Digital ISBNs:
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Copyright 2019 by Victoria Chatham
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
A log settling in the grate roused Lord Peter Skeffington from a brandy induced haze. He groaned as he hauled himself upright in the chair in which he sprawled, slowly becoming aware that something other than the shifting logs disturbed him. He carefully peered around the wing of the chair.
“Hello? Is someone there?” His query hung in the gloom beyond the apron of light cast by the cheerful glow from the fire. Another log shifted, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and causing a hot coal to fall onto the hearth.
“Must be hearing things,” he muttered. With no wish to engage in any conversation, the lack of a reply gave him instant relief.
He arranged his ungainly limbs more comfortably, not entirely sure whose chair he sat in or whose fire he sat beside. From the faint traces of tobacco, the aromas of ink, and the mustiness peculiar to old books, he deduced he must be in a study, but to whom it might belong escaped him.
He vaguely remembered snagging a snifter from a serving tray and reached out, groping on the low table beside the chair. His long fingers connected with the stem of the glass but before he could raise it to his lips, he heard what could have been the rustle of a page turning in a book or the soft susurration of a breath.
He drew himself upright once more.
“Who’s there?”
The sound came again, and Skeffington stiffened as a shuddering sob, ending in a loud sniff, made his blood run cold.
No, it couldn’t be.
Only a female could weep like that and from the severity of her affliction, she must consider herself alone in the room.
Hang it all.
Being in this close a proximity to a woman he deemed bad enough but that the wretched girl should be crying, too, was beyond his realm of competence. He wavered between staying quiet and offering sympathy. His mama would no doubt expect him to offer comfort, and prompted by those expectations, he leaned over the arm of his chair.
“Can I be of help?”
A shocked gasp and a sudden rustle of fabric, accompanied by the thump of a chair overturning, made him rise from his seat.
“Oh, sir, do not disturb yourself on my behalf,” a girl’s voice pleaded. “Please remain seated. I only sought refuge from the party.”
At her mention of a party, recollection came to him in a disconcerting rush. That was it. Lord and Lady Suffield’s damned rout-party. Dragged along by his mother like a lamb to the slaughter. Whether that description applied to himself or the obligatory females of marriageable age to whom his mother introduced him, he could not determine. An unnerving thought struck him. Had he been introduced to this particular young lady during the course of the evening? Might he be the cause of her affliction?
“Perhaps you would like my handkerchief?” He hoped she wouldn’t answer, but it was only polite to ask.
“No, thank you. I have my own.”
“If your handkerchief is similar to the dainty lace-trimmed scraps of linen m’mother favours, then I imagine it is now of little use,” he said.
“I’m afraid you are correct.” The girl sniffed hard. “But I shall manage, and would not wish anyone to see me in this sorry state.”
Skeffington imagined red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks and shuddered. “Perhaps if I hold up my handkerchief you could simply take it without the necessity of either of us seeing the other?”
In the ensuing silence, during which he wondered if she were still there, he heard her sigh as if capitulating.
“Thank you, both for your handkerchief and your understanding.”
He pulled a square of white cotton from his pocket, held it aloft and waited. He heard her soft footfalls on the carpet and then the handkerchief was plucked gently from his fingers. The cause of her upset was really none of his business, but he found himself struggling with curiosity until he could no longer contain it.
“May I ask what upset you?”
The answer was an unladylike trumpet into the handkerchief.
“I am sure you will hear of it sooner rather than later,” she said, sniffing again. “It was my mother.”
Skeffington, puzzled, waited for some clarification. Was her mother ill? Had she died? Before he could form a question the door burst open, flooding the room with light and casting a monstrous shadow across the mantle.
“Good heavens, Olivia,” the interloper said in a cold, exasperated voice. “What on earth are you doing in here? I have been looking for you everywhere. Come with me.”
Skeffington gulped. That voice grated on his ears and shrivelled his heart. At the same time, it revealed the identity of his unseen companion. Not wishing to be discovered, he shrank into the confines of the chair, tucked his angular elbows into its corners and drew his knobby knees as close to his body as he could. He held his breath, silently cursing all parents of the female variety.
“No, Mama. I will not.” The girl’s voice quavered but from the underlying strength he heard in it, he could imagine her lifting her chin in stubborn defiance.
