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That was better! Now she felt more certain, less confused, less...powerless.
Anyway—there should be no doubt in her mind. Any man who would surprise a kiss on a maiden he had just met had to be of dubious character. He had taken advantage of her, knowing her to be alone and unprotected. She was right to be wary of him.
Yet, she recalled, he had given her time to turn away from his kiss. And afterwards he had behaved perfectly civilly as he walked her back to the shady area where Dahlia waited. He had even turned his back while she donned her stockings and boots.
At least, she thought, George Manning is a distraction from the fact that he will be here tomorrow.
Jem.
Jem, who had disappeared from her life suddenly and completely.
Jem of the handsome face and the crooked smile. Memories flooded into her mind and her heart turned over.
Stop! she thought. Remember what he did. He allowed you to hope, to expect a proposal, when all the time he had no serious intent.
At the thought, her old anger began to resurface. How dared he behave so callously towards her? He had rejected her, then walked away without a backward glance, uncaring of the devastation he had caused.
She squeezed her eyes tightly closed and turned over. This was all her own fault. She had wished for something different, something out of the ordinary, and Fate had sent her George Manning and Jem Ford. At the same time. She was not sure she approved.
Olivia’s two brothers had settled perfectly well into married life. Olivia enjoyed the fact that, with the acquisition of two sisters-in-law, there were many more females in her life than before. Great-Aunt Clara was a darling, of course, but Olivia felt she could not talk to her in the way she could talk to Charlotte and Juliana.
So why, when she returned from her ride yesterday, had she not mentioned her encounter with Mr Manning? She could not account for it, since she had always been open with Charlotte and Juliana about her admirers.
She pondered. Perhaps that was it. She was not sure if Mr Manning admired her, or not. Mr Manning—despite his flirtatious words—had not, she felt, revealed his true self. Instead he had unbalanced her with cryptic words and inscrutable expressions. She looked forward to meeting him again, if only to better understand her reaction to him.
Today Juliana and Harry, with their young son, had travelled the short distance from their home at Glenbrook to await the arrival of Lizzie Ford and her brother Jem to Chadcombe. Juliana and Charlotte had both offered to take Lizzie under their wing during Jem’s long posting to Australia and had been true to their word. Lizzie, though under the care of her mother’s elderly cousin, had been a frequent visitor and she and Olivia had become firm friends in the four years they had known each other.
Lizzie, of course, had no notion that Olivia and Jem had enjoyed a particular friendship during his convalescence and Olivia had become accustomed to commenting politely on those occasions when Lizzie would talk of her brother and his trials and achievements in Australia. He had made Captain a year ago and Olivia had found it in her heart to be pleased for him. It was a sign, she thought, that her heart had healed from the blow he had dealt it.
‘I cannot wait to see Lizzie again,’ Juliana said with enthusiasm, as the ladies sipped tea in the morning room. ‘I confess I have missed her. We have not seen her since last autumn, remember?’ She did not mention Jem, which was something of a relief. Olivia did not wish to even think about Jem—especially that last day she had seen him, four years ago. Yet his arrival was imminent. Olivia’s palms were suddenly damp with fear, anticipation and anxiety.
‘Would you not have preferred for Jem and Lizzie to stay with you at Glenbrook, Juliana?’ asked Charlotte.
‘Oh, no, for I would not subject you to the journey to Glenbrook every time you wished to see them,’ countered Juliana. ‘Not while you are in the family way. Besides, you have more space here at Chadcombe.’
They all laughed at the old witticism. Everyone regularly teased Adam and Charlotte for having the largest house in three counties. Harry and Juliana’s home was perfectly adequate, but Chadcombe was easily four times larger. Despite her laughter, Charlotte clearly remained unconvinced. ‘I confess it troubles me a little, Juliana, that they are not staying with you. While Lizzie and Olivia are firm friends, we all know Jem and Harry fought together at Waterloo—there is a special bond between them. I know they have seen each other in London recently, but this is the first time Jem has come to Surrey to visit the family. I am sure they will wish to spend plenty of time together.’
