The Making 0f Baron Haversmere (HQR Historical)

by Carol Arens

  ‘She misses him, of course.’ Olivia shrugged, as if anyone would know this. ‘And she expected him to follow her to Haversmere, but, as you can see, he has not.’

  By sugar, that news left him confused. On the one hand he was put out with the fellow for making Roselina sad by not showing up, but if he did show up Joe would be no less put out.

  ‘What do you think? Tell me true, Olivia, is he good enough for her?’

  ‘I know he is suitable. He will be Earl one day, of course. To his credit, he does not have a fast reputation as some of the young men do. And he is not ancient, but of a good age for her.’ Then she sighed as if this were bad news. ‘I think he does care for her, but I am not the best judge of a young man’s heart.’

  If ever there was an invitation to discuss her past, this clearly was one.

  He shifted his position on the couch so that he looked straight at her. He lay his arm across the back of the cushions, a call for her to move closer if she chose to.

  She did not, but sat with her hands folded on her lap.

  ‘On the contrary, Olivia, it seems to me that, given your past, living through what you have, it gives you a better sense of what is in a man’s heart.’

  ‘Perhaps it might be so.’ She shot him a quick, sidelong glance. ‘Had I not spent the past several years trying my best not to see a man’s heart.’

  Just like earlier, she wore her hair down. He wanted to touch it because it looked like a fair, silken waterfall gliding over her shoulder.

  What kind of insanity would make a man stray from her bed?

  ‘I could not begin to know how to advise Roselina. I’m sure your mother will know what to tell her,’ she said while gazing at the fire in the hearth.

  ‘I can’t help but wonder what my mother would tell you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She snapped her attention away from the flames. Her wide, blue-eyed gaze settled fully on him.

  ‘What would she advise you—about me?’

  ‘Not would, Joe. Both your mother and your sister have made sure to tell me how very loyal you are.’

  ‘Loyal as a bee to a spring blossom.’

  ‘I rather thought my husband was like a bee, flitting from spring blossom to summer blossom and then on and on. To him London was one vast meadow waiting to be pollinated.’

  ‘That was a bad illustration. I simply meant—’ He got up and began to pace in front of the couch. He needed the right words to show her who he really was, but blamed if he knew which ones would work magic—which it was beginning to seem like he would need in order to—

  ‘It was wrong of me to compare the two of you,’ she said with a resigned sigh. ‘I beg your forgiveness.’

  As apologies went, it was acceptable, yet not terribly heartfelt. She had stated a simple fact. As far as he could tell she had not had a revelation as to who he was.

  He spun about, gripped the mantel tight and hung his head. The bond they had begun to forge was slipping away. No matter what he said he could not seem to prevent it.

  He heard the shift of her skirt when she stood. His fingers pressed hard on the wood, turning white to the bone.

  If she walked out of the library, this would be the end of it—of them. He feared the tenderness between them would fade to indifference.

  Then she touched his shoulder, the pressure of her hand light, hesitant. He straightened, turned, looked down and saw moisture standing in her eyes.

  ‘I do not want to feel like this, Joe.’ She blinked, then swiped her wrist across one eye. ‘If it was a matter of choosing, I would not let that woman, what she makes me remember, come between us. But—’

  He cupped her cheeks, felt the moisture dampen his palms. She tried to turn her face away.

  ‘Olivia, no. Look at me, darlin’.’ Her nod was so hesitant he barely felt it. ‘Look into me—see me. I will never betray you. I will fight for you. The demons that woman stirred up, I’m at war against them. They will not have you—I will.’

  Her lips parted as if she meant to reply, but then did not. Whatever she meant to say, he would never know. But he knew what she did not say: ‘No.’ She hadn’t said that one word which would reject his declaration. Far from it—she slipped her arms about his ribs, leaning her head against his chest.

  ‘Never doubt it, darlin’.’

  She sniffed. Her hair slid against his shirt with her nod, a nod which meant she was at least hearing him.

