She had a lot to think about. Part of the answers waited in the envelopes she’d carried up to her room but had been afraid to touch while she was so shattered. They waited like Pandora’s box. She didn’t want her belief in Owen crushed—much as Simon had crushed her belief in him tonight.
She’d just donned her nightgown and robe when a knock rapped at her door.
Simon wouldn’t be outside her bedroom at this hour. She was torn between wanting to see how he fared and running far from his bullheaded fury.
Straightforward, blustering Simon Blair had a psychic gift of his own. The world wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t ready for that. She opened the door.
Phoebe sailed in bearing a tray of warmed-over dinner and hot tea. “Have you opened the documents yet?” she asked eagerly.
Olivia refrained from rolling her eyes. “I am barely awake. How are you so energetic? And how are the children? Did they have good warm soaks?”
She was afraid to open the document packets. If they didn’t contain what she needed. . . she might descend into weeping hysterics in her current state.
“The boys collapsed in exhaustion after their baths. Evie was asking for you—she says Mama quite clearly, doesn’t she? But she’s asleep now. The twins—well, you never know. We should probably check them again. Daisy would sleep through a hurricane.” Phoebe dropped the oilskin-wrapped packet on the table. “We’re all dying to know. Open it!”
Olivia settled in a chair by the hearth and sipped her tea. “Hargreaves? What did you do with him?”
Phoebe raised her arms in exasperation, shook her fists at the ceiling, then with a sigh, took the other chair. “We sent for a physician. I have no books with me, nothing to tell me what to do if it really is cyanide or mercury. I had Cook send up warm milk because it seems to neutralize many things. Mrs. Dunwoody gave him a room that didn’t meet his standards. Drew had a good long talk with him. We haven’t heard a peep since.”
“Hargreaves brought this on himself, so I have no sympathy. I simply want to send him back to his father, who should have taught him better. There are more papers in my apron.” Olivia nodded at her discarded clothes. “I’m afraid to look.”
Phoebe jumped up to rescue the second packet. “We can at least see if one says Will and Testament or anything useful.”
“Simon’s lawyer says the laws have changed since I married, but I don’t know how that affects anything. Go ahead, open it.” Olivia knew she had to eat. She nibbled at more bread and contemplated whether it was worth lifting dinnerware. She was shattered in so many ways that she feared she’d fall apart if she exerted too much effort.
She’d yelled at Simon like a fishwife. He’d shouted back. She needed to leave and find her own home. The Hall wasn’t home anymore.
Phoebe didn’t hesitate. She unwrapped the oilcloth package first. “Wedding documents,” she announced in satisfaction. “Birth and death certificates, witnesses, lots of legal papers. He even had Aloysius’ birth recorded and copies made. Your Owen was a thorough man.”
Olivia closed her eyes in relief. At least she hadn’t been wrong about the man she’d loved. “With a father like his, he had need to be careful. No trust agreement?” Olivia didn’t think she could hold down food if they didn’t have proof she owned the house. She let her dinner grow cold, again.
Phoebe dug into the leather folder. “Dozens of sheets of archaic hen-scratching. Drew’s typewriting machine really needs to be mass produced.” She flipped silently through more pages. “I think this may be it,” she murmured, sorting the pages. “I think there’s an older deed in here, and an old trust, and a new one. Your name is on this one.” She flipped to the last page. “And it’s signed and witnessed by all parties, just as you said. The viscount and Willingham lied.”
Olivia let the news seep into her bones and fill her heart. “Thank all that is holy.”
“I wish we had some way of copying them,” Phoebe fretted, wrapping everything up again. “I’ll have Drew ask Simon if he has a safe to lock them in.”
“Is it still snowing? If it stopped, we’ll be able to take the train into Glasgow and show them to his solicitors.” She felt overwhelming relief, but no real joy. Perhaps she was too tired.