‘That is true,’ agreed Juliana, ‘but we all wish to rekindle our friendship with Jem. Besides, Harry and Jem will see plenty of each other here at Chadcombe. Harry and I shall stay here at least this week and very likely longer. You will be wishing us gone before long—especially if Jack becomes tiresome!’
‘Of course I shall not!’ retorted Charlotte, smiling. ‘You are always welcome. Why, this is Harry’s family home!’
Juliana tilted her head to one side, considering. ‘There is, I think, a special bond between all of us. I will never forget how Jem arrived from Brussels with his crutches, just a couple of weeks after Harry and I were married. He looked fragile, but was so brave. Do you remember how much pain he was in and the courage and determination he showed in trying to walk again?’
Charlotte nodded. ‘Yes, and how you tormented him and wheedled him, Olivia, so that the poor man did not know whether to thank you or berate you!’
‘As I recall,’ added Juliana, ‘he did both!’
Charlotte agreed. ‘You were an excellent nursemaid, Olivia. You seemed to know exactly when to be patient and supportive, and when to be challenging. I confess I could not have done it.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ said Olivia, blushing a little. ‘Anyone could have done it.’
‘No,’ Juliana insisted, ‘they really couldn’t.’
Olivia lowered her head. She had indeed cajoled and challenged Jem, who had been entirely frustrated at his lack of mobility, and frequently short-tempered with pain. Somehow, they had sparked off each other in ways that had motivated him to keep practising his walking—if only to prove to Olivia that he could. She had helped him heal and then he had left.
No one had suspected at the time how deeply attached to Jem she had become and she had explained away her lowered spirits afterwards with excuses about head colds and stomach upsets. Concerned, they had brought a doctor to investigate. He had concluded that she was suffering no serious ailment, but had prescribed a disgusting tonic, and cupped her.
No serious ailment. Not of the body, anyway. It was her heart, her mind, and her spirit which had been suffering. It had been so hard at first. She had cried herself to sleep for many months and everything in her life had somehow reminded her of Jem and the loss of him. Never again would she allow someone that sort of power over her.
Gradually, over the course of four long years, she had learned to push thoughts of him away, to build a wall of numbness around that part of herself. Until now. Finally, today, she was to face him. She prayed the wall would hold.
And what of Mr George Manning? Was he also destined to cut up her peace? She squared her shoulders. At least, if she felt those same early flutterings for another handsome stranger, she would know better than to listen to them. She did not wish to risk her heart being broken again—by Jem or by George Manning. A light flirtation with Mr Manning was acceptable, but she was determined to protect her heart from both men. It would be best to be wary.
‘And here is the Chadcombe gatehouse!’ Lizzie’s voice almost squeaked in excitement as the carriage entered the gates of the Chadcombe estate.
Jem steeled himself to remain impassive. He was not now a wounded young ensign, grateful for the patronage of a noble family. As a man of substance in his own right, he could no longer be prey to the worries of his youth. He was genuinely grateful for everything the Fantons had done for him, and for Lizzie, and counted himself fortunate to be aligned to such a generous family. But he was visiting them now not as a casualty of war, to be protected and supported during his recovery, but as an independent gentleman of means and status.
Making Captain had been a proud moment, but the discovery that he had inherited a neat estate and a respectable fortune from a third cousin had been shocking. He had been, just a few years ago, fourth in line, with no thought of such good fortune ever coming his way. But a combination of circumstances—two younger sons killed at Waterloo and the eldest then losing his life in a carriage accident—meant the lawyers had confirmed Jem as the new heir.
It had seemed not quite real, reading the letter in Australia. Having risen through the ranks on his own merits he was now forced to abandon the army career that he had assumed would be his fate for life.
On his return from Australia, he had been pleased to meet Harry again and they had picked up the threads of their old relationship without much difficulty. Jem genuinely liked his former Captain and was pleased to find the old friendly warmth still present in their recent encounters.
