PortraitofPassion (24 page)

“Have tea brought into the blue parlor,” Olivia ordered. She
turned to Bea and saw that water was running down her cloak to puddle on the
floor. “After you take Miss Morgan’s cloak.”

Bea was tempted to stick her tongue out at the
sour-countenanced man as she handed the garment to him.

Olivia turned to walk into the first door to the right and
Bea followed her. She found herself in a large room with pale-blue walls and
delicate furniture in shades of blue and gold. There were a number of groupings
of furniture set about the room and still it looked empty—cold and empty. There
was a massive fireplace on one wall, the grate empty and clean. Thick gold
drapes were pulled tight, leaving the room in near darkness. This was where
Papa lived? She could not imagine her large, boisterous father in this room,
amongst all this delicate, uncomfortable furniture.

“Beatrice,” Olivia murmured behind her and Bea turned to
look at her. She was standing way across the room in front of the closed door.
Bea realized with a jolt that she had been wandering around the room and was
all the way in the farthest corner. She looked down to see a small statue of a
swan in her hands and hurriedly replaced it on a small table.

“I’m sorry,” Bea said as she felt tears gathering in her
eyes. She blinked rapidly before turning away to stare sightlessly at a small
painting on the wall of two swans gliding through water. “I just cannot imagine
him here, in this room, in that grand foyer, in this house.”

“Oh,” Olivia replied softly. “Will you sit with me?”

Bea joined her on a small sofa just as a maid brought a tray
in and set it on the low table before them.

“Thank you,” Bea said to the young maid as she bobbed a
curtsy in preparation for leaving the room. The startled girl’s eyes jumped up
to meet Bea’s for one quick second before she smiled and walked away. Bea heard
the soft click of the door closing and turned to watch Olivia pour the tea. She
remembered her mother’s oft-repeated tale of hours spent learning the fine art
of pouring tea and thought that Olivia was trapped in the very life her mother
had escaped, that she herself had been spared.

“When will Henry return?” Bea asked as she took the offered
cup and saucer. The china was decorated with little yellow and blue swans.

“Not for some time, I would imagine. He has gone to see his
solicitor.”

“About me? To assure himself that I have no legal claim to
Idyllwild?” Bea asked, watching as Olivia took a dainty sip from the delicate
little cup, one slim finger raised in the air as she had been taught. Bea set
her cup untouched on the table before her.

“Oh Beatrice,” Olivia responded. “You must know you do not.”

“My father…” Bea started, took a deep breath and began
again. “Our father was promised that we could go on living at Idyllwild.”

“But don’t you see,” Olivia cried out, blindly setting her
cup and saucer upon the table. Bea watched as tea sloshed over the rim of the
cup to puddle in the saucer, before raising her eyes to Olivia’s face. “Mother
will never admit to any such agreement.”

“You know it’s true, don’t you?” Bea asked in surprise. She
suspected that Olivia had recognized her immediately. She had never thought
that Olivia might be aware of the promise the earl had extracted from the
countess.

“It does not matter, my word means nothing.”

“How do you know, did Papa tell you?” Bea asked in
excitement.

“Papa?” Olivia whispered. “Is that what you called him?”

“Of course,” Bea replied. “Whatever did you call him?”

Olivia did not immediately reply, instead she looked down at
her hands folded in her lap. “Father. I…we called him Father.
My Lord Father
if Mother was present.”

Beatrice sucked in a sharp breath. How could that be? He
would not have wanted that, he could not.

“Oh Olivia,” Bea murmured and reached out to lay her hand
gently upon Olivia’s.

“Really, it is fine. We rarely saw our father. I’m sure you
saw him more than we did.”

Bea could think of nothing to say to that. She thought of
the months between his visits, the months of longing for his return, the weeks
when he was home, how she had spent every waking moment with him. She marveled
that he could have ignored Olivia and Henry.

“Then he did not tell you. How do you know?” Bea asked,
giving Olivia’s hands a soft squeeze.

“I heard them arguing about it one night just before Father
died. He was already so sick. I think he knew he would not recover. Father
wanted to draw up a document. Mother insisted he could trust her word.”

