Olivia Twist

by Lorie Langdon

  She searched the bricks around the fireplace next, poking and prodding for a loose stone. She’d once overseen Fagin remove a small box of jewels and coins he’d stashed in an empty cavity behind the hearth. His assurance, he’d called it.

  When she’d searched every nook and cranny, she stood in the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. A soft gold leaked around the drapes and slanted across the jade silk wallpaper. She was out of time.

  She returned to the desk and slumped in the chair. Whyever would her uncle own a key that didn’t fit anything? She leaned back and rubbed her burning eyes, realizing how little sleep she’d had in the past forty-eight hours. She fought to keep her mind alert by thinking over the night’s events. Jack had walked her home from the Hill in contemplative silence. When she’d tried to breech the subject of Monks and his threats, he did little more than shrug. But his nonchalance didn’t fool her for a heartbeat. He had a history with her brother, and she was beginning to suspect it to be more sinister than he let on.

  If she could just find some hint of Monks’s intentions towards her, perhaps she could save Jack from making a mistake. But to do that, she would need sleep. She opened her eyes and reached to open the lap drawer, when a tiny golden symbol just above her knee caught her eye. Three intertwining loops, the exact design of the metal on the key. Her heart gave a loud thump as she brought the candle closer and fingered the raised circles. She pressed it like a button. The wood gave a bit beneath her finger, but nothing happened.

  She dropped to her knees and peered under the desk. The structure didn’t make sense. Based on the drawers, there should’ve been more empty space. She leaned in close to the gold symbol and ran her fingers all around it. Giving the wood a strong push, the surface shifted beneath her fingers and moved to the left, revealing a large keyhole.

  Something scratched against the study door and Olivia popped her head above the desk, ears straining. The scratch came again, followed by a low whine. Brom. If someone spotted him at the door, he would give her away. On light feet, she ran to the door and opened it an inch. Spying no one else in the hall, she let Brom in and shut the door.

  She scrubbed his silky head. “You hush now.”

  He padded beside her back to the desk, where she sat in the chair and inserted the key. As soon as she turned the mechanism, a long, narrow drawer sprang out at her. Brom growled and shoved his nose against the wood. “My sentiments exactly,” she murmured. It was beyond creepy.

  Inside was a single yellowed envelope, Mama and Papa scrawled on the front in loopy script. Hand trembling, Olivia reached for the letter. When she’d spread the single page out on the desktop, her eyes jumped to the signature. Agnes.

  Tears closed her throat as she ran her fingers over the words that her own mother had written, and noticed the perfect slant and long loops of her penmanship. Nothing like Olivia’s hasty scrawl. Would that have been different if she’d been raised by this woman? Loved and cherished? Educated from a young age with the best tutors? Attended the most prestigious finishing school? Perhaps. But she’d learned long ago not to play the “what if” game. It only broke her heart.

  Straightening her spine, she moved the candle closer and began to read.

  Dearest Mama and Papa,

  I hope this letter finds you well, but I do not have the luxury of formalities, so I begin with the crux of the matter.

  Something in my husband, Edwin, is broken. I fear, irreparably. His brilliance chases him like a dog after its tail. The disintegration of his mind, his descent into irrationality, has been horrifying to witness. He rants against the government, the ton, his investors, and more specifically, your rejection of our match. Honor and social standing have become his obsession. Last evening, he struck me and threatened our unborn child. This is why I must ask—no, beg—for your assistance.

  I awoke this very morning to find my diamond and topaz wedding ring missing. I suspect Edward, Edwin’s son from his first marriage. The boy has turned to opium to escape his father’s abuses. He steals from us to feed his habit and then disappears for days. His beloved son’s addiction has become the final break for Edwin. He rants about leaving his significant fortune to a child who does not besmirch his good name.

  Before Edwin stole my ring, I had planned to pawn it and start a new future with this precious babe that grows within me. But even that avenue of escape has been taken from me.

