carriage departing, already halfway down the drive. “Hannah!”
“You will stay here, never fear, my dear,” Arlen said from behind her. “Alone in the country.”
Olivia turned. “Where are you sending her?” she cried savagely.
“Bedlam,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
She knew that she must get up. The reason was pressing. But try as she might, she could not grasp just why she had to rise from her bed.
It seemed unnatural, it was an immense effort, but Olivia managed to slowly turn her head and open her eyes. How stiff and strange her neck felt. And her head throbbed. She squinted against the glare. Why did her eyes hurt? Sunlight poured through the cracks between her partially drawn draperies. She fought to find her thoughts. Did she have to rise because it was, at the least, midmorning?
It was so hard to think. It was so hard to concentrate. Focus eluded her. And she was so dry, so terribly dry, as if linen filled her mouth. Olivia pushed down hard on the bed. It seemed to take a terribly long time, but finally she did sit up. Slowly she turned and stared at the blue-and-white Wedgwood water pitcher.
She was dying of thirst. The taste in her mouth was so foul. Bitter and foul.
Get up.
She stiffened. The voice inside her head was firm and clear, adamant. She must get up. And it had little to do with the morning, did it not?
Her hand shaking visibly—and Olivia could not understand her tremors—she reached for the blue-and-white pitcher and managed to pour some water into a glass. Why was this simple procedure so difficult? she managed to wonder. Why was she so sleepy, so numb? Why was it so hard to think?
Hannah.
Olivia stiffened. And for one instant she knew, she just knew, that her daughter was in trouble and needed her desperately. In the next instant, as she sat there in bed in her nightclothes at an hour that was very close to noon, she completely forgot her thoughts. What had been so horrifying? So urgent and pressing? Why couldn’t she remember?
Her bedroom door opened and a servant Olivia did not know marched in, smiling somewhat briskly, navy blue skirts swirling. “Good morning, Lady Ashburn. My, but you have slept away half the day … again.” The woman was twice Olivia’s age, as thin as a rail, her red hair twisted back severely in a bun.
Olivia watched the woman as if through a fog as she strode to her side and promptly placed a breakfast tray upon her lap. She stared down at the scrambled eggs and fried steak, items she had no appetite for or interest in. The maid was now drawing open the chintz curtains. She turned. “Eat your meal, my lady, and then we shall bathe you and get you dressed.”
Something was wrong. Olivia stared at the maid as if she had spoken Chinese, a language of which she had no knowledge. She was not well. She could not move, could not think. She never ate steak and eggs.
“Who … are you?” Olivia did not recognize her own voice. It was thick and hoarse, as if dusty and unused. It was so hard to form the words and speak.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?” The maid came over and leaned down to lift up a forkful of eggs. “I cannot understand you when you mumble. Please. Eat.”
Before Olivia could truly grasp what was happening, the eggs were in her mouth and she was automatically chewing and then swallowing them. The eggs were bitter, and had been salted far too much. Instinctively she turned her head away before the maid could jam another forkful of eggs into her mouth.
“You must eat,” the maid said firmly—in a tone no servant should ever use with her mistress.
Something was wrong. Why was she being fed? Who was this woman? Where was she?
Hannah.
“My … daughter,” Olivia whispered—and more food was suddenly in her mouth.
Although it was difficult, Olivia reached up and pushed away the woman’s hand as she swallowed the horrid eggs again. But in doing so, she once again forgot what she was thinking about. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. What was happening to her?! Had she lost her mind?
“That’s a good lady,” the maid crooned in approval.
“I … will … eat,” Olivia said, every word difficult to enunciate. “By myself.”
The maid folded her arms and regarded her with skepticism.
Olivia fought for control of her mind. She was perspiring now. “Why … am … I sick?”
/> The maid turned away. “I will come back in half an hour, my lady, to help you bathe. Make sure you eat everything on your plate.”
Olivia did not bother to reply, vastly relieved as the woman strode out of her room, leaving the door ajar as she did so.
She looked down at the tray on her lap. She was not going to eat. She wasn’t hungry, and something was wrong with the food. And she never ate eggs and steak.
Meow.
Olivia started at the sound of the cat. The orange tabby that Hannah was so fond of leapt onto the bed. She smiled, and as she did so, it felt as if her lips were stretched taut. Her smile faded. She needed to see her daughter.