Bea thought about that, remembered telling Olivia in the
gazebo that she had returned to England for her home, realized that Olivia had
known all along why Bea was in London.

“Have you told Henry?”

Olivia shook her head. Bea removed her hand from Olivia’s
and rose to walk to the window. She pulled the drapes apart, stood looking out
at the rain falling in the street, watched as a carriage came around the
corner. She waited until it neared and recognized it as belonging to Bertie,
saw Gerald hunched over against the driving rain. She should not have told him
to drive around, she thought with regret. She should have let him stop and get
inside where it was dry.

“Will you tell him?” she finally asked without looking back.
She thought she knew the answer.

“I cannot.” She heard the regret in Olivia’s soft words.

“No,” Bea agreed.

“My mother—”

“Yes,” Bea interrupted. Her mother would make her life a
living hell. Bea suspected that her marriage was already a living hell, she
could not ask her to stand against her family.

“What was he like?” Olivia asked quietly.

Bea watched as another carriage turned the corner. Even in
the pouring rain she recognized the Hastings crest on the door. She turned
around to find Olivia staring back at her with wide, damp eyes.

“Someday I will tell you if you want to know. I will tell
you all. But not today. Not now. Henry has arrived.” Bea walked forward,
intending to go out into that immense white foyer to greet him, to force him to
listen to her. Olivia rose and waylaid her with a hand upon her arm. Bea looked
at her, saw panic in her eyes.

“No,” Olivia whispered. “He may not be alone. Stay here,
just for a moment. I will go out and greet him, make sure Mother is not with
him, keep Dobbins from warning him. You must not come out if Mother is with
him.”

Bea wanted to argue, to pull her arm from the lady’s grasp,
until she looked into her gray eyes and saw the desperation there. Slowly she
nodded. Olivia fled from the room, closing the door behind her.

Bea walked to the door and laid her ear against the cool
wood and waited.

Dimly she heard footsteps on the steps outside, heard
Henry’s voice greeting Olivia and realized that she must have opened the door
herself rather than waiting for the butler. Had her nerves not been jumping
about she might have smiled to think of Henry’s surprise to see his sister
playing butler.

But her nerves were wreaking havoc on the calm she had
fought so hard to draw around her like a cloak. Her heart was racing, blood
thundering through her veins, roaring in her ears. Her mouth suddenly dry, she
ran her tongue over her lips, swallowed repeatedly, but there was not moisture
in her mouth. Her breath was choppy.

She sucked in a great gulp of air, held it, closed her eyes
and willed herself to calm.

“You must be calm,” she admonished herself, her voice a
thread of sound in the silent room. “You have waited all these years. You will
never have another opportunity. It has all come down to this day, this minute.”

She slowly released the breath that she had been holding,
heard it hitch and resume. Her heartbeat slowed, the roaring in her ears ebbed
to a dull rush, like the sound of a slow-moving river.

She opened her eyes, rubbed her sweaty palms on her skirt.
She felt a tickle on her cheek and raised her hand to find tears sliding down
her face. She dashed them away with trembling hands.

She strained to hear the conversation on the other side of
the door. Dimly, she heard Olivia’s voice, high-pitched and nervous, then
Henry’s deeper tones. She could not make out their words. She listened as their
voices faded away. They must have gone into one of the many rooms that lined
the foyer. She reached one hand to the doorknob and froze.

“I told him there was no need to worry.” Bea recognized Lady
Hastings’ voice right outside the closed door and took an involuntary step
back. “Why he thought it was important enough to go out in this weather I do
not know.”

Frantically Bea wondered to whom she was speaking.
Please,
please don’t let it be Simon
, she prayed.

“He must have had his reasons.” Simon’s voice seemed to
rumble right through the door. She felt as if a fist had slammed right into her
abdomen and her breath left her in one long rush. She clamped her hands over
her mouth to hold back the wail of anguish that rose in her throat.

“No,” she whispered into her hands. “No, no, no.”

“My lord, my lady.” Bea heard Dobbins’ voice, heard his
heavy footsteps as he walked toward the pair in the foyer. “You have a
visitor.”

“No!” cried Olivia. Bea pressed closer to the door to hear
her words. “She has left. I sent her away.”

