“I can’t believe it's been three years,” said Jocelyn. “I still expect to see Mama coming into my room with Marguerite to wish me goodnight.”
“You keep them alive by remembering those moments. They are there in our hearts,” added Olivia.
“Once we’re back at Silverton I’ll be able to visit their graves, but I talk to Mama all the time in my head. I know Papa would have loved to dance with me at my first ball. I’m not sure Uncle Harold will want to.” For some reason that sent Jocelyn into a fit of the giggles, so infectious that Olivia joined her, and they both collapsed in a heap of laughter. Marguerite gazed up at them from her cushion in confusion.
A vision of a reluctant Uncle Harold, forced to dance a cotillion in a set with his great niece, was enough to send Olivia off into a further spasm of laughter. “That will be a sight to see,” she spluttered. “And, my dear Jocelyn, I very much fear that as yourguardian he might have to dance at your first ball. He must know the steps. I can’t believe he didn’t dance when he was young.”
“Olivia, stop it now. I’m sure we have a distant cousin who can relieve him of dancing duty. In fact, I am sure that Viscount Leighton will step in and do the honors.”
Later that evening Olivia wrapped herself in the warm shawl which Mrs. Jennings had given her as a Christmas gift, and felt the words flow as once more her quill pen flew across the parchment. Every evening, before retiring to bed, she wrote in her journal. Her thoughts often returned to that day in the glade at Leighton Manor, and the mysterious stranger.
Dear Journal,
Only here can I write from my heart about my deepest emotions. I can share my secrets with you and know they will be safe. I often think of that strange meeting in a forest glade in Leighton Woods. Did I dream about meeting a ruggedly handsome gentleman farmer with dark shoulder length hair, bound with a leather binding? Had I gazed into caramel honey-colored eyes in the warm, autumn sunshine, wondering if he might kiss me?
We ate bread and cheese, plain country fare, then picked blackberries and wild strawberries and feasted on them in shared companionship. How I long for another conversationabout the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe or Mr. Richardson’s heroine Pamela.
It could never have lasted. Even though I am penniless Uncle Harold would never permit me to marry a gentleman farmer, however handsome and cultured. I stayed too long in that glade, drawn into an almost enchanted moment, a long way from real life.
The impropriety of spending time with a man I had never met before, unchaperoned by a waterfall in a woodland glade could have cost me my reputation.
And the harsh reality was that as soon as Brandon, the stranger with the stallion, saw my scars he would have galloped away as fast as that black stallion could carry him.
Until I write again,
Adieu,
Olivia.
Had it all been a dream? She knew it wasn’t but at times it felt that way.
The past was with her every day, memories of life before that January day—when everything had changed—still haunted her continually. When she wrote in the evenings the hero may have had dark, shoulder length hair and mesmerizing eyes into which the heroine could gaze forever. Her heroine might have fallen in love with this stranger, and that love would be reciprocated.
She felt with bitterness that should she fall in love with her mysterious stranger, that love could never be returned.
***
March
Olivia gazed beyond Uncle Harold at a still life painting of a dead pheasant on the wall of his study.
What more can I say? We’ve had this conversation three times now.
The elderly man ran his fingers through his frazzled gray hair, staring at her in frustration. “This is non-negotiable. Until you are twenty-five years of age, I am your guardian, and you will do as I say.”
“No, Uncle.”
He banged his fist on the table and his eyes never left her face.
Olivia stepped backwards. They had argued about his insistence on her attending a London season and could reach no compromise. This was the first time she had seen his face turn a vivid shade of crimson in an apoplexy of rage. Despite his penny pinching, miserly character, she had no wish to cause him ill health.
“Olivia,” he spoke so quietly that she had to peer forward to hear his words. “Very well. No season for you and no season for Jocelyn. You can both go to Silverton Hall and spend the season there.”
“But Uncle …”
“You have what you wanted, niece. No London season.”
“But Jocelyn …”
