Chapter Twenty-Five
Augustus,
We have reached the countryside at last. Eloisa has a beautiful house here and it delights my heart to be out of the commotion of the city. I have never known anything but London. I had not known the country could be so lovely—or so healing. I would not say that I have stopped missing you yet, but it does lessen the ache.
And so does my friendship with Eloisa. She is ten years my senior, but we are quickly becoming friends. She lost her husband in London—he was very ill, it was not sudden, but still she is heartbroken. We are both quite lovelorn, only in different ways. We live a retired life here in the country, so perhaps it is not strange that we are becoming such good friends. I do think I could find a kind of happiness here. Maybe, one day, I will even be so lucky as to stop loving you.
Olivia
*
The next fewweeks were, without a doubt, the happiest of Montaigne’s existence. The only weeks in this life that could compete would have been those he spent with Olivia during that first summer—but he could see now that, even back then, a pall of secrecy had dampened what they were to each other. Now, while their relationship was not one that he could yet display to the world, he could own it to those he cared about most—and he could spend time with her without worrying about their exposure. He had never known such bliss.
He and Olivia had become integrated into each other’s lives with a speed he had not thought possible. While he still nominally lived at Carrington Place, and she still claimed Mrs. Mapperton’s lodgings as her home, the truth was that they had begun to live together at the new town house. As the weeks progressed, without even really trying, they were making it into a home of their own.
While they eschewed ton events, where they could not present themselves as a couple without courting notoriety and scandal, they were far from lonely. Montaigne dined with her, Mrs. Mapperton, and Nathanial, multiple times a week, as if all present hadn’t once thought him the most notorious rake in London. And Olivia came nearly every day to Carrington Place to take tea with his mother and sisters. Between her and Willa a particular closeness had sprung up which gladdened his heart. While Montaigne could never have said he had a favorite sister, Willa was extremely dear to him—and if he could have chosen one sibling for Olivia to be close with, it would have been her.
Even Olivia and his friends fell into an easier rapport than he expected. Of course, it was not perfect. She viewed him so differently than his friends did. He had to admit that she knew him better. Sometimes, when he thought of the gulf between how Olivia now saw him and how his friends thought of him, it filled him with a piercing anxiety. Even what his friends called him—“Montaigne” or “Monty”—was so different from how Olivia addressed him, always as “Augustus,” all vowels and gentleness.
But, as of now, even Leith and Olivia seemed to get along. Given Leith’s skepticism about their relationship, Montaigne had been worried how he would react to this latest development, particularly when he explained that, as of yet, Olivia had refused to marry him. Thus far he had worried for naught. After Catherine and John had hosted one of their private picnic dinners in Olivia’s honor, Leith had begun to come by the townhouse by himself some evenings, taking a glass or port and engaging them both in amiable chat. It gave Montaigne unspeakable delight to see his oldest, dearest friend and Olivia on such good terms, even if she was still getting used to Leith’s quirks, especially his rather strange attitudes towards his own erotic life.
“You should bring Mrs. Porter with you next time,” Olivia said to Leith one evening, referring to his mistress of the moment, a courtesan who was regarded as one of the most fashionable women of the demimonde.
Leith laughed, swilling the port in his glass. They had just had a very fine meal which Olivia had coordinated with more real elegance than Montaigne had seen in most of the finest homes of the ton. He had provided her with a small staff when he had set up the townhome and he had expected them to be adequate. What he had not expected was his lover’s acuity with domestic arrangements. Every dinner, every detail of the house, transformed under her guidance into something unusually lovely. He was sure Leith, who was sensitive to such nuances, had noticed, and that it was not a small part of why he came to see them so regularly.
“I thank you for your generosity, Miss Watson, but I am not at all sure that Mrs. Porter and I will be on such intimate terms for much longer.”
Montaigne watched Olivia’s brow furrow. “Has she done something to displease you?”
