My Only Love (19 page)

"What
treatment?"

"Acts
like she's the bloody Queen, she does. Tellin' me to fetch up a tub of hot
water. What do I look like, a bleedin' draft horse? And if that weren't enough
she proceeds to tell me that from now on I ain't to show meself to her unless
I'm clean. Clean! She says I smell!"

"Ah."

"She
says I look like somethin's been rollin' with the damned pigs. What sort of
stuff is that to be sayin' to a loyal laborin' servant, I ask ya? 'Specially as
hard as I work 'round here. Says me appearance is an insult to her
sensibilities and asked when I was last deloused. She's got a nerve. If that
weren't enough she's told me to cut me hair or start wearin' it back in a net.
Says it ain't sanitary. Might drop in her food or some such nonsense. If that
ain't bad enough, that cheeky little mouse of a lad said me meat pies taste
like pig fodder."

The
cheeky little mouse of a lad was right, Miles thought, but he dared not say so.
In truth, it was all he could do not to smile.

"Have
they settled into their rooms?" he asked.

Sally
nodded and proceeded to clear the table again, slinging this and slamming that
and muttering under her breath about uppity aristocrats. With her arms full of
plates, cups, and saucers, she traipsed to the door before pausing long enough
to look back and say, "She wants crumpets for breakfast. I says even if I
knew how to make crumpets it would take me half the night—but since I don't
know how she'll have to do with toast. Know what she said?"

He
shook his head.

"That
she'd be glad to show me how to cook crumpets if I'd care to learn. I told her
I ain't goin' to be bothered—'specially since she's goin' to be employin' some
fancy French chef. She says she wants crumpets anyhow so I'll just have to do
the best I can. And she requests orange marmalade. I says there ain't been
orange marmalade in this house in five years. So she suggested that I ride over
to Devonswick and fetch a pot. As if I ain't got enough to do, boilin' her
bloody bathwater and delousin' meself and preparing crumpets when I don't know
how. When's a girl supposed to sleep, I ask ya? And to top that off, that crazy
old woman has asked for a saucer of warm milk for her bleedin' cat."

"Then
I suggest that you get a saucer of warm milk to Bertrice's room as soon as
possible."

Sally
glared at him as if he had sprouted a forked tail. "Yer crazy as the rest
of 'em," she muttered, then hurried from the room.

He
dallied a moment, for the lack of anything else to do. Then leaving the dining
hall, Miles moved into the gallery and stood at the foot of the staircase,
staring up into the shadows, listening. For what?

Then
it came. A hint of a sound. A voice swallowed by the vastness of the ancient
house.

He
closed his eyes.

A
child's laughter.

He
took a breath.

A
mother's patient but persistent plea for equanimity.

Then
mother and child together. Laughter like the tinkling of two merry bells.

He
left the house without his cloak, preferring to feel the vicious cold. Olivia's
laughter. That he had never heard his wife laugh before seemed preposterous.
That the music of it would affect him in such an unexpected manner seemed
equally as preposterous.

The
stables had once been a magnificent stone structure with glistening panes in
the bow windows and brick floors as clean as those in the manor house. Mahogany
panels lined the walls and a dozen grooms laid fresh straw on the stable floors
each morning. Now the place was dirty and decaying.

He
paused at the threshold of the building and peered through the shadows, the
musty smell of old hay creeping up his nostrils. A single light burned near the
tack room. Miles walked toward it, focused on the distant drunken humming of
his groom as the old man went about his business of mucking out the few
occupied stalls.

"There's
a girl. Good lass. Pretty pony. I'll just take a quick nip if ya don't mind . ..
aye, it warms the cockles of me old heart, it does. Scoot. Scoot. Atta girl.
Master Warwick'11 be pleased that yer leg is healin'. Yes, he will."

Charles
Fowles straightened, and finding Miles leaning against the stall post,
brightened with a smile. "Well now. Look who's here, Perlagal. If it ain't
the master himself come to share a bit of spirit with us, I wager."

Miles
looked over at the gray mare who tossed her delicate dished head and whinnied
softly. She was a beauty, no doubt about it, with her proud arched neck and
flaring nostrils—her silver-white mane that shimmered in the lantern light
like fine-spun silk. Her conformation was superb, and in her momentary
excitement over seeing him, she pranced in place and cocked her snowy tail high
over her back.

