Chapter Twenty
Oliver sat staring at a cold cup of tea. In the gray and dismal light of dawn, and a near whole bottle of brandy later, things were even more complicated than they had been the night before. Rain beat against the windows to his left in relentless torrents, like fists against his skull.
All around him was the commotion of packing. It was like a constant ringing in his ear. Nothing he could do would shut out the noise.
Last night he had been committed to leaving, to rusticating in the country, to being forgotten. This morning all he could do was think about how he would never see Lisbeth again. And it bloody-well hurt.
Lisbeth’s aim could not have been more accurate.
Like a master archer her arrowed words had hit their mark dead center—to the deepest heart of his insecurities.
Did she know how those few scribbled sentences would affect him?
Emotions, wild and desperate, had taken over and his only instinct had been to go, to run, and to escape further torturous words.
He’d always had an issue with his own self-worth.
From an early age he’d felt redundant, a loose end flapping in the breeze with no useful direction.
Henry had become the earl, and he had become…
nothing. It was the reason he had left for the army at such a young age.
Oliver had found some purchase in his career as a code breaker and unofficial spy for the Crown, but even then he was just another soldier in Wellington’s army.
When he returned home after Henry’s death, it was to find that nothing had changed with gaining the title of Earl of Bellamy. Confronted with the financial fall in the family finances, he again floundered. He had no training to prepare him for the responsibility his new title had thrust upon him.
Lisbeth telling him she no longer needed him had been a crushing blow to his already battered ego. Of course, she no longer needed him, but he had hoped she may still have wanted him… loved him. If she had but told him she loved him, he would have done anything to prove his worth to her.
Working alongside Lisbeth had given him a distraction from the reality of his situation. Now he had no excuse but to face the music and it was so awfully out of tune it hurt his ears.
Oliver left the room for no other reason than he could no longer stay where he was with his morbid thoughts.
He looked around him. He’d never liked this house.
The entryway to the townhouse was like a cavernous box.
Dusty echoes of his brother swirled around him like chilly drafts of memory.
He would be glad to leave this house and its constant reminders of his failure to live up to Whitely family expectations.
It wouldn’t take his brother’s butler, Kinsdale, long to shut up the house.
There was little enough to pack since Oliver had purged the house of anything he could sell only days after moving in.
He had never understood why Henry had stuffed it with the bric-a-brac of wealth; it had served no purpose.
To what purpose was anything anymore when the woman who had stolen his heart had then so cruelly twisted it into dust before his very eyes? … And in so very few words.
Oliver rubbed his forehead, but it did little to erase the tension throbbing in his temples and the slightly sick feeling in his stomach.
“My lord, I am to remind you of the letter which came for you early this morning,” Kinsdale said, holding out a neat, sealed letter. “I took the liberty of keeping it with me as you seemed to have left it on your desk, which has now been packed.”
Oliver looked at the letter that Kinsdale offered him. He knew who it was from. He knew why he had left it unopened on his desk. Should he take it? Burn it? Read it and let her words finish him off?
“Sir? Mr. Rollands brought it himself. At dawn. He implored me to tell you that his mistress stressed the importance of the contents.”
Oliver took the letter and put it in his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Kinsdale. How long before we can depart?”
*
Lisbeth knew not all things look brighter in the harsh light of day. Sometimes, the harsh light of day just makes things look… harsh, inhospitable, impossible, bleak.
Lisbeth had not slept well, but then she had not slept well for near on seven years.
Since her wedding night. Last night she had not even attempted to sleep.
Somewhere in the desperation of her mind she kept thinking Oliver would come back.
He would realize he had misunderstood and throw all caution to the wind.
He would come racing up the stairs to her room, throw open the doors, and tell her he loved her, that he wanted no other but her.
He had not come.
She was a fanciful, desperate fool.
There was nothing more she could do. Rollands had delivered the letter first thing this morning. She would simply have to wait and hope.
Calling cards had been arriving since yesterday but she was not up to visitors, especially from those who wished to befriend her again, now that she was respectable. It wasn’t like she could converse with them anyway with her being silenced for at least another week.
