The rest of the tea passed pleasantly. They spoke of their wedding plans, how they were to marry in a small chapel in Bloomsbury and not St. George’s; they wanted to keep it as quiet as possible, so as not to stir the ire of those who might object. Oliva saw the Dowager Countess purse her lips at this preference, but, once more, if she had any real objections, she didn’t voice them.
Then, as they were leaving to return to Bloomsbury, a very curious thing happened. Augustus had gone upstairs to collect a few items from his rooms that he needed, having, of course, still most of his possessions at Carrington Place. Olivia had stepped into the small library, only a few doors down from the drawing room, to see if she might find a new volume for their nighttime readings.
“You probably don’t remember me, ma’am.”
Olivia turned at the sound of the voice and was confronted with a familiar face—but not one she had seen in quite some time. It was Astrid, her old compatriot, and, Olivia was sure, the person who had forged that last, horrible note from Augustus thirteen years ago. Now, Astrid stood, nervously, a few steps from the doorway.
Augustus was right; the years had been hard on Astrid. She had had a certain youthful, pale prettiness that had completely left her.
“Of course I remember you, Astrid,” she replied calmly.
“Oh, I am so glad to hear that, ma’am,” she said, her hands clasped before her, a smile breaking out on her face. “I have just heard the news, about you and Lord Montaigne, and I had to congratulate you myself.”
Olivia was not surprised to hear how fast the word had traveled among the servants. She was puzzled, however, by the look of sincere happiness on Astrid’s face.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Astrid took a step forward. “We were all so worried about you, when you left, Miss Watson, all those years ago. I worried about you myself, I did. I didn’t like the idea of you out there, with nothin’. I am ramblin’ now, I know, but I just wanted to say that I am so pleased for you, Miss Watson—that you’re back with Lord Montaigne and seem in such fine fettle.”
“Thank you,” Olivia repeated, unsure of how to react. Her words hardly seemed that of a woman who had instigated her departure from Carrington Place. She seemed so sincere. “I hope you are well yourself.”
The woman gave a little nod.
“I am just glad that man didn’t come between you and Lord Montaigne, in the end, ma’am. I saw him skulkin’ around that day, you see, but didn’t have any notion of what he was up to, or I am sure I would have warned you. But once you fled, I always knew it was his doing. I saw him near our rooms, near your tinderbox, where Lord Montaigne left you those notes, didn’t I? And what else could he be doing there but causin’ trouble? Yes, some kind of evil note for you, to scare you off, I suspected. Anyone could see that his lordship was cut up when you left, that it wasn’t whathewanted, and the countess herself had no part it in it, just as surprised as anyone that you vanished. And I knew you well myself—I knew you wouldn’t have left unless you felt you must, unless you felt you had no other choice. But here I go on again, wastin’ your time with these old things of the past. They’ve just weighed on me these years. I wish you joy, Miss Watson.”
With that, the woman curtseyed and left the room. Before Olivia could think to call her back, she was gone.
Olivia stood there, stunned.
That man.
She had no idea who Astrid spoke of.
But she did not welcome the unsettled feeling the revelation sparked inside of her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Augustus—
I am proud to say that it has been years—nearly two—since I wrote you one of these silly letters. I do not know why I kept writing them for so long, when I have never had an intention of sending them, and when I am sure the man I write to has completely forgotten about a woman named Olivia Watson. I was finally able to break myself of the ridiculous habit when I met Mr. Laurent and began to imagine a different future for myself.
However, today, I learned that I will return to England and, consequently, I cannot stop thinking of you. I don’t suppose I will see you there, even though I will be in London again. I do not think the Mappertons’ circles will much overlap with your own.
Why is it, then, that I find myself hoping to see you? Even when I know what you have become? Your reputation is awful. The way you abuse women in service disgusts me. And yet I cannot fully believe that, somewhere, the boy I loved does not still live, too. How could he really be gone? Perhaps, that disbelief is what has me writing to you again.
But no more. I am returning to England, and this letter is, I promise myself, my last. I do not want to return home with any vestige of yearning in my heart.
Olivia
*
The next morning,the engagement announcement appeared in the society pages.
And Olivia still had not told Augustus about her conversation with Astrid.
They sat in their small breakfast room, the newsprint spread before them, and she felt her stomach contract uncomfortably. Seeing the words on the page, printed out so boldly, it seemed there was no turning back. She would soon be Lady Montaigne. Looking at the newsprint, she could imagine the objections of people like the Brightleys.
“I would tell you right now how happy it makes me to see these words in print,” Augustus said to her over his coffee, the steam curling around his head, “But you look practically green.”