Miles
offered his hand and she nudged it with her velvety muzzle. "Is she
sound?" he asked the groom.

"Good
as new, I reckon." Charles tossed some apples in a bucket and propped the
rake against the wall. "I hear tell that congratulations are in order,
sir."

Miles
smiled. Few people in England referred to him as sir. Since the day Miles had
arrived at Braithwaite thirty years ago, Charles Fowles had afforded him such
respect.

"I'll
be makin' the lady's acquaintance soon?" "Of course."

Charles
winked and reached a slightly trembling hand for a bridle on the wall. Slinging
it across his shoulder, he hobbled toward the tack room, chuckling to himself.
"Before ya know it we'll be hearin' the patter of little feet about the
old place."

"Sooner
than you think," Miles muttered to himself. "She has a son," he
mentioned louder, and waited for the old man's response.

Charles
stepped from the tack room and closed the door. "Well now, ain't that
grand?" he said, and brushed dirt from his hands. "I'll be lookin' forward
to meetin' him come tomorrow."

Miles
watched the man limp to a chair, his whisky flask bobbing up and down in his
oversized back pocket. It was just like Charles to accept the news of his
sudden marriage to a woman with a child without so much as a raised eyebrow of
surprise.

"I
reckon we'll be seein' a few changes round the old place now." Charles
dropped into the chair with a sigh.

"A
few."

"Maybe
you'll even drop a shillin' or two on these old nags, maybe spruce up the
quarters a bit." He turned the flask up to his mouth and drank deeply,
then wiped his lips with his shirtsleeve. "I 'spect ya might even wag down
to that auction in a fortnight and buy back that black devil you were so fond
of. What was his name?"

"As
if you could forget. You were there when he was foaled."

"I
was there when he put a hoof up agin me arse too. Damned brute. I ain't walked
right since. But never mind. He were a magnificent stud. Made right pretty
babies, did Gdansk. So, will ya be buyin' him back, sir?"

He
didn't answer, just turned and walked to each of the stalls where the remaining
four Arabians moved restlessly at the sight of him.

"I'll
be turnin' in now, sir, if that's all right," came Charles's voice.

"Good
night," Miles replied, listening as the man struggled up the steps to the
second-level apartment that had been his home for the last fifty years.

Alone,
Miles gazed about the worm-eaten planks, the floor with missing bricks, the
broken stalls, and saw himself prostrating himself before his wife with his
hand outstretched for money.

And
he cursed under his breath.

Returning
to the house, he went back to the kitchen and found Sally with her hands in a
bowl of sticky dough, pounding, kneading, punching, flinging flour over the
floor. She glanced up briefly, her hands pausing in their assault on the
mixture as she saw his face. Any sarcasm she might have uttered in that moment
was left unsaid as she recognized, and acknowledged, his dark mood.

"You
can tell Her Highness that she'll have her bleedin' crumpets for breakfast,"
she said cautiously.

He
made no reply, just continued to walk, choosing to take the servants' stairs to
the second floor, where he moved through the shadows until rounding the corner
where the family chambers lined the stately corridor. Walking directly to his
own bedroom, he found it empty.

What
had he expected, exactly?

Turning
on his heels, he moved to the next room and knocked, then knocked again more
forcefully. In that moment a door across the hall flew open and Bryan, dressed
in a flowing white gown, burst forth from the chamber with a squeal. Olivia
followed, dressed similarly, her hair spilling like a cloud over her shoulders
and down her back to her waist. Neither child nor mother noticed Miles, but
continued their dash down the hallway, Bryan in the lead, Olivia in hot
pursuit.

"Oli—oli—oxen
free," the boy cried. "Ya might run fast but ya can't catch me!"

"We'll
see about that!"" Olivia replied, then with the ruffled flounce of
her gown tail bouncing about her shins, she swooped upon her son and swung him
up into her arms, spinning him round and round while he filled the air with
uproarious laughter.

Miles
watched it all without breathing.

Then
Olivia, turning back to Bryan's room, spotted him, standing with his back to
her bedroom door. Her face flushed with her exertion, her eyes bright with the
laughter that seemed to hang suspended in the air between them, she hugged the
boy close to her bosom as if he were a shield to protect her from Miles's
reaction— or perhaps it was simply to protect the boy.

