Chapter Twenty-Six
Olivia had never before understood the meaning of true happiness. Not even when she had loved Augustus all those years ago had she really understood it. That had been joy, surely, their moments stolen from the normal drudgery of life, but it had not been this feeling of solid, bright happiness. For the first time ever, she could expect her contentment to continue from day to day. She did not worry about the prospect of it vanishing.
One evening, a few weeks after Augustus had given her the townhouse, Eloisa pulled her aside in the Mapperton drawing room. She and Augustus had dined, as they did frequently, with Nathanial and Eloisa. Nathanial and Augustus were discussing the latest play at the Royal Theater in the corner, which they had both enjoyed greatly, despite it being universally panned, and thus they were paying no heed to her and Eloisa.
“Olivia,” Eloisa said to her, “I must say that I have never seen you so happy.”
“I know,” she replied, keeping her voice low over her coffee. “It is true. I am.”
“Has it made you think differently? Of marriage?”
Marriage—of course, she had thought of it. She knew Augustus was happy with her now, happier perhaps than he had ever been. He still wanted to marry her. And when she was so happy with things as they were, it seemed foolish to not consider it. It was not that anything had changed in regard to her station or his in the broader world. However, such storms seemed easier to weather when she felt so sure of their love for each other.
“It has, a bit. Not that I think it will be any easier in terms of how society will see us. But I am happy, Eloisa. And I do find myself—well, I would like to be his wife.”
Her friend reached across and squeezed her hand. “I once made a very similar calculation.”
“You always say you never regretted it.”
“And I never have.”
Olivia looked across the room at Augustus. Whenever she let herself contemplate him in this way, she was always struck by her good fortune. To have such a handsome, kind, considerate man who loved her so ardently as her own exclusive property—what woman got so lucky? Why was she, out of all women, blessed with him?
That evening, she and Augustus were in bed, having just finished a very satisfying erotic interlude that involved experimenting, once more, with that beguiling toy phallus to which he had introduced her. Just as she began to drift off to sleep, Augustus roused her.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, moving from beside her and crossing the room.
She opened her eyes and could not keep the smile from her face, despite her drowsiness.
“I am not sure what to expect. The last time you had a surprise for me, it was a house.”
And she had grown, in a very short time, to love this last gift. She could not imagine, in fact, a more perfect dwelling. It was a simple structure of three stories, with rooms for a small staff on the highest level, and four bedrooms, none of them particularly large, on the second floor. Many might look at the townhouse and think it unremarkable or—she suspected in the case of the ton—hopelessly middling. For her, however, it was all she had ever wanted for herself. It was the perfect place, she had often begun to think, for a family.
“This surprise is hardly worthy of my last,” he said, approaching the bed and sitting back down upon it, his large hand clutched around something that it concealed. “In fact, it is hardly a gift at all.”
He brought forth a small box. She took it from him and opened it. When she saw what lay inside, she gasped. For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
“You kept it.”
His eyes twinkled. “Of course I did, Olivia.”
“I was sure you would have gotten rid of it long ago.”
“I thought of it. For a long time, I couldn’t even look at it. The thing filled me with bitterness. And yet I never could part with it. I thought, for a time, of giving it to one of the servant girls, so they could pawn it. But I never could.”
Her vision blurred with tears. It was strange to see the necklace again after so many years. It brought back the sweetness of when he had acquired it for her in the first place. Once, during that summer, they had been walking past a jewelry shop window and Augustus had seen her stop, just for a moment, to look at this necklace. He had asked her if she admired the piece and she had demurred. But, somehow, he had known. He had bought it for her, not long before she had received his last, horrible note, but she had insisted he keep it in his rooms. She had been afraid she would lose it or that it would be stolen. It had seemed unimaginably fine to her then. The fact that he had saved the necklace, that he had held onto it even when he thought her a jade who had left him without a word, seemed physical proof of his enduring love. Not that she needed it. By now, of course, she believed that he had loved her all this time. But seeing the necklace made it even more tangible. She felt a lump form in her throat.
“It is just as beautiful as I remember.”
And it was true—it was, even though she could see now how simple it was, almost austerely so. It was a coral pendant, small and smooth, practically a pebble. She wasn’t sure why she had been so attracted to it when she had seen it in the shop window. She had admired it for weeks, stopping to stare at it, wondering what it would be like to wear something so lovely. It moved her now how luxurious the piece had seemed to her then. She had seen many rare baubles up close now. She had worn a few, even, borrowed from Eloisa. She knew that this necklace would hardly be regarded as anything of note among most of the rich people—never mind the ton—of London or Paris. And yet it remained as exquisite to her as ever.
Just like him.
She looked at him as she had this thought. He was smiling at her sheepishly, somewhere between bashful and roguish. He appeared proud of himself but also a little embarrassed.
“I love it still,” she said, her voice going grave as she realized what she was going to say, “But I’d love it even more if it was set differently.”