He could not, he knew, expect the same warmth from everyone in the family.
He both dreaded and anticipated seeing Olivia again. During his years overseas, hers had been the face in his mind when he’d reminisced of home. She had been but eighteen when he had known her before and she had likely forgotten their former friendship, long ago. This visit—and particularly seeing her again—would help his transition from the romantic foolishness that had comforted him through the long loneliness of his posting. He was old enough now to be past such things. He was certain of it.
‘They have arrived!’ Juliana jumped up and moved to the window, her sharp ears detecting the approaching carriage.
They all rose and went outside to greet their guests, Olivia’s brothers joining them. Adam and Charlotte stood forward, as protocol demanded, with Great-Aunt Clara, Harry, Juliana and Olivia behind them. The footman let down the step and opened the carriage door for the passengers to alight.
Olivia had only a moment to notice Lizzie’s stylish pelisse and her bonnet (topped with three dashing feathers) when her attention was taken up by Jem. His eyes sought hers immediately, it seemed, then moved on to the others.
He was smiling—that familiar lopsided grin—and her heart turned over. Jem. How wonderfully terrifying it was to see him again. She schooled her features into warm politeness. You are no longer a lovesick eighteen-year-old,she reminded herself. Be calm. Be gracious. Be twenty-two.
Lizzie enveloped Olivia in a warm hug. ‘Olivia!’ It is such a joy to see you again!’
‘I am so happy to see you, too! And you, Jem,’ said Olivia, as Jem finally reached her.
He took her hand and held on to it, saying warmly, ‘We were urging the horses on these past five miles, for the nearer we got to Chadcombe, the more impatient we became!’
Olivia’s heart was beating rapidly. Seeing him again was odd—his features so familiar and yet so strange. Thank goodness she was now a confident young lady, and one who had learned to hide her feelings.
Charlotte spoke to Lizzie again and Jem let go of Olivia’s hand. She was conscious of a feeling of loss. No! she told herself. It is but a memory—it is not real. Remember how he hurt you.
She looked closely at him. He looked older—more assured, somehow. It was strange, she thought, how he could look so familiar, yet at the same time so different. Her eyes swept over him. The same wiry frame, but his shoulders were much broader than before. He looked bigger, more self-possessed. Gone was the thinness of the convalescent. He was all man now.
Her eyes moved again to his face. Still handsome, but his features were somehow stronger now. She could find in his face very little of the young man she had known. There was a slight crease in his brow and he looked tired, she noticed. Had the journey been too much for him? Lizzie had told her the doctors had no major concerns about his old injury, but that it did still trouble Jem occasionally.
Olivia had heard this with mixed feelings. She was determined to keep him at a distance and had not forgotten or forgiven him for hurting her. At the same time, her instinctive compassion meant she did not wish to see him—or anyone—in pain.
In the old days, he would never admit it when his leg ached—his pride would never allow it—but Olivia had always known. There would be a tightness along his jaw or in his shoulders, a slight pallor, or occasionally beads of sweat on his forehead.
Today, she had taken the precaution of arranging for a bathtub to be brought to his room and now she nodded significantly at the second footman, who bowed and disappeared towards the kitchens to procure the pails of hot water needed for Mr Ford’s bath. Olivia hoped the footman would remember to add the oil of lavender and marjoram she had pressed this morning—Jem had hated taking laudanum for the pain, so she had found other ways of helping him through the days when he had overreached in his attempt to recover.
Perhaps he would not need the bath, but she had thought it best to be cautious. She had agonised over how it might seem to him—she wanted to give him no opportunity to assume she still felt a tendre for him, but in the end, had decided that to arrange a bath for an honoured guest was not too particular.