"Sir,"
Olivia said, "we were told you were walking."

"I
was."

Olivia
gazed at him over the top of her son's disheveled hair, her breasts rising and
falling with each breath.

Then,
without a word, she hurried back to Bryan's room. Miles followed.

"Hush
now," she whispered as she tucked the fidgeting boy into bed. "I fear
we've disturbed Warwick. He's not accustomed to noisy little boys flying about
his house."

"But
he likes little boys, doesn't he?" Bryan asked, peering over his mother's
shoulder at Miles.

"Of
course he does. Yes, I'm sure of it."

"What
shall I call him, Mummy? Shall I call him Papa?"

Olivia's
busy hands fell still, yet she did not look back at Miles. "I'll speak to
him on the matter," she finally replied, and continued tucking the
bedclothes around his squirming little body. ".Until then, why not call
him sir?"

"All
right." Rolling onto his side and drawing his knees up, he rested his
chubby cheek into his pillow and peered up at Miles from the corner of his eye.
"Good night, sir."

"Good
night," Miles said.

Straightening,
Olivia offered Miles a swift glance before dousing the light and hurrying from
the room. Miles followed more slowly, hesitating as she dashed into the
chamber—which was actually two small rooms, a bedroom and small sitting
room—she had obviously chosen for herself. When she did not reappear, he moved
to the door to find her sitting at a dressing table. Having hurriedly pulled a
wrapper on over her nightgown, she stared fixedly at her reflection in the
mirror and brushed her hair that looked the color of fine whisky in the
candle-lit room.

"Olivia—"

"I'm
sorry if we disturbed you," she interrupted, sounding a bit breathless.
"Occasionally Bryan has difficulty settling down for the night. He's very
excitable, as most children his age are, I suppose."

"You
have beautiful hair," he said, loathing the almost aching quality of his
own voice. He did not desire this woman, he told himself. By all rights he
should scorn her and all she represented, this violation of his dignity. He did
not desire her, yet here he stood with his feet rooted to the floor and the
sight of her curves draped in soft flannel bringing a fine sweat to his brow,
and a pressure to his loins.

She
paused in her brushing, just briefly, then began again. "I wager he'll be
up again before the night is over. He's very happy to be here. I earlier found
him at the top of the stairs slaying imaginary dragons. He's blessed, or
cursed, "with a very vivid imagination."

Finally,
her head turned and she met his study of her directly. He did not waver, but
absorbed himself in the image of her sitting there on the tiny,
crewel-cushioned stool, the nightgown buttoned high at the neck, and at her
wrists. The gown shimmered pale gold in the candlelight.

"Do
you mind that I took this room?" she asked softly. "I
thought..." He shook his head. "No, why should I?"

Gently,
she put down the brush. "We'll begin on the books first thing in the
morning."

"All
right." He wanted no reminders of those damnable books in that moment.

"I
fear . .." Her shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. "I've made a bad
impression on Miss Pinney."

"I
know."

She
didn't flinch, but raised her little chin and clasped her hands in her lap as
if waiting for him to hurl judgment, like fire and brimstone, at her feet.

"You'll
get your crumpets," he said. "But no orange marmalade."

She
feigned a frown. "Oh dear. I wonder if I might expire for lack of
it?"

They
both laughed and fell quiet. The silence was palpable then, throbbing like a
heartbeat in his ears. "May I come in?" he finally asked.

She
raised her hand quickly to her cheek, then it came to rest at her throat. What
emotion flashed across her features? Surprise? Distress? Nervousness? He wasn't
accustomed to dealing with skittish women. And besides, she had no right to
play the frightened virgin. Not with her past.

Frozen
on the edge of her stool, she watched him approach her, her lips slightly
parting and her hand grabbing the edge of the dressing table for support.
Stopping before her, he said, "Are you frightened of me, Olivia?"

"I
only wonder why you're here."

"I
would think that that would be rather obvious, dear heart."

Suddenly,
she moved from the stool to the far side of the room where she pretended to
gaze out the window. "I thought... that we would at least come to know one
another.. ."

"Is
it him?"

She
turned her head sharply and stared at him with hard eyes. "I beg your
pardon?"

