Chapter Twenty-Seven
Augustus—
I am proud to say that it has been years—nearly two—since I wrote you one of these silly letters. I do not know why I kept writing them for so long, when I have never had an intention of sending them, and when I am sure the man I write to has completely forgotten about a woman named Olivia Watson. I was finally able to break myself of the ridiculous habit when I met Mr. Laurent and began to imagine a different future for myself.
However, today, I learned that I will return to England and, consequently, I cannot stop thinking of you. I don’t suppose I will see you there, even though I will be in London again. I do not think the Mappertons’ circles will much overlap with your own.
Why is it, then, that I find myself hoping to see you? Even when I know what you have become? Your reputation is awful. The way you abuse women in service disgusts me. And yet I cannot fully believe that, somewhere, the boy I loved does not still live, too. How could he really be gone? Perhaps, that disbelief is what has me writing to you again.
But no more. I am returning to England, and this letter is, I promise myself, my last. I do not want to return home with any vestige of yearning in my heart.
Olivia
*
The next morning,the engagement announcement appeared in the society pages.
And Olivia still had not told Augustus about her conversation with Astrid.
They sat in their small breakfast room, the newsprint spread before them, and she felt her stomach contract uncomfortably. Seeing the words on the page, printed out so boldly, it seemed there was no turning back. She would soon be Lady Montaigne. Looking at the newsprint, she could imagine the objections of people like the Brightleys.
“I would tell you right now how happy it makes me to see these words in print,” Augustus said to her over his coffee, the steam curling around his head, “But you look practically green.”
“I can just hear what they are saying.”
“Who?”
“You know who—them, your world. The people in it. The ones who have known you your whole life and cannot possibly approve. The ones who wanted you for their own daughters or who are your second cousins once removed and who see it as a taint on their own family tree. The ones who have a vested interest in you not marrying a woman who was a maid in your house, who was a foundling, who—in their eyes—is nothing at all.”
She hadn’t realized that tears had sprung into her eyes, or that her voice was cracking, until it was too late. But then she found herself, just as quickly, in his arms.
“My love,” he murmured in her ear, “I can’t say I understand because it would be a presumption. The world I am from is the only one I have ever known. But it might soothe you to consider that these people, the ones you are referring to, have been discontented with me for years. They’ve read about my antics—”
“Your fictional antics—”
“My antics that appeared very real to them and have caused them to disapprove of me heartily. Their censure means nothing to me.”
She sighed.
She had to tell him about her conversation with Astrid. She had delayed this moment because it only augured ill. She sensed only peril lay along this path. Yet she could not keep such a revelation from him.
“That is not all.”
He pulled back, releasing her.
That strange blue of his eyes flashed in concern.
“What is it?”
“Yesterday, before we left Carrington Place, I encountered Astrid.”
Then, as succinctly as she could, she told him what the maid had told her.
“A man? She saw a man near your rooms? Near your tinderbox?” Augustus asked, when she had finished.
“That was what she said. Or, at least, what I think she said. Who do you think it could mean? What man could she refer to?”
Augustus bit his lip and then took a contemplative drink of his coffee. “Mr. Brownlow, perhaps. He could write in my hand and, as I said, he may have felt honor bound to do something if he thought I was too deep in an inappropriate entanglement. It is just…”
“What?”
“It doesn’t seem like him, that is all. I can understand why, from his perspective, he may have felt compelled to do it, and he certainly had the abilities. But skulking around the servant’s quarters? Leaving notes in your tinderbox? He was the type who would be much more likely to go to my mother and insist on your dismissal. Or come to me and tell me that I needed to think sensibly.”
“If not Mr. Brownlow, who could it be?” She paused, the question hanging in the air, terrifying her. “It was easier when I was convinced it was Astrid. I have considered whether she could be lying but—but her manner yesterday, it was so guileless and convincing. I don’t think it was her. I thought, it must be, but not after yesterday. Now that seems impossible.”
“We will figure it out,” Augustus said, “It could be that it was Mr. Brownlow after all. That would be, I must admit, a relief. But we should know who tried to part us back then. We are expected at my mother’s the day after tomorrow for tea and we can speak with Astrid then.”
Olivia nodded. She knew that he was right. They couldn’t let a mystery such as this one go unaddressed. And yet, inquiring more about this affair scared her, for reasons that she could not quite articulate. She felt that if they pulled on this thread, nothing good would come of it.
*
The next evening,Augustus had arranged for them to dine with his friends at John’s townhouse, and this meeting was to have a very particular purpose. She and Augustus did not want to read what the scandal sheets were saying about their impending union or read through the correspondence that, they both knew, was coming into Carrington Place for him—and which, they were well aware, might contain expressions of disapproval from his extensive family tree. They needed to know what others were saying about them and figure out how to respond, in order to smooth the way for themselves and for his unmarried sisters who still had their matches to make. However, Augustus had confessed that he did not particularly want to read over these reactions himself. And he had told Olivia that he didn’t want her reading them, either. So, he had come up with what, Olivia thought, was a rather ingenious plan. He enlisted his friends to read over the correspondence and scandal sheets and report what was in them and help them quell any dissent.
