Chapter Twenty-Eight
“A package has arrived for you, your ladyship.”
Olivia set her teacup aside and glanced at the footman brandishing a silver tray. “For me?”
“Yes, ma’am. It arrived by messenger shortly after dawn.”
“You mean someone rode through the night to bring it?”
Olivia’s stomach tightened in apprehension. Had it come from Rosecombe? Was her brother unwell? Or Eleanor?
She reached for the package and read the inscription. But the hand was not her brother’s, nor was it Eleanor’s.
It was her husband’s.
“It came from London, I believe,” the footman said.
“Mr. Reynolds said that Lord Devereaux has been in Town this past sennight. Perhaps it’s from him?
” His forehead creased into a frown. “I do hope there’s nothing in there to give you cause for concern, ma’am.
I can send for your maid if need be—or Mrs. Brougham. ”
Her heart racing, Olivia tore open the package. A note fell out, bearing her name, and carrying the faint aroma of masculine spices, together with a small package, tied with a thin white ribbon, on which was written the inscription Mme Beaulieu, hosier.
Hosier…
Olivia picked up the package and held it to her chest.
“You may go and take your breakfast now,” she said. “I’ll call if I need anything. Forgive me, I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Colin, ma’am,” the footman said. “Mr. Reynolds appointed me yesterday.”
“Then you’re newly arrived? Welcome to Penham Park, Colin,” Olivia said, smiling. “I hope you’ll be happy here. Tell Mrs. Groves I said to give you a good breakfast for your first day. I hope you like bacon.”
A faint blush colored his cheeks, then he stammered his thanks, bowed, and exited the breakfast room.
Olivia waited for his footsteps to recede before she untied the ribbon and opened the package.
Cradled in a nest of tissue paper was a pair of silk stockings, together with a pair of brown garter ribbons.
The stockings themselves had a fine weave, giving them a sheer appearance, like the surface of a pearl, and the tops were trimmed with delicate lacework.
She ran her fingertips across the material, relishing the softness.
Then, slowly, glancing toward the door, as if she were engaging in something very decadent, she lifted them up to the light.
Sparkles shimmered across the fabric as if it contained tiny pieces of the sun.
They were the finest stockings she had ever seen.
Her hand trembling, she opened the note and read it.
Olivia,
I regret I am unable to return from London as soon as I would like and am likely to be required here for at least a month. Please accept this gift as a token of my desire to return home.
Yours,
Charles.
Not the most effusive of notes. Gallant suitors were supposed to shower the objects of their affection with professions of love and clever rhyming couplets.
But Olivia’s husband was not a man to make gushing speeches—or any speech at all.
A lengthy note filled with superlatives, a sonnet, or even a lavish gift of jewelry would have lacked sincerity.
A husband who thought little of his wife would placate her with fine words and expensive gifts.
Instead, Charles had written a short note, sincere in its brevity, and sent a gift that recalled the day he tended to her ankle with such gentleness that belied his brutish appearance and large, powerful hands.
After Olivia finished her breakfast, she rang the bell. The young footman appeared.
“Oh, Colin, I hope I didn’t interrupt your breakfast.”
“No, ma’am. I’m a fast eater. My ma always said that my brothers would starve if they didn’t beat me to the table of a morning, and I’m partial to a bit of bacon. Mrs. Groves let me have five rashers! I’d have taken six, except Mr. Reynolds…”
“Except Mr. Reynolds what?” a stern voice said.
“Oh, lawks!” The footman winced, his face going as red as fire.
“What did I tell you about gossip, young man?” The butler stood in the doorway. “Lady Devereaux is not to be disrespected.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Reynolds,” Olivia said. “I was just asking Colin whether he’d enjoyed his breakfast.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The young footman bowed, then began clearing the table, stacking plates onto a tray.
“Which reminds me,” the butler said, “I must ask Mrs. Groves to order another side of bacon from the village as I suspect our supply will diminish somewhat rapidly from today.” His mouth curled into a smile, and he winked at Olivia. “No doubt Lady Devereaux summoned you to discuss the matter.”
