Stephanie James (23 page)

They would hate her all over again.

They would ridicule her all over again.

She would be a laughingstock all over again.

All the gentleman would ignore her, all the ladies would cut her directly; they would laugh behind their gloved hands while looking in her direction, they would turn up their noses; they would bump her elbow so that she would spill her punch down the front of her dress, they would step on her train so that she would trip; they would do all these things and still sleep soundly because she meant absolutely nothing in their world. She was merely a source of amusement.

All through dinner, Olivia did the best she could to hold her emotions inside herself. She spoke very little, and gave only short, terse answers when she was spoken to. And once the occupants of the table, Lord Masters and Mr. Southerland in particular, learned they would not receive much of a response from her this particular evening, they all began leaving her alone.

She was only thankful that Lord Philip was not present to see her in such a state. Somehow Olivia knew that he would be able to spot her bad mood instantly (probably because he had seen so many of them), and then he would make the situation awkward by attempting to cheer her up. No, Olivia did not want such attention. In fact, all she wanted was to be left alone. She longed for solitude all through the meal and then through coffee in the drawing room. But time seemed to move slowly, inch by miserable inch, as though the fates were trying to keep her in misery. Then at last, when everyone decided to retire for the night, Olivia was granted her long-awaited isolation at half-past eleven.

And now here she sat, finally alone in her room, dressed for bed, sitting at the vanity, staring at her reflection, she could not shed the tears she had been fighting so ardently to hold back while present in front of company. She did not understand it. She had wanted to cry all night, but now that she was finally alone, she could not do it. Had she finally calmed down? No, no that could not be it. She was still replaying memories of her first trip to London over and over again in her head, which made her cringe with embarrassment.

Olivia looked out of the window to distract herself from her own torturous thoughts. It was a full moon tonight, with only a few clouds near the moon. The lawns and hedges looked black and still. The trees swayed and rustled in the wind, and from somewhere in the midst of it all, the insects of the night were filling the air with their sounds.

A knowing restlessness overcame her and Olivia quite suddenly felt the need to leave the room. She did not know where she was going as she closed her chamber door quietly behind her with one hand, holding a candlestick in the other.

She had no destination, no desire to visit any part of the house. All Olivia did know was that she could no longer sit idly in her room, much as she had longed to conceal herself within it all evening.

But the house was different now than it had been earlier, when she had been in the company of others. The house was now silent, and with everyone abed, including the servants, Olivia was free to wander the dark corridors as she pleased.

The small candle she had brought with her did little to light her way, allowing her only to see her hand, and her immediate surroundings — a small bit of the red carpet at her feet, the portrait-covered walls directly to her left and right. And though she was not frightened by the dark, Olivia could not shake the feeling that something lay within it for her — something that was waiting, just waiting for her to come closer so that it may pounce. It made her nervous, anxious. She could feel the hair on her arms standing up. Something was going to happen if she continued on her path.

“I’m being impractical,” she said to herself. “There is nothing in the dark that is not there in the light.”

Despite her reasoning, she treaded softly and carefully down the stairs. The marble was cold on her feet. She decided to ascend the staircase opposite the one she had just descended. The house on this wing was much the same as the one from which she had just come. It bore the same red carpeting, and though they were doubtless of different people, even the portraits looked the same.

She walked for a little while longer until she came to a door which was slightly ajar. Quite certain it was not a bedchamber door (who would leave their bedchamber door open, after all?), she pushed it open.

Past the door was the most expansive library Olivia had ever seen. The tall windows, which were shrouded in green velvet drapes, allowed enough moonlight to pour in and reveal two stories of shelves, separated by a landing, which could be reached by one of the two iron spiral staircases. On the ground level were many plush chairs, a few arranged around the fireplace. No less than three writing tables were present, and a desk sat in the corner.

Olivia chose one of the chairs nearest a window. She set her candlestick down on the table beside the chair and looked out the window. It had begun to rain since she had left her room. Droplets pelted the glass and streams of water poured down past the sill like tears.

The anxiety of walking alone in the dark drifted away, as did her restlessness to roam the house any further. For whatever reason, Olivia knew this place, this library; was where she needed to be for the moment. Here she could find the kind of solitude she had been craving. A sense of peace came over her and she sank deeper into the plush chair, leaning her heavy head back to watch the rain slither down the window. Then, without warning or reason, the tears she had been fighting all evening finally started to pour.

• • •

He could not sleep. Try as he might, Philip could not sleep. Ordinarily he could fall asleep as soon as his head touched his pillow, but there was something about tonight which prevented him from sleeping as easily. A lack of food was a likely contributor to his tossing and turning as he had not eaten anything since lunch. But even though his stomach was grumbling rather loudly, his mind was far more of a distraction from sleep.

Thoughts of Olivia filled his brain. If his feeble attempt at conversation in the drawing room was any indication of the outcome of his campaign to win her affection, then Philip admitted to himself with a heavy heart that he would surely lose her to someone else. Apparently she had not yet forgiven him for that kiss, or for anything else he had done.

He flung back the blankets and sprung out of bed. Sleeping now was out of the question. He had to find some other way to occupy himself for the time being. After donning his robe and lighting a candle, he left his room. Perhaps eating something would help, he thought. Even if it did not, then at least his restless sleep would be delayed. And so he made his way to the kitchen. There was bound to be a loaf of bread and some butter, maybe even some fresh milk if he were lucky.

But before he reached the kitchen, he passed by the library, which would have been of little interest to him in that moment had he not heard a strange noise coming from inside the room. He stopped and leaned toward the open door.

Crying? Who could be crying at this hour?

He opened the door slowly and searched for the source of the cries, and there, in the far corner of the room in one of the tall winged-back chairs near a window, she sat with her face in her hands.