Olivia had agreed to this plan. She had been rather delighted by it, in fact. It did make the prospect of meeting the censure of his world more manageable. The Duke and Duchess of Edington, and the Viscount and Viscountess of Tremberley, were two of the most powerful, sought-after high-society couples. And they had weathered not a little bit of scandal themselves. Leith, too—and especially his mother, the Dowager Marchioness, the woman who had procured the Almack’s tickets for her and the Mappertons earlier in the season—was powerful in his own right. The prospect of their support made Olivia feel more optimistic, bolstered.
Catherine had arranged one of her indoor picnics for the occasion, so, when they arrived at Edington House, they were shown into the drawing room. There, all of Augustus’s friends had arrayed themselves, and they were surrounded by stacks of paper, a combination of his forwarded correspondence and scandal sheet newsprint. Seeing this evidence of society’s reaction to her engagement made Olivia feel immediately nauseous and her hopeful feeling began to wear a little thin.
Nevertheless, they joined the circle of armchairs. As they sat, Augustus said, grimly, “Alright, tell us the truth. How bad is it?”
“Not as bad as it could be,” Catherine said, carrying an air of matter-of-factness that, Olivia suspected, arose from making the best of a bad situation. Her eyes met Catherine’s curious, dark blue ones. “No, really. It isn’t. And the problems that are here—we can set them to rights.”
“Who is the worst of it?” Augustus said. “It’s my Uncle Charles, isn’t it? He acts as if he wasn’t descended himself from a duke and an opera singer. He likes to forget about that, because it’s on his mother’s side, and it has nothing to do with his title.”
“You’ll be happy to know,” Trem said, “That your Uncle Charles sent only a short congratulatory note. He did say something about hunting grouse in Scotland next year—it seems he expects to be invited. For that little token of filial affection, he seems prepared to be very accepting.”
“He can grouse hunt all he wants on my Scottish lands,” Augustus said, throwing up his hand, “Then, who is a problem?”
“The two main issues, as I see it,” Catherine interjected, “are the objections of certain family members, and then the coverage in certain scandal sheets—those with, shall we say, more Tory sensibilities.”
“You know, the absolute worst ones, the ones you would expect,” Henrietta chimed in. Olivia knew that Henrietta edited the influential The Lady’s Magazine with her friend Miss Cassandra Seymour. Augustus had told her that some in the ton complained that the publication had become too politically radical under their tutelage. These charges were ones, she understood, that Henrietta relished.
“I suppose nothing can be done about those,” Olivia said, “We’ll just have to bear it. Are they being very terrible?”
“They are not being kind,” Henrietta said, delicately, “They sneered at Percy’s marriage, too, mind you—but they kept it within certain limits because Percy is close friends with the Templeton heirs and Mr. Templeton has a rather large investment stake in nearly all of the Tory-leaning papers.”
This news surprised Olivia. She had not known such influence could be wielded over the scandal sheets.
“Luckily, I have my own connections,” Henrietta continued, “As a newspaperwoman, of a sort, myself. My publisher, Mr. Redmond, knows the editors at these publications and, thus, he knows their weaknesses. He is even friends with a few, despite their rivalries. He has suggested that if I extend certain high-society invitations to these men and their wives, that they would almost certainly be willing to cease printing unflattering items about your impending nuptials. I have written to them just now and expect that they will be become much more…pliable.”
“Thank you, Henrietta,” Olivia blurted out, shocked that this young, vivacious lady had such power at her fingertips.
“Of course. Anything for you and Monty.”
Trem smiled at his wife, clearly besotted by her cleverness. “She’s a marvel, I know.” He then cleared his throat. “And I may be of help with one of your relatives who seems a bit… overwrought.”
“Who?” Augustus asked.
“Your aunt Miriam.”
Augustus groaned. “I knew she would be trouble. What does she want now?”
“Who is your aunt Miriam?” Olivia asked, having never before heard the name.
“My father’s sister,” Augustus said, “I doubt she is really scandalized by our marriage. But she always wants something. Between my father and myself, we have given her more over the years than any sister of an earl could ever want—houses, jewels, money, and yet, still, she is sulky and resentful. She is a pain in the arse.” He paused. “But how can you help with her, Trem?”
“You know our lands border one another,” Trem said, “In Hampshire. For years, she has wanted me to host a hunting party with her, because her home is not large enough to accommodate the many, many guests she wants to invite. I have always put her off, obviously. But, I thought, she might be more amiable on the subject of your marriage, if I wrote to her and said that it is by your express wish that my wife and myself agree to host such a party with her.”
“Brilliant,” Augustus gasped. “That would be—Trem, I would be so grateful.”
