She shivered and drew her shawl about her, then glanced toward her husband, who stared at the foot of the staircase, hands curled into fists, jaw bulging as if he gritted his teeth.
The housekeeper tutted and took Olivia’s elbow. “If Master Charles won’t tend to you, child,I’lltake you to the morning room, where there’s a fire all ready. Master Charles, are you coming?”
He glanced up, his eyes unfocused. Then he shook his head and gestured with his hands. The housekeeper let out a huff.
“Surely the estate affairs can wait when your wife’s needing attention?”
With another huff, she led Olivia past the staircase and into a room that carried a smell of lavender and wood polish that could not completely conceal the odor of damp and dust. Then she excused herself and left.
Olivia glanced about the room. Dark-purple curtains—a color that matched the furnishings—seemed to absorb the light. The wood-paneled walls were adorned with candle sconces fashioned in a similar style to the chandelier, with the same hint of rust at the edges. A stone fireplace in which a fire blazed dominated the far wall, and a longcase clock fashioned from dark wood ticked in the corner. Unlike the hallway, the floor was fashioned from polished wood, forming a crisscross pattern. A round table covered in a lace cloth stood in the center of the room on a blood-red rug dotted with a pattern in purples and greens.
A maid entered carrying a tray. With soft blonde curls peeking from her servants’ cap, clear blue eyes, and rounded cheeks, she could not have been more than fifteen years of age. She gave a shy smile and bobbed a curtsey, then placed the tray on the table.
“Your tea, your ladyship.”
“Thank you…?” Olivia raised her eyebrows.
“Susie, your ladyship,” the maid said, curtseying again. “Shall I pour the tea, or will you be wantin’ to pour it yourself? Beggin’ yer pardon for being so forward.”
“I can manage on my own, thank you,” Olivia said. “After all…”
After all, I’m hardly a fine lady incapable of serving tea.
“Very good, your ladyship,” the girl said. “May I be so bold as to wish you well? We’re all right glad that the master’s returned and brought a lady to Penham.”
“I’m no…” Olivia hesitated, then nodded and smiled. “I’m glad to be here also, Susie,” she said.
“I’ve made your chamber ever so pretty, your ladyship. You just ring the bell when you’ve finished your tea, and I can show you. I’ve put some of the roses in a vase to make it bright for you. The rose garden’s in a right state, but I managed to find enough, and I’m sure when the master hires a gardener, he’ll—”
“Susie!” came a voice from outside. “The mistress won’t want your chatter at the best of times, and certainly not when she’s tired from her journey.”
“Comin’, Mrs. Brougham!”
The maid curtseyed again, then exited the morning room, leaving Olivia alone.
And Iamalone.
Her husband couldn’t wait to get away from her.
Then she admonished herself. What right had she to expect him to be at her beck and call? He must have business to see to. Montague always retreated to his study the moment he returned to Rosecombe to deal with whatever little troubles his steward presented him with. Men were not great drinkers of tea. Neither, as so many ladies of Society deigned to tell her, did they relish the company of ladies.
And Olivia’s husband was all man.
She poured herself a cup, then approached the window.
There was no denying the beauty of the landscape that stretchedbefore her, undulating toward a horizon that was dotted with treetops and a hill in the distance, tinged pink in the evening light. Thick forests covered the land to the left, above which a cloud of birds circled and cawed.
Settling in the window seat, Olivia sipped her tea and watched the world outside while the sun slipped behind the hill then disappeared.
*
By the timethe supper gong rang, darkness had fallen. Olivia emerged from her chamber, which was, thankfully, free from the odor of damp, and descended the main stairs to the dining room that Susie had pointed out earlier. There was still no sign of her husband, and after waiting for him to appear, she ate alone, in silence, under the watchful eye of a footman who stared at her with a glimmer of contempt in his eyes. The slice of pie he’d placed before her had been oversalted and the pastry had the consistency of shoe leather. After nibbling on it and struggling to swallow the first bite, she set it aside and resolved to spend the rest of the evening exploring the building that was now her home.
Ourhome.
That was what her husband had indicated. Why, then, had he abandoned her the moment they entered it? Did he not wish to show her around, puffing out his chest with pride? Montague had taken such delight in giving her a tour of Rosecombe when she first entered it.
But her brother loved her, unlike…