Twenty minutes later, the second footman entered the parlour where they were all enjoying tea and conversation, and reported that Mr and Miss Ford’s belongings had now been unpacked and their rooms were ready. The footman smelt strongly of lavender and Jem, sensing it, threw Olivia a quizzical look. She raised her eyebrows in innocent enquiry, determined not to understand him. He then glanced at Charlotte who, as hostess, would be the obvious source of such a luxury. Charlotte, however, was busy with Great-Aunt Clara, who had requested more tea.
Olivia was conscious of a strong feeling of danger. She should not have ordered the bath. He must not assume she was still lovesick for him! It was vital that he understood she was not the person she had been. Ignoring the knot of anxiety resting just below her ribcage, she continued to chat with Lizzie, though she struggled to take in what her friend was actually saying. She must get through this with a calm demeanour. It was imperative.
Chapter Three (#u6b6745d4-e95b-5eba-b3e8-a3b42271db71)
Jem relaxed in the now-cooling bath, the scent of lavender and marjoram filling his senses and easing the throbbing in his old wound. He had dismissed the footman, needing solitude to relax and think. His leg rarely pained him now, but being stuck in a jolting, leather-slung carriage for most of the day had brought back the old ache.
Other old aches had been reawakened this day, and with unexpected force. Olivia—Lady Olivia—had blossomed into a stunning woman. He closed his eyes. There she was, in his mind’s eye, serene and elegant. Her beautiful face, glossy dark curls and intelligent grey eyes were just as he’d remembered, but there was a new quality about her that he assumed could only be self-assurance gained in the years since he had last seen her.
He had not expected to react so strongly to her but, he reasoned, it was perfectly logical, given the way he had made her the focus of his dreams these past four years. Those dreams were not and had never been real—they were fantastical only, designed to help him cope with the loneliness of his overseas posting.
He had spent most of his time in Australia with soldiers and outlaws and, surprisingly, he had not taken long to adapt to the basic—and hard—life in one of the remotest parts of the world. Their fort, which included a prison for outlaws along with the village that had sprung up nearby, was surrounded by fifty miles of emptiness in all directions. Living conditions were basic, diversions were few, and they had all been relieved when occasionally called to one of the settlements further down the coast to take their turn at ensuring public order and supporting the local government officials.
Jem had gradually been offered more and more responsibility, as his commanders had come to appreciate his qualities as a leader. They had genuinely been regretful at his decision to sell out of the army, following the news of his inheritance. They had, of course, understood and wished him well, but he had been pleased to discover that, had he stayed, they had seen in him the potential for high office in the future.
He stood, allowing the cool, herb-scented water to run off him for a moment, before stepping out of the bath and reaching for the soft towels provided by Chadcombe’s staff.
Did Olivia arrange this bath for me? he wondered, as he towelled himself dry. Or was it Lady Shalford?
He was still getting used to the blessings of civilian life, but being able to bathe in warm water, and with privacy, was a profound luxury.
Or perhaps they do this for all their guests?
Chadcombe was a huge mansion—more like a ducal seat or a royal palace than an earl’s establishment—and Jem was struck anew by the gap in station between him and Lizzie, and the Fanton family. Yes, he himself was a gentleman, like Harry, and, yes, he had come into a sizeable inheritance. But there the comparisons ended. He was not sure any gentleman’s residence could compare to Chadcombe, and his lack of title was also a crucial point of difference.
Although Harry and the Earl had both married heiresses, their fortunes had apparently not been known about at the time. He was sure the Earl would encourage Lady Olivia to make an advantageous marriage—that she was twenty-two and yet still unwed was telling. During those long four years, each time a letter had arrived from Lizzie, he had unconsciously expected it to detail Lady Olivia’s betrothal, or her marriage. Most young ladies were betrothed by the end of their second Season, so when Olivia remained unwed after four years, he had gradually hit on the most likely explanation. Quite simply, he reasoned, no one was good enough for her.
The young girl he had known had not been prideful or self-important but, equally, she had been blithely unaware of the privileges she enjoyed. No door was closed to her. She made friends everywhere she went. At eighteen, she had enjoyed all the advantages of wealth, position and connections.