The next hour or so was filled with similar revelations and resolutions. His friends would identify someone who was objecting to their marriage, who was making noise about estranging herself and Augustus from their social notice, and then they would produce a solution. Leith promised to use his mother’s influence at Almack’s to quell the objections of several society matrons who were in a flutter; John promised to invite an irascible second cousin and another difficult uncle to Edington Hall for his annual shoot. And Catherine promised to use her influence at the Horticultural Society to placate Augustus’s cousin who had written with her objections—it turned out that the woman desperately wanted to give a lecture on the fauna in her gardens. Such a privilege, it just so happened, was in Catherine’s power to bestow.
At the end, it seemed, Augustus’s friends—her friends, now, she supposed—had solved nearly every obstacle in the way of societal acceptance of their nuptials. Olivia was speechless with gratitude and from the shock of having so many powerful people willing to advocate for her.
The only issue was that Augustus now had a mountain of correspondence to conduct.
“All of these bribes and lightly veiled threats won’t write themselves,” he said, with a laugh. “After all, I suppose it is a small price to pay for this unusual wedding present you are all giving me.”
“You should have Leith write them for you, Monty, really,” Trem joked in response, “I am sure he can still do your hand. Olivia, I hope you are not shocked to learn that your fiancé used to get Leith to do his Latin lessons for him. I am not sure Monty ever learned a syllable of the language. Just as I am not sure if Leith ever read any of those history books they used to make us sweat over.”
For a moment, Trem’s speech settled on her, an alarm sounding within her at odds with his easy smile.
Leith could write in Augustus’s hand.
She met Augustus’s eye and saw that it was too late.
Something feral glinted in her fiancé’s eye.
No,she thought, but before she could say it, he was out of his seat.
And before anyone, perhaps even Augustus, knew what was happening, he had Leith by the throat and pushed up against the Duchess of Edington’s tasteful wallpaper.
“You absolute bastard. It was you! It was fucking you, all this time. And you never told me.”
Leith was making horrible gagging noises, his eyes bulging. Trem and John, who had seemed paralyzed by the sight at first, jumped up and began attempting to haul Augustus off Leith.
Their movement allowed her to find her own voice.
“Please, Augustus, no,” she pleaded. She understood his fury, but the color Leith was turning was awful. “Please, stop.”
Henrietta and Catherine remained frozen in seeming horror.
“Monty, let go, you’ll kill him,” John panted.
“What in the devil are you on about,” Trem screamed, when Augustus landed an elbow in his sternum. “Christ, Monty.”
Finally, John and Trem managed to pry Augustus off of Leith. Leith bent over, gagging and coughing.
“Would you care to explain?” Trem shouted, letting go of Augustus’s arm, but standing so that he could intercept him if he lunged back at Leith.
Augustus panted. Olivia wanted to go to him, but she found she couldn’t move. It was too awful. All she could think was that she had caused this problem. They were all such great friends, as they had just so well displayed, and she was ruining it—she always had and she always would.
“It was him,” Augustus shouted, pointing at Leith. “When Olivia disappeared, it was because she found a note. She thought it was from me. It was from me, it was in my hand, except I never wrote it. It gave her ten guineas and told her to leave. She believed that I didn’t want her anymore. We couldn’t figure out who had written it. We thought it may have been a maid servant or my father’s old secretary, Mr. Brownlow. But I should have known. Of course. It was him.”
“Leith, is this true?” John asked, his voice very grave.
Leith had straightened now, but his hand was still at his throat.
“I don’t know what he means.”
“You fucking liar. I know it was you. It all makes sense now. You knew about the ten guineas.”
Augustus turned to Olivia. “I told him—about our joke. I shouldn’t have. But I was young and in love and wanted to share my joy with my best friend. He knew what those ten guineas would have meant.”
Olivia looked at Leith. He was extraordinarily pale. She would have felt sorry for him—if she had been someone else.
“Why did you do it?” she asked. Her voice came out smaller and weaker than she would have liked.
“Fine,” Leith spat, “It was me. Alright? And I’ve regretted it ever since. I didn’t realize how overset you’d be, Monty—I didn’t. I thought it was just a liaison and that you were getting in over your head. That you’d be glad when she was gone. I am sorry, Olivia. It’s no excuse. I was young and foolish. I thought I was protecting my friend.”
Augustus lunged at him again, but John and Trem held him back. Without being able to pummel his best friend, Augustus began to yell instead—and Leith yelled back. Their voices bounced off the walls as everyone else stood rapt, in horror, as these two best friends said horrific things to each other.
So lost were they all to this unfolding madness that no one noticed when she, Olivia, slipped from the room. She had merely intended to give herself a break from the shouting, to think through this revelation, but, instead, she found herself in the street, walking the path back to Bloomsbury.
Olivia didn’t realize, at first, that she was crying, or why she felt so heartbroken. But by the time she reached Eloisa, she realized that tears were running down her face and that she felt gutted for a very specific reason.
Her worst fear, it turned out, was true.
Society, his world, would always come between her and Augustus.
She and Augustus Carrington were doomed.