‘But she is magnificent, Olive.’ He spoke quickly, panic filling his chest as he realised the enormity of his mistake. ‘Magnificent in every way. Why on earth was she listening to what actors say about her? The woman could safely ignore the opinions of kings!’
‘That… that is a lovely sentiment, Father.’ A brief flash of surprise shone in Olive’s eyes. ‘But most of us pay a great amount of attention to words, especially if they are cruel or careless ones. Those words… well, they are enormously hurtful. I can see why she wished to be as far away as possible from such men.’
‘I do not believe I have ever been offended by a single thing that anyone has ever said to me.’ Oliver sighed, looking at his daughter with a sudden rush of sympathy. ‘This has made my life very easy indeed—but I imagine your life has been far harder as a result.’
Olive’s smile, gentle but tinged with sadness, both confirmed and made light of Oliver’s worry. ‘You have always been this way, Father. It is an essential and integral part of your spirit, and it brings joys as well as sorrows.’ She came closer, gently linking her arm through his. ‘I would not have you any other way.’
‘That is helpful to hear—I doubt it is a part of myself I can change.’ Oliver took his daughter’s hand. ‘But I fear I have hurt you terribly in the past. Just as I have hurt Susan, now.’
‘The past is past, Father.’ Olive’s voice was very quiet. ‘There is no use raking over long-dead leaves. But…’
‘Yes?’ Oliver looked into his daughter’s eyes. ‘You must tell me.’
‘If you wish to heal the wounds of yesteryear, Father… look to the wounds of today. Heal them well.’ Olive smiled. ‘You must find a way to make it up to Susan—a very thorough way.’
‘But I do not know how.’ Oliver sighed. ‘Can you aid me in this?’
‘I could, but I will not.’ Olive’s tone was suddenly very firm. ‘This must be your own work.’
‘Such a harsh taskmaster.’ Oliver looked narrowly at his daughter, who smiled a little more happily. ‘Well… I believe the first thing to do would be to inform her brother. This is not an insult that can be countenanced alone—the family must know.’
‘They are sitting in the hall, waiting for the play to begin.’ Olive looked up at her father. ‘We must go now.’
Almost knocking over the candles in his haste to go, Oliver ran down the stairs to the hall. Flanked by Olive, he stumbled into the assembled company, ignoring the surprised murmurs of the women as the men rose. Beginning to speak without preamble, one eye on the makeshift velvet curtain as if keeping a poisonous snake in view, Oliver attempted to inform Henry Colborne of what he had heard—remembering to use at least some of the words that Olive had told him in the past were important.
From the way the young man’s face paled, the report hit home. Oliver watched Henry take his wife’s hand, gently squeezing her palm as he spoke.
‘Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, sir.’ Henry paused, his face white. ‘I shall have them removed forthwith.’
‘Isaac?’ Oliver watched the youngest sister, Agnes, turn to her husband with venom in her eyes. ‘Please could you remove those horrible gentlemen? I do not particularly mind how they are removed.’
‘Good.’ Isaac was already rolling his sleeves up over his brawny forearms. ‘Neither do I.’
‘But we cannot commit violence against guests, as awful as they are. It would expose us to every kind of vicious scrutiny.’ Anne’s face was as pale as her husband’s. ‘What can we do?’
Oliver turned slowly to the window. He was half-certain that he had seen the shadow of a wing; even if he hadn’t, the seed of an idea had been planted.
‘I think I have a suitable way of taking revenge.’ He spoke carefully, trying not to seem too gleeful at the possible outcome. ‘We ate sardines yesterday evening, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Henry spoke doubtfully.
‘Good.’ Oliver smiled grimly. ‘We are going to need the innards. And the bones.’
Susan sat glumly in the corner of the room, looking at the bed. If she lay down upon it, the ceaseless tumult of bleak, empty thoughts would slowly cover themselves with earth… but if she lay down, then there was every possibility she would never rise again.
They had called her mad. They had called her a witch; they had sniggered, and joked, and all but said aloud that she had murdered Roberto. And Oliver, standing by her, hearing everything… he had done nothing at all to defend her.