“It’s a better way to start the new year than a funeral. Will they postpone that until the Hall is cleaned up, again?” Phoebe stood, packets in hand. “Let’s not worry about it tonight. Get some sleep. I think I’ll send a kitten to nibble on Hargreaves’ toes. If you want me to finish cleaning out the creatures from the Hall, I’ll have to do it tomorrow. We need to leave for the city soon.”
“Thank you, Phoebe.” Standing, Olivia hugged her taller cousin. “We couldn’t have done this without you and Drew.”
“It wouldn’t have been as much fun without us, maybe, but you and Simon could have turned Hargreaves on his head on your own. We simply made it happen faster.” Phoebe hugged her back, then slipped out carrying the packages of precious papers.
Now that they’d accomplished their goal, Olivia thought she ought to climb into bed and sleep for a week. Instead, remembering Simon’s confession and the unholy wind blowing through a closed staircase, she couldn’t settle down.
He’d lifted a carriage? And blown a room to ruins.
No, she’d never sleep now. She couldn’t just ignore what had happened. She sat and listened to the sounds of the house settling into slumber.
Simon locked the papers Drew handed him into the safe in his bedchamber. Once they took the papers to a solicitor, Olivia would move back to the Hall. He’d be able to buy the land he needed. He’d have to give the lady a little more than that strip was worth so she’d have funds to refurbish the house they’d practically destroyed this evening.
He lacked the energy to pace but nursed a brandy as he brooded. Brandy was good for brooding, he decided.
He’d done it again. He’d sworn he would never raise another wind, but he had. He didn’t like it. He hated it.
He feared Enoch would be the same one day, unable to control whatever he did and hurting others in the process. People would see him as a freak at best, a demon at worst.
He wanted to talk to Olivia about it—Lady Hargreaves, he had to remind himself. She’d be leaving him for the Hall, to restore order to her tenants, and give her strays a home. She didn’t need a monster like him.
No matter how much he wished to traverse the quiet hall to see how the lady fared, he had no right. He’d terrified her. He would simply go to bed—
He was out of his seat the instant a soft knock rapped at his door.
In her white nightgown and silver robe, Olivia looked like an apparition. She’d braided her damp, golden hair, pulling it back from her pale cheeks. The only thing alive in her expression was her eyes. Clear blue, they searched his face. Relief flowing, Simon yanked her into his arms and just sheltered her there. Her soft curves were forgiving, and he finally relaxed with her arms wrapped around him.
“Ah, m'eudail, you should not be here, but I’m glad you are.” He ran his hand down her spine to her buttocks, and his spirits rose, along with other parts south.
“I worried about you.” She abruptly pushed away. “How are you feeling?”
“You worried about me?” he asked in forced amusement, because he’d been worrying about him too. “There’s naught to worry about. You shouldn’t fret yerself o’er the likes of me.”
“I think you lapse into improper speech when you’re hiding your feelings, you big lump.” She studied him at arm’s length. “It’s why you use Gaelic when you want to call me darling.”
He’d kiss away the foolishness, but he would scrape her face raw. “You’ve no need to worry over me,” he said stiffly and properly. “You should be celebrating finding the papers. I’ve some brandy if you’d like.”
He had the woman he wanted only inches from his bed, and he was offering brandy? What the devil was wrong with him?
“Enoch blew out the lamps tonight.”
/> It sounded like an accusation to him. “He’s a big, strong boy,” he said, pouring the brandy.
“And so are you, granted.” She refused the glass. “But no one taught you how to manage all that energy the two of you share. You’ve kept yours boxed in, tied down, under tight control—it’s no wonder it breaks free when you’re stressed. You’ll kill someone if you don’t learn to restrain it.”
“You’re being ridiculous. Is this what you’re telling Enoch? I’ll not have my son unleashing his energies.” Why was he talking like this? Just agree with her and sweep her off her feet and. . .
“Would you try to box a whirlwind? Capture a rainstorm? They’re part of nature, just as you are, and Enoch. You cannot be other than who you are.” She stood there in her slippers and robe, a tempting feast of gold and silver—scolding him like a witch.
