He strode out to Mrs. Turner, hoping that if she knew, she would tell him.
A red-haired woman in her mid-forties with a broad, pleasant face rose from the chair in the entry and curtsied. “My lord.”
“Come to the library, please, Mrs. Turner.”
She handed him her references, then at his invitation, seated herself on the sofa, her gloved hands together in her lap.
He gave the letters a cursory glance. Olivia had chosen her, so he knew the woman would be efficient. She certainly had that look about her. “Miss Jenner arranged this,” he said flatly.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where is she?”
“I am not at liberty to say. Please forgive me. I gave my word.”
“You are a friend of Miss Jenner’s?”
“I am, sir.”
“Is she all right?”
“I believe so.”
He sighed and sat back in his chair, observing her. “You seem well qualified. I expect my estate manager, Mr. Williams, to return tomorrow. See him. He’ll introduce you to the staff and show you how things are done.”
She beamed. “Thank you for your faith in me.”
“You have yet to earn it, Mrs. Turner.” He strode to the door and opened it. “But if Miss Jenner thought you’d do, I expect you will.”
After she left, he turned back into the room. If Olivia expected him to let her go without giving him a chance to explain himself, she was mistaken. Their night together had only deepened his desire for them to marry, because he was in no doubt she loved him despite his faults. And marry her, he would.
First, he had to find her. She would not have gone far. She had told him she intended to remain in the village. But devil take it, he didn’t know any of her friends. Olivia had no relatives. But he expected in this small community, he would find her soon enough. Although that was only part of the problem. To persuade her to marry him would require some finesse. Something that was inclined to desert him when impatience got the better of him.
*
Beyond the window,mist drifted through trees, some branches bare of leaves, turning what would ordinarily be a pleasing view into one bleached of color.
In the comfortable parlor, a fire burned in the grate. Olivia sipped her tea. Opposite her, Helen Caldicott, Meg Turner’s sister, smiled warmly at her. They were good friends before Olivia’s father died. When she had time for such friendships. And good friends remained so, even if one didn’t see them for a while. It was wonderful to see her again. She wished she were better company.
Helen’s eyes softened. “I will not ask you what happened, but if you wish to tell me, I’m here.”
“Thank you, Helen. I’m grateful you understand. You and Meg have been so very kind.” Would she ever feel herself again? It felt as if her soul had been ripped away and left her hollow. Redcliffe! What was he doing, thinking now? Did he hate her? She would rather that than for him to be miserable. Her heart ached for him. She longed to be in his arms. He might understand her reasons. She hoped he did. Would he come after her? She hoped not. If he did, she must remain strong.
How hard it had been to leave him after their night together. He’d been a passionate and skillful lover. When he brought up the subject of their marriage, her heart almost stopped beating. To marry him was an impossible dream. As his wife, she would cause him too much distress. She’d damage him in society’s eyes. And she saw how the lies spread about him in London had hurt him. Impossible! Her shoulders lifted in a deep sigh.
“What happened has left you bereft. I am sorry,” Helen said sincerely.
Olivia nodded and bowed her head over her teacup.
“I hope the earl didn’t mistreat you,” Helen ventured.
Olivia shook her head. “I fell in love with him.”
“Oh no. It would not be difficult to do, I grant you. I saw him in the village. But you were wise to leave Redcliffe Hall.” Helen reached across and patted her hand. “Once you have your life in order, Olivia, all will be well.”
“Yes. All will be well,” Olivia echoed. Now she had the money, she must begin her new life. Buy the cottage and speak to Mr. Mockford about the haberdashery.
When Helen left the room, Olivia stared into the distance beyond the window. Exhausted, she wanted to curl up and sleep and push the world away, but impossible to banish Redcliffe from her mind. Was there nothing in his nature she disapproved of? She even liked his restless energy. The way he frowned and strode about and wanted to change the world. The soldier in him, the little boy. His vulnerability. He’d been hurt. Could still be hurt, although he tried to hide it. His body, tall and lean, his skin, the scars telling a story of his life, the one on his arm she knew was a war wound, the crescent-shaped one from the recent gunshot. A few others he declined to explain. A body well used.