Why did she feel as if she were in agony? Because she had expected more; because she had thought the man understood every part of her, even her darkest, most shameful places, and accepted every inch of her. To have him not understand the depth of the hurt she felt, the embarrassment, hurt her more than she had ever expected—more than she had ever risked imagining.
It felt like death. Susan wondered about all the times she had misunderstood other people, misread intentions, ignored things they found precious… why, they would have all felt the same way that she did, sitting in the corner of her room, tears sliding down her cheeks.
There was a brisk knock at the door. ‘Susan? Let me in.’
Oliver? Had she turned the key in the lock—was the door completely closed? Susan shook her head in the darkness of her room. ‘No.’
‘I am going to come in anyway, because I am worried about you.’ The door began to open; Susan realised with a jolt of horror that she hadn’t turned the key. ‘Ready yourself.’
All Susan could think of was to scream, or throw a book—but her throat was closed tight, and her books were too well-ordered to throw. All she could do was watch, trembling, as Oliver walked into the room.
Was she supposed to feel rage? She supposed it would be the correct reaction. But Susan, to her surprise, felt oddly reassured as she looked at Oliver. She watched him stride through her room, opening her window without so much as asking.
‘Come.’ He gestured impatiently to the window. ‘Look.’
Susan stood, walking over to him, obeying his order out of pure inertia. Looking confusedly down at the dimly-lit lawns, she opened her mouth to ask why she was looking… and stopped, eyes wide, as Oliver held a finger to his lips.
‘Wait.’ There was that sparkle in his eye; the glint of irrepressible humour that made it impossible to dislike him. But why on earth did he smell so strongly of fish? ‘Just a little longer.’
Susan disliked waiting. Watching the gardens, her eyes flickering between the lawns and Oliver, she waited anyway.
‘Ah!’ An agonised cry split the night; Susan jumped, shocked, as Oliver repressed a burst of laughter.
Another voice came. ‘What is that bloody thing?’
‘Get it away! Get it away!’ Yet another voice sobbed out of the darkness; a big, burly figure ran onto the lawns, gibbering with what sounded like pure fear. Susan leaned further out of the window; she vaguely recognised the shape of one of the actors. ‘It’s a monster! It’s a bloody—sodding—bastard—’
‘It got my eye!’ Another man ran full-speed over the lawns, clutching his face. ‘Christ almighty, my eye!’
An unearthly shriek came from above; Susan looked up, the stars blotted out by a truly impressive wingspan. Sheba, her beady eyes impassive as she surveyed the bloody nightmare she had wrought, descended upon the fleeing troupe of actors with another battle-cry.
‘Oh God, it’s coming again!’ The three men scattered over the lawns like rabbits, one of them stumbling as Sheba dived for him. ‘Don’t let it peck me, don’t let the bastard peck—oh, bloody hell, it’s covered me in—’
Susan turned to Oliver, her face impassive. She didn’t know what any of it meant; nothing had prepared her for the complex layers of contentment, of pride and anger and joy, that such a display warranted. He had done it for her; he had heard the things they had said, the horrible, wounding things, and had taken revenge in a suitably theatrical fashion.
What did men expect women to do, in situations such as this? Weep p
rettily; sink to their knees, embracing them? All Susan could think to do, caught up in the intense confusion of the moment, was nod.
She nodded. It was the incorrect reaction; by any standard of etiquette, she had responded in a completely ridiculous fashion. Any normal gentleman would be most sincerely offended at the coolness of her response… but Oliver, smiling, nodded back.
Once again, he had understood her; understood her completely, without her needing to resort to the imprecision of words or actions. A nameless surge of feeling rose in Susan like a wave; all she could do was nod, again and again, until the onslaught of emotion subsided.
‘I covered all of their bags and costumes in sardine innards. Your brother and his wife helped.’ Oliver spoke light-heartedly, as if discussing the weather. ‘The men were coming up to Hamlet’s great soliloquy when I let Sheba into the room.’ He paused, watched the by-now distant figures of the actors. ‘They weren’t very good.’