“I’m not abnormal!” He kept his shout to a low roar. “I don’t want my children to be abnormal. It’s dangerous. They need to be like everyone else. They’ll be happier that way. They’ll have friends. They won’t be despised like—”
“Like Letitia? And me?” she said with a temper. “You know only the superstitious fear us. King James the First with his vaunted Bible is the one responsible for having mediums and ghost whisperers called witches. His translators used the wrong Greek word. We were perfectly acceptable until he associated us with the devil. It's all stupid superstition."
"And now you’re maligning the Bible!" he said, outraged.
She glared. “And that reaction is the reason we keep our mouths shut. People find ways of disliking others for any number of reasons, from the color of their hair to the gods they worship. It can’t be helped. We can only teach Enoch how to alleviate the fear and live with the dislike.”
“As if he were a cripple?” he asked in disgust. “He’s a big, healthy boy, and he’ll be a respected man someday. I’ll not have him any less.”
“He won’t be any less, no more than you would be,” she argued. “The Association already hates you for who you are—an intelligent man who knows what he wants and works to achieve it. Would you be less than that so they liked you? Do you really want to fit in with a group like that?”
“No, but I don’t want them making a scapegoat of my children! I can take care of myself. They can’t.” And there he was again, driving her away. She even backed toward the door, disappointment written clearly on her face.
“If they learn how to use their gifts, they’ll take care of themselves one day,” she shouted. “All children need adults to look after them, guide them, show them how to be strong. You can’t do that by telling them to hide who they are!”
“You want Enoch bringing down howling winds and floating his sisters out the door? You want Clare weeping through houses, listening to ghosts in the walls? And Cat. . .”
“Is like me,” she said in warning. “You don’t want her learning to use her ability to tell if a man wants her for herself or her money?”
“I’ll know if a cad wants her for her money!” he shouted.
“You won’t always be around, just as my father wasn’t, and then Owen. Women must rely on themselves, not drunken sots. Good-night, Simon. I thank you for all you’ve done for me. But I do not thank you for what you’re doing to yourself and your children and everyone around you.” She turned and walked out.
He’d had her right here, in his arms. He could have had her in his bed again. And he’d let her go. He was out of his blooming mind.
He didn’t need the scheming witch. He’d go to Glasgow in the morn and have her out of his way by sunset.
Twenty-five
Having cried herself to sleep last night, Olivia slept late.
She’d gone to the blasted man—actually risked her reputation and everything she held dear to offer. . . What? Friendship? Aid? Consolation? And Simon had rejected her. All but slapped her in the face.
And he’d been drinking. She hated men who drank. They were irrational. She was far better off going her own way now, no matter how much her heart hurt or how much she would miss the big lump. If she stayed in the village, she might still be friends with his family, she hoped.
So she dawdled over dressing, went upstairs to the nursery to hug the children, and asked the new footman to talk to Simon’s steward, Mr. Hill, about rescuing Lily’s son. If she won the Hall back, perhaps she could persuade Mr. Hill to return to her employ.
After calming some of her anger and worry, she went down to breakfast, fretting over how to balance a trip to Glasgow, cleaning the Hall, and attending Reverend Willingham’s funeral.
Hargreaves was at the table, looking wan. The viscount nibbled at a piece of toast much as she’d nibbled at her bread last night. Opening her inner eye, she read worry, fear, and a black line that might mean death in his aura. Whether he considered suicide or if it was the poison, she couldn’t say. His body and mind were not well.
“I never wanted the Hall,” he mumbled around his toast. “I like London. My father made me take it.”
“We noticed,” Olivia replied dryly. “You’ve been ill?”
He shrugged. “Too much alcohol the physician said. He recommended country air. Ironic, country air has nearly killed me.”
“I think you need to see another physician. Did yours give you any medicines?” Olivia had no idea what she was asking. Where was Phoebe? And Simon?
He shrugged his narrow shoulders. The coat he wore still had traces of last night’s soot. “He told me to eat healthier and quit drinking. I’ve done both, and I’m only worse. Father sent Glengarry to help me run the estate. He gave me some concoction that doesn’t help.”
