My Only Love (20 page)

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Olivia tackled the chore of locating both carpenters and painters. Soon
Braithwaite was buzzing with the sounds of hammering, scraping, footsteps,
tittering servants, and whistling workmen. Occasionally, Olivia escaped to the
privacy of Miles's office, sat in Miles's chair, behind Miles's desk, and
peered at the hideous stuffed beasts with snarling snouts and glass eyes
staring down at her from the walls. A typical man's room, down to the gun
cabinet that held an impressive display of weapons, including a long-bladed
knife with a scrimshawed whale ivory handle, a crossbow, and several rifles.

The
desk was a massive but distinguished relic of some ancestor who obviously
preferred his furniture overly big and overly ornate. Each side of the mammoth
fixture was intricately carved with scrolling leaves and acorns, with an
occasional squirrel peering out through the branches. The walnut wood had
turned pitch-black from generations of oil having been rubbed into it. She, of
course, would have preferred something more delicate, perhaps a dainty Queen
Anne affair with graceful curves. The one in her bedroom at Devonswick would do
very nicely. However ...

Sitting
back in the chair, her gaze scanning the garish but strangely comforting room,
Olivia reluctantly allowed herself to consider the fact that she had taken on
the challenge of renovating Braithwaite without so much as a nod from her
husband. She shuddered to imagine what his reaction might be when he returned
home.

If
he returned home.

Olivia
propped her elbows on the desktop and buried her face in her hands, knocking
her glasses askew. Where the blazes was her husband? Living with his
indifference was one thing. Dealing with desertion was another. Then she
reminded herself that no matter what, her life now was infinitely better than
at Devonswick.

Freedom.

Dignity.

Usefulness.

If
only . ..

Leaving
her chair, Olivia moved to the window and gazed out on the rose garden. She
recalled the look in Miles's eyes as he stooped beside her in the garden, and
the sense of regret she'd felt over her appearance. Now, focusing on her
reflection in the window, she tried to imagine how she would look with Emily's
narrow, turned-up nose and Cupid's bow lips, without the sharp, angular
contours that made her cheeks and jaw line too noticeably prominent. And her
body... too tall by far. Standing five seven, she could look most men directly
in the eye. Perhaps that's why she had always admired Miles. He towered over
her by at least six inches.

Sighing,
she rested her forehead against the pane and closed her eyes. She was being
foolish. It was Bryan's future that counted most, after all.

Sally
appeared at the door. "Yer sister is here," she announced.

Olivia
stared at her, until the servant fidgeted. "Beg pardon . .. ma'am."
She attempted a clumsy curtsy. "Miss Emily Devonshire of Devonswick Hall
asks if yer in res'dence, ma'am. Are ya receivin' guests?"

Olivia
nodded and awarded Sally with a pleased smile that lasted only as long as it
took for the servant to disappear.

Emily
swept into the room with a flourish of taffeta skirts, her pale hair braided
into a silky rope that trailed over one shoulder. "There you are!"
she cried. " 'Tis a wretched day when I'm forced to gallivant over the
moor just to see you."

"Has
something happened to Father?" she responded.

"Oh
pooh. Of course not. Father may cry that he's feeble, but we both know he's
strong as a mule. It's you who's the problem."

"I?"

"We
never see you, Oli. At the most important time of my life, you're stuck out
here in the middle of nowhere tinkering with this old house."

"
'Tinkering' is a slight understatement, I think. And besides, this is my home
now, and my responsibility."

"But
you're totally neglecting us."

"Hardly.
And besides, it's time you and Father learned to look out for yourselves. I'm
married now, Em."

"Married?"
Emily laughed. "Olivia, you look perfectly miserable. No doubt you'll end
up divorcing and once again you'll find yourself a source of Society's
contempt."

"And
when will you ever realize that I don't give a damn about Society?" Moving
around the desk, Olivia watched her sister's face suffuse with color. "God
forbid that I should ever imagine myself a member of your esteemed circle. As
you've reminded me most of our lives, I'm not pretty enough, or mannered enough—
of course, I was so busy raising you I was hardly given the opportunity. And
there is the little matter of Bryan."

"Hush!"
Emily implored her, and covered her ears. Then she sank into a chair, looking
miserable. Olivia frowned, forgetting her pique.

"Oh,
Oli, please. I didn't come here to fight." Emily was on the verge of
tears.

Concerned,
Olivia sank down beside her younger sister and took her hand. "What's
happened, Emily?"

"It's
Lord Willowby. We've argued, Oli."

"Everyone
argues now and again, Em."

Sniffing,
Emily glanced around for something to wipe her eyes. Spying a handkerchief
tucked under a untidy stack of ledgers, she grabbed it and blew her nose.
"I received a letter from Carolyn Cobb who knows Marcia Hutchinson who
knows Belinda Delfries. Belinda declares that Lord Willowby has lost his heart
to another, that he's even been seen with her at the theater."

"Rumors,"
she replied softly.

Her
lower lip trembling and tears flowing down her cheeks, Emily wailed, "It's
true! I asked him when he called on me this morning. Her name is Janelle
Sheredon and he finds her fascinating but declares that they are friends and
nothing more." Snorting again into the hankie, she added with emphasis,
"She's a widow, and you know what that means."

"That
she's older?"

"Older
and more experienced, if you know what I mean. She's thirty-five. Practically
dead of old age."

"How
old is Willowby?" "Forty-five."

"Has
he spoken of crying off?"

Emily
shook her head. "But I fear it's only a matter of time. We had set our
date for eight months from now and when I mentioned our moving the date up, he
refused."