Leith shifted in his armchair, casting a glance at Montaigne, as if asking for help in his explanation. Montaigne knew that Leith seldom stayed with a mistress for longer than two weeks. He was notorious for it. But the truth was that he didn’t necessarily understand his friend’s logic himself. If he enjoyed a woman, why not keep their liaison for longer? When they had been younger, he hadn’t been too interested in the answer to that question, wrapped up as he was in his own heartbreak. Back then, he could have asked. But sometime in the past few years, as their friends had married, Montaigne realized that he didn’t understand why Leith behaved the way he did with his mistresses—and, all of a sudden, asking for an explanation felt impossible. The question would have been, somehow, judgmental. Hostile, even.
“No, of course not,” Leith said, adjusting a cravat that was already more than straight enough, “It is merely that…Well, Monty knows I don’t go in for long-standing connections.” He smirked. “In fact, not too long ago, that was something Monty understood very well himself.”
He tried not to visibly wince at this statement. Both because of how callous it must sound to Olivia, so like her old idea of him, and also because she now knew how untrue it was.
Out of discomfort, Montaigne cleared his throat. “Leith doesn’t care for a long liaison, as a rule, it’s true.”
“And why is that? What is your fear?” Olivia asked, her tone delicate. “Do you worry about becoming responsible for someone?”
Leith crossed his arms, clearly not enjoying this line of questioning.
“It is not that, exactly. I just prefer…” He drifted off, uncrossing his arms again and gesturing as if searching for the word, “…order. And if a liaison goes on for too long, it becomes messy. Untidy. I hate untidiness.”
Montaigne looked at his oldest friend, with his high-starched cravat and his impeccable waistcoat. It was true that he had become only more rigid with the years. He hadn’t necessarily noticed it happening, but the result was now plain before him.
“Well,” Olivia said, her tone kinder, Montaigne realized, than his friend probably deserved, “Mrs. Porter—or any of your other paramours—are always welcome here. If you ever feel that it would not be too complicating.”
Not long after this exchange, Leith left the townhouse, and he and Olivia lounged, as they often did in the evenings, on the sofa. He loved this part of the evening with her especially. He knew that, once they went upstairs, they would be intimate, and it enhanced the pleasure of this time together before sleep. It was as if they had something very delicious they would soon enjoy but, in putting it off, they savored it. In these times together, they would often simply talk, filling in the blanks of their years away from one another, or they would share an after-dinner sweet, a box of chocolates or a glass of wine, and read aloud from a new novel. Sometimes, they would read the newspapers, always making sure to skip the scandal sheets. Montaigne dreaded encountering anything about themselves—anything that would puncture their nest of security and happiness.
One night, when they were sitting in this way, Olivia revealed that she had written to Mr. Laurent and told him that she could not marry him. He had felt himself exhale, not realizing how much he needed to hear the words.
Tonight, however, the conversation soon turned to Leith.
“I hope he did not mind my questions about Mrs. Porter,” Olivia said, “But it does seem odd that he is so reluctant to have a relationship with a woman that lasts any length of time, despite always having a mistress. Is it just for my sake? Does he ever bring his mistresses to meet you?”
“He used to,” Montaigne said, realizing that there had been a time when Leith had been less fastidious, “But he has done so less and less over the years. And now I can’t even think of the last time. He has become more…mechanical. His arrangements seldom last longer than two weeks. I can’t keep track, truth be told, of which courtesan he is with.”
“Does he treat them poorly? The courtesans?”
Of course, Montaigne thought, she would be concerned about his treatment of his mistresses. It occurred to him that he should probably have been more concerned about it before now.
“No,” he said, truthfully, “I believe they know the arrangement. He has a certain reputation—I am not sure how to explain it.”
“Please try.”
“Well, it is my impression that the courtesans regard him—not as a rite of passage, exactly, but as a way for a woman to garner…a certain distinction at the beginning of her career. If she is known to have been the Marquess of Leith’s mistress, other men will become interested, as well.”
“So, Leith is a courtesan tastemaker?” He could tell from Olivia’s expression that the idea was not completely savory to her. And, indeed, the truth was that it was, rather, an unsavory business.
“Essentially. I do not think the women expect constancy or hope for anything more. He is a stepping stone for them—to more lasting arrangements with other men. And he treats them, lavishly, of course, during their time together. Jewelry, gifts of money, that sort of thing. It is undoubtedly more, all told, than if he kept one woman.”