He looked at her, a quizzical expression crossing his face.
“How would you like it set?”
“I want it set as a ring,” she said, closing her eyes for a beat longer than necessary, feeling as if she were throwing herself from a great precipice. She opened them again. “An engagement ring, to be precise.”
For a second, he looked at her without blinking, seemingly unable to absorb her words.
“You are serious?” he croaked, finally.
She put her hands over his. She had begun to cry, she knew, no longer able to contain the emotion that had stirred in her at the sight of the necklace.
“I am. I can’t imagine being happier than I have been the last few weeks. It seems so foolish to not embrace what we have. To not commit to it fully. I am not promising to be a countess—there will be much to figure out, much to discuss. But these last few weeks here, with you, have made a life with you seem possible, in a way that I felt so uncertain of before. I always loved you, Augustus, but now I believe in us. That, together, no matter what, we’ll always find a way to be happy—together.”
And then he was kissing her, and she realized, which made her laugh, just a little, that he was weeping, too. Both of their faces were wet from their tears, but they kept kissing and, when they weren’t, he was murmuring into her ear that she had made him the happiest man alive, that he would do anything for her, as long as he lived, she would be protected and cherished and adored.
Soon, between the kissing and emotion, the heat between them grew. She was already unclothed, as was he, and the only thing between them was the bedsheet. He peeled that away and she could feel him, hard and heavy, against her.
“Yes,” she panted, as he entered her, the feel of him exquisite, their intimacy an ecstasy she couldn’t believe she had found and then lost and then found again in one lifetime.
*
They told Eloisaand Nathanial first, over dinner the next evening. Nathanial looked so relieved—and Olivia had to admit that she was surprised by her young friend’s degree of investment in her relationship with Augustus.
“Were you afraid our relationship would become common knowledge, Nathanial, and it would ruin your pursuit of Miss Wallis?” she said to him slyly, while Eloisa tendered her congratulations to Augustus. “I did not know you could look so cheered.”
“You wound me, Olivia,” he said, with a warm smile, “No, it was not fear for my relationship with Miss Wallis. I flatter myself that such a thing would not disrupt her regard for me.” He straightened and blushed a little with this statement. His combination of pomposity and bashfulness was, she thought, truly endearing. “No, I was afraid you would refuse a man who loves you—and who can protect you. With Natasha married and—well—Miss Wallis and myself—and mother…” He trailed off, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. He was suggesting that he had been worried for her. He had worried what would become of her if the Mappertons each found love themselves.
“You shouldn’t have worried about me, Nathanial,” she scolded playfully, although, really, she was touched.
The young man shook his head. “You of all people deserve to be happy, Olivia.”
That night at dinner, which they hosted at their townhouse—even though, legally, it was hers, that is how she had come to think of it—they told his friends. His friends seemed to have expected it and congratulated them sincerely, even though Leith looked a little peaked. The man seemed a bit ill at ease that he would soon be the only one of his friends unmarried. He quickly seemed to adopt this status as a badge of honor, however.
“The last Rank Rake,” Leith said, during one of the many toasts that were had that evening, “To myself.”
Everyone had laughed, but Olivia could see his consternation was real, however he might try and hide it.
She was delighted by the warm reception, however, from Catherine and Henrietta.
“Monty said that you aren’t anxious to be a countess,” Catherine said to her, when they all sat in the drawing room after dinner, in a voice low enough that only she could hear, “And I just wanted to say that I felt just the same with John. At first, I was not sure how I would manage it all. Now, I forget about being a duchess most days, but I wanted to let you know that I understand the feeling.”
“Thank you,” Olivia said, appreciating Catherine’s sincere tone, even though she knew that it must have been much easier for the woman before her, a daughter of an old gentry family, albeit a scandal-ruined one, to see herself as a noblewoman. “I am not sure how we will arrange things now. Luckily, the Dowager Countess still sees to everything…I would not choose to change that, I must admit.”
Olivia had talked it over with Augustus; she wanted to stay in their new townhouse in Bloomsbury and ask his mother to continue in the role that she had inhabited for years. She did not need or want to be the mistress of Carrington Place, at least not yet. One day, she understood, it might be necessary, but not now.
“You should do,” Catherine said, touching her hand, “what makes you both happy.”
The next morning, when she and Augustus entered Carrington Place, she had her new coral engagement ring on her finger. He had gotten it reset, it seemed, in no time at all.
“I was very motivated, you see,” he said when he slipped it on in the carriage, “I need everyone, always, to know that you are mine.”
Now, they entered the drawing room where his mother and sisters waited for them. The Carrington women had no idea of their news, but that did not last for more than a minute. Petunia saw the ring on her finger.
“No! Is it true?” she cried, irrepressible as always, and reached for her hand. When they confirmed, Elizabeth cheered and Petunia clapped. Willa shook her hand, beaming.
