And Olivia was like Izzy in every way, but less, somehow. Less beautiful, less lively, less witty, less musical, less admired by gentlemen. It was very lowering. And even when Izzy screamed and shouted and broke things, she was still adored and forgiven. Olivia never screamed and shouted. When she became upset, which admittedly was almost as often as Izzy, she wept and then everyone was cross with her.‘Oh, do stop crying, Olivia!’her mother would say.‘Crying is such a waste of time.’
Olivia sat with her aunt for a little while, letting her grumble about Tess, but when Mr Strong appeared, she left them and went to see her grandmother. She was old enough to remember the Dowager Countess of Rennington striding about the village in an ancient hat and a startlingly old-fashioned greatcoat, more masculine in style than anything else. She had lived at Langley Villa, a neat little house in the village, but within half a mile of Corland Castle, so she had dined there more often than not. In winter, she had come to the schoolroom to read to her grandchildren, or test them on history or geography. In summer, she had swept them all into her carriage and driven out into the country to look for beetles or wade in the becks. But three years ago she had had what was described as‘a funny turn’, and since then she had lived in one of the round tower rooms which graced all four corners of Corland Castle, declining peacefully towards death.
Today she was asleep, as she so often was, a nurse sitting at her bedside with her knitting and her faithful maid, almost as old as her mistress, struggling shortsightedly with a piece of mending.
“Ah! Lady Olivia,” she said, rising with a smile. “How kind of you to come. Can you stay for a while? Thomas and I are due for our dinner.”
“Of course. Off you go and no need to rush back. Grandmama and I will have a pleasant chat while you are gone.”
“Lovely! Or you could read to her. We’re working our way through Deuteronomy at the moment. I’ve marked the place.”
The two disappeared. Olivia pulled a chair nearer to the bed and sat beside the Dowager, taking the age-mottled hand in hers. Her face was even paler today, the skin as fragile as tissue paper.
“Well, Granny, and how are you today? About as usual, I would say, and no worse, which is good. Shall we dispense with Deuteronomy? So serious! You would do better with a lighthearted novel, I suspect, or perhaps one of Shakespeare’s comedies, something to lift the spirits, not all that exhortation and doing as one is told. One has enough of that in everyday life, I feel.”
She paused, as if waiting for the Dowager to respond, but she slept on, undisturbed.
“Perhaps I shall tell you my news instead, Granny. I am to marry a duke — there! What do you think about that? At least, it is not quite certain, for I have not yet met the gentleman, but Lady Esther Franklyn is to help me, and she is a duke’s daughter so she must know all about such people, I should think. So there is a good chance… if I can but meet him. And if he should like me… and I have to kiss him, and I am not sure that I can do that. How does one go about it, do you think? I cannot help but feel that the approach should come from the gentleman.” Her voicebegan to waver. “And even if I meet him and he likes me and I kiss him, he might decide not to marry me after all, because how can an illegitimate girl become a duchess? It is not at all the thing, is it? A future duke should marry the daughter of a duke, and even if he stoops to the daughter of an earl, she should be a proper daughter. Not like me.”
Her voice tailed away into nothing, and she laid her head on the bed and wept.
The Dowager shifted a little. “Hermione?” she said in a thread of a voice. “Is that you?”
Olivia wept even more.
***
Olivia loitered optimistically in the castle every day, to be sure not to miss the marquess when he came. She had no doubt that he would come, for Lady Esther was not a person to be gainsaid. Both the butlers, Simpson and Wellum, were told that if the Marquess of Embleton should call, she was to be told immediately, for she particularly wished to speak to him. She was not sure what she would speak about, but she would prepare something, some question or other to draw his attention, something suitably complicated. Then she could say airily, “How fascinating! I should love to hear more about it. Would you care to come to dinner?”
In the event, despite all her precautions she almost missed him. Aunt Alice had asked her to pick some scented flowers for her room, and although she had told Simpson where she was going, he had to search the full length of the flower garden to find her.
“My lady! My lady! He is here!” he cried, racing towards her and flapping his hands about in a most unbutler-like way.
“Papa’s study?”
“Yes, my lady. And he has—”
Olivia did not wait to hear what he had. Dropping basket, scissors, flowers and gloves as she went, she ran as fast as she could to the terrace, across the bridge to the parlour, where she finally got the apron off, stuffing it under a cushion. Then on past the stairs, across the great hall and through the anteroom to the library. Here she paused to examine her appearance in a mirror. She was a little flushed from her exertions but not unbecomingly so, she thought. Pushing one or two stray locks into better order, she stepped more sedately across the library to the study door, where Wellum smiled knowingly at her as he threw open the door.
There were two men in the room with Papa, and which of the two was the marquess was impossible to tell. One man was slight and rather nondescript, although a gentleman in appearance. The other was rather handsome, somewhat above average height and with a twinkle in his eye. If he were the marquess, it would add a certain piquancy to her pursuit, she thought admiringly.
Her father looked rather harassed, but at the sight of Olivia his face lit up. “Ah, Olivia! Do come in and meet our visitors. May I present to you the Marquess of Embleton…” Oh. The nondescript one. “…and his brother-in-law Lord Harraby from Thirsk. My youngest daughter, gentlemen.”
They bowed, Olivia curtsied and to her disappointment it was Lord Harraby who stepped forward to make the greetings and the usual unimaginative compliments — delighted to meet her, had heard so much of her beauty, charms and accomplishments, and so on and so forth.
“How is it we have never met before, Lord Harraby?” she could not resist asking. “Thirsk is not so very far away, after all.”
“No, indeed, not much above ten miles the way we came, and a most pleasant ride over the moors, but we are rarely at Harraby Hall. I do not scruple to tell you that it is a dismal sort ofhouse, never warm no matter how many fires one has burning. We have a very snug little place in Shropshire, and there we stay most comfortably from one year’s end to the next, when we can. But my wife feels it only proper that the son and heir should be born at my principal seat, and so here we are until her next confinement. We are all hopeful for a boy this time so that we need not suffer the deprivations of Harraby Hall again for at least a generation.”
“I hope the deprivations do not include the coverts on your land,” she said, smiling to encompass the marquess. “I am sure the waiting time will pass more swiftly if there is good sport to be had.”
To her delight, it was the marquess who answered. “Excellent s-sport, L-lady Olivia.” And he smiled back at her.
“You are keen on a great many sports, I understand, Lord Embleton? I have heard much of your success racing your horses, and now I discover from the newspapers that you are a noted fencer, as well. You competed in a tournament at Landerby Hall, I understand.”
“I did. Out-c-classed b-by others.”
“But you were much admired. Let me see…” She produced the now much crumpled cutting from her reticule. “’Lord Embleton’s performance being much admired for his graceful movements.’You see? My cousin Mr Bertram Atherton attended the gathering at Landerby Hall, so I have kept the report of it.”