“But…” Dobbins began.

“I sent her away,” Olivia repeated firmly.

“Who?” demanded Simon and Bea heard the anger in his deep
voice.

“She did not call here!” cried Lady Hastings.

“Come into the parlor and I will tell you all,” Olivia
assured them and Bea was amazed at the command in her voice.

She listened as they followed Olivia into the room directly
across from the room in which she hid, all the while the countess ranted about
her nerve. She thought they must have closed the door behind them when she
heard nothing but silence.

Suddenly heavy footsteps sounded right at the door before
her. Quickly she reached down and turned the key in the lock. She pulled her
hand back as the knob began to rattle.
He will have a spare key
, her
mind shrieked.

“Oh no you don’t,” Dobbins snarled from the other side of
the door before she heard his footsteps rushing away.

It was now or never, she realized. The butler would be back
in minutes, if not seconds and she would be escorted from the house without
delay. She took a deep breath, expelled it and reached for the key, turned it
and opened the door. The foyer was silent, the door across the room closed. Bea
walked across and opened it. She did not peek her head around first. She simply
opened the door and stepped inside.

She stood in the open doorway, her hand on the knob, her
gaze darting around the room. She had a quick impression of gray walls and pink
drapes before her eyes found Lady Hastings, who had not noticed her entrance.
She was seated on a sofa directly in front of where Bea stood, turned to the
side. Her lips were moving but Bea could hear nothing over the strange silence
that had enveloped her. A quick movement drew her eyes away from the lady.

Henry was in motion. Bea watched as he jumped from his seat
on the sofa beside his mother only to fall back down as if his legs would not
hold him. Bea locked her gaze on him. His blue eyes widened with shock, his
hands rose and then fell uselessly into his lap. Lady Hastings turned, her thin
lips forming a perfect “O” of astonishment.

Bea dragged her eyes from Henry to search the rest of the
room. Where was he? She had to know where he was, find him and mark his place
so that she would know where she must not let her gaze rest for even a moment.

Simon was standing to her left at the window, his back to
the room. He had not seen her, had not yet noticed the stillness, the absolute
silence that had slammed into the room.

She looked from his broad back to find Olivia standing to her
right, just on the other side of the open door. Their eyes met. Tears gathered
in Olivia’s gray eyes and slowly fell to run down her cheeks. Bea felt regret,
knew that Olivia would pay for helping her, for unwittingly allowing her to
confront Henry. She tore her gaze away from the crying lady and back to Henry.

Henry was the only one who mattered. He was the earl. He was
the only one who could give her back what she had lost.

She locked her gaze on Henry. She was aware of Lady Hastings
jumping to her feet with a cry and Olivia weeping quietly. She sensed movement
to her left where Simon stood but did not look away from Henry.

“Henry,” she said and heard the plea in the word. “Please
allow me to explain. Let me tell you the truth. Do not let them poison you
against me until you have learned the truth.”

“Get out!” his mother shrieked. “Dobbins!”

Dimly she heard the sound of running footsteps across the
marble floor and she stepped fully into the room, reached back to push the door
shut and turn the lock. Again she heard the rattle of the knob, jumped when a
fist landed on the wood on the other side.

“Please, Henry,” she implored softly. “You must listen to
me. Papa wanted me to have Idyllwild.”

“Lies!” Lady Hastings screamed. “Do not listen to the lies
of a whore!”

“Mother,” Olivia cried. From the corner of her eye Bea saw
one small white hand reach for her and stepped away, farther into the room
until she stood directly before Henry, separated only by a low table.

“I am not lying, Henry.” Bea knew she had little time before
the butler returned with a key, was amazed he did not already have it, was not
already unlocking the door.

“His whore will never get that pile of stones. His whore’s
bastard will never step foot on that land! I will burn it to the ground before
I let that whore…”

“My mother is not a whore!” Beatrice roared. A wave of heat
crashed over her, years of dormant rage raced through her. Her trembling frame
swayed with the force of it. Her hands fisted at her sides. A torrent of words
rushed up from some deep, dark place within her. She welcomed it, felt the
power of it. She dragged her gaze from Henry and focused all her rage, all her
bitterness, all her pain at its source.