  He tipped her head up to kiss her and lasso her heart back to him.

  Lightning flashed beyond the parlour windows. Thunder pounded—at the front door?

  A woman screamed.

  Of all the blamed luck!

  Joe did kiss her, but quickly. Letting go of her, he dashed out of the library to see what had befallen Haversmere.

  The tap of Olivia’s footsteps hurried behind him.

  One of the maids, Betty, clasped her hand to her heart. She stared at the front door, her face as pale as the ghost she must think was on the other side. An overturned bucket of water flooded the stones near her feet.

  The pounding resumed, so forcefully it shook the door in its frame.

  ‘Don’t open it, my lord!’ she cried. ‘ʼTis a spirit come to call, for certain. I heard him moaning and wailing.’

  Roselina and Ma rushed into the hall.

  Joe walked towards the door. ‘In case it is only some poor soul standing in the rain, I will open up.’

  Betty looked pale, ready to faint. She buried her face in her apron.

  The sooner he got to the bottom of the supernatural nonsense, the better. Taking a firm hold of the door, he drew it open wide.

  Joe would rather have seen the ghost of his father walking in than the pitiful dripping form of Lord Mansfield—an opinion his sister did not share.

  Roselina dashed forward and would have hugged him, but before she could he went down on one knee. He reached into his pocket and drew out a ring.

  ‘Roselina Steton, I love you to distraction. Will you marry me?’

  For a moment the only sound was the drip, patter, drip of water hitting the floor as it came off Lord Mansfield’s finely tailored suit. He removed his sodden top hat and placed it over his heart. Evidently in haste to make his declaration he had momentarily forgotten the ugly black thing.

  ‘I would,’ Roselina said coyly, as if she had not been pining away for the fellow, as if her eyes were not alight with joy. ‘But I simply cannot, not without Lord Haversmere’s blessing and I imagine you have yet to seek it.’

  Mansfield pivoted on his knee. ‘Please, sir, I beg you—have mercy on me and say yes. I promise I will treat your sister well. Truly, she has my heart and I will perish if I cannot also give her every day of the rest of my life.’

  ‘I accept your proposal.’ Roselina opened her arms.

  Lord Mansfield leapt up, nearly slipped, but righted himself. He caught his brand newly intended in a joyful hug that had both of them hopping up and down in jubilation.

  Their giddy laughter showed how very young they were. He envied them.

  But had anyone noticed he had not given a yea or nay to the union? Of course, he hadn’t expected his opinion to have a lick of influence in what his sister decided.

  Which went to show that Mansfield was the right fellow for Roselina to marry. Given the poor fool’s appearance he had apparently gone through some trouble getting here.

  It came as a surprise to find that Joe did, in fact, admire the young man.

  ‘Betty,’ Ma said. ‘Kindly bring Lord Mansfield some towels.’

  Joe felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Olivia and she was smiling.

  ‘Did I make the right choice?’ he asked.

  She laughed and he thought he had never heard a nicer sound. ‘Your silence covered it either way.’

  Roselina, both feet now on th
e floor, kissed her betrothed right in front of them, then turned to Ma to show off her ring.

  ‘You asked me what I thought about him a little while ago?’

  ‘You didn’t answer. Your past kept you from being a good judge.’

  ‘Seeing them now—yes, Joe, I think they will suit.’

  How long would it be before Olivia thought Joe would suit her? He had to believe she would, eventually.

  At least it was what he hoped—no, prayed—to be true because, like Lord Mansfield, he thought he might perish if he did not give her every day of the rest of his life.

  ‘Are you ready to learn to dance, Joe? I am fairly certain this wedding will be sooner rather than later.’ In his imagination the bride was Olivia. ‘This cannot be put off any longer.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ He would have said tonight, but it was getting late and it would be unseemly for anyone to know his attention was not for anyone but his sister.

  Betty hurried back into the hall carrying a stack of towels, her face red and embarrassed.