For her to accept a betrothal, no doubt her suitor would have to pass a number of tests set by the Earl and unconsciously endorsed by Olivia herself. For how could she be expected to consider someone who had neither title nor fortune? Such was, he knew, the way of the world. He understood this without rancour or bitterness. Although his situation had improved a hundredfold in four years, yet still he was beneath her touch. He must not forget it.
Not that he had any particular designs on the lady. He had enjoyed her company during his convalescence and had—not unnaturally—developed some warm feelings towards her. They had, after all, been thrown into each other’s company on a daily basis. He laughed a little as he recalled actually believing he had been in love with her. He had been so young back then!
His task now was simply to find ways to be unperturbed in her company, without the undercurrents of old memories or the fantasies of a soldier starved of female company. He would be polite and warm, and at ease.
‘Would you do me the honour, Lady Olivia, of showing me some of these beautiful gardens?’ Jem waved a hand towards the window, where indeed the prospect was delightful. ‘If you are not otherwise engaged, that is?’
They had just breakfasted and Adam had left them to begin his work for the day. Most of the household were still abed—both Jem and Olivia were renowned early risers. Even as Olivia politely agreed to Jem’s request, part of her was, with some sadness, remembering their habit of walking together in the garden in London immediately after breakfast.
Olivia had come to love those walks together during his convalescence—he struggling but determined to master his mobility, she cajoling and challenging him, bearing his frustration and elation with equanimity. As the time went on and his walking became easier, they had talked of many things—his childhood in the north of England, his sister Lizzie, who was to visit him in London, some of his experiences in the army, his hopes for advancement once his injury had healed.
He had not discussed Waterloo, the horrific leg injury he had suffered during the battle, nor how it had come about. Harry must know, but he never talked of it either. Adam had hinted her away from questioning them and, ever sensitive, Olivia knew better than to push either of them into reliving experiences they were trying to forget.
During those weeks, Olivia felt she had come to really know Jem and to feel comfortable in his company. Well, she recalled ruefully, as comfortable as one could feel with someone for whom one had developed such strong feelings.
But had she ever truly known him? She had not for a moment anticipated he would reject her so comprehensively, or that he would disappear so completely, uncaring of the devastation he was leaving behind.
He had been ever the gentleman, she acknowledged. Never had he spoken of love, or tried to kiss her. But his eyes had warmed when he looked at her and she foolishly had believed he had cared for her. How wrong she had been!Afterwards, she wondered if he had seen her as a child, which had of course offended her eighteen-year-old dignity. But I was a child, she reflected now.
Again her mind returned to that last day. Through a haze of tears she had watched him walk away, unable to fully comprehend that he was really leaving. Little did she know then that would be the last she would see of him for four long years.
It was for the best, she reminded herself fiercely, because now I am free of my old feelings and can be easy in his company. Perhaps—maybe—I could even be his friend. After all, he is Lizzie’s brother and I shall no doubt be forced to see him from time to time. Yes, I can be friendly, she decided. I must put aside my girlish foolishness and the anger that came from hurt pride.
Chadcombe had extensive gardens, from formal squares and ponds laid out in the French style to contrived wildernesses and a well-developed rose garden behind the ballroom terrace. She and Jem wandered through the archways and walks of the garden, the early flowers budding and unfurling in a promise of the glories of colour yet to come. Olivia had taken particular care with her dress today, opting for one of her favourite embroidered muslins, this one with a pretty yellow taffeta ribbon. She told herself she had done so because of Lizzie’s visit. There was no other reason.
‘I see Lizzie is just as much a night owl as ever!’ offered Olivia politely.
‘What? Oh, yes, yes, quite!’ said Jem. Olivia frowned. What was wrong with him? Unable to account for his distractedness, Olivia lapsed into silence, unsure of what to say.