"You're
thinking of your other lover, perhaps. Bryan's father. If you're worried that I
should hold that against you tonight—"

"No.
I..." She swallowed. "You must understand. All this"—she
motioned toward the room—"has happened so swiftly. Forgive me, husband,
but I'm not a woman who can so easily surrender herself intimately to a man who
harbors no fondness for her at all, despite what you think of me."

"Is
it not enough that I married you? That I've given you and your son a home of
your own?"

She
regarded him a long, unblinking moment, her countenance an odd mixture of fear
and yearning. "If I thought you harbored one fiber of inclination for me,
then..." She looked down at her hands that appeared very thin and white in
the shadows. "Do you like me just a little?"

He
stared at her while his blood rushed through his veins like a firestorm. How
dare she demand affection from him before showing him what was his connubial
right? He had every right to demand his husbandly privileges—after all, he'd
paid dearly. His pride. His manhood. Yet, she stood there demanding some
hypocritical vow of devotion so that she might feel better about her actions.

"Mummy!"
cried her son, shattering the tense silence.

The
lad flew across the room and grabbed Olivia's hand, tugging on it wildly.
"Quickly. Come see! There's a crazy lady downstairs—"

Olivia
frowned. "Hush! You've had a bad dream. You shouldn't be out of bed—"

"Please!"
Turning to Miles, his eyes round, Bryan announced, 'There's two men holding a
crazy lady between them. They say they're from—"

"Amersham
Private Hospital," came Sally's flustered voice behind them.

Miles
turned. The maidservant gaped at him with flour on her face and her hands
coated in crusting dough.

"And
he's right," Sally added. "They got a crazy lady with them."

Miles
briefly shut his eyes. "Oh my God," he whispered, and walked from
the room and down the hall, his sight focused straight ahead, his heart beating
like drums in his ears. It couldn't be. The bastards had given him until the
fifteenth of the month to come up with the money.

Hesitating
at the top of the stairs, gripping the balustrade with his left hand, he
looked down the winding staircase to the trio of visitors waiting below. Then
around them stepped a fourth, a tall man dressed in black with the demeanor of
a corpse. Peering up through the shadows at Miles, the man said, "Mr.
Warwick, I presume."

"What
the hell are you doing here?"

"My
name is Peabody, Dwight Peabody, and I am from Amersham Private Hospital."

Slowly,
Miles descended the stairs, his eyes going from the gaunt, somber man called
Peabody to the pair of white-coated attendants, and, last but not least, to the
wild-haired, teary-eyed hag who trembled and wept between them.

"Miles!"
the hag wept. "Oh my darling, darling Miles. Help me. Please!"

"Oh
my God." Olivia gasped softly behind him. "Husband, who is that
pitiful creature?"

"My
mother," he snarled.

We saw it in each
other's eye,

And wished, in every
half-breathed sigh,

To speak, but did not.

—Thomas Moore

CHAPTER TEN

Olivia
awoke the following morning to Discover Miles had left Braithwaite. According
to Sally he had departed at dawn, taking a few belongings with him and leaving
no word as to where he had gone, or when he would return.

Their
last words the evening before had been hard ones

"She's
suffering from a form of dementia. Occasionally she's rational. But other times
she lives in some imaginary world where she talks to herself or stares blankly
into space," Miles explained as he ran his hands through his hair.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked Olivia.

"Because
I understand now." "Understand?"

"Why
were you in such a hurry to marry me. You thought to go to Amersham and pay
your debt before they released her. But they released her early and now you're
thinking you married me for nothing." Pulling her wrapper more tightly
around her, she gazed straight ahead and tried to stop the inner trembling that
made her teeth chatter. Finally, when no further response came from her
husband, Olivia quit the room and took the stairs slowly, pausing upon the
first landing to steady her racing heart and shallow breathing as she again
relived the moment she had looked into that wretch's face and recognized those
shockingly familiar eyes. And now he was gone.

Throughout
the next days she did her best to keep her thoughts from straying to her errant
husband by occupying herself with house matters—the hiring of staff, the
planning of a new budget, the settlement of old debts. Word about Miles's
marriage had obviously got out, for within the week she was called upon by
numerous characters of questionable repute.