Her heart lurched. A terrible dread filled her. Hannah. Something was wrong.
Meow. The tabby rubbed its head against Olivia’s ankle, purring loudly.
What was wrong? Olivia felt more tears gathering in her eyes. She had just been on the verge of an important revelation—an awful, horrendous one—and it had slipped away, dear God. What was happening to her mind?
With shaking hands she gripped the tray, now recalling her distasteful maid who had tried to force her to eat. She pushed the tray off her thighs, onto the bed. She must get up. There was something she had to do, she was certain of it—she just did not know what it was.
The tabby had stopped purring and was staring at the food.
Olivia smiled slightly and pushed the tray at the cat. “Pray … indulge yourself,” she said thickly. She watched as the tabby began nibbling delicately at the eggs. Then she lifted the covers, which seemed to weigh two stone, and pushed them off. Very carefully, very conscientiously, Olivia worked her legs over the side of the bed, to the floor, and she stood up.
She almost fell, but she stopped herself by gripping the poster by the carved headboard of the bed. She was ill. She was weak and numb, she could hardly move, and she did not understand—and she was afraid.
Olivia took a deep breath, released the poster, and began walking to her bureau, tottering like a toddler. Once there, she gripped the top with both hands, using it for balance, sucking in air. The short walk had been as difficult as running a few miles uphill. Then her gaze met its reflection in the mirror. Olivia gasped.
She hardly recognized the woman she stared at. She was pale and thin, her face seemed long and gaunt, and nearly black crescents were under her eyes. Her long blond hair was snarled and tangled, as if she had slept in her braids for weeks. Oh, God. The woman in the mirror was an old hag—but it was she. What was happening!
It was as if she were in the midst of a terrible and bizarre nightmare.
Hannah.
Olivia stiffened, staring at herself, thinking, I must go to my daughter. She clung desperately to that thought, afraid she would lose it at any moment. She turned, began walking and weaving across the room, pushing herself to move more quickly. The bedroom door, still ajar, was her goal. She fixed her eyes upon the polished mahogany wood and the gleaming brass handle, refusing to remove her gaze, grinding down her jaw, determined now as never before. The door. She must get to the door. Sweat gathered on her brow and trickled down between her breasts.
When she reached her goal, she collapsed against it, beginning to cry in frustration and helplessness. When the tears subsided, she straightened, confused. She could no longer remember what she had been so intent upon doing. Why was she standing at the door in her nightclothes?
Olivia turned, leaning her back against the door, feeling frail and helpless. Then she saw the cat.
Lying like a corpse upon her bed.
Dead.
Choking off a cry, Olivia hurried to the best of her ability across the room, back to her bed. It was an endless journey. She sank down on the bed, reaching for Hannah’s tabby. To her relief, he wasn’t dead; he was sleeping, but deeply.
Thank God.
She cradled him in her arms. He did not wake up.
Olivia froze.
Then she looked from the unconscious cat to the tray of half-eaten food.
“Ah, my lady, what a fine appetite you had this morning.”
Still perspiring, trying desperately to dwell silently upon one word—poison—Olivia stared at the maid as she sat in her bed. The tray was by her hip, the plates empty. Her cup of tea had been poured out of the window, the unfinished steak and eggs were wrapped in a chemise under the bed, the same place she had put the unconscious cat. It had seemed to take hours to perform such simple tasks.
Poison. Someone was trying to poison her.
Olivia was filled with fear. As the maid helped her up and into the water closet, she kept silently repeating the single word “poison” to herself, until it was a refrain in her mind that she could not forget. It took an immense effort. She did not even try to think upon who would do such a horrendous thing. It was hard enough remembering that she must not eat or drink anything.
“You have a visitor, my lady. Do you think you are well enough to receive him?”
Olivia looked at the red-haired woman. “A visitor?” she mumbled.
“His Lordship said you could have visitors if you were so inclined, and he left me a list of acceptable callers. It is Lord Caedmon.” The maid smiled as she drew Olivia’s nightgown over her head and deposited it on the floor.
Her pulse raced. Caedmon? Olivia allowed the woman to begin bathing her with a sponge and tepid water. She was trying to remember who Lord Caedmon was. And a pair of blazing golden eyes burned their way right into her mind.