This was unexpected. Having successfully passed the test of seeing him again, of spending an evening in his company and enduring an entirely restless night—or so she believed—she had emerged this morning with a determination to maintain a distant, friendly air with him. It was vital that he understood she was no longer an infatuated girl. But she had not thought properly about the fact that, as much as she had changed in four years, so also would he. Gone was the open, friendly youth who had so enjoyed her company four years ago. In his place was a stranger and one whom she could not read. At all.
They walked on a few yards more and found themselves at the Fountain of Eros in the centre of the garden. The air was still and the sky cloudy and dull. A wren called sweetly from a nearby branch. Jem stopped walking and turned to face Olivia directly.
His expression was grave, worried. Olivia’s heart sank. It reminded her of his appearance in the London garden, when he had said the words that had broken her heart.
Jem was in a quandary. His plan to be calm and easy in Olivia’s company had fallen completely flat. Last evening, and earlier at breakfast, he had been intensely aware of her, compelled to keep looking at her, and frustrated by his own lack of self-control. This old passion was proving difficult to conquer!
Give yourself time! he had told himself, even as he’d invited her to walk with him. Familiarity will help you see her differently.
As they walked, he was conscious of memories of those other days, in that other garden. The feelings from back then were once again flooding through him, like a Pandora’s box of unwanted emotion. His mind, too, was awhirl. In particular, he was wrestling with a topic that had occupied his mind obsessively during his long voyage to the Antipodes and for quite some months afterwards. What if I was wrong about her?
Soon after his arrival in the Fanton townhouse, Jem had heard Harry tease Olivia about a tendre she had had for a poet a few weeks earlier—just before Harry had left for Waterloo. The poet, it seemed, had professed his undying love for Lady Olivia, expressing his passion via some excruciating verse, and Olivia had, it seemed, quickly outgrown her infatuation. Harry—then a master in the game of flirtation—had advised Olivia on how she could gently discourage the young poet while avoiding unnecessary drama.
Blushing a little at Harry’s teasing, Olivia had confirmed that her feelings for the dashing Mr Nightingale were not what she thought they had been and that, yes, he had gradually responded to her gentle hints by transferring his attentions to another young lady. This lucky damsel had that week received a sonnet to her Glorious Shoulders.
They had all laughed, not unkindly, but Jem had been left with the impression that Olivia was extremely young and untried, and that it would be a long time before her heart would engage in anything deeper than a passing notion.
She will fancy herself in love a dozen times, he had thought.
So when she had, soon afterwards, occasionally looked at him with admiration in those beautiful grey eyes, he had known not to refine too much upon it. Especially when he himself had been struggling to resist an unlooked-for and inconvenient attraction to her.
But what if he had been wrong? What if she had actually developed a deeper attachment to him at the time? His heart leapt in the old way at the thought.
Be sensible! he told himself. These were the same agonies that had haunted him throughout his stay at the Fanton townhouse. Knowing she was not for him, yet helplessly obsessing about her, while continually reminding himself that she would forget him as quickly as she had forgotten the poet. Around in circles he had gone, day after day, night after night.
He shook himself. Even if her tendre had, in fact, been deeper at the time than her feelings for the unfortunate poet, after four years he would have been long forgotten.
His dilemma, however, was this: Should he apologise to her? He had done nothing to discourage her girlish regard at the time. He had continued to enjoy her company—in truth, he was unsure how well he would have managed his recovery without her encouragement and challenge. He had selfishly taken advantage of her healing company and had failed to discourage her attentions. He was only slightly older in years, but even then, he had been much more worldly-wise than she. And then he had vanished with sudden finality.
If his actions four years ago had caused her any hurt, then to apologise would be the gentlemanly thing to do. On the other hand, if he was wrong, it might cause awkwardness or confusion. And—did he really wish to know the truth? Had she forgotten him instantly, moving on to the next handsome suitor that caught her girlish fancy? How much of her warmth at the time had been fuelled by pity, or foolish romantic notions of a wounded soldier?