The Dowager Countess was, of course, more demure than her daughters, but Olivia was relieved to see real happiness suffuse her expression.
“I cannot imagine a more perfect match for my son.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Mother,” Augustus said, coughing a little, she suspected, to cover his emotion. “We do want to discuss with you—”
“Of course, Carrington Place is yours, my love. I can move over to Periwinkle Circle with Elizabeth, Willa, and Petunia—”
“No, no,” Augustus said, his voice betraying his alarm at his mother’s suggestion, “We want you to stay here. At Carrington Place. All of you. I already have a townhouse where we will live—in Bloomsbury. Neither of us want to disturb you.”
While this sentiment was true, Olivia felt a pang at the dishonesty that she knew this utterance also contained.
“And it is not just that,” she forced herself to say, “You all know my origins. There will be those who object—”
“We will not listen to any of those people,” Petunia interjected, “If they say such things, they merely do not understand.”
“My daughter is right,” the dowager said, “The opinions of such people are not to be countenanced.”
“Thank you,” Olivia said. Their support was gratifying, but she still needed them to understand. “Nevertheless, it is Augustus that I love—” at this, he took her hand, “—not the notion of being a countess. I would be happier if we could live in a quieter way.”
“I see,” the dowager said, nodding her head, her expression inscrutable. Olivia hoped that she hadn’t offended her. “In that case, we will follow your wishes. What is important is that you are happy.”
Olivia could not be sure that the dowager was completely satisfied with this plan, but she was unsure why. Surely, it would be easier for her to stay in the life that she had always known than be disrupted. Nevertheless, she suspected that the dowager had thoughts she was not sharing. But she certainly did not dare to press her for her true feelings and Augustus seemed contented with his mother’s answer.
The rest of the tea passed pleasantly. They spoke of their wedding plans, how they were to marry in a small chapel in Bloomsbury and not St. George’s; they wanted to keep it as quiet as possible, so as not to stir the ire of those who might object. Oliva saw the Dowager Countess purse her lips at this preference, but, once more, if she had any real objections, she didn’t voice them.
Then, as they were leaving to return to Bloomsbury, a very curious thing happened. Augustus had gone upstairs to collect a few items from his rooms that he needed, having, of course, still most of his possessions at Carrington Place. Olivia had stepped into the small library, only a few doors down from the drawing room, to see if she might find a new volume for their nighttime readings.
“You probably don’t remember me, ma’am.”
Olivia turned at the sound of the voice and was confronted with a familiar face—but not one she had seen in quite some time. It was Astrid, her old compatriot, and, Olivia was sure, the person who had forged that last, horrible note from Augustus thirteen years ago. Now, Astrid stood, nervously, a few steps from the doorway.
Augustus was right; the years had been hard on Astrid. She had had a certain youthful, pale prettiness that had completely left her.
“Of course I remember you, Astrid,” she replied calmly.
“Oh, I am so glad to hear that, ma’am,” she said, her hands clasped before her, a smile breaking out on her face. “I have just heard the news, about you and Lord Montaigne, and I had to congratulate you myself.”
Olivia was not surprised to hear how fast the word had traveled among the servants. She was puzzled, however, by the look of sincere happiness on Astrid’s face.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Astrid took a step forward. “We were all so worried about you, when you left, Miss Watson, all those years ago. I worried about you myself, I did. I didn’t like the idea of you out there, with nothin’. I am ramblin’ now, I know, but I just wanted to say that I am so pleased for you, Miss Watson—that you’re back with Lord Montaigne and seem in such fine fettle.”
“Thank you,” Olivia repeated, unsure of how to react. Her words hardly seemed that of a woman who had instigated her departure from Carrington Place. She seemed so sincere. “I hope you are well yourself.”
The woman gave a little nod.
“I am just glad that man didn’t come between you and Lord Montaigne, in the end, ma’am. I saw him skulkin’ around that day, you see, but didn’t have any notion of what he was up to, or I am sure I would have warned you. But once you fled, I always knew it was his doing. I saw him near our rooms, near your tinderbox, where Lord Montaigne left you those notes, didn’t I? And what else could he be doing there but causin’ trouble? Yes, some kind of evil note for you, to scare you off, I suspected. Anyone could see that his lordship was cut up when you left, that it wasn’t what he wanted, and the countess herself had no part it in it, just as surprised as anyone that you vanished. And I knew you well myself—I knew you wouldn’t have left unless you felt you must, unless you felt you had no other choice. But here I go on again, wastin’ your time with these old things of the past. They’ve just weighed on me these years. I wish you joy, Miss Watson.”
With that, the woman curtseyed and left the room. Before Olivia could think to call her back, she was gone.
Olivia stood there, stunned.
That man.
She had no idea who Astrid spoke of.
But she did not welcome the unsettled feeling the revelation sparked inside of her.