“I trust you’re not still taking it?” she asked in alarm. “Glengarry is a scoundrel.”
He finally lifted his gaze from the plate and looked at her. “I know that now, but it’s too late.”
“You’re alive. It’s not too late. My cousin thinks you may have been poisoned. We’ll call a physician who can tell us what to do.” Not that any physician could prescribe what Hargreaves really needed—a backbone and sufficient employment to keep him out of the hands of scoundrels.
He looked briefly alarmed, then shook his head. “Doesn’t much matter. I’ve lost the Hall. Father will disown me. I’ll die in the gutter. If Glengarry’s concoction was poison, maybe I should drink it all.”
“I am about to slap you silly,” she said impatiently. “Your father can’t disown you. You’re his only heir. You’ll be earl and wealthy someday. You need to get well and learn to run his estate, even if you have to disguise yourself and work as a tenant until you understand what the land needs.”
“That’s what stewards are for,” he said in scorn. “Gentlemen do not work with their hands.”
“Then gentlemen can die in the gutter. I’m not letting you destroy Owen’s home any longer. I’m taking it back.” She rose, too disgusted to eat.
“You can’t. It belongs to Glengarry and Ramsay now.” He returned to picking at his toast.
“No, you may owe them, but I don’t. That’s your problem, not mine.” She’d heard them. The scoundrels did believe Hargreaves was so far in debt that he’d have to give them the Hall. But she had papers to prove it wasn’t his to give. She needed to find Simon, go with him to the solicitor.
“Father explained it all to me. Chancery will never give the estate to a woman. Glengarry will take the debt to court,” he said in resignation. “They’ll show my vouchers. Father will insist they be paid with the Hall. Glengarry and Ramsay are stewards who know how to farm the land. You don’t have a chance now any more than you did two years ago.”
In fury, Olivia fled the room in search of Simon.
She found Aunt Maggie in the front parlor, commanding an army of maids. Lily Brown was among them, wearing someone’s castoff uniform two sizes too large. She didn’t even glance up at Olivia’s entrance.
“Mrs. Dunwoody, do you know where I can find Mr. Blair?” Olivia asked, reduced to speaking formally in fron
t of the staff.
“He took the early train to Glasgow,” Aunt Maggie said.
He’d taken her papers and left without her? She would wring his neck. She’d follow on the next train, but she had no idea where to find his solicitor.
“Simon says we’re to clean out the Hall good and proper.” Maggie turned to study Olivia. “You’ll be wanting some of the staff for your own, won’t you?”
Ah, so she knew who Lily was. Distracted from her anger, Olivia hid a smile at Aunt Maggie’s means of keeping the fallen woman from the streets but pushing her off on someone else. “Yes, I’ll be delighted to have as much help as I can. I’ll leave it to your wisdom as to how to divide everyone up.”
Maggie nodded curtly. “We’ll all go over for now. I’m just sorting who can do what.”
“And Mr. and Mrs. Jameson?” Olivia asked.
“They are at the Hall with Andrew and Lady Phoebe. I believe they mean to pack the viscount’s trunk and clear the place of vermin.”
Vermin, meaning the steward and the estate agent, Olivia hoped. Even though she was furious with Simon, and worried about Hargreaves, she felt a little lighter thinking the real scoundrels would be locked up. Or would they? They hadn’t actually killed anyone yet, unless one considered poor drunken Reverend Willingham, and they had no proof that was deliberate.
Simon squirmed uncomfortably on the wooden chair in the lawyer’s office as Mr. Rothberg perused Olivia’s paperwork. The lawyer sorted the various pages into stacks, hemming and hawing as he worked. Once satisfied everything was in proper order, he began reading the older bits.
Simon wished Olivia were with him, but it was better if he took any blows first.
“The marriage and birth lines are all clear. I’ll see they’re properly registered if they haven’t been already. The registrar often complains the local ministers fail to file the forms, or their writing is so execrable as to render them illegible. So it’s possible they were never reported properly.”
A Bewitching Governess Page 21