The door slammed into its frame, rattling the ornaments on the mantle. Darkness descended again, but now the once cozy atmosphere vibrated with malicious tension.
“What did you say?” The tone of the voice chilled him to the bone, and he could only imagine the look that went with it.
“I said no, Mama.” Another sniff, this one not as delicate. “Your dress and your behaviour tonight have no doubt made you the laughing stock of the season. You have embarrassed me beyond belief.”
“Embarrassed?” A harsh laugh sounded dangerously close above Skeffington’s head. “What about you embarrassing me by being such a ninny? You failed to engage Lord Clifton’s attentions after all my efforts to give you a chance in that direction, and then refused the only offer that has ever been made for you from Lord Wyvern.”
“Who has to be one-hundred and three years of age at least,” Olivia retaliated.
“Never mind his age,” her mother snapped, “he has the wherewithal to set you up very nicely. Who do you suppose will offer for you now, stupid girl? You are two-and-twenty and I will not have you hanging on my coat-tails forever.”
“I have never hung on your coat-tails.” Indignation replaced defiance in the girl’s voice, a shift which caught Skeffington’s interest. The daughter showed some pluck it seemed. “It was you that insisted I accompany you everywhere since poor Papa died.”
“To make sure I got you married off as soon as I could,” her mother hissed. “You were ever a disappointment to me, Olivia, in every way.”
“Had I born a boy, I would have been loved and feted until the end of your days, would I not?”
“But you were not.” A fist thumped the top of the chair in which he cowered, making Skeffington flinch. “As your mother I demand you pull yourself together for us to make our farewells.”
“My mother?” The girl’s voice rang with incredulity. “You may have carried me in your womb and given birth to me, but when were you ever my mother?”
“How dare you.” A sharp slap followed by a swift intake of breath caused Skeffington to take a breath himself.
“You may make your own exit, Olivia. I am now done with you.”
He listened carefully, determining that the footsteps he heard belonged to the mother. Light flooded into the room again as the door opened and was then firmly closed. He remained where he was, listening to Lady Olivia Darnley’s inconsolable sobs.
He shouldn’t care but he found her despair disconcerting. If he suddenly stood up to offer his assistance, would she scream? And if she did, where would he be then? If discovered unchaperoned and alone in a darkened room, he would have no choice but to make an offer for her.
He started to unroll his cramped limbs, having decided that he really should comfort the young lady, but he was saved from that eventuality by her exiting the room.
It took several moments for him to gather his scattered wits. As much as he disliked his mother’s insistence on his meeting young ladies, with the intention of marrying one of them, he could not ever remember her speaking to him as venomously as Lady Darnley did to her daughter tonight. The raw emotion in her voice, and its subsequent effect on Olivia, tripped an unexpected rush of empathy towards her.
This puzzled him. Rather than comfort her as his mother would expect, he wanted to comfort Olivia for her own sake. Or maybe his, he wasn’t sure. While his mental debate raged one way and then another, the despair he heard in Olivia’s sniffs and sobs disconcerted him. A young woman with her whole life ahead of her should not be so blue-devilled.
He stood up and stretched, his long frame cramped from being in such close quarters for far too long. As he made his way a little unsteadily to the door, he noticed a small white handkerchief on the edge of a table. He stopped and picked it up.
Sodden with tears, the soft, lace-edged linen lay limp in his hand. It must be Olivia’s. How could he not have heard her come into the room? He supposed he must have nodded off from the effects of the brandy. But if he returned the handkerchief to her, then she would know he witnessed her misery.
He never bothered his head about females so why did her situation concern him? He knew her to be shy and retiring but her courage in facing her enraged parent impressed him. He hadn’t even heard her stutter, that speech impediment being the one thing he most remembered about her.
Their paths had crossed on more than one occasion. Prompted by his mother, he even stood up with her at some ball or other where it surprised him to discover that he was the better dancer. Only marginally, he would admit that. They held no conversation beyond the pleasantries of request and answer, as she stared at his feet during the whole set. He saw no purpose in talking to the top of her strawberry blonde curls and was only too pleased to hand her back to her parent.