  I feel her, Mother. Just as you always said you could sense me before my birth. Her spirit is strong! I dream of her vivacity and fortitude—I know in my heart, she is much stronger than I.

  Olivia’s chest shuddered, and her mother’s script blurred before her eyes. Strong was the last thing she felt at that moment. Brom’s heavy head rested on her lap, his large tongue lapping at her knee. She clutched his furry neck and blinked rapidly at the ceiling, letting the tears burn down her face. This was why her uncle had hidden the letter from her; the reality hurt far worse than anything she had imagined. But she couldn’t stop now. She had to read the rest.

  Father, I beg your forgiveness. I dishonored our family and for that I am eternally sorry. If you allow me to return home, I will be the ideal daughter—all that is sweet and demure. I will live in the attic. Become a dutiful servant. Whatever you wish, is my command.

  Just please, I beseech you, help us! If only for your unborn grandchild who does not deserve to live in the fear that I’ve come to know with every breath.

  Your loving daughter now and always, Agnes

  The night her grandparents had received the letter, they’d flown to Leeford House, but it had been too late. Her mother had fled without a trace. Uncle Brownlow had once said they had searched for her, but to no avail. Olivia suspected they hadn’t dared look so deep into the slums of London. At least not deep enough to find her.

  Footsteps, clanking dishware, and hushed voices sounded in the house as she shoved the secret drawer back and locked it, replacing the panel with the golden emblem. Then, she returned the heavy key to where she’d found it, stood, and pushed in her uncle’s chair. With a quick glance around the study, she confirmed that she’d returned everything to its approximate place.

  No longer caring if anyone saw her wearing breeches, she exited the room with Brom on her heels, the letter held tight to her chest. Putting one foot in front of the other, she walked through the hallway and past a staring Thompson as she mounted the stairs.

  Once in her room, Brom’s warm comfort tucked beside her on the bed, she read the letter again, whispering the words aloud. Then, she read it again and again until she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Following a solid eight hours of sleep and a good meal, Olivia’s head was clear and she had a plan. With some assistance from the upstairs maid, she donned her chemise, drawers, corset, and several petticoats, along with her best day dress.

  She ran her hands down the scarlet silk and arranged the panels to reveal the matte black-and-white-checked underskirt. Never mind that it was a hand-me-down from Frannie’s last season wardrobe; with its striking colors and tailored fit, Olivia felt confident—something she would need to accomplish her upcoming errand.

  She checked the mirror and adjusted the small ebony hat with scarlet feathers to a saucy angle. Looking smart and proper, she scooped up her reticule, her mother’s letter tucked securely inside, and headed for the door.

  Brom rose from where he’d been sleeping in front of the hearth and padded over to her side. “Sorry, boy, not this time.” He gave a long, pathetic whine. She rubbed his soft ears and had to force her gaze from his huge liquid-brown eyes. “I promise we’ll go to the park in the morning. Now go find Uncle Brownlow.”

  She gave him a dismissive pat, and he turned left down the hall toward her uncle’s bedchamber. Shutting her door behind her, she shook her head with a smile. Sometimes she suspected Brom understood far more than she gave him credit for.

  When she reached the front entryway, Thompson appeared, took her cashmere wrap and dra
ped it around her shoulders. “Will Mrs. Cramstead be arriving to escort you, Miss Olivia?”

  Violet’s mother, her aunt Becky, served as her chaperone more often than not, but this was something she needed to do on her own. “I’m meeting Aunt Becky and Violet in Piccadilly at the new confectioner’s shop. Apparently, they have hot cocoa served in tiny silver cups that’s to die for!” The story slipped easily from her lips.

  “Shall I call a maid to escort you, then?” His words had taken on that disdainful tone that implied her actions were not at all proper.

  Having years of experience diverting her well-intentioned butler, she opened the door and replied breezily, “No thank you, Thompson. ’Tis not far, and I fancy a bit of a walk this fine afternoon.”

