Chapter Five
The passage of the following sennight without any word from Alastair helped Olivia arrive at the realization that she would have to make her own way.
She tried not to think of his absence in terms of its finality.
Even the most fleeting thought that he might have met a very bad end had the power to bring her to her knees.
It was the same when she considered that he meant to abandon her.
She knew a depth of such despair that it incapacitated her, and the hollowness of that feeling added to her fear.
Alastair’s failure to present himself had other explanations that Olivia preferred to entertain.
At the forefront of these was that Sir Hadrien had refused to advance Alastair’s allowance.
Olivia reminded herself that this turn did not mean her brother would not return, but merely that she could expect he would be a very long time coming.
It would be as it had been. She’d managed to live on her wits—and not much else—once before.
There had been no expectation then that she would be rescued; indeed, she had never thought of her life in terms of captivity.
It was as it was. She managed each day as she had each yesterday, and if she allowed herself to think that something might be different on the morrow, it was just in those moments before she slept and only in the early days when she still believed she could order her dreams.
Olivia knelt on the cushioned window bench in Breckenridge’s bedroom with her palms pressed to the glass.
Looking down her nose at Putnam Lane in only the most literal sense, she could easily count the number of pedestrians at this time of morning.
A mere hour earlier, when Mason had escorted her to the park, there’d been almost no one about.
She’d had occasion on some of her walks to spy late-night revelers finally stumble from the hells or glimpse gentlemen in the act of straightening their frock coats and flies as they departed the brothels.
Mason invariably steered her away from these sights, although Olivia suspected it was done as much in aid of preserving his own dignity as it was in acknowledgment of her sensibilities.
She so appreciated the effort he made on her behalf that she did not disabuse him of the notion that she possessed any finer feelings. She simply accepted his direction and allowed him to lead on.
Olivia smiled as she watched a pair of women emerge from the townhouse opposite her.
Linking arms, they lightly descended the steps.
They both wore wide-brimmed bonnets that hid their faces, one decorated with an assortment of plump fruit and the other with colorfully dyed ostrich feathers.
These adornments bounced and swayed in lively accompaniment to their movements.
In tandem, the women seemed to sense they were being watched.
Uncertain of how well they could see her, Olivia nevertheless retained her smile as they looked up.
It was difficult to know whether they were startled by her presence at the window.
Their faces were so brightly painted that their expressions were lost to her.
She ventured a wave and knew herself to be ridiculously pleased when they responded in kind.
The communication was brief. The women were about other business that encouraged them not to tarry.
Olivia watched them hurry away and entertained herself wondering where they were going.
It seemed likely that with their particular tastes and devotion to fashion, they were leaving Putnam Lane to frequent the shops of their favorite dressmakers and milliners.
She envied them their freedom, though not their destination.
This last week she had spent interminable hours being fitted for all the clothes she had never wanted.
There had been no easy surrender on her part, but she didn’t suppose that mattered.
In the end, she’d given in, and that’s what she imagined that Breckenridge would remember.
It was of no consequence to her that the clothes were castoffs.
Discovering that they had belonged to his lordship’s wife was of less account to her than discovering he had a wife.
Still, her refusal to accept them was predicated on the fact that she’d had her own clothes but apparently no rights regarding their retention or disposal.
Breckenridge had ordered all of her garments—with the exception of her outerwear—returned to her.
Her initial pleasure faded when she realized that although every article had been laundered, the acrid scent of smoke lingered on all of them.
The odor could not be masked with soap or fragrance.
It had worked its way into the warp and weft of the fabric and would not be removed.
Olivia might have stubbornly insisted on wearing them anyway if not for the fact that the mere act of breathing in the presence of the clothes prompted an unpleasant visceral response.
Coupled with the memories that flooded her, she finally admitted that keeping them might soothe her wounded pride, but would give her no peace.
She offered no explanation to Mason when she told him that she’d reconsidered her decision not to accept Breckenridge’s offering. The valet ventured no comment nor gave any hint of his own feelings on the matter. He simply nodded and went about the business of making it so.
It was a bit galling that Mrs. McCutcheon arrived that very afternoon with several pieces nearly completed in their alterations.
Olivia surmised from this that Breckenridge had never believed there would be any other outcome than that she would fall in with his wishes.
She could no longer even accuse him of high-handedness, not when he’d put the choice before her.
How difficult, she wondered, had it been for him to do that?
Olivia shifted on the bench so that she was no longer kneeling.
She pushed an embroidered pillow behind her back and leaned against the alcove wall.
The fullness of her gown fell over her legs.
Folds of pink India muslin slipped over the side of the bench and left her ankles and feet exposed.
She wiggled her toes and felt her pale pink silk stockings stretch with the movement.
She wished that she might not take pleasure from wearing anything so fine, but it was like asking her not to appreciate sunshine on her face or the sound of a child’s laughter.
Mrs. McCutcheon had transformed Lady Breckenridge’s wardrobe by repositioning the waistline to its natural level, adding fullness to the sleeves, rounding the bodices, and moving the ornamentation to the hemline.
The fabrics she had to work with were of the best quality: Chinese silk, satin, cambric, soft muslin, brushed velvet, and tulle.
There were cloth-covered and mother-of-pearl buttons instead of flat copper hooks and eyes.
There were dresses for day, for evening, for walking, and for taking a turn in a carriage.
Every gown was lined in cotton or sarcenet or silesia.
She had undergarments of the finest batiste: chemises, petticoats, drawers, and shifts.
There were slippers and hose to match her gowns, half-boots to be worn on walks, ribbons for her hair, and cashmere shawls with fringe that brushed her skin with such delicacy that she’d heard herself sigh with the contentment of it.
If she could believe Breckenridge, she was not beholden to him for any of it.
Still, her own conscience was not so easily cleared of its sense of obligation.
It made her vaguely uneasy that he had asked for nothing in exchange, and she could not shake the notion that he kept a mental ledger of every favor he extended her, whether or not she was pleased to accept it.
She lifted the book she’d been reading from the narrow sill but did not open it. Breckenridge had passed on to her a Gothic novel that she was almost certain could not have come from his own library. It had kept her up well past midnight so that now she used the back of her hand to stifle a yawn.
The hell was quiet if one discounted the occasional banging and rumble of deep male voices coming from the carpenters and painters working in her former room.
She had yet to be invited to see their progress, but she believed they must be nearing the end of their work and that very soon she would be permitted to return.
It was not that Breckenridge’s bedchamber was inherently uncomfortable, only that she was made uncomfortable because she had displaced him.
Listening between hammer blows and the barking of orders, Olivia strained to hear the sounds of stirring from Breckenridge’s study.
Sometimes she could hear him moving about, especially if he was in what she thought of as one of his dark moods.
On those occasions she could make out his heavier tread in the hall and feel the shudder of his door when he closed it.
If he drank there might follow the sound of breaking glass or a series of thumps as stacks of books were toppled to the floor.
She imagined that neither was caused by carelessness.
Griffin Wright-Jones, the honorable Viscount Breckenridge, would have taken deliberate aim.