Chapter Twenty #2
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 I am alone.
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 stretched before 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 time the 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.
Our home.
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…
With a sigh, she ambled along the hallway, peering into room after room, each one decorated in dark, forbidding colors, the faded furnishings frayed at the edges and reeking of damp and dust.
Except, it seemed, the kitchen, which glowed with warmth. Its welcoming air beckoned to Olivia as she descended the stairs to the servants’ domain. Then she heard voices.
“Poor lamb—to eat alone her first night!” a roughened female voice said. “I can’t think what the master’s about. And the appetite of a bird. She hardly touched the pie.”
Olivia froze and caught the handrail, trembling with shame. Her husband’s indifference to her had not gone unnoticed.
“She’s pretty enough, though,” a male voice said. “I can see why he married her. There’ll be a tidy fortune if her brother’s a duke. Don’t look at me like that, Nicola. Can’t a man appreciate a pretty face?”
“Well, I like her,” a lighter feminine voice said. “She was ever so civil to me.”
“That doesn’t mean you should prattle away at her,” another voice said. “I hope you’re not going to plague her with your gossip.”
“No, Mrs. Brougham.”
“And as for the rest of you—you oughtn’t gossip about the lass. She’s your mistress, and—”
The voice stopped as Olivia entered the kitchen.
Its occupants were gathered around a large wooden table, the housekeeper and butler at either end, eating the remains of the pie.
Several pairs of eyes regarded Olivia in silence.
Then, at a sharp word from the butler they stood, chairs scraping against the stone floor.
“Lady Devereaux, is there anything the matter?” the housekeeper asked.
“N-no, Mrs. Brougham, I was exploring the house and wanted to see the kitchen.”
“Whatever for, lass?” a plump woman sitting next to the housekeeper asked.
“I like to cook.”
The butler arched a dark brow.
“The cook at my brother’s house let me help her,” Olivia said, her frustration giving her voice a note of petulance. “My brother didn’t mind.”
“Well, I hardly think—” the housekeeper began, but the plump woman interrupted.
“Let the lass cook if she wants, Mrs. Brougham. I’ve no objection to having her in my kitchen. Is there anything you need tonight, your ladyship? Some warm milk for when you retire? We’ve no chocolate, but I can send for some from the village in the morning.”
“I’ll bring some tomorrow,” the young woman sitting next to Jacob said, fixing her blue gaze on Olivia. The hostility Olivia had first spotted in her expression seemed to have gone. “Jacob and I can show you round the gardens tomorrow if you’d like that. Have you explored the house yet?”
“That’s enough, Nicola,” the housekeeper said. “You’re almost as forward as your sister.” She cast a stern glance toward the young maid who’d served tea.
“I’d like that,” Olivia said. “And I’d like to meet all the tenants.”
“Lord Devereaux should be the one to give you a tour of the estate,” Mrs. Brougham said.
“But my husband is not…” Olivia hesitated, then nodded. “Of course, but perhaps you could show me around the gardens, Miss…?”
“Call me Nicola, Lady Devereaux,” the young woman said with a smile. “Jacob can accompany us, won’t you, Jake?”
A bell tinkled on the wall.
“That’ll be his lordship wanting his brandy,” the butler said. “See to it, Albert, would you?”
The cook let out a snort. “Not hungry enough to eat my pie, yet he’s time for a brandy.”
The butler cast a glance at Olivia, and her heart withered at the sympathy in his eyes. Mumbling, she excused herself and returned to the gloom of the main house. The servants resumed their chatter—doubtless gossiping about their mistress’s lack of propriety.
What might they say if they knew she ranked below them on account of her birth? That would give them plenty to gossip about—the bastard Lady Devereaux.
She flinched as she voiced the words in her mind, then surveyed her surroundings.
Now that night had fallen, the whole place was filled with shadows that flickered as she passed each candle on her way to the main staircase.
The stairs were fashioned from the same color wood that lined the floors and the walls in every room.
Why, then, was the floor of the hallway fashioned from marble—so out of keeping with the rest of the house?
Almost as out of keeping as I.
How was she ever to step into the role of mistress of this place? She couldn’t even earn the servants’ respect, let alone her husband’s.
Weariness pressed upon her, and she reached for the stair rail.
Her limbs had grown heavy—almost as heavy as her heart.
Perhaps she ought to have asked for a brandy to soften the pain of inadequacy.
But Eleanor had always said that while liquor might tempt one the most when spirits were low, it was a false cure.
The temporary numbing of pain brought about the briefest of respites, shortly followed by a greater pain that endured far longer.
With no friends, or even companions, to ease her pain, Olivia had only the memory of her sister-in-law to give her comfort.
She ascended the staircase to the gallery. The chandelier was almost at eye level with her now, and looked less sinister now that it had been lit. The flames of the candles flickered and danced as the structure swayed gently to and fro.
Which servant had risked their neck to light it?
She peered over the balustrade. From above, the marble floor looked even more out of place—cold gray against the warm tones of the wood. The candles cast patterns of light across the floor, and she leaned on the rail to get a better look.
A large hand caught her arm and yanked her back.
She let out a soft whimper of pain as the hand tightened its grip, and she glanced up into the dark eyes of her husband.
Her stomach clenched in fear at the raw intensity she saw there, which seemed to flash with fury—almost as if he were in a trance or suffering some kind of fit.
“Sir!” The valet approached in quick, purposeful strides.
Devereaux blinked, and the dark sheen in his eyes faded. Then he released her, and she stepped back, rubbing her arm. “What have I done, my lord?”
He stared at her.
“John?” She turned to the valet.
“Lord Devereaux was concerned that—” He broke off as Olivia’s husband raised his hand.
“Husband?” She stepped toward him, but he shook his head, then turned and strode along the passageway toward the back of the house.