“Miss Winter?” he asked quietly as he approached her.

His sudden question naturally having startled her, she jumped and began wiping away the tears on her face hurriedly.

“Oh,” she said, “I was just … just … I was about to leave. Excuse me.”

Doing her best to hide her face, Olivia rose from the chair and proceeded to leave the room. Philip, however, was not satisfied with her answer. Grabbing her shoulders gently, he lifted her head.

“Why are you crying, Olivia?”

She didn’t answer. Another fit of sobs seized her and she leaned into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. They stood like that for a few moments until Philip guided her back down into the chair by the window. He knelt down in front of her.

Though Olivia lowered her chin to her chest, still trying to hide her tears, Philip could see her face more clearly now in the light of the moon. It was evident that she had been crying heavily for some time. After a few moments had passed, he grasped one of her hands in his, and reached up with the other to gently lift her chin so that he could look her in the eye.

“What’s the matter, Olivia?” he asked.

Her fingers tightened around his and her free hand went up to cover her face.

“What’s the matter,” he asked again, pulling her hand down away from her face.

At first she did not answer. Tears dropped from her eyes and she refused to look at him. Her fingers relaxed and tightened around his convulsively.

“We’re going to London,” she whispered at last.

“What is so terrible about that?” he asked.

Olivia ripped her hands away from his and covered her face as she began to cry again. He remained still, not entirely certain what to do. As he did not know why a trip to London would upset her, he could not think of any words to comfort her, though he did not give up entirely.

“It is a beautiful city, Miss Winter,” he said, but she continued to cry. “You will have much to do. There are many museums in London … and I’m certain there will be many Christmas balls for you to attend.” But still she cried. If anything at the mention of balls Olivia began to cry harder. Philip was at a loss.

Finally, when he resigned to the fact there was absolutely nothing he could do or say that would make her feel better, he sat down quietly in the chair next to hers and let her cry. When she lowered a hand away from her face and set it on the armrest, he reached for it and held it gently within his. They sat for a time just like that — Olivia, one hand over her eyes, occasionally wiping her face; Philip holding her other hand and staring out of the window.

He watched the trees as they swayed in the stormy wind and thought of things which still needed to be done around the gardens. A few rose bushes still needed to be planted. A few of the hedges needed to be trimmed as well. And outside of his master suite, he had yet to begin on the patio garden. That particular project was not of supreme importance, however, as the only person who ever saw the dismal patio was Philip.

So lost in his thoughts was he, that it took him by complete surprise when he realized that Olivia had stopped crying and was now staring out of the window with him. Her profile was illuminated by the moonlight and he examined it silently for a moment. Each time he looked at her now, a deep welling of sentiment and longing overflowed within him. Though she was sad, he could not stop himself from treasuring this moment — a moment entirely void of Mr. Southerland or Lord Masters or any of his other guests. He was alone with her, and for a time, she was his. But soon this moment would end. She would go off to her room to sleep, and she would be lost to him.

But he was not quite ready to give her up. He wanted just a few minutes more.

“Would you like some tea, Olivia?” he asked, trying to ignore the impulse to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear.

She looked at him then, and he felt a jolt in his stomach. Smiling ever so slightly she said, “Tea would be lovely.”

They walked silently out of the library and down the stairs, Philip following her all the way. When they came to the foyer, she stopped, wrapped her arms around her middle and looked at him expectantly. He stared back, thinking nothing in particular except how beautiful she looked with her hair braided to one side and in her sheer white linen robe.

“Which way?” she asked.

“Sorry?” replied Philip, snapping out of his daze.

“Which way to the kitchen?”

“Oh yes, right,” he said. “The kitchen is this way.”

When they entered the kitchen, Philip immediately set about making tea. He found the kettle on the stove and filled it with water. Then he realized he had no idea how to use the stove. He looked up at Olivia nervously, but refused to admit he did not know how to work his own stove, so he set the kettle down and went about looking for teacups. He opened and closed nearly every cupboard before he finally found a pair of old chipped cups, which most likely belonged to the staff but they would do. When he turned around, Olivia had lit the stove and steam was rising from the kettle’s spout.

“It should begin to boil in a few moments,” she said.

“Right,” replied Philip, slightly embarrassed at his inefficiency, but doubly thankful he did not have to ask Olivia how to work a stove. “I’m sorry these teacups are chipped,” he said, holding out the teacups to show her the offending chips, “but they were all I could find.”

Olivia reached out and took one of the cups from his hand, their fingers touching. Philip’s heart jumped at her touch.

“It’s all right,” she said, smiling down at the cup and lightly tracing the deformities in her cup. “It gives them character.”

During those sparse and quick little seconds after she spoke, Olivia smiled at the old and worn teacup in her hands in such a fragile way as to allow Philip to see a side of her personality he had never before seen. In that moment, she was more vulnerable than when she had been crying; more than when she had been standing under the tree; and even more than when she had fallen in the mud and looked at him with desperation and relief. She was sweet, tender, and open. She was being herself, he realized.

All the temper tantrums, all the hateful words, and even all the precious time he had spent with her as she cried could not amount to be as valuable as this one moment, the moment which Philip finally allowed himself to admit that until his dying day, he would always love Olivia Winter.

“What is it?”

Philip jumped. “What? Oh, nothing,” he said, and then the kettle started to whistle. “The water is boiling I think.”

“Yes, it is,” said Olivia. “Have you got the tea?”

“Tea?” replied Philip. “Oh, yes the tea. It’s somewhere. Let me look.” He began shuffling through the cupboards once more.

“Do you suppose the tea is in this jar labeled ‘tea’?”

Philip turned around to see Olivia holding a small jar. Indeed it was labeled tea. Smiling, mostly at his own stupidity, Philip took the jar out of Olivia’s hands.