Olivia reached out and took the woman’s hand, unable to resist doing so after the absence of so many years. Standing now in her presence, she felt that she had not done justice, in her memory, to the stern kindness of this woman. She had forgotten how maternal she had always been towards her, lenient with her where she was not with the others.
“It is really me, I assure you, Mrs. Phelps. And it is so good to see you again.”
“You’ve come back to London and look at how it treats you. Snow! Everywhere. And at this time of year, too, when you might suspect we are well past it.”
“Mrs. Phelps, I am quite worried about Miss Watson—and Lady Willa, catching cold. I am sure Miss Watson is soaked through,” Augustus broke in. “Would you be able to procure her warm clothing and a place to set herself to rights? Afterward, we’ll have a fire and a cup of tea in the drawing room.”
“Oh, but I should return to Bloomsbury,” Olivia exclaimed, not wanting Mrs. Phelps or any of the Carringtons to go to any trouble for her. “If the carriage—”
“Miss Watson, you cannot think that we would let you go all the way back to Bloomsbury soaked through as you are,” Mrs. Phelps exclaimed, “And in this weather no less, which is getting worse at every moment. No, you must stay the night here with us.”
“It is exactly as Mrs. Phelps says,” Augustus echoed. “My mother would not allow for anything else. Please, Miss Watson.”
She looked up at him and saw the yearning, unvarnished, on his face. She felt drawn to that look of desire in the same way that she wanted to stay in these warm, comfortable rooms after facing the icy elements.
Mrs. Phelps gave a little cough. Olivia realized that she and Augustus had been staring at once another, without speaking, for far longer than was proper.
“I will put you in Lady Beatrice’s old bedroom,” Mrs. Phelps said, “That is the only one adequately turned out.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Phelps.”
“Of course, my dear,” she said, with a little curtesy followed by another little clasp of her hands, “Welcome back, Miss Watson.”
Volume the Third
Chapter Twenty-One
Augustus—
I do not know why I am writing to you, when you will never receive this letter. Of course, I could send you this letter, if I wanted, but I won’t. Perhaps, I should have left a response to your letter before I quit Carrington Place, telling you just how despicable I find your treatment of me, but I did not.
Besides, it does not matter now because I am leaving London, possibly forever. I have taken a job as a lady’s companion, a much better position than I had at Carrington Place, and which was offered to me some weeks ago. I never told you because I could not think of leaving then. My old friend Mrs. Fairfax wrote to me and said that she had heard of this position and recommended me for it. She had told me that I may hear from a rich lady who needed a companion and that she was soon to depart for France. When I received this woman Mrs. Mapperton’s letter, I intended to respond with a quick refusal. However, I was so caught up in you that I delayed—and good thing that I did, because, as it turned out, I would soon need a new situation. I wrote back and she has accepted me. So I sail to France.
Again, I do not know why I write to you. Not only will you never read this letter, but I must say that you have broken my heart horribly and, at this point, I fairly hate you. I suppose it is just that I cannot believe you did it. Some part of me wants to reach out to the man I thought I knew and speak to him, even though I understand now that he must have been a figment of my imagination—or, worse, a subterfuge created to hoodwink and seduce me. Still, that figment was very close to being the best friend I ever had, and I have the impulse to speak to him now. Perhaps because he, if he had been real, would comfort me.
Olivia
*
After changing intothe clothes that Mrs. Phelps had provided for her, Olivia looked at herself in the mirror. It was large and gilt-lined, an unfathomable luxury for most Londoners, but one that stood largely unused most days in Carrington Place, standing as it did in the former bedroom of Lady Beatrice.
A strange lump rose in Olivia’s throat as she remembered herself, thirteen years ago, down on her hands and knees, cleaning this very mirror. It had hardly been the most strenuous of her activities as a maid, here or elsewhere, yet she couldn’t help but feel it poignant that she now stood in front of this object as a guest in the house. No, more than a guest. As a potential wife to its heir. She no longer stooped before the mirror but surveyed herself in the glass. It was not something that she had thought possible when she was a maid here. Even after she and Augustus had begun their relationship, she had not dreamed of such a possibility. She cleaned the rooms that he himself and his sisters and family slept in; she swept and dusted so that they could have lives that involved fine clothing, parties, suitors, so that they could influence politics, art, culture. They did all of that and she cleaned their floors. Why would she have questioned the order of things? She was sure she never would have, if she had never kissed Augustus Carrington.
The girl she had been then would hardly recognize the woman in the mirror now. She and Lady Beatrice were around the same size, so she wore a gown that had once nominally belonged to her. Not that Lady Beatrice had ever worn it, Mrs. Phelps had informed her. After being ordered from the dress maker, it had been made, through some mix-up, in the wrong colors and the result had not complimented Lady Beatrice’s complexion. She had not sent it back, but merely cast it aside. Therefore, there was nothing wrong with the dress and, in fact, Olivia thought, it was quite beautiful—a blue silk, demure yet pretty, embroidered around the hem and bodice with leaves that looked like ivy.
Turning away from the mirror, Olivia sighed and tried to push thoughts of the past out of her head. She needed to keep her wits, after all. Her head was swimming with Augustus, the possibility of him. Could she really accept him? In her heart, she wanted to, but her mind still revolted from the possibility. Logic told her that it could never work, no matter how kind his sisters and mother were, no matter how many times he had been to that orphanage before she had returned.
And, yet, despite what she knew was true about herself, about the world, she was considering saying yes. She couldn’t help it. Not when he looked at her the way he did. Not when every part of her ached for more of him. He still hadn’t let her pleasure him in any way—and she still hadn’t experienced a true coupling with him. And god, but she wanted that. She couldn’t bear the thought of not having him again.
Olivia made her way out of Lady Beatrice’s room and down the hallway to the stairs. It was strange how well she knew the way and how differently she moved through the familiar space now. She remembered how it felt to scurry along, thinking only of the work ahead of her, whereas now she let herself appreciate the fine furnishing and tasteful wallpaper. She let her fingers skim over the polished banister and had to remind herself that it did not shine naturally—that someone had to labor to make it so.
When she entered the drawing room, Olivia was surprised to see that it was empty of anyone but Lady Willa.
“My mother and Augustus have gone with Mrs. Phelps to see about the dinner menu this evening,” Lady Willa supplied, “Will you take tea?”
“Yes, please,” Olivia said, seating herself in an armchair by the fire, enjoying the way the warm glow burnished her skin. “Does your brother usually see to the supper menus?”
Willa laughed. “Not usually. But I think he is unusually fastidious today.” She passed Olivia a pink teacup in a matching saucer. “I assume, with the weather as it is, that you will be staying the night with us, Miss Watson?”