He turned his attention to the handkerchief he still held, then carefully replaced the sad scrap of fabric on the table. The way Olivia defied her mother this evening gave him a whole new respect for her, but the best choice of action would be to not get involved in anyone else’s business at all. He steadied himself and continued on his path to the door. As he reached for the brass knob, another thought struck him, and he withdrew his hand. No one must see him leaving the study.
He stood by the door for a few moments, then carefully cracked it open. The murmur of voices and an occasional burst of laughter filtered in from the hallway. Finally, he stepped out into the throng of guests, thankful that no one appeared to take notice of him, even though his height made him instantly noticeable. This gave him the advantage of being able to peruse the fellows around him. He nodded greetings to those with whom he was acquainted but smiled when he saw his old friend, Lord Lucius Clifton, Earl of Avondale.
“Avondale, didn’t know you’d be at this abominable squeeze,” he said by way of greeting.
“We arrived late,” Avondale explained.
“But not late enough,” murmured his wife as she appeared at his elbow.
“Bit of a hubbub, was there?” Skeffington asked as he made his bow to Lady Clifton.
“You could say that,” Avondale replied in a carefully modulated tone.
Skeffington shot him a wary glance. That tone of voice spoke volumes. That, and the smile hovering on Lady Clifton’s mouth while her eyes sparkled with amusement.
“A dramatic entrance by Lady Darnley rather ruined Lady Suffield’s evening. You were fortunate to miss it,” she said.
“Ah, I see.” Skeffington recalled Olivia’s accusations and dared not say more. He could not disclose his situation this evening, even to his closest friends.
“Lady Darnley appeared in a spectacularly diaphanous gown. I imagine it would better suit the boudoir of a high-class courtesan,” Lady Clifton continued.
“Except that high-class courtesans normally have better fashion sense,” murmured her husband.
Skeffington watched Lady Clifton lower her eyes and bite her lip. He could see the dimple in her cheek and knew that, rather than accepting the quiet admonishment, she was about to burst into laughter.
“Well, you would know more about courtesans than I, that is for sure,” she rejoined. She quickly snapped her fan in front of her face to hide her merriment.
One of Avondale’s dark brows quirked upwards, but the look he cast his wife contained nothing but love. Something in Skeffington warmed as it always did when in their company, and he rather envied the ease of their relationship.
“I take it she has left?” he asked, not wanting to see the evidence of Lady Darnley’s disgrace with his own eyes.
“A moment ago,” Lady Clifton told him. “You may have heard the buzz of conversation after their departure.”
Skeffington could only imagine how mortified Olivia must have been. “Most disconcerting for her daughter,” he offered.
“Yes, the poor girl certainly didn’t deserve that.” Lady Clifton closed her fan. “She walked out of here with her head held high. From what I’ve known of her in the past, she showed much more backbone than I would have ever expected.”
“I’m sure I shall hear all about it from m’mother.” Skeffington looked around as if expecting her to suddenly materialize. “I suppose I should bustle about and retrieve the old gel.”
Avondale took his hat, gloves and cane from the lackey who appeared at his side. “You won’t find her, Skeff. She’s already left. May I offer the convenience of my carriage?”
Skeffington shook his head. “Much obliged, but I think I’ll just walk around to the club for a nightcap.”
“As you wish.” Avondale settled his tall, silk hat in place, pulled on his gloves, and nodded goodnight.
Skeffington bowed again to Lady Clifton and watched them depart. Emmeline Devereux, as she was before their marriage, had completely captivated his old friend. Now, if he could find a woman who accepted him as readily as Lady Clifton accepted her husband, he might be prepared to satisfy his mother’s wishes.
“Your cloak and hat, sir?” a lackey asked him.
“Yes, thank you.” Skeffington moved towards the door, more than ready to leave the stale atmosphere of the foyer behind him. The combination of heat generated by candles flickering in their sconces, and the cloying aromas of perfumes and colognes from the crush of bodies around him, offended his senses. That, and the lingering effects of the brandy, must be the only reasons for him to be pondering the merits of marriage.
He shuddered and the lackey, returning with his accoutrements, quickly helped settle his cloak around his shoulders.
“Thank you,” Skeffington murmured and stepped out into the coolness of the late April night.
The clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels echoed in the street as carriages whisked by, taking their occupants to their homes, or not, as the case might be. Many an assignation arose from rout-parties such this, but that part of society held no intrigue for him.
Much to his consternation, the only issue that did intrigue him was the strength he detected in Lady Olivia’s tone of voice. From where had she conjured that? His recollection of her was admittedly somewhat hazy. Their meetings were so fleeting as to be inconsequential. What little conversation they engaged in was prompted by the questions his mama suggested he ask, and Olivia’s responses were delivered in a stuttering voice barely above a whisper. As far as he could recall there was nothing at all remarkable about the girl. If that were the case, then why could he not get her out of his mind?
He lengthened his stride in frustration, the heels of his shoes tapping a beat on the flagged pavement. The sooner he reached the club, the better. A brandy might just do the trick of clearing his head of his recollection of Olivia’s slim, petite, figure. Good Lord, how could so small a girl leave such a large impression upon him?
He trudged up the steps to White’s open door and handed his belongings to the porter. He nodded a greeting to a few gentlemen of his acquaintance, found a vacant chair close to the fireplace and sank into it. He stretched out his legs until his heels rested on the leather coping of the brass fender surrounding the hearth.
The silver buckles on his dress pumps twinkled in the firelight, as he used the toe of one shoe to rub an itch on the back his opposite calf. A calf, his valet, Edmunds, regularly admonished him, could do with some prudent padding. He made one concession to this worthy’s complaints by wearing plain cotton hose under his black silk stockings, which gave a more rounded effect to his long, thin legs.
His habits were well known and shortly after taking his seat a waiter placed a tray bearing a brandy decanter and glass on a table within his reach. As he reached for the decanter, he noticed a slim, blue-bound volume sitting on the table-top and picked it up. It’s gold embossed title, The Way of the Maiden, sprang out at him.
“Please don’t tell me that dreadful collection of words belongs to you.”
Skeffington looked up into the mocking eyes of a long-time associate. “Good Lord, Hastings,” he objected. “I should think not. Who is this author, Mrs. Emily Percival, anyway?”
Hastings took the book from him and thumbed through it. “Nobody I know, nor you either. I suspect it to be a pseudonym designed to protect the guilty party who wrote it. Females seem to like the book though, which makes me wonder all the more why it should be here. Hand it over to Jenkins, he’ll find a suitable repository for it.”
Skeffington summoned the waiter as a roar of raucous laughter exploded behind them. Hastings looked towards the noisy group, excused himself and proceeded to join them at which the level of roistering rose again. Skeffington did his best to ignore it, but in one of the lulls, he heard Lady Rosemary Darnley’s name being bandied about. Even with his little knowledge of the debacle at the rout-party, he considered she deserved the soubriquets now being attached to her. But then he heard Olivia mentioned and looked back at the group of men engaged in the conversation.
Hastings stood with Mr. Edward Bullard and Mr. Clive Simpson, who were both well known to him; the remaining fellows, Jeffries, Collinghouse, and Durant were mere acquaintances with whom he occasionally played a hand of cards.
“Well, Bullard, you must admit,” Collinghouse said loftily, “with a mother like that, the girl must have learnt something along the way. Forget that demure front. I’ll wager any money she’d go for a tumble and be happy for it.”
Having dealt with unfair gossip and speculation for most of his life, the crass way in which Collinghouse spoke made Skeffington grit his teeth. Never mind that his very real fear of confronting a woman, irate or otherwise, prevented him from revealing his presence in the study, he could not allow Olivia’s name to be bandied about in such a vulgar fashion. He stood up, drawing himself up to his full six-foot, four-and-a-half-inch height before approaching the group.
“Hello, Stork.” Collinghouse grinned blearily up at him and waved a hand in salute. Half the contents of the glass of wine he held slopped down the front of his embroidered silk waist coat.
“I say, Collinghouse,” Durant objected. “No need to be rude. Skeffington can’t help his spindle shanks.”
Skeffington eyed each of them in distaste.
“No more than can Lady Olivia help her mother,” he said quietly.
“What’s this, Skeffington?” Hastings lifted his quizzing glass and peered incredulously through it. “You taking up the cudgels on a female’s behalf? I swear I don’t believe it.”
