and the battle... I was never so relieved as to see Harry home safe after Waterloo, and married, and now he and dear Juliana live so close by with their dear little son—it all worked out so well...’ Great-Aunt Clara almost lost herself in a tangle of recollections. ‘So, yes,’ she concluded firmly, ‘it was three years ago. Or possibly four. So how old are you again, Olivia?’
‘I am two-and-twenty,’ said Olivia patiently.
‘Twenty-two? Twenty-two already!’ Great-Aunt Clara became animated. ‘Lord, I remember you when you were so little and your dear mama would sit here, in this very room, cuddling you...’
If Clara had wanted to divert Olivia, she was successful, at least temporarily. Olivia could never resist hearing tales of Mama, who had died giving birth to Olivia’s baby sister when Olivia was a child. No one would tell her what had happened that day and bewildered eight-year-old Olivia had just wished to know when Mama would be returning. Now that she was old enough to ask for the truth, she had never found the courage. To this day, Olivia felt the aching hole in her life caused by her mother’s death and had never fully come to terms with the sense of abandonment she had experienced.
And then, when she was eighteen, she had been abandoned again by someone else she had loved.
Quickly, she diverted her thoughts from that old wound. The past was done, finished, gone. She was a different person now—older, wiser, less naive.
After Mama’s death, she had been raised by her grieving father alongside Olivia’s two big brothers and Great-Aunt Clara, but it was never the same. So now, she plied Clara with prompts and questions, and her great-aunt dutifully obliged, retelling stories Olivia had heard a hundred times before. Olivia had many clear memories of Papa, who had died only a few years ago, but she tried hard to keep alive her hazy memories of her mother.
Today, though, after a time, the old stories did not satisfy Olivia. She could not settle to any task, and eventually Charlotte sent her away. ‘Olivia, do please go for a walk, or take Dahlia out and ride! I declare your fidgeting is making me nervous. I have restarted this list for Cook three times!’ Charlotte was smiling, but she looked a little concerned.
‘I have already walked this morning.’ Olivia indicated her mud-stained hemline. ‘I shall go for a ride. At least yesterday’s rain has stopped—it is a relief to have some sunshine.’ She rang the bell and within minutes a housemaid arrived. ‘Please, can you send a message to the stables to have Dahlia saddled and ask Susie to come to my room?’ The housemaid bobbed in assent and Olivia left the morning room, murmuring her goodbyes.
Charlotte’s head was bent to her housekeeping before Olivia had even left the room. She seemed calm, but Olivia knew how much her sister-in-law missed being able to ride since she realised she was expecting again. Riding was one of the ways in which Olivia and Charlotte had forged a friendship—both were excellent horsewomen and liked nothing more than to gallop neck-or-nothing through the fields and lanes—much to the disapproval of Adam and Harry.
There was, of course, no question of a pregnant lady riding and Charlotte, after two miscarriages, a stillbirth, and yet no living child, was being extra-cautious this time. Thankfully, all seemed well so far, but Olivia shared the concern felt by the whole family about Charlotte’s plight.
Olivia’s bedchamber was a beautiful room, overlooking the deer park in front of the house. It was decorated with delicate wall hangings and curtains in shades of lilac. Right now, Olivia could not appreciate the comfort or beauty of her surroundings. This restlessness within her had been building for an age, but it was particularly strong today.
She was quiet as Susie, her personal maid, helped her don a fashionable blue riding habit complete with military-style silver buttons, a white muslin shirt and riding pelisse.
Olivia stared at her own reflection. Stormy grey eyes, dark curls, fashionable habit. What is the point of wearing fine things, she was thinking, when no one ever sees me but my own family? I could wear my oldest muslin and nobody would care.
Rejecting the matching hat, she stated firmly that she would ride today with her head uncovered. Someone will see you tomorrow, an inner voice murmured. Jem will be here. After four years, you will see him again.
Ignoring the thought, she focused instead on her current frustration. This year they were not in London for the Season, because of Charlotte’s condition. Oh, but it was hard to be two-and-twenty and stuck in the country! At least in London there were balls and routs, and trips to the theatre, and people who realised you were a grown-up young lady. Not a child. And there were ways to avoid seeing certain people, if you did not wish to spend time with them. A house guest in the country could not be avoided.
Olivia absent-mindedly thanked Susie and made her way to the stables, enjoying the feel of the May sunshine on her shoulders. As always, she felt a rush of love when she saw her fine looking mare, Dahlia.
‘Hello, my beauty!’ She nuzzled the horse’s delicate cheek and slipped her a treat. Dahlia pranced impatiently and had to be told to hold still while the groom handed Olivia up and into the side-saddle.
‘I shan’t need you, Joseph!’ Olivia waved away the head groom, who was just about to offer to accompany her. ‘I won’t leave our lands, I promise!’ He looked disapproving, but refrained from chastising her.
‘Where do you plan to go, miss?’ He was always concerned when she rode alone, though why he should be, Olivia could not fathom. Nothing ever happened here. Well, she recalled, apart from that one time when poachers had entered the Home Wood. But that was almost five years ago.
Still, maybe she wouldn’t go to the Home Wood.
‘I’ll go to the river,’ she said decidedly, ‘and the Bluebell Woods.’
She could feel the groom watching her as she trotted out of the stable yard. She really felt it today—how much she was watched and protected, and imprisoned. It was an itch between her shoulder blades and it seemed as though it had been there her whole life. Her brothers. The servants. Great-Aunt Clara. Her sisters-in-law. Why could they not see she was no longer a child? And how was she supposed to appear different to—to other people—if her own family treated her as though she was still a debutante?
Stop it! she told herself sternly. This is no prison and they all care about you. That is why they do it—they are just trying to protect you.
The words failed to quell the burning inside her and so she did the only thing she could—she let Dahlia build from a trot to a canter, then to a full gallop through the deer park. She steered Dahlia eastwards through the fields and lanes of the estate farms, until at last she reached the Bluebell Woods. At this time of year, bluebells were everywhere—along the hedgerows, around the estate workers’ cottages and there was a good sprinkling of them in the Home Wood. But here, at the most easterly edge of the Chadcombe estate, here was where they grew in abundance.
Olivia directed Dahlia into the woods. Slowing to a walk, she savoured the coolness of the air, the smells of luxuriant foliage and fertile soil, and the magical colours of the woodland. Sturdy browns and greys mingled with lush green, and everywhere the indigo-purple beauty of the nodding bluebells. The canopy of ash and elm, oak and maple filtered verdant sunlight to warm the ferns and flowers on the forest floor. To her left, a startled squirrel raced up a tree, its tail a flash of rich bronze. Birds chirruped and called, and small creatures rustled in the undergrowth.
Olivia felt the tension leave her shoulders. This place never failed to calm her.
She