“Oh, beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Reynolds, I didn’t mean—”
“I believe Mr. Reynolds is teasing you, Colin,” Olivia said. “But I was wondering if you could send for Mr. Carlton if he’s free this morning. I’d like him to join me for tea.”
The butler arched a dark brow. “It’s not the done thing to take tea with the steward.”
“But it is the done thing to discuss a matter concerning the estate expenditure with him, is it not?”
The butler’s smile disappeared. “Very well, I shall send for him. I believe he’s in the estate office and can attend to you directly. Do you wish him to bring the ledgers?”
“Would you recommend that he does?”
“Without knowing the purpose of your demands, I’m not in a position to say.”
“Then he may bring them,” Olivia said, rising.
What had caused the disapproval in his eyes? He’d almost acted as if he liked her earlier. When they’d taken tea yesterday, Nicola described the butler as “a pompous cockroach who thinks himself better than most,” but until today, he’d given Olivia no reason to believe he looked down on her.
Perhaps the estate finances were not a woman’s province—at least, not for a woman of questionable birth.
Would she ever be able to fit in here—prove herself worthy to be Countess Devereaux?
*
Though still as threadbare and shabby as the day she’d first entered it, at least the morning room had lost the stench of damp.
A fire burned brightly, casting a soft orange glow about the room, giving it a warm, welcoming appearance—in contrast to the dull gray of the landscape outside that was overshadowed by a thick black cloud.
Olivia sighed, her breath misting on the windowpane.
Then she traced the outline of a flower on the glass, peering through the marks toward the gardens, where a solitary man poked at the weeds.
He was but a lone soldier attempting to hold back the tide.
With each weed he pulled from the ground, doubtless another ten sprouted elsewhere.
There was a knock and she startled, then wiped the window with her sleeve and turned to see the butler enter with a smartly dressed man carrying a large leather-bound book, jet-black hair graying at the temples.
“Lady Devereaux, we have yet to be introduced. I am…”
“Mr. Carlton, the steward, yes,” she said. “I appreciate your attending me at such short notice.” She motioned to the butler. “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds, you may leave us.”
“Very good, your ladyship.” The butler exchanged a glance with the steward, then withdrew, closing the door.
“Please.” Olivia gestured to a chair and the steward sat, clutching the book to his chest, as if he feared she might appropriate it. “First, let me I assure you that I’ve no wish to meddle in the affairs of the estate, or any decisions that my husband has made.”
He seemed to relax.
“I have a number of arrangements I wish you to make,” she continued, “but before I instruct you, I would ask for your discretion.”
“You have it, Lady Devereaux.”
“I take it you’re aware that I have an annuity in my name?”
He colored and nodded.
“I wish to capitalize a portion of that annuity and would like you to act as my agent.”
“B-but your husband…”
“My husband is not here, Mr. Carlton, and I do not want him to know of the arrangement until I deem it appropriate.”
“Forgive me, Lady Devereaux, but I cannot act against the interests of his lordship.”
He glanced toward the door, and Olivia tempered the anger simmering in her heart.
“I take it you’ve been talking to Reynolds, who no doubt has told you that as a woman and a natural child I have no right to make any requests of you and must restrict myself to matters concerning the household, such as how much bacon Mrs. Groves is permitted to order?”
Carlton’s eyes widened, and the ledger slipped from his grasp.
“F-forgive me, Lady Devereaux, I knew nothing of your…” He gestured toward her, a blush spreading across his cheeks and even staining the tips of his ears pink.
“I’m surprised to hear that,” she said, bitterly. “I’d have thought the gossip would have spread halfway across the county by now. If not the circumstance of my birth, what did Reynolds tell you?”
“To comply with your requests, your ladyship, and treat you with respect.”
“Oh, I-I thought…”
“You thought that because of your sex and birth I would not consider your wishes?”
“Isn’t that what you’re saying?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Of course not. I’ve often considered women to be the more capable sex—Mrs. Brougham, for example…” He paused, a smile on his lips.