A round of ribald laughter followed Hastings’ comment and Skeffington glared at all of them.
“Maybe he’s already visited the shrubbery.” Collinghouse beamed at his fellows and winked at Skeffington. “You are a sly old fox, and we all took you…”
Durant elbowed Collinghouse into silence. Skeffington didn’t miss the gesture. Speculation about his proclivities had surrounded him since his schooldays. There was nothing to be done now. If he tried to qualify his statement, he would leave himself open to further ridicule rather than amend Olivia’s reputation. Dawning comprehension that knowledge of his championship of her would be on the town by morning, made his heart sink.
He nodded a terse farewell and turned on his heel, appalled at himself.
What compelled him to defend Olivia Darnley’s reputation? He hardly knew the girl. He must have drunk too much brandy. And, worst of all, if this particular piece of gossip reached his mother’s ears, what would she make of it?
The events of the past ten minutes banished any possibility of a peaceful nightcap and he quickly retrieved his outdoor clothes from the doorman. He folded his cloak over his arm, walked down the steps and hailed a hackney.
If he was lucky, his mama would already be in bed but, come morning, would there be a reckoning?
A beam of sunshine badgered its way between the gap in the dusty-blue velvet drapes, a rude reminder that another day dawned. Olivia turned her face into her pillow, not wanting to face it.
Her eyes were still sore from shedding copious tears and her head throbbed. Pressing her knuckles against her mouth, she stifled the whimper forming in her throat. She did not want to disturb Mary, her maid, who slept on a cot in her dressing room. The girl had been disturbed enough last night by Lady Darnley banging on Olivia’s locked bedroom door, raging vitriolic outpourings at her through the keyhole. Epithets like imbecile and woe-begone, simpering and lack-lustre still rang in her ears. Which of them was the most frightened, she or Mary, she could not tell.
No matter how many tears she shed, they did not wash away the vision of her mother, clad in layers of silver muslin which revealed far more than they concealed. Despite last night’s catastrophic event, Olivia marvelled that her mother, now above forty-years of age, still retained the figure of a young girl. That figure, to her mind, brought nothing but indecorous attention. Her mother, however, appeared to thrive on it, judging from her constant stream of admirers. She dealt with them all in a light flirtatious manner, except for the most recent, who appeared more serious than most. If she heard ‘mia bella, Rosemary’ or ‘my valiant Vittorio,’ one more time she would scream.
Olivia propped herself up, turned her pillow over and plumped it. Her stomach growled, and she frowned. A single bar of full sunlight falling across her silk counterpane indicated the hour was late. Why hadn’t Mary brought her hot chocolate? And where was Pepper? Her dog usually slept on the end of her bed.
Olivia reached for her spectacles from their place on the night table and quickly set them on her nose. She pushed back the covers and scooted to the edge of the bed, knowing the day to be Wednesday but suddenly aware of a Sunday morning silence as thick as her blankets.
A scratching and whining at the door alerted her to the fact that Pepper was outside her room. Who let him out? She shrugged into her dressing gown and went to the door, frowning as she opened it. It had been locked last night. Mary must have left, but why?
Olivia thought no more about her maid’s whereabouts as Pepper bounded in, obviously pleased to see her. She sank to her knees and pulled the silky, brown and white little body into her arms.
“Where is everyone, Pepper?” The dog licked her face and wagged his tail. “All right, all right, silly boy, that’s enough.”
She held his squirming body at arm’s length, then got to her feet and ventured out onto the landing, where she peered over the railing to the floors below. The maids, Polly and Martha, should be cleaning the rooms and setting the fires by now, chivvied by the housekeeper, Mrs. Evans. Jackson the footman, and Mr. Peters, the butler, would be at their work, too, but the house was silent as death. She could not hear ashes being scraped from a hearth, or fire irons clanging against a coal scuttle, rugs being shaken or the rattle of cups and saucers on a tray being carried to the breakfast room.
Pepper scampered down the stairs, his tail a waving plume of white hair as he went from step to step. Olivia nervously clutched her dressing gown as she followed him.
“Mary?” she called as she reached the bottom stair. “Jackson? Is anyone there?”
