Epilogue
Nine Months Later
When she and Augustus had been married for six months, the Dowager Countess made a confession that surprised and dismayed Olivia.
This revelation upended the tranquil life that she and Augustus had built.
As it turned out, the Dowager Countess was not, as she and Augustus had assumed, interested in being Lady Montaigne, society matron, for much longer.
“I am so sorry to do this to you, my dear,” she said, her eyes cutting down to her teacup, “But I cannot keep silent on the subject. I said I would give you six months. I’d give you more if I could.”
“I don’t understand, Alicia,” Olivia said, calling her by the Christian name, as she had since their wedding day, “What do you mean?” Somehow, she did not expect that her mother-in-law wanted to retire to a quiet place in the country.
“I want to travel!” the woman burst out, as if she could no longer contain the words, “I want to see the world. I have hardly left England since my honeymoon over thirty-three years ago. I have lived in London, primarily, for that long. The idea that I will die having spent my entire life going to the same narrow rotation of society gatherings—” she shuddered, “Olivia, you of all people must understand. I can’t do it. It is too horrible.”
“But of course we would not stop you from doing such a thing. You should travel all you want.” Olivia was not sure how Augustus would feel about his mother going too far afield, but she was sure he wouldn’t want her to be unhappy.
“With two unmarried daughters, I have responsibilities still. And this house, the social season—people expect there to be a Lady Montaigne, a Countess of Montaigne, and I cannot blame them. It is the duty of my position. I have enjoyed such advantages. It would not be right to abandon society and my own daughters, especially, unless…”
Olivia finally understood.
“You need me to be Lady Montaigne.”
“I wouldn’t ask you, dear, if I didn’t think you were up to the task, or if I thought that you couldn’t weather the arrows that society will, always, in its way, sling at anyone who is remotely different. But I know you are far too strong to let anything of the sort bother you now.”
It was true. While she had feared that his marriage to her would bring down the censure of society on her husband and make him unhappy, she now saw, as so often happened in life, that she had worried for naught. Of course, they had been subject to some rude remarks over the past six months, but it was nothing that Olivia had felt they weren’t equal to countering. It was not just the power of Augustus and his friends and his family, either. Nor was it even just the power of their love, which had deepened beyond her abilities of expression and in ways that she had not expected. She had discovered, inside of herself, a steeliness that she had known was there in other contexts, at other times in her life, but she had not thought could help her with this problem. She had been wrong. The first time the Viscount Brightley had sneered at her, she had given him such a savage cut direct that Catherine informed her that the man had been nearly mute in society for weeks afterward.
“We should speak to Augustus about it, when he returns from the stables.”
Her husband had gone out to see Percy’s new horse—he had bought it for Natasha and Augustus was contemplating buying another from the same breeder. The man bred ladies’ horses and he wanted to purchase one for Olivia so that she could learn to feel comfortable on horseback. She had never ridden herself and he thought she would enjoy it. She had to admit it did sound appealing. Percy insisted that the horse he had bought was sufficiently gentle. He even let his wife ride the mare these past few months, when it had become clear that she was with child and would soon be bringing another little Carrington into the world. “But I cannot imagine that he would feel differently than myself. It seems only fair to you, Alicia.”
“I am so grateful that you think so. And you have such a way with a household, Olivia. I could not imagine leaving Carrington Place in any hands more capable. Your townhouse—it is a jewel box. Your dinners, I wager, are better than mine.”
She laughed. “You need not flatter me, Alicia, to get your way. But I appreciate the compliment all the same.”
Olivia did not yet think she had exceeded the Dowager Countess’s domestic powers. But she had to admit that her years in service had given her an eye for detail, a talent, even, for the running of a house. She noticed that, when she dined in the houses of others, she could spot why a certain arrangement wasn’t working—whether it be due to issues with the servants, in their relationships with each other or their discontent with their position, or how a room needed to be arranged so that it shone to its best advantage.