“Lisbeth, do stop pacing in the hall. You will wear out the rug.”
She turned to see her grandmother frowning at her from the doorway of the parlor. Marie had left her in the hands of her grandmother.
“Come and have some tea. The doctor said you should add some honey for your throat.”
Lisbeth sighed and went into the parlor.
Lady Fortesque handed her a cup. “There is something calming in the taking of tea, don’t you think?”
Lisbeth couldn’t give a fig about tea. Had Oliver read her letter yet?
She looked out the window. The rain was still falling, and it was cold, but no amount of shawls or heated bricks could comfort her. She stared at her teacup. She was sure if she drank it, she would be sick.
Oliver, please read my letter.
“I think we should have a ball,” her grandmother announced.
Lisbeth looked up from her cup, her eyes wide. A ball? She shook her head.
“It is near the end of the season, and we should celebrate your return.”
My return? To what? Misery? She shook her head again. The last thing she wanted to have was a ball.
“Think about it. Have you seen the amount of calling cards piling up? The only way to address them all is to have a ball. Get it over and done with all in one go.”
It did make sense. It didn’t make her want to do it. Her grandmother was looking at her as if waiting for her to give in to her plans with a nod. Instead, Lisbeth took up her notebook and wrote, I’ll think on it.
“Well, don’t think on it too long. A ball doesn’t happen overnight, you know. There are invitations, menus, decorations, and music to consider. It is all very time consuming. It will keep your mind off… things.”
Things. Oliver. I can’t stand this anymore, she thought. Lisbeth stood up and rushed out of the room with her teacup still in her hand. She was going to go and see him herself. She would stand there until he read her letter. She would stand there all day, all week, if necessary.
Gathering her spencer and a cloak she headed back downstairs.
“My lady?” Rollands asked, his eyebrows nearly hitting his hair line.
She showed him her notebook. Call me a hack please, Rollands.
“But, my lady, it is raining.”
She glared at him and pointed at her request again.
He grabbed an umbrella. “I’ll get one right away.”
She waited by the door.
“You cannot mean to go out there?” her grandmother asked from behind her.
Lisbeth nodded.
“Are you mad?” she said. “You’ll catch your death.”
Lisbeth wrote in her book and turned it towards her grandmother who had to come closer to read it.
I have to. I love him.
Lady Fortesque searched Lisbeth’s face. She must have seen the truth of Lisbeth’s words in her eyes for she nodded then said, “Shall I come with you, for support?”
Lisbeth shook her head.
“I can’t talk you out of this can I?” Lisbeth shook her head again. “Then good luck, my dearest.” She placed a kiss on Lisbeth’s forehead.
Lisbeth raced out into the weather and into the hired conveyance.
*
The carriage rocked from side to side as it negotiated the muddy streets. Deep in his depression Oliver watched as the grand houses of his neighbors were exchanged for more commonplace abodes. He felt like he was running away. He had never felt more alone. He felt wretched.
He pulled out the letter. He had to know, for better or worse, what she had written. He broke the seal. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The precise handwriting was smeared in places. Had she been crying while she wrote it? He started to read.
Dear Oliver
I am so sorry about yesterday. I am sorry that I hurt you with my thoughtlessness. Please let me explain my actions.
These last few days have been so conflicted I hardly know how to start.
Let me firstly say what I should have said as soon as I knew.
You have no longer to worry about your brother’s debt.
Before you think the worst, I would never dream of paying you for your services.
Mrs. Rollands found Blackhurst’s diary and ledger a few days ago.
I wanted to tell you after the balloon ascension but well, Dalmere happened.
In any case the result is that I can now return the capital your brother and the others put into the speculation. Although, I was again advised I was not legally obliged, I have decided to disseminate the money anyway. It was never mine to keep.
I know you will be relieved by this news.
Was this the purpose of her letter? To inform him that the guilt she felt over the speculation had finally forced her hand?
It was very convenient for the ledger to turn up now.
He wondered for a moment whether or not she had made up a ledger or had always had it in her possession?
A red-hot rage engulfed his body. After everything they had been through it had come down to this? A payment?