There
were Messieurs Sydney and Lawrence. Olivia didn't like the looks of them.
Sydney had pig eyes, beady, nearly colorless orbs set too closely together.
Lawrence had the features of a bulldog, bulging eyes, flat nose, and sagging
jowls. Both were nearly bald.

"We
expected to speak with Kemball," Mr. Sydney stated with an air of pique
that exaggerated his already pompous demeanor.

"Indeed,"
Mr. Lawrence blustered. "I didn't ride that blasted train all the way from
London just to be received by a female who likely doesn't know the first thing
about business, money, or the fine, upstanding nature of fair gambling. No
offense intended, madam."

She
stared at Lawrence without blinking until he began to squirm in his chair,
crossing then uncrossing his legs that looked like tree stumps. They then
declared that Warwick owed them a total of twenty-five hundred pounds.
"Perhaps he does ... and perhaps he doesn't," Olivia replied with a
tolerant but less than believable smile. "But you show me no proof. You can't
simply expect me to pay for vouchers that may or may not exist. It wouldn't be
very good business, now would it?"

They
settled for five hundred each.

Then
there was Lieutenant the Honorable Brereton. He explained how he came to lose
the exorbitant amount of money to Miles and his "underhanded
cohorts." Then he produced the club vouchers, as well as written
testimonies of witnesses who were present.

"I
must have satisfaction, madam," he declared. "I hope you
understand."

"I
see," she replied in a gentler voice than she had used with Sydney and
Lawrence. "A thousand pounds is a great deal of money to lose for a young
man of your age. I'm certain that your annual salary comes to only a fraction
of this amount."

He
nodded and continued to stare straight ahead.

"And
I suspect that, for you to meet your vouchers at the club, you would be forced
to ask your father for help."

His
Adam's apple slid up and down his throat, but he didn't so much as blink.
"My father is dead. I would be forced to speak with my mother—"

"And
of course, your mother would be heartbroken to learn that her son lost the
money under those circumstances. It might even put her own financial stability
into jeopardy."

He
nodded.

"And
it would not look good on your military record to have such a black mark
against you." "Indeed."

Olivia
offered a smile to the young man, then took up her pen and wrote out the note.
"May I suggest, Lieutenant, that you refrain from the tables until you
learn how to better hold your spirits?"

A
look of relief flashed over his features, momentarily alleviating his look of
impassivity. He stared down at the extended note as if in disbelief. His hand
slightly trembled as he took it. "Madam—"

"You're
welcome, Lieutenant."

Certainly,
she spent as much time as possible with Miles's mother and Bryan, assuring them
both that Miles had only been called away on urgent business and was certain
.to return just any time. In the privacy of her thoughts, however, Olivia
wondered.

What
if he didn't return?

She
told herself that it shouldn't matter. After all, she was his wife. She and her
son lived in the finest house in Yorkshire. It wasn't as if they were dependent
on Miles's money to survive. Yet, anxiety hovered about her shoulders like a
cloud. She found her mind wandering back to that moment on her wedding night
when he had stood before her with something akin to yearning.

Dear
God, how many years had she fantasized about such a moment? She, who had grown
up on an island of solitariness surrounded by the sea of indifference shown to
her by her parents and sister; she had never ached so badly to experience a
tender touch, a kind word, a genuine emotion of caring as she had in that
moment of looking into her husband's eyes .. .

But
she had turned him away.

When
not entertaining her son or looking after Alyson's welfare, Olivia began
frequenting the stables, finding delight in Charles Fowles's company, not to
mention the horses.

She
took an instant fondness to the white Arabian mare called Perlagal. Standing
fifteen hands and with black points, the animal's wide dark eyes flashed with
the fire of its desert ancestors. Olivia began sneaking out of Braithwaite
before dawn, wearing little more than a woolen dress and her cloak. She mounted
the mare bareback, and with her hair tumbling free, she drove Perlagal over the
moor to Margrave Bluff, and once there, faced the sunrise and imagined that she
would look around to find her husband there—come home at last.

He
didn't, however. And Olivia redoubled her efforts on Braithwaite.

She
began her restoration of the old house by posting announcements in Middleham
for experienced servants. Her note to the French chef was successful. Within
two days Jacques Dubois had shown up on Braithwaite's doorstep with baggage in
tow.