“We’ll be fine,” said Jocelyn. “Lady Leighton has friends and influence. You mustn’t worry about others talking about you. Lady Leighton won’t allow it to be tolerated. Now, shall I read from that new book about the sisters in search of a husband. It’s quite funny and I could see the author making Uncle into one of her characters.”
“Very well,” said Olivia. “Read to me from that novel by The Lady.”
Later, when she was alone, the candle burning low, Olivia reflected on her plight.
I need to find a way to settle my thoughts and accept what has happened to me.It was difficult when she had so many flashbacks, and a feeling of overwhelming intense grief.
I need to stop caring what others might think and look after myself. I’ve almost finished the first draft of my novel. Marianne has read it, and she thinks it’s good enough to publish. I just need to find a publisher for it, and that will mean I have my own money.
If I can help Jocelyn find a husband, I won’t need to worry about her anymore. Then I may have enough money to live a quiet life, close to nature in a cottage in the countryside, visiting my friends when I want.
Olivia turned to Marguerite. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you” she said to the spaniel.
Olivia held her manuscript close, wondering if her writing, the words she poured onto paper every evening, might be a way to earn a living? Every lady of quality she knew had a collection of romantic and gothic novels, and many streets in town had a penny lending library. Olivia vowed to find the courage and send her story of lost love to a publishing house the next day.
Olivia’s thoughts then turned to when she had returned to society, after she lost her family.
Each time she entered a drawing room for a soirée, or a ball in a great house, her anxiety levels rose so high that she could hardly move her feet. Sometimes she felt as though a waterfall were gushing in her head, as dizziness made her feel faint. Her smelling salts clutched in her hand made no difference.
She saw the ladies looking at her, their heads close together, murmuring behind their fans. She imagined the conversation they were having.
“That’s her, you know, Lady Olivia Sherwyn. You must have heard the story? No? Well, about two, possibly three years ago there was a terrible fire at Silverton Hall.
“Lady Olivia was almost at the door, safe from the flames when she realized her brother and sister-in-law, the Earl and Countess of Riversmead, were still upstairs. The servants tried to prevent her returning, but to no avail, and as she crossed the great hall the staircase collapsed, and she was knocked out by a piece of burning wood. Disfigured for life, they say.
“A terrible tragedy, she lost her family, and her looks, in the same night. Before the fire she was rumored to be a great beauty but look at her now.”
Every time she attended an event the same thing happened. Marianne had looked at her in surprise when they had returned from a concert, and she had disclosed her fears.
“Nonsense,” her friend had exclaimed in surprise. “I heard Lady Falkener and the Honorable Miss Carteret talking, and yes, it was gossip, but not about you my dear. It seems the Dowager Duchess of Billington is leaving the county to live in the Highlands of Scotland, with a laird she met last summer. It’s quite the talk of the town.”
Marianne had taken both her hands in hers and looked intently at Olivia. “I wish with all my heart that this tragedy had never happened. Losing Frederick and Mary and living with those scars caused by the fire is a heavy weight to bear.” Marianne had paused, struggling to find the words to give solace to her friend.
“Believe me, your personality shines wherever you go. There are scars, but it is you who notices them more than others. When you become distracted and forget they are there, then you hold your head high, your blue eyes shine brightly, and no one notices those scars in your hairline.
I saw it tonight at the concert, until you saw those two gossiping behind that fan. They are far more interested in a duchess and a Scottish highland laird, than whether you choose to style your hair in low loops to cover a disfigurement.”
Olivia knew there was truth in her friend's words, but the scars ran deep, both physically and emotionally. She had been so convinced that Lady Falkener and Miss Carteret had beentalking about her. “Is that true? The Dowager Duchess of Billington is moving to the highlands?” she had asked Marianne.
I’m lucky to have a friend like Marianne,she thought.That’s one good thing about being forced to return to society. As Marianne is sponsoring Jocelyn then we will get to spend lots of time together.
Since then, she had withdrawn from society, but she now needed another project.
Olivia remembered the story she had started to write in the autumn, about a romantic meeting in a woodland glade. Her cheeks flushed bright pink as she remembered the interlude of the impromptu picnic, and the way Brandon’s hand had brushed against hers, while they picked wild strawberries, under a shaded canopy of autumnal forest colors. The story needed an ending and for once the ideas did not flow easily.
Now, as she faced the prospect of a season again, an idea began to form, a way of coping with the ordeal of a season in society. A game her mother used to play with her when she was a little girl came into her mind.Mama would tell me to create a character and talk and move as though I was that person. I could do that for the season. I can pretend to be someone else and turn the season into a game. I can tell Marianne and Jocelyn what I’m doing, and they’ll help.
The more she considered the idea, the more she thought it could work. She was always creating characters and scenes in her stories. It will give me time and space to find a plan, to work out a way to earn a living and live independently.
The embers in the meager fire burned low, and she shivered, pulling her shawl close around her. Ellen knew that sometimes Olivia worked late into the night, and had left a pile of logs next to the grate.
Olivia, feeling reckless, placed two on the fire and warmed her hands as the flames grew stronger, and the warmth spread through her hands. It was only later that she realized that she had been close to a fire, enjoying the warmth, without remembering the flames engulfing Silverton.
Sitting close to the heat of the fire, she reached for the paper and began to write.
The candle flame flickered, its shadows dancing on the white walls of her bedchamber. An idea for how to overcome her fear of the reactions of others to her disfigurement formed.
Why didn’t I think of this before?