  When she stepped out onto the portico, the late-afternoon sun warmed her cheeks and an unseasonably mild breeze ruffled her skirts. That much, at least, had not been a lie—it was an uncommonly gorgeous November afternoon. So why were tears burning behind her eyes? She’d read her mother’s letter until she’d memorized every heart-shattering word. For some reason, it made her feel more alone than ever.

  Blinking up at the sun, she swallowed her emotion. Over the years, she’d accumulated vast experience putting on a brave face, and as a wise boy once told her, Don’t let the others see ya bawlin’. Tha’s a good way to get trounced. No way was she letting her half brother trounce her or anyone she loved. Ever again.

  Plastering on a smile, she lifted her chin and stepped out of the gate and onto the walk. She turned right toward Piccadilly. That much had also been true. Her uncle’s attorney, Mr. Appleton, kept offices there between a respectable tailor and an upholsterer’s shop. Since she’d accompanied Uncle to the establishment on several occasions, she was certain the attorney would see her.

  As she neared the corner of the block, a familiar ebony hansom cab rolled to a stop beside her.

  “Olivia!” Violet leaned out and waved with a grin.

  She walked over, quite happy for the distraction.

  “I was going to pay you a visit, but it appears you are on a mission. May I join you?”

  Olivia considered her options. She’d already determined that this particular job, which would require her to peer deep into her parents’ sordid past, would be best accomplished alone. But seeing her cousin’s sunny countenance, crimson curls framing her expectant smile, lifted a bit of the weight from her soul. With a decisive nod, she lifted her skirts and stepped into the open vehicle. “Actually, that would be wonderful.”

  After giving the address to the driver and making herself comfortable beside Vi on the single bench seat, she raised her voice to ask above the clop of the horse’s hooves, “Where’s Aunt Becky? I’m surprised she would let you take the cab out on your own.”

  “Yes, well.” Violet smoothed her forest green skirts with gloved fingers. “She’s been in bed with a chill for days, and I simply couldn’t stay inside a moment longer.”

  Olivia grinned. “That’s my girl.”

  “It’s been a bit of a relief not to be trotted out to every dinner party like a sow to auction.”

  “Surely, not a sow.” Olivia chuckled, her mood already lightened considerably.

  “Well, a broodmare then. One would think that if I do not find a mate and produce children within the year, I might as well swear in as a nun!”

  “I don’t think one swears in as a nun. ’Tis more of a passionate commitment.”

  Violet waved the distinction away. “You know precisely what I mean.”

  Olivia did. Aunt Becky felt that at twenty years of age, Violet was doomed to spinsterhood if she did not find her a husband posthaste. But Violet’s romantic nature would not allow her to settle for just any match, and thankfully, her parents were not prone to force her to choose based on convenience.

  “I’ve lounged in the sunroom, read a book a day, and sipped coffee until my heart’s content. Mother finds coffee uncivilized, you know.”

  “Yes,” Olivia agreed. “I’m well aware.” Aunt Becky didn’t approve of Vi’s voracious reading habits either.

  “I’ve decided to marry a purveyor of books. How old would you suppose Mr. Snyder is?”

  “The owner of the bookshop on Holywell Street? At least a hundred.”

  Violet gave her an arch look. “Well, it would be a peaceful life, at least.”

  Olivia burst out laughing.

  When they’d finally sobered, Violet asked, “Why are we visiting the honorable Mr. Appleton?”

  Olivia clutched the reticule in her lap. Her cousin knew of her origins in vague terms, but was too polite to ask for details. And even when Olivia had seen the curiosity brimming in Violet’s eyes, she’d remained silent on the subject. Shame was a powerful motivator. But this discovery would drown her if she didn’t share a bit of the burden.

  She unfastened her purse, removed the letter, and handed it to her friend with a sigh. “I found this hidden in my uncle’s office. It’s from my mother.”

  Violet opened the folded paper and read, her body tensing as her cheeks turned red beneath her freckles. “Oh, Livie!”