Garrick.
Her heart drummed now, filled with love, filled with fear. Her memory seemed to be returning to her, because in that instant she knew she loved the man with the golden eyes, and she knew everything. A fleeting image of him straining over her as he made love to her swept through her mind, followed by an image of him engaged in a duel with her husband. Then the images were gone.
“You do recall Lord Caedmon, do you not?” the maid said, settling a silk shift upon her. “He is the Stanhope heir.”
Olivia wet her lips, aware that the bitter taste in her mouth had lessened. The Stanhope heir … Garrick De Vere … Hannah. Her mind was returning to her. She knew two things now. She loved Garrick, she loved her daughter.
Olivia winced as her corset was laced up far too tightly. “Please do not,” she said. Then she recalled the cat.
She was being poisoned, but her memory seemed to be returning to her, bit by bit, and she must pretend to be dazed and drugged.
“I beg your pardon?” the maid asked sharply.
“Please,” Olivia said in a heavy whisper—her tone a conscious effort. “Too … tight.”
“I am sorry, my lady,” the maid said, easing up on the laces. “So, shall you take tea with Lord Caedmon? I have told him you are quite tired, having been ill of late.”
Yes, she wished to see Garrick. Desperately. She was being poisoned, and she needed help. She trembled, murmuring an affirmation.
And then, as a petticoat was dropped over her head, she saw the Ashburn carriage driving away from the house. The memory was terrifying.
Hannah.
But it was Lionel’s eyes that widened when she paused on the threshold of the salon, steadying herself by keeping one hand upon the door. She stared, remembering him immediately. Where was Garrick? She glanced wildly around the salon, but it was empty.
“Lady Ashburn,” Lionel said warmly, strolling forward to greet her with both hands outstretched, the surprise gone from his face.
“My … lord,” Olivia said, keeping her tone low, as Lionel took both of her hands in his. The odious maid was behind her. Olivia had just, suddenly, recalled her name. It was Miss Livingstock, and she was employed by Elizabeth.
He bent over her hand and kissed it. “I am … confused,” Olivia managed. “I thought … Miss Livingstock said that it was Lord Caedmon calling.”
Lionel grinned. “But I am the viscount of Caedmon Crag, my dear lady. My father has finally rectified a monumental error—recognizing me as his eldest and heir.�
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Olivia could only stare. Her mind was having trouble grasping what Lionel had said. She could not understand, she only knew that something was terribly wrong.
“I am so sorry that you have been ill, but I am pleased you are recovered enough to see me,” Lionel continued.
Olivia nodded. She was in the throes of a huge disappointment, and even that puzzled her; she was also acutely conscious of the treacherous Livingstock standing behind her. The comprehension struck her now that Livingstock was the one who had been poisoning her. No member of the Ashburn staff would ever do such a thing, Arlen’s orders or not. Was Elizabeth behind this? Her heart lurched.
“Come, let us sit, as you do seem tired,” Lionel said, tucking her arm under his.
Olivia remained weak, and still not thinking with utter clarity, she was grateful for his physical strength as he led her to a chair. She did lean fully on him, trying to concentrate. Garrick was not coming. The disappointment made her knees weak. She needed help. Yes, that was it. And it was so important. But now she failed to remember exactly why she needed aid. The thought that Elizabeth was trying to poison her—maybe even murder her—was overwhelming.
If only she were well. If only she were not so weak—and so terribly vulnerable.
The thought seized her that she must get rid of the maid. As Olivia sat, she turned her gaze upon Livingstock. “Do … leave us,” she said with a feebleness that was only partially feigned.
“I do not think I should do so. His Lordship’s orders were quite clear.” The maid came to her and began fussing with the cushions behind Olivia’s back. Then she faced Lionel. “I am afraid, my lord, that your call must be limited to ten minutes. His Lordship has been very specific, being so concerned about his wife’s health.”
“Very well,” Lionel said agreeably.
Now Olivia was frozen. Someone was poisoning her. She must escape this place with Hannah, and she needed help—Lionel’s help. Then she stiffened, her heart lurching so hard that it felt as if it had just turned completely, sickeningly, over.
Hannah was gone.