Her voice echoed in the vaulted entrance hall. For a moment she stood there, bewildered by the silence, then turned to her left and walked along the tiled hallway. She passed a brass-studded green baize door. What lay beyond it had always been something of a mystery to her. The only time she had ever queried it, her mother’s dismissive comment had been that she need not bother her head about the servants or their domain, which deterred her from further investigation.
The next door opened into the servery. From here it was only a few steps across the hall to the dining room. Her mother made it a point to frequently boast that food served at her dinner parties was always hot. Olivia’s preference was for the breakfast room at the end of the hall. Here, natural light spilled through the windows which offered views of the walled garden beyond them, making the room appear fresh and bright. But, when she reached the door, she stopped in alarm.
Where there should have been pots of tea and coffee, chafing dishes of bacon, eggs, and kidneys, which her mother insisted she needed to fortify herself for the day, the sideboard was bare, as was the table. Olivia viewed the plain wooden boards with growing dismay. Where was the white linen tablecloth and neatly folded napkins beside the blue-patterned breakfast crockery? Where were the fresh flowers in their crystal vase? Without a fire in the hearth, the light streaming through the windows now made the room chilly and unwelcoming.
Olivia shivered. Something was seriously wrong. Pepper appeared in the doorway, whining and looking hopeful.
“Did Jackson not take you out?” she asked as she let him into the garden. She noted how unkempt it looked, the grass much longer than usual and the brave spring flowers in the borders wilting for want of water. Pepper rushed into a group of ornamental shrubs and emerged carrying a grubby looking ball, which he dropped hopefully at her feet.
“Not now, Pepper,” Olivia admonished and stepped back into the hall. Pepper stayed where he was and she closed the door on him, knowing him to be safe within the garden’s sturdy stone walls.
Retracing her steps, she stopped at the foot of the stairs and listened again. She held her breath and closed her eyes to better concentrate on locating any sound. Beyond the steady thud of her pulse echoing in her head, she still heard nothing.
“Mrs. Evans? Mary? Is anyone there?” Even to her own ears her voice was thin and reedy, and quavered pitifully in the empty stairwell. Her heart thumped against her ribs. Each breath was short and painful. Where was everyone? Why was the house cold and quiet? She couldn’t be alone. She just couldn’t.
The servants must be below stairs and would know what had happened. Servants knew everything but if she was to talk to them, it meant she must brave that forbidden world beyond the green baize door. Her heart beat frantically as she stood in front of it. How could she have lived in this house for so long and not explored it, despite her mother’s warnings?
Olivia tentatively pushed the door open. It swung silently on its hinges and she paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the shadows. To her right, an open door gave her a view of the servery with its glass-fronted chinaware cabinets, tiled counter tops and a large table in the centre.
To her left a handrail, attached to dark wainscoting, bordered a broad flight of steps which descended into a gloomy passageway. She swallowed hard. There was nothing for it. Dark and unknown realm or not, she must continue. Gripping the handrail and searching for the edge of each step with her bare foot, she gradually made her way down them.
Doorways opened off the passageway along either side. She opened one and found herself in what she supposed to be the still-room. Across from it was a long room with a large, plain table. Crockery and cutlery lay deserted on the bare boards, as if hastily abandoned. This must be the servants’ hall but there were still no signs of life. A brighter light at the end of the passageway caused her to hasten her steps.
Olivia almost cried out with relief when she entered the kitchen. Glancing around, she could only wonder at the necessity for two stoves. Light flooded in through a pair of windows above one of them, the sunlight highlighting the copper pots and pans hanging above it. No fire burned in its grate, but the second stove, in front of which sat the slumped, dejected looking figure of the cook, glowed red. Olivia’s relief fled when she saw Mrs. Finch’s pale, strained features and tear-stained, red-rimmed eyes.
“Oh, Lady Olivia,” she whimpered. “Whatever’s to be done?”
Olivia gulped. No one had ever expected anything of her, other than her mother who expected every single moment of every single day that she would become affianced and promptly married. “I don’t know, Mrs. Finch, because I don’t know what has happened.”
Mrs. Finch sniffed into a dirty rag that passed as a handkerchief. “Your mother is what happened, miss. She cleared everybody out last night.”