‘They were not right, to speak of me as they did.’ Susan didn’t know how to phrase it; the shame they had caused. The pain. ‘They were not right at all.’
‘No, they were not.’ Oliver did not bow his head, or show any attitude of regret; Susan found it oddly refreshing. ‘And I was very wrong to treat it as if it were nothing at all. Olive has explained this to me.’
‘Anne often explains things to me when I have failed to understand someone’s motives, or meanings.’ Susan sighed. ‘It makes me feel like a child.’
‘You have explained to her how Longwater works. How the gardens are to be run—how everything is to be run.’ There was a gentleness in Oliver’s voice that was pleasant to listen to. ‘I believe she is returning the favour.’
‘Perhaps.’ Susan looked down, too anxious to attempt to meet Oliver’s eyes. ‘What did Olive explain to you?’
‘That you probably found their words very cruel, not to mention insulting. That you had no doubt heard such things before, and were heartily tired of hearing them.’ Oliver shrugged. ‘I had not thought of this at all.’
‘I see.’ Susan folded her arms, suddenly irritated. ‘And why did you not think of it?’
‘Well.’ Oliver looked at her as if it were the most evident thing in the world. ‘I never imagined that you would care what on earth those men thought.’
The usual reason; cold, careless Susan. It hurt so much more than usual, coming from him. ‘Everyone thinks that I do not care about anything. That I am too stupid to care, too strange—’
‘No.’ Oliver frowned. ‘No. You have misunderstood me.’
‘Alright.’ Susan dared to look into his eyes, even though such a direct gaze hurt. ‘What did you mean?’
‘That…’ Oliver paused, as if searching for the words. ‘… That someone of such evident quality as you—someone as peerless in every way—should care about the opinions of the common folk.’ He shrugged. ‘It honestly surprised me. As if I had stumbled upon a queen, caring what a group of fleas thought of her.’
Susan blinked. She moved a little way away from Oliver, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
Had anyone ever given her such a perfect compliment? Had anyone given her a compliment at all, ever, in her entire life—not a pat on the back for attempting to be normal, but sincere appreciation for her unusual, eccentric self?
No. Never in her life had anyone showed contentment with what she was, who she was. And it wouldn’t mean anything, anything at all, if it didn’t come from a man as thoroughly genial as Oliver Whitstable.
Genial… was that the word that she really wanted to use? Other words, more interesting words, presented themselves; handsome, commanding, attractive… but Susan, locking those words away in the drawer of her mind’s eye, decided that she was already getting ahead of herself.
‘Thank you.’ That was what people said when they were given compliments; Henry had told her to start saying it. Susan moved closer once more, watching Oliver warily. ‘… A queen? Really?’
‘Yes.’ Oliver spoke simply, as if it were the most evident thing in the world. ‘You remind me very much of a queen. Maybe even a king. A higher being. One who need not concern herself with the petty affairs of the world at large—she must simply attend to her court, and be worshipped.’
‘Worshipped?’ Susan stared at him; the word was almost shocking.
‘Of course.’ There was no trace of embarrassment in Oliver’s eyes. ‘What else does one do, with a queen?’
Susan had no adequate response. Instead of speaking, her mind full of a sort of pleasant confusion, she sat next to Oliver on the window-seat. She looked at him, wondering why the moonlight seemed to shine brighter as it glinted on the silver of his hair, before deciding to speak again.
‘I never feel like a queen. I never feel as if I am ruling anything—in fact, I feel as if I am drowning. Or worse, in the way of everyone.’ She sighed as she sat, turning her face away from Oliver. ‘This is often the reason for my despair. The moments when I cannot rise, or speak, or be of use to anyone.’ She closed her eyes, the memory of intense misery passing over her like a shadow. ‘I… Merely by being who I am, as I am, I manage to disappoint a startling number of people.’
Oliver’s voice was soft. Tender. ‘You have never disappointed me.’
‘I shouted at you, the first time we met face-to-face. I commanded you to leave my home.’ Susan shook her head. ‘I believe you are lying.’