"But
there are so many plans to be made—"

"The
old fizzle isn't getting any younger, Oli! He's been widowed twice and neither
marriage has provided any living offspring. You'd think he'd be champing at the
bit to get on with it. After all..." Her shoulders shook as she sobbed,
"We all know that's the only reason he's marrying me—to bear him an
heir."

"Nonsense.
If that were the case Willowby could have chosen anyone. But he didn't because
everyone knows you're the most beautiful young woman in the country. What man
wouldn't lose his heart to you?"

Dabbing
at her eyes, Emily managed to smile. "Well... I suppose you're right.
Still." She frowned. "We both know there's no guarantee when it comes
to men. There must be some way to convince him to move up the wedding."

There
came a clatter from the hallway and a burst of laughter from the painters,
snapping Emily from her reverie; she glanced around the room and wrinkled her
nose. "Were I" you, Oli, I would have those laborers muck out this
room and start again. It's so typical Warwick."

"Agreed,
Emily, but that's exactly what I like about it."

Leaving
her chair, Emily shoved her used hankie into Olivia's hand and strode to the
door where she peered up and down the corridor, where painters were slapping
fresh color on the walls and servants were on their knees scrubbing the floor
with brushes. "I don't like the shade of blue you've chosen for these
walls." Tilting her head slightly toward Olivia, Emily rewarded her with a
moue of displeasure then a sigh. "You were always cursed with terrible
taste when it came to color, clothes, and men. And speaking of men, where is
your husband, Oli?"

"Out."

"Out?
According to the help you've sent traipsing to Devonswick to collect your
personal belongings, not to mention staples, your husband has been 'out' for
nearly two weeks. I hate to say I told you so, Oli—"

"Then
don't," came the soft voice from the hallway.

Surprised,
Emily turned to discover Alyson Kemball holding Bryan by his hand.

Olivia
hurried to collect her son as Emily stared hard at the woman. Alyson, looking
very thin and pale, offered Olivia a weak smile. "We were about to go sit
in the morning room and have tea and biscuits. We hoped you'd join us."

"And
who may I ask is this?" Emily demanded.

As
Bryan wrapped his little arms around Olivia's neck, Olivia hugged him close.
"This is Miles's mother."

Emily
didn't move.

"And
you must be Aunt Emily," Alyson said with one slightly raised eyebrow.
"I've heard so much about you from Bryan."

"Oli,
I'd like a word with you," Emily snapped, and reentered the office.

Allowing
Bryan to slide to the floor, she said to Alyson, "I'll meet you in the
morning room in ten minutes." She smiled as she watched the pair move
leisurely down the corridor, noting how cautiously Bryan escorted his
grandmama.

"How
could you allow that horrible woman in this house?" Emily demanded.
"It's no wonder Miles left. Have you any idea how he detests her?"

"She's
very ill."

"If
Earl Warwick were to learn of it, why, there's simply no telling what he might
do."

"Bryan
is quite fond of her. He calls her Grandmama."

Emily
paled.

Retrieving
Emily's reticule from the chair, Olivia offered it to her and smiled. "Now
if you'll excuse me I have a tea party to attend with my son. . . and his
grandmama. Good morning, Emily. My best to Father."

Emily's
eyes widened briefly. Without another word, she quit the room in a flurry of
taffeta.

You fear, sometimes, I
do not love you so much as you

wish? My dear Girl, I
love you ever and ever and

without reserve. The
more I have known you the more

 have I lov'd.

—John Keats

CHAPTER ELEVEN

'"as
I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered if it were a
dream. I could not be certain of the reality till I had seen Mr. Rochester
again, and heard him renew his words of love and promise.'"

Alyson
gently closed the ragged-edged copy of Jane Eyre, and smiled a bit wearily at
Bryan who lay asleep in Bertrice's plump arms. "How like Miles he
is," she said thoughtfully as she turned her face to catch a momentary
shaft of sunlight that spilled through the clouds and into the window. "I
have often thought what it would be like to look into a child's face and see my
son's features. I imagined that I would spoil my grandchildren rotten, hoping
to make up for my failures with Miles. Now it seems I won't have the
opportunity."

Olivia
dismissed Bertrice with a slight nod and continued to drink her tea, watching
her husband's mother intensely. Since arriving at Braithwaite, Alyson's mental
health had improved considerably. Olivia suspected that the medications
administered at Amersham to help alleviate Alyson's pain had also affected her
mind. These days she seemed remarkably lucid.

"Imagine,
Olivia. After all these years I have finally come home to Braithwaite. You
can't know how happy you and Miles have made me by bringing me here. It was my
fondest dream that this should all belong to my son someday. Now it does and I
can finally find peace within myself for sending him here when he was a child.
Does he still hate me terribly for it?"

"I
can hardly speak for my husband."

"You
are a very tactful young woman. Of course he hates me. He hates me for bringing
him into this world to suffer under the burden of illegitimacy. He hates me for
so loving his father that I sacrificed my life, and his, on the ridiculous hope
that Joseph would leave his family and marry me. He hates me for loving him
enough to give him up. Tell me, Olivia, is he happy? Is he successful? What a
stranger my son is to me. Is he a kind husband and loving father?"

Olivia
regarded Alyson before responding. "Yes," she finally said.
"He's a wonderful husband and father." "And do you love
him?" "Oh, very much."

"And
he loves you? Of course. Of course. Even the wildest creature can be tamed with
a kind and tolerant hand."

Olivia
would never have believed Emily could be so malicious as to ride directly to
Earl Warwick's home— and on the pretense of visiting the Countess and offering
congratulations on the birth of their third son—while slyly delivering the news
of Alyson Kemball's arrival.