  Tomorrow he would need to do something to put this nonsense about ghostly doings to rest.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morning sunshine streaked through the window curtain of Olivia’s chamber, casting the shapes of roses on the bed.

  ‘Mother, hurry!’ On his knees, Victor bounced on the mattress.

  ‘Almost ready.’ She tugged on her skirt while giving her appearance a glance-over in the mirror. Once again she would need to wear her hair unbound.

  If Helmswaddle were here Olivia would have asked for a dozen curls. Ever since last night she felt curly—bouncy and light-hearted.

  Something had shifted within her and it felt—

  Well, honestly, she felt like she used to a very long time ago. Looking forward to the day, she expected good things to peek out from around every corner.

  The knockdown Mrs Lapperton had unknowingly deflated her with no longer stung. She would delve deeply into the reason why, but Victor was hopping about like a grasshopper, impatient to be on their way.

  In the end the precise reason for her change of heart did not matter, as long as it had changed. Besides, it had not likely been only one event to open her eyes to the true-hearted character of Joe Steton.

  But that was not right. Early on, her eyes had been open. Anyone could see he was trustworthy. It was her heart which had stubbornly chosen not to see him.

  ‘Joe is going to ride his horse without us,’ her son whined.

  She ruffled Victor’s hair. ‘Do you not recall that he promised to wait for us?’

  He nodded, his expression so very trusting. ‘A cowboy never breaks his promise.’

  Or a heart. At least this cowboy did not.

  ‘There’s your bonnet, Mother, put it on quickly. We’ll need to run to the stable as it is.’

  She looked at the pretty headpiece hanging on a hook and decided that while fashion demanded she wear it, the sunny, warm morning did not.

  ‘I’ll race you to the hall, my son.’

  Victor’s eyes grew round, his face flushed with excitement. ‘You know how to run?’

  He dashed off and was halfway down the hallway before she could call out behind him that she used to be quicker than all her friends.

  By the time she got to the hall she was out of breath, but from laughing as much as running.

  ‘I won!’ Victor danced in a circle, pumping his fist in the air. ‘Can’t wait to tell Joe!’

  Olivia stopped laughing when she spotted Betty and another maid standing in front of the big clock in the hall and wringing their hands in their aprons.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Olivia asked, her breath still short.

  ‘Oh, yes, my lady! The clock has stopped.’

  ‘Is there not a key to rewind it?’

  Betty opened her hand to reveal an ornate brass key. ‘I daren’t use it. You see, it is stopped on the exact minute the Baron’s mother died, Lord rest her sweet soul.’

  The only thing odd about it was that someone recalled the exact moment. It had been a great many years since the lady’s tragic passing.

  ‘Has it been some time since the clock has been wound?’

  ‘It has, but,’ the younger of the two maids said, her fingers trembling, ‘this can only be the work of the—well, I can hardly say it out loud.’

  Olivia plucked the fancy key from Betty’s hand. She set the clock hands to the correct time and then wound it up. ‘I am certain there is no ghost.’

  ‘You ought not have done that, Lady Olivia.’

  ‘No harm will come to me, or to anyone else, because I wound the clock.’

  For all that she had assured the women there was no ghost, it was not because she did not believe in ghosts.

  Indeed, for Olivia, there had been a ghost.

  The shade of Henry Shaw reached beyond the grave, had prevented her from trusting anyone—even her own brother, Heath.

  But no more. Just as she had dared to step forward to wind the clock, she would dare to step into the love that Joe offered.

  If Henry even lifted a finger from the grave, she would stamp on it—no, better, she would dance on it. She was finished with allowing him to stand between her and love.

  And it was love. Joe had not said the word, but her heart recognised it. It also recognised that she had never shared the emotion with Henry.

  She had blindly adored him for a time, but words were all he had ever given her. False words which wounded her as nothing ever had.

  Now, here was Joe, who, even without ‘the words’, had freely given himself.

  She opened the front door and took a long cleansing breath of Haversmere air.