Therefore, Olivia and Augustus had agreed to her mother-in-law’s proposal. While Augustus worried about his mother’s travels—she was to go to Europe and all the way, even, to Asia Minor—he knew it was the least she was owed after so many years of devotion to her family. They planned to move into Carrington Place soon after her departure.
Now, the Dowager Countess had left on her trip ten days ago, taking Petunia with her. The girl had insisted on traveling with her mother and, eventually, the dowager countess had admitted that she would enjoy the company. And, after all, at only eighteen Petunia had plenty of time to find her match. Olivia had watched as the girl bid adieu to Lord Edgar, who was both, somehow, her best friend and her besotted suitor. She didn’t understand the relationship between the two young people, but she saw that Lord Edgar seemed very upset that he wouldn’t see Petunia for the better part of a year.
They had only just gotten situated in Carrington Place, but, nevertheless, they both wanted to have a Christmas Eve party. It was a tradition of his mother’s and they wanted to continue it for their family and friends. Thus, despite the departure of the Dowager Countess and Petunia, Carrington Place was full. Augustus’s brother, Lawrence, and his family filled the entire third floor; his sister, Beatrice, occupied much of the fourth with her husband and two children.
For dinner, they would have the addition of Eloisa—now Mrs. Mapperton-Tombey—and her new husband. The newlyweds lived permanently now in Bloomsbury and Olivia had never seen her friend so happy. She suspected that she had not been this happy since her days with Mr. Mapperton. She was a person, it seemed, who bloomed in the security and warmth of partnership. Nathanial and his wife, now Althea Mapperton, would be in attendance as well. They split their time between France and London and had just come back to England for the season. And, of course, Percy and Natasha would be here. That was, if Natasha didn’t give birth first. She was very pregnant and they expected her to enter her confinement any day now.
And, of course, all three of the Rank Rakes and their wives would be there. They wouldn’t miss such an occasion for anything.
Olivia was most excited, however, to make sure that Willa and Miss Fairfax were comfortable.
Not long after she and Augustus had married, she had found her sister-in-law crying in the small library.
“Oh, Olivia,” she had said, throwing her arms around her, “I told her—and it went awfully. You should have seen the look on her face. I do not know how I will ever return to the orphanage—but nor do I know how I will ever stand losing her.”
She had been surprised to hear that Miss Fairfax had such a negative reaction to Willa’s confession of love. She could have sworn that the woman admired Willa in a way that exceeded the bounds of friendship.
“Perhaps, she was merely startled,” Olivia had said, “I would not give her up so quickly.”
“I suppose it is possible. Nevertheless, at the very least, we can still continue as friends. I can repress my feelings if it means we can return to normal.”
As it so happened, not long after this discussion, the butler announced Miss Fairfax and, taking one look at her, Olivia knew Willa had no reason to worry. Willa had gone to speak with her “friend”—and, ever since, the two women had established a very sweet understanding indeed.
In fact, given that she and Augustus had to vacate their Bloomsbury home to live at Carrington Place, Olivia had offered it to Willa and Miss Fairfax, who they all now called by her Christian name, Lily. The women lived there together. The Bloomsbury location, away from the prying eyes of the ton, had turned out to be ideal for them. From there, they were able to continue their work on the behalf of the orphanage—and be what they were: a couple very much in love.
To Olivia’s delight, Willa and Lily appeared as happy as she could wish at the party. In fact, the whole party was carried off seamlessly. The evening was beautiful, convivial, and warm despite the bitter weather out of doors—everything that she had wanted and orchestrated it to be. The only disappointment had been that Leith and his new wife had missed the festivities. He had been coming from his country seat and had been waylaid by a thrown carriage wheel.
“When will they arrive?” Catherine asked.
“Leith’s message said tomorrow,” Olivia responded. “I do feel so sorry that they were trapped at the inn.”
