stimulating company, and would not have minded so much if Olivia had gone to Bath or Brighton, but this village…what was it called? Ah yes, Abbot Giles. It was bound to be full of dull-witted gentry and lusty country wenches.
Harry’s eye did not brighten at the thought of buxom wenches. He was famed for his taste in cyprians, and the mistresses he had kept whenever it suited him had always possessed their full measure of both beauty and wit. He believed the one thing that had prevented him from giving his whole heart to Olivia was that she did not seem to share his love of the ridiculous. She had found some of his remarks either hurtful or bewildering. Harry thought wistfully that it would be pleasant to have a woman by one’s side who could give as good as she got, who wasn’t afraid to stand up to him.
“What an odd character you are to be sure,” Harry told his reflection. It was a severe fault in him that he could not long be pleased by beautiful young women, unless they were also amusing.
Harry frowned at his own thoughts. It was not as if he were hiding some secret tragedy. His mother was still living, and the sweetest creature alive—but she had not been in love with his father, nor his father with her. Both had carried on separate lives, taking and discarding lovers without hurting the other. Indeed, they had been the best of friends. Harry believed he must be like his mother, who seemed not to treat anything seriously, and was besides being the sweetest, the most provoking of females.
No matter! He was a man of his word. He had given his word to Olivia, and the fact that she had jilted him made no difference. He must go after her, try to persuade her that he was not so very terrible. As his wife, she would be readmitted to the society that had cast her off—and that surely must be better than the fate which awaited her now.
“Beckett…” he called, making up his mind suddenly. “Put up a change of clothing for me. I am going out of town for a few days.”
“Yes, milord,” said his valet, coming in. “May one inquire where we are going?”
“You are going nowhere,” Harry replied with an odd little smile. “And if anyone asks, you have no idea where I am…”
“Come in, dearest,” Beatrice said, meeting her sister at the door. It was some six days since she had received Olivia’s letter, and her heart was pained by the look of tiredness and near despair in Olivia’s face. Oh, that rogue, Ravensden! He should be hung, drawn and quartered for what he had done. “You look cold, my love. Was the journey very tiresome?”
The road from London to Northampton was good, and could be covered easily enough in a day, but the country roads which led to Abbot Giles were far from ideal. Olivia had travelled down by one of the public coaching routes the previous day, and had been forced to find another conveyance in Northampton to bring her on. All she had been able to hire was an obliging carter, who had offered to take both her and her baggage for the sum of three shillings. A journey which must have shaken her almost rigid! And must also have been terrifying to a girl who had previously travelled in a well-sprung carriage with servants to care for her every whim.
How could the Burtons have sent her all this way alone? Anything might have happened to Olivia. It was as if her adoptive parents had abandoned all care for her along with their responsibility. The very least they might have done was to send her home in a carriage! Their heartlessness made Beatrice boil with anger, but she forced herself to be calm. It did not matter now! Her sister was here and safe, though desperately weary.
“Beatrice…” Olivia’s voice almost broke. Clearly she had been wondering what her reception would be, and Beatrice’s concerned greeting had almost overset her. “I am so very sorry to bring this trouble on you.”
“Trouble? What trouble?” Beatrice asked. “It is with the greatest pleasure that I welcome my sister to this house. We love you, Olivia. You could never be a trouble to me or your family…” She smiled and kissed Olivia’s cheek. “Come and meet Aunt Nan, dearest. Our father is busy at the moment. We try not to disturb him when he is working, but you will meet him later. He has asked me to tell you how pleased he is to have you home again.”
At this the sweet, innocent face of Miss Olivia crumpled, the tears spilling out of her bright blue eyes.
“Oh, how kind you are,” she said, fumbling for her kerchief in the reticule she carried on her wrist. She was fashionably dressed, though her pelisse was sadly splashed with mud, and the three trunks of personal belongings she had brought with her on the carter’s wagon would seem to indicate that the Burtons had not cast her out without a rag to her back. “I know you must think me wicked…or at the very least foolish.”
“I think nothing of the kind,” Beatrice said, leading her into the tiny back parlour, in which a welcoming fire was burning. It was usually not lit until the evening, neither Beatrice nor her aunt having time to sit much during the day, but this was a special occasion, and the logs they were using had been a gift from Jaffrey House, sent down specially by their very wealthy and illustrious neighbour the Earl of Yardley.
The Earl had a daughter named Sophia by his second marriage, of whom Beatrice imagined he was fond. The girl was near Olivia’s own age, and very striking, with black hair and bright eyes. Beatrice knew her of course, though they seldom met in a social way.
Mr Roade did not often entertain, nor did he accept many invitations, but the Earl’s family were seen about the village, and Beatrice was sufficiently well acquainted with Lady Sophia to stop and speak for a few minutes whenever they met. She thought now that it was a pity her father had turned down some of the kind invitations the Earl had sent them over the years. It would have been nice for Olivia to have made a friend of Sophia Cleeve.
“My dear Olivia,” Nan said, bustling in. She was wearing a mob cap over her light brown hair, and a dusting apron protected her serviceable gown. “Forgive me for not being here to greet you. I was upstairs turning out the bedrooms. We have only the one maid, besides the kitchen wench, and it would be unfair to expect poor Lily to do everything herself.”
Olivia looked amazed at the idea of her aunt having been busy working in the bedrooms, then recollected herself, blushed and seemed awkward as she went forward to kiss Nan’s cheek.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I fear I have caused extra work for you.”
“Well, yes, I must admit that you have,” Nan said, never one to hide the truth. “However, I dare say the room needed a good turn-out—it was your mother’s, you know, and has not…”
“Nan doesn’t mean that you are a bother to us,” Beatrice said as she saw her sister’s quick flush. “The room you have been given was our mother’s private sitting-room, not her bedroom—that is where she died, of course, and I felt it might distress you to sleep there.”
“I was about to tell Olivia that,” Nan said. “We’ve been waiting for the bed to arrive—it was ordered from Northampton, but arrived only this morning on the carter’s wagon. Had we not needed to wait, your room would have been ready days ago.”
“It was time we had a new bed,” Beatrice said smoothly, with a quick frown at her aunt. “The one we have in the guest room, which is at the back of the house and depressingly dark, is broken in the struts which support the mattress. It is still there, of course, though since no one ever comes to stay, it does not matter…”
“I see I have caused a great deal of trouble,” Olivia said. “You have been put to considerable expense on my account.”
“Nothing of the sort,” replied Beatrice. “Take off your bonnet and pelisse, dearest. I shall ring for tea—unless