‘Have I ever lied to you?’ Oliver looked confused. ‘In person, or pen?’
‘No.’ Susan had to admit it; his honesty had often been startling. ‘No, you have not.’
‘Then you know that I have immense difficulty with the very idea of falsehood.’ Oliver sighed. ‘I understand people often enjoy being lied to. But believe me—not once, not for a single instant, have you ever disappointed me.’
‘Why?’ Susan couldn’t help but ask. ‘How?’
Oliver shrugged. ‘Because I understand you. Not in all respects—tonight is evidence of that. But in most ways, I believe I understand you as well as I do myself.’
Once again, Susan found herself wordless. She had never been so silent when speaking to a friend… but just as the word genial had lost its usefulness when it came to Oliver, the word friend now seemed inadequate.
Friends did not tell other friends that they were queens. She was rather sure of that. Friends did not sit next to other friends in the light of the moon, alone, together, wondering if the word friend applied to them.
An unusual question came to her; one that she had asked Roberto many times, when they had been married. Then, she had been asking out of duty; she had understood that wives were meant to ask their husbands such things. Now, for the first time in her life, she had a genuine desire to know Oliver’s answer.
‘Do you believe that I am beautiful?’ She waited on tenterhooks for the inevitable falsehood; the careful manipulation of the truth that Roberto had always engaged in.
Once again, Oliver surprised her with his truthfulness. ‘No. I do not.’
Even if it were honest, it stung. ‘I see.’
‘No. You did not allow me to finish.’ Oliver continued. ‘You are not fashionably beautiful. You are dark, and you stare, and you dress very severely. And you are not young—I understand young women are considered the most beautiful.’ He swallowed. ‘But you are handsome, and fascinating, and full of a regal strength so evident as to make beauty seem like the inferior choice. You command the eye, and the ear, and every inner faculty a sensible man possesses.’ He shrugged, somehow managing to intensify the moment rather than spoil it. ‘So no. I do not believe that you are beautiful. But you do not need to be.’
Was it a compliment? Susan did not think that any of her volumes on etiquette and deportment would classify it as such. All that she knew was how Oliver’s words made her feel; light, humming, as if she were flying high above the earth.
Slowly, carefully, she moved closer. Oliver’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move; he stayed perfectly still
, even as Susan’s skirts came to rest against his thigh.
Susan took a deep breath. ‘I should rather like to kiss you.’
‘Oh.’ Oliver’s eyes widened for a moment; Susan bit her lip, leaning away. She had ruined everything—but no, he was nodding, just as she had nodded. ‘I… I would like that. I would like that very much.’
‘I am glad that you would like that.’ Susan paused, reflecting on some of the things that Agnes had told her. ‘I do not believe that I wish to engage in sexual congress. Not now.’
Oliver nodded again, briskly. ‘Quite.’
‘But I would like to kiss you. Very much. Only—’ Susan paused, unable to conceal the thought that had been eating away at her. ‘You smell monstrous.’
For a moment Oliver simply stared at her, as if he hadn’t understand what she had said. Susan opened her mouth, ready to repeat it, but stopped as Oliver began to laugh.
What a laugh he had! Strong, loud, almost barking; it swept all seriousness, all pain, before it like the blowing of a trumpet. Susan found herself laughing too; she laughed so rarely, always half-believing herself the butt of the joke, but here she was safe. Safe with the ridiculous smell of fish, and horrible actors safely banished to the gardens, and her own, rebellious spirit suddenly guarded by a man who could set an albatross on all unworthy people, all people who refused to acknowledge her value…
… His hand lay on his lap, only a little way away. Susan, seized by the strange richness of the moment, reached out and gripped it.
Oh! There it was again; the thrill of something, something as bold and uncontrollable as lightning, racing through her and stealing her breath. For a moment she wanted to pull away, to stop the feeling—but she had been so courageous today, so very courageous, and she wasn’t going to stop now. Susan kept her hand tight around his, even when Oliver gasped; even when he leaned closer, the slant of his cheekbones undoubtedly handsome in the moonlight.
Private Passions Page 81