“Everybody?” Olivia pulled a chair from the table, sat down and held her hands to the coals in the stove. Even though the sun shone outside and was undoubtedly warming up the day, down here in the servants’ quarters a chill pervaded the air. “My mother wouldn’t…,” she began, but the words ‘do that’ died on her lips as she remembered her mother’s fury from the previous evening. In such a rage, her mother was capable of doing anything.
“It was that dress what did it,” Mrs. Finch hiccupped. “That’s what Nellie said, anyway, and she should know, being your mama’s lady’s maid.”
“And where is Nellie?” Olivia asked.
Mrs. Finch shrugged. “Went with her Ladyship and the Count. Jackson, too.”
“But where have they gone?”
“Nellie said they were going to the Count’s home in Italy. Said he ‘ad a grand villa and that he wanted a grand lady to go with it.”
“That image would have swayed my mother’s opinion, I’m sure,” Olivia said dryly. “But the other servants, Mrs. Finch? Where are they?”
“Mary was off to her aunt’s house in Clerkenwell and Polly and Martha went to Martha’s home in Stepney. I don’t know about Mrs. Evans or Mr. Peters, but both said they were well rid of this place.” Mrs. Finch sniffed and slid a sideways glance at Olivia. “Her Ladyship hasn’t been paying bills and the vittles are all but run out. Merchants won’t supply us anymore and none of us has been paid, neither.”
“You’ve not been paid?” Olivia frowned. How could that be? She knew her mother usually kept notes in her escritoire in the drawing room. “I’ll go upstairs and see what I can find in Mama’s rooms. While I’m gone, perhaps you could make us some tea and toast?”
“There ain’t no bread, miss,” Mrs. Finch told her, “but I’ll put a kettle on.”
Olivia sat in stunned silence while Mrs. Finch took the kettle to the pump. How could there be no bread in the house? She got to her feet and made her way back along the womb-like passage way. As she walked up the steps she stumbled and stubbed her toe, a harsh reminder that not only were her feet cold but that she was also in a state of undress.
She hurried back to her bedroom and from there to her dressing room. Without Mary, how was she to dress herself? She could hardly ask Mrs. Finch to lace her stays or close the back buttons on her dress. Huffing with frustration, she flung off her dressing gown and night rail and reached for her chemise and stockings. Now she appreciated the way Mary rolled them down for her to step into as never before.
Oh, how Mary had spoilt her.
Olivia picked up her stays, looked at the laces and decided she could do without them. She shrugged a petticoat over her head and then selected a simple gown that she could easily fasten. She reached for a hairbrush and dragged it through her curls with more speed and less efficiency than Mary would have done. By the time her hair was pulled back and secured with a ribbon, she knew she had done her best. Hurriedly tucking her toes into a pair of satin slippers and now thinking her toilette complete, she stood in front of her dressing mirror hardly recognizing herself.
There was, however, no time to waste on recalling all the little niceties performed for her by her maid. Now she needed to search for the money she was sure must be there. She hurried into the drawing room, the tidy little room beside the imposing salon where her mother loved to entertain guests. As she opened the desk, she realized with a pang that this was the first time the house had been utterly silent. She shivered as she reached into one of the cubbyholes.
Her deft fingers sifted through folded letters and what looked like bills, none of them paid as far as she could tell. She found several soft leather pouches, all of them empty of coins or notes. She opened the drawers and sifted through the contents but found no more than a couple of coins amongst the detritus of visiting cards, scraps of fabric samples, and an earbob devoid of its mate. Frustrated, she slammed the drawer shut and returned to the kitchen.
“I made the tea on the weak side,” Mrs. Finch warned her as Olivia sat down again by the fire. “There ain’t much left in the caddy, and I been making do with the leavings in the pot, see.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Finch.” Olivia took the proffered cup of freshly poured tea, blew the steam away and took her first sip. “I think you taste more of the tea if it is brewed more than once.”
Mrs. Finch lapsed into silence as Olivia continued to sip on her tea, even though it tasted more stewed than brewed. When she was done, she noticed that the cook still stood by the kitchen table, nervously twisting her hands together.
“Mrs. Finch, please pour yourself a cup of tea and do sit down. It seems we are in a mess and must put our heads together to see if we can resolve it.”