Chapter 3 #2
"They can imagine a great many things, and they do. Without fail.”
She shook her head, her anger palpable. ”They are wrong … And they are fools.”
He met her gaze. "I know."
“The stupidity and ignorance of anyone who would think you capable—I cannot comprehend it,” she said simply. And then silence descended.
For the longest time, neither of them spoke again. The words seemed to hang between them with a weight neither had anticipated. Lydia realized first what she had said. Color rose swiftly into her cheeks.
"I only meant..."
Oliver spared her the embarrassment of explaining. "No."
His voice was quieter than before. “It has been a very long time since anyone but mother defended me so staunchly. I beg of you, allow me to hold onto the belief that you meant precisely what you said.” He looked away before continuing.
"No matter how angry I have ever been with a woman, I have never once considered violence an acceptable means of settling a disagreement. "
"I know.” The words escaped her before caution could intervene. Another silence settled between them. This one differed from the last. It carried memory. Recognition. Something perilously close to the ease they had once shared before either remembered it had been forfeit so many years before.
After a moment, Oliver drew a measured breath.
"Mrs. Baxter was not exaggerating when she spoke of your reputation.
Every reference she supplied praised your patience, your intelligence, and your uncommon gift with children.
I should be remiss if I allowed village gossip—or a past connection that feels like it was a lifetime ago— to deprive mmy daughter of such a governess. "
Lydia lowered her eyes to the floor. "You make it sound so very sensible."
"I assure you, it is."
She shook her head. ”It is not sensible. It is madness.”
"I have discovered," Oliver replied, "that those two things are not always mutually exclusive."
She looked at him then, and for the first time since entering the room he thought he caught the faintest glimpse of the young woman he had once intended to marry. It vanished almost immediately. "I do not know whether I can do this.”
"I know."
"And yet you expect me to,” she threw the words out almost like an accusation.
"I hope you will try. That is all,” he answered. It was true. Perhaps not the entirety of the truth, but enough of it to spare his conscience.
"I shall require a little time."
"You shall have it.”
He crossed to the bell pull and gave it a single measured tug.
A few moments later Stedmore appeared. "My lord?"
"If you would be so good as to show Miss Mercer to her chambers. She is to be with us for an as yet undetermined length of time.”
The butler inclined his head. "Certainly, my lord."
Lydia hesitated only briefly before turning toward the door.
She paused once with her hand upon the knob, though whether she meant to speak or had merely lost courage Oliver could not tell.
Without looking back, she quietly left the room.
Once the door had closed behind her, Oliver allowed himself to sink into the leather chair behind his desk, wrung out from the exchange.
For several moments he remained motionless, staring at the empty doorway where she had stood.
She had come. Not willingly and not happily, but she had come.
For twelve years he had wondered whether he would ever look upon her again.
And aside from one brief glimpse at her mother’s funeral, that had held true.
Even then, it had been little more than a guess.
Dressed in black, heavily veiled, he’d known her not by face or form but by the way she moved.
Because even after six years, not even such a minute detail had dulled in his memories of her.
But this, looking upon her face, watching her lips shape every word that escaped her mouth and being reminded of countless stolen kisses—it was more than he’d anticipated.
And more than he could afford. Because she wasn’t there so he could rekindle their romance.
She was there because his daughter needed a governess and because he needed to understand what had passed on that night twelve years before that sent her fleeing into the darkness.
He needed to know that it wasn’t because of him.
It was much later, nearly time for supper, as Lydia followed the maid along a broad upper corridor whose windows overlooked the south lawn.
Her attention seldom lingered upon the view beyond the glass as there was something about the hypnotic sway of the lavender that made her feel this strange combination of nostalgia and melancholy.
And the last thing anyone needed at Hartwell was more melancholy.
But keeping her attention on the interior of the home brought something else to the forefront of her mind.
It was an inescapable fact that Hartwell had altered not at all in twelve years.
The carpet beneath her feet was the same one she’d walked in a different life.
The paintings on the wall, hunting scenes and allegorical landscapes were either the same or so similar as to go entirely unnoticed.
The house appeared almost suspended in time.
It was unsettling to discover that she could still have found her way from one room to another without assistance.
She had imagined forgetting such things eventually.
Instead, she discovered that memory had merely been lying dormant, waiting for the familiar scent of beeswax and lavender to summon it back to life.
"My lord thought it best that you should meet Miss Gemma before dinner," the maid explained as they approached a pair of white-painted doors at the end of the passage. "She's been terribly excited since learning a governess was coming."
Lydia smiled, though there were nerves behind it.
What if the child didn’t like her? What if the child took one look at her and found her terribly wanting?
She had never worried about such things with any other position she had taken and that was precisely why she should have fled Hartwell when she had the chance.
”I’m very excited to meet her, as well. I only hope I do not disappoint her. "
The maid smiled. "I rather think you'll find that impossible.” The maid knocked softly, but it wasn’t a child’s voice that answered.
It was Oliver’s as he called out for them to enter.
With permission granted, the maid opened the door and stepped inside, leaving space for Lydia to enter after her. "Miss Mercer, my lord."
The schoolroom was warm despite the gathering clouds outside.
There were dolls and toys of every variety she could imagine.
There were some books as well as a slate where someone had clearly been practicing their letters.
The room was vibrant and happy and perhaps the only room within the confines of Hartwell Hall that had changed significantly.
She’d seen it once before, when she’d come there as a young bride to be.
It had been shrouded in holland cloths and dull with disuse then.