  As surely as the hallway clock was ticking, the ghost of Henry Shaw was put back in the grave where he belonged.

  ‘Let’s race to the stable!’ Victor dashed away from her and down the front stone steps. ‘I’ll go slow so you can win!’

  But she had won already.

  Her victory over the past made her feel as though she could outrun anyone, dance like a fool on the white puffy clouds dotting the sky and never stop smiling.

  But she was not a fool. Not this time.

  * * *

  Since they were to spend the morning riding and fishing, Joe decided to wear his buckskin jacket. It had been hanging in the wardrobe for too long.

  He could nearly smell Wyoming on it.

  Victor tugged on the sleeve, urging him to hurry with what he was doing, but he didn’t.

  Helping Olivia on to the saddle of a dark, sturdy-looking horse, he lingered over the job. When his hands rested too long on her waist, he let go, petting the horse’s black mane.

  This was a fell pony, Mr Smythe had explained. A good-tempered mount that would suit Olivia well.

  Blue stood paces away, clearly as impatient as Victor was to be on the way.

  Because Blue snorted, and Victor was madly eager to be put on the saddle in front of Joe, he stepped away from the pony’s saddle.

  Olivia bent down, indicated that he ought to come closer, that she had something to whisper in his ear. She smelled like the lush pastures of Haversmere.

  ‘I see you, Joe,’ she murmured, then sat up tall in the saddle.

  Four words and his life seemed to fall into place. At least it would once he knew for sure she trusted what she saw.

  Joe picked up Victor, set him on the horse, then mounted him.

  ‘Giddy up, Blue!’ Victor shouted, then they were off trotting across lush meadows.

  The child’s excitement raced through Joe, took him back to a time when—

  When he sat on a horse in front of his father, shouting and whooping like Victor was now. He remembered—saw so clearly the land falling away, heard the pounding of hooves tearing across the meadow, clods of moist dirt flying ev
ery which way. He seemed so far off the ground, as if he were flying. He felt his father’s laughter on the back of his neck and his strong arm curled around his ribs.

  Victor let go of the saddle horn, spread his arms wide and flapped them.

  ‘I’m a bird!’ he shouted and it was Joe’s turn to laugh.

  He had to do it through a leak of tears, though. To remember something of his past here at Haversmere squeezed the emotion right out of his eyes. Hopefully this was only the beginning of recalling his past here.

  They rode for the river to do a bit of fishing and to let the horses rest.

  Olivia spread a quilt on the grass, then set out lunch while he and Victor sat beside the rushing water and dipped their fishing lines in the water.

  These moments had to be a reminder of what Heaven held in store. By sugar, it could be nothing less.

  Victor’s line tugged down, jerking in a battle with an unseen fish.

  For a second it was not Olivia’s son on the bank, leaping and shouting, it was Violet Steton’s son.

  It was not the grown-up Joe cheering for Victor’s success, it was his own mother. He saw her so clearly it nearly brought him to his knees. She wrapped him up, lifted him off the ground and said how proud his father was going to be when he saw the catch.

  ‘Joe?’ Olivia called out, then began to rise from her spot on the quilt? ‘Are you well?’

  He nodded, not quite able to express how very well he was.

  Victor bent over the fish flopping about on the bank. ‘Can I eat it, Joe?’

  Then, just like that, Joe remembered how elated he had been eating the fish he had caught that long-ago day.

  ‘Let’s see if you can catch enough for all of us.’

  * * *

  An hour later, seven trout lay on the bank. Victor knelt beside them, no doubt picturing a feast.

  After Victor’s excitement calmed, the three of them sat on the quilt to eat the lunch Cook had sent along. With a great yawn and a pat to his belly, Victor fell asleep, his head on Joe’s lap.

  His blond hair rustled in the soft spring breeze. Joe touched the strands, felt the lingering warmth of sunshine in the curls. The desire to protect this child felt nearly physical. If a natural-born father felt any different he’d eat his hat—the top hat—not the Stetson.