“I feel sorry for her. Leith could always do, in my opinion, with more suffering.” Henrietta laughed. She and Leith loved to needle one another.
“I do like her awfully,” Catherine said.
“As do I,” Henrietta added, “But I am not sure, however, that he fully deserves her. But I suppose they never do.”
Olivia, Henrietta, and Catherine laughed, as their husband’s sputtered out faux objections. All the men, if pressed, would say that Henrietta spoke the truth.
Nevertheless, Olivia knew that they were anxious for Leith’s arrival. In the months after their marriage, he and Augustus had not been on poor terms exactly, but things had not been the same between them. It was only once Leith himself had found love with his wife—and what an unusual story that had been—that relations between the two best friends had fully normalized. For her part, she had long forgiven Leith for his interference. While it had been a selfish, heartless act, she was not sure that she and Augustus would have come to a better end back then if left to their own devices. The situation may have ended painfully in some other way—and, perhaps, in some way more permanent. In fact, she was so happy with how things had turned out, that it was difficult for her to remain angry at anyone who had a hand in the sequence of events that had led them to the present moment.
That evening, after their guests had gone home, and Olivia had finished going over the plans for tomorrow with Mrs. Phelps—not only were they having a Christmas dinner with the family, but they were taking a veritable feast over to the orphanage, complete with presents for all of the children—she climbed the stairs to her bedroom with Augustus. While she had had a wonderful day, she very much craved to be with her husband alone, to curl up in his arms and find that place of intimacy that was all their own.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she saw his strong silhouette bent over a small desk in the corner of their new room. Approaching him, she smiled, but then she saw the distress on his face. His eyes were filled with tears.
“My love, what is it?” she asked, alarmed.
And then she saw what was on the desk before him.
She emitted a small gasp. She had never intended for him to see such a thing. She shouldn’t have kept them. They were beyond silly—and must be infinitely painful for him to read now.
“I know I shouldn’t have read them. But they were sitting right here.”
It was true, she had left the letters there. She had been hastily unpacking a box earlier and hadn’t been attending to what she left out, distracted as she had been with the excitement of the party.
“I wrote them when I didn’t know the truth,” she said, taking his hand, “I did not mean, I could not mean, what I said.”
“I am not hurt by your reproaches. If I had treated you thus, they would have been merited. And, of course, it pains me to see how you were so hurt by what happened. But that is not what affects me the most. It is the fact that you kept writing them at all. That, despite how it seemed that I had treated you, and all I seemed to be, you believed part of me was otherwise. That you still loved the man you thought you had known.”
She smiled. It was so like him to have the most generous interpretation of her actions, of her words.
“I did. I can’t deny it—why else would I have done something as silly as write letters to a man and not send them?”
“You weren’t the only one.”
He crossed to the bureau and pulled open a drawer. Her stomach did a strange flutter. No, it wasn’t possible.
Augustus pulled out a stack of paper and handed it to her. When she placed the papers on the desk and began to look through them, she saw that each began, as his old missives to her used to, with the simple salutation, Olivia—.
A lump formed in her throat and her vision blurred.
“You wrote to me, too,” she said, her voice cracking.
“I would have sent them. But I had no idea where you were.”
She looked up from the letters. Tomorrow, she would read each, wincing at his pain and reveling in his love. Right now, however, she needed to be in his arms.
“As you can see,” he continued, as he embraced her, his body feeling so strong and comforting against her own, his solidity making her heart skip, “You are not the only one foolish enough to write a letter to someone who cannot respond.”
“No, indeed, it appears I am not.”
She was crying now, but it did not matter. They both knew it was from happiness.
Olivia kissed her husband, delivering with her lips and her body that message she had been unable to send for all those years: that he was the only man for her.
He broke the kiss and stared down at her with that otherworldly, blue gaze that had become the steadying force of her life.
“My wife,” he said, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “I will love you until the day I die.”
She smiled. “I know.”
And she did.
The End