“But?” Olivia prompted him.
“But I cannot act contrary to the best interests of Lord Devereaux. Which includes keeping secrets from him.”
“You think I wish to act against my husband’s interests?” Olivia said. “Would you not at least hear what I have to say? After all, it’s my annuity. My brother settled it upon me when I married Lord Devereaux.”
“The estate has little in the way of capital, Lady Devereaux.”
“I am aware of that, Mr. Carlton. My husband has used the available capital for the benefit of the tenants. But tell me…has he spent any of it to his own personal benefit?”
The steward retrieved the ledger from the floor and placed it on his lap. “Lord Devereaux is not the type of man to indulge in frivolities for the sake of his own pleasure.”
“Which is why I wish to indulge in them on his behalf.”
“I beg pardon?”
“I would like to do something about the gardens—have them remodeled into something a little more…”
She glanced out of the window, where the gardener was still battling the weeds.
“Something more natural and welcoming. Easier on the eye and easier on that poor gardener. My brother knows of an excellent man—Mr. Baxter. Have you heard of him?”
Carlton nodded. “Mr. Lawrence Baxter? He has something of a reputation for originality when it comes to garden design. It was he who remodeled the gardens at Dartworth Park last year, but he’s expensive.
Four hundred, I heard his fee was, and the Dartworth gardens are not so extensive as the gardens here.
The Devereaux estate simply does not have that kind of ready capital. ”
“But I do. The value of my annuity is ten thousand. And Mrs. Brougham tells me that my husband was fond of the gardens when he was a boy, though he disliked the house itself.”
“I don’t know…”
“Mr. Carlton, if my husband can spend his fortune for the benefit of the tenants, may I not spend mine for the benefit of my husband?”
“Yes, but why not inform him?”
“Because I don’t want him concerning himself with the arrangements,” Olivia said. “I would like to manage it myself, to show him that I can be useful, and therefore I want it to be ready when he returns from London.”
“That’s impossible, your ladyship. Lord Devereaux might return any day.”
“My husband wrote to say he was expecting to be in Town for a month. Surely that would be sufficient time to at least make a start on the gardens?”
“He wrote to you?”
“He sent me a gift,” Olivia said, and she blushed as she recalled the stockings. After breakfast, she’d hidden them in her bedchamber at the bottom of a drawer, to be taken out when Charles returned. Perhaps he might want to watch as she put them on, or…
…he might like to take them off.
“I daresay Mr. Baxter might be persuaded,” Carlton said, “particularly if he’s acquainted with your brother.”
“Then I’ll write to my brother and ask him to persuade the man. In the meantime, if you could arrange for the release of funds on my behalf, I’d be most grateful.”
“Very good, your ladyship,” the steward said. “I can make arrangements to release a sum of, say, five hundred? That should be more than sufficient.”
“One thousand, if you please. Or, to be precise, one thousand and twenty five.”
“I hardly think—”
“I wish to make a second purchase.”
“Which is?”
“A horse.”
“A horse?” Carlton shook his head. “A mare for your ladyship shouldn’t cost more than fifty—a hundred at most. And I’m sure Lord Devereaux would be more than happy to arrange the purchase himself on his return.”
“The horse is not for me,” Olivia said. “I’m not much of a horsewoman, I’m afraid. It’s for my husband. A very specific horse.”
“For five hundred and twenty-five pounds?”
Olivia nodded. “That is five hundred guineas, is it not? If my brother’s willing to sell, of course. I shall write to him directly.”
“But…” Carlton hesitated, then understanding gleamed in his eyes and, for the first time that morning, he smiled. “I take it you don’t wish me to inform Lord Devereaux until the purchase is completed?”
Olivia nodded.
“May I ask why?”
An onset of shyness threatened to overcome her, and she glanced toward the window, aware of the steward’s eyes on her. Outside, the gardener had moved, though he continued to make slow progress, winning, perhaps, the battle against the weeds, but not the war.
“I want to be there when he first sees his gift,” she said, her heart swelling. “I want to see him smile.”