  Grasping her hand, she finished the letter and lifted tearful eyes. “Your poor, poor mother! She left her family and everything she’d ever known for love, only to have it turn to tragedy.”

  Olivia took the letter back, folded it, and tucked it back into her purse.

  Then Violet gasped in realization, “You have a brother!”

  “A half brother,” Olivia corrected. Violet, ever perceptive where emotional matters were concerned, searched her face. But she could not explain how her brother had become a street lord named Monks who was threatening her and those she cared about without divulging her double life. So she changed the subject. “I’m seeking Mr. Appleton’s counsel on the will referenced in the letter.”

  Violet nodded. “The wording your mother used was decidedly peculiar. What do you think your father meant by leaving his fortune to a child who doesn’t besmirch his good name?”

  Recalling what Jack had overheard Monks say about asinine terms, Olivia imagined this was the heart of her brother’s grievance toward her. Choosing her words carefully, Olivia explained, “I have reason to believe that Edward has only gone downhill over time and that he will attempt to discredit me somehow in order to inherit. I must confirm there is such a will, even if my uncle supposes there’s no fortune to be had.”

  “Do you truly think your own relation would seek to harm you in some way?”

  “Believe me when I tell you that if my half brother thinks there’s the slightest possibility of gain, he will stop at nothing to acquire it.” The carriage jerked to a stop and Olivia glanced outside. “We’re here.”

  An hour and thirty minutes later, they were back out on the street with no more answers than when they’d arrived. Mr. Appleton had not been in the office and his secretary, Mr. Kit, had informed them that the office was not taking on any new clients, despite Olivia’s insistence that Mr. Appleton knew her by association to Uncle Brownlow. Sure that if he met her again in person, he would take on her case, Olivia had determined to wait.

  When Mr. Appleton did not return from court, his secretary politely but firmly kicked them out and closed the office.

  Feeling useless and defeated, Olivia mounted Violet’s family carriage and dropped down onto the bench. The busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly had quieted with the setting of the sun. Young lamplighters scampered up poles, igniting gas flames in neat rows up and down the street.

  Violet gave Olivia’s address to the driver, and sat beside her and tugged off her bonnet, playing with the ribbons as the vehicle set off with a jerk. “I’m sorry, Livie.”

  Olivia slumped down and pulled her wrap tighter. She didn’t know what to do next. The orphans were moving that night, and she couldn’t even help without endangering them further. She couldn’t help her boys. She couldn’t even help herself.

  “We can go back to Mr. Appleton’s office tomorrow,” Violet su
ggested.

  “You heard Mr. Kit. Appleton’s not taking new clients. Ergo, no female clients.”

  Vi straightened, her green eyes flashing. “Then I’ll ask Father to inquire on your behalf.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’ll have to ask my uncle.”

  Staring out at the passing street, Olivia clutched her purse to her chest, letting the implications sink in. “I’ll need to confess to my uncle. Which will mean divulging breaking into his desk to find the letter.” Perhaps it was time to come clean about all of it. How else would she explain that she knew Monks was after her without digging herself deeper in deceit? “It will break his heart that I’ve been …” sneaking out and lying to him. But she didn’t say the rest, couldn’t divulge her darkest secrets to the girl who’d always believed the best of her despite her past.

  “Livie.” Violet clutched her hand. “Let me help you. My family can keep you safe.”

  Keep me safe? Olivia met her dear friend’s earnest gaze. She was so sweet and loyal and kind … and so very mistaken.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jack leaned his head back on the cushioned arm of the divan, the room spinning around him. He squeezed his eyes closed, but the nauseating rotation continued. Either he was suffering from sleep deprivation or he had finally taken the fast train to crazy town—which, considering his irrational actions of late, was highly probable.

  Out of control. That’s what his life had become.

  He’d received a letter the previous evening from Olivia that explained why she believed her half brother was indeed after their father’s supposed inheritance, and that she had things well in hand. She had forbid him to intervene. Forbid him.