Olivia nodded, her head on his chest. The weight of her body against his was so comforting. Their intimacy felt like a ballast against the spring chill that Leith had departed into.
“Even if the women understand what to expect from him, it still seems a curious life for a man to lead,” she said, tentatively, “I don’t mean to judge him harshly. It only seems rather sad.”
“I agree,” Montaigne said, putting his arms around her and pulling her closer. Right now, his friend’s life, which had never before struck him as particularly unusual, appeared positively hellish. When he had this woman beside him, warm and loving and radiant, Leith’s orderly existence seemed stripped of all comfort.
“Do you ever think of telling your friends the truth about yourself?” Olivia said, startling him with her new tact, “I am not suggesting that you should—but does it feel strange to you, that they think of you as this rake, this seducer, when that is not what you are at all?”
“Not at all?” Montaigne teased her, amused by her characterization of him. “I wouldn’t say not at all. I seduced you, didn’t I? Can you not be a rake for one woman?”
“Perhaps,” she laughed, “But that is not usually what is meant by the term.” She sighed. “I just think it must be lonely for you. To not have your friends really understand you.”
He frowned, not because she was wrong, but because he didn’t like to admit that she had a point.
He sighed. “I will admit that at times—it has been challenging.”
“And it is how they see you, Augustus. Leith said tonight that, until recently, you didn’t like a long-standing association yourself. Or John the other evening, referencing your affair with a servant girl at Edington Hall years ago.”
“John shouldn’t have said such a thing in front of you.”
“It’s not that,” Olivia said, “I wasn’t offended on my own behalf, especially since I know it is not true. But I couldn’t help but feel that for you it must be very uncomfortable. How did you keep such a rouse going? They are your closest friends and yet they have an idea of you that is completely wrong.”
“Not completely,” he said, feeling defensive. “When I was younger, I really was that way.” Olivia turned and leveled him with a gaze, her brows rising towards her hairline. “Alright, not quite, exactly. But I was a young rogue—a rake, even, before I met you. I was not as bad as I seemed, later, but I was quite…I enjoyed myself.”
“That is true,” Olivia said, “I had not thought of that. You seemed full of good humor and mischief when I met you.”
“My friends and I, when we were at Eton, and at Oxford, before I met you, we had many adventures. Leith was even then more fastidious and orderly about his attractions and John and Trem and I were wilder. I had no one to rein me in, really, and no reason to deny myself pleasure.”
“But that was more than thirteen years ago now. You haven’t been that boy for a long time.”
He sighed. It was true. He had been lying to his friends for so long that it had stopped seeming like a choice. Now that he had told her the truth, what his friends thought of him did feel worse.
“Before you came back,” he said, wanting her to understand, “there was no reason, I felt, to tell them the truth. It didn’t even occur to me. The lie was so convenient. But I will admit, now, because of you, it is strange. That you have such a different view of me than they do.”
When he thought about it, as she was forcing him to now, the discrepancy became unbearable. But the idea of his friends finding out the truth, that he had been lying to them for years about his sexual endeavors, was too uncomfortable to contemplate. That he had lied to them for so long about how he spent his time, who he was as a person…They would, of course, be bewildered if he were to reveal it.
“I would never say anything to them,” Olivia said, seeming to sense his anxiety, “I just can’t imagine it is pleasant for you.”
“They would feel betrayed,” he said, knowing it was true, “I used to tell myself that, if they discovered the truth, it would be a trifle. What could they care about what I did or did not do in the bedroom and with whom? But the truth is, if I told them now, after so many years, I know they would feel tricked. How could they not? I would in their position.”
“Surely, they would forgive it.”
“John and Trem would. Leith—I am not so sure.” He couldn’t explain why, but the lie in Leith’s case seemed bigger somehow. Perhaps it was because he felt that his best friend had always used his supposedly scandalous exploits, which were more notorious than Leith’s, as justification for his own proclivities. And Montaigne had always let him do so, even when he knew that, in truth, such solace was completely illusory.
Montaigne sighed. He did not want to think any more about his friends and the many lies he had told them over the years.
Instead of lingering on these unpleasant thoughts, he put his mouth to Olivia’s ear.
“Let’s go to bed, my love.”
She smiled up at him. “I thought you’d never ask.”