Читать книгу: «The Makings Of A Lady»

Chapter One
Surrey —May 1819

‘Why must Adam be always telling me what to do? Life is so dreary here at Chadcombe!’ Olivia sat down heavily on an ornate French chair, uncaring that the mud along the hem of her petticoat was transferring itself to a gilded wooden leg. ‘Everyone thinks I am still ten years old!’

Great-Aunt Clara set down her knitting. ‘Oh, dear, Olivia—I did not know you were so unhappy here with us!’ Her lined face was filled with distress. ‘But, yes, how tedious you must find us all!’

With a startled expression, Olivia jumped up and moved to sit beside the elderly lady. ‘Oh, no! Darling Great-Aunt Clara, I did not mean you are dreary!’ She took her great-aunt’s hand. ‘You know I love you dearly, and I love Adam and Charlotte, but I have spent most of my life here at Chadcombe and sometimes I just feel—oh, I don’t know! You will think me foolish!’

‘Who is being foolish?’ Charlotte, Olivia’s sister-in-law, entered the morning room. ‘Olivia? But you could never be foolish!’ Charlotte leaned over and kissed Olivia’s cheek. ‘Good morning!’ she added cheerily.

Charlotte’s elegant morning gown, Olivia noted, had no trace of mud anywhere on its green-silk folds. Its gently draped skirts revealed that Charlotte was expecting a child. She had suffered in the early months with tiredness and the indignity of being frequently sick. Yesterday she had declared she was much better. Olivia was not convinced.

‘Charlotte! You are up already—how did you sleep?’

‘Perfectly well, thank you!’ Charlotte brushed off Olivia’s concerns with a wave of her hand. ‘Now, what is this about you being foolish?’

Olivia struggled to answer. Suddenly her frustrations seemed churlish. She knew she had what others would view as a perfect life, in a beautiful house, with a loving family. It was just—she felt as though she needed to escape. She needed adventure!

‘Our poor Olivia finds it dull to be always at Chadcombe,’ offered Great-Aunt Clara tentatively.

Charlotte eyed her keenly. ‘Are you moped, love? Remember, Miss Ford and her brother will arrive tomorrow for their visit. You have been looking forward to that, have you not?’

Olivia sighed in frustration. ‘I am always happy to see Lizzie, and it will be good to meet—’ she choked a little on his name ‘—Jem again. I cannot say why I am feeling so unsettled. It’s just—I feel as though everyone still believes me to be a child!’

‘Poor, dear Olivia!’ Great-Aunt Clara’s knitting slipped to the floor. Olivia retrieved it for her and the old lady patted her hand kindly. ‘I can quite understand how it must be frustrating. After all, you must be nearly twenty now.’

‘I had my twenty-second birthday last December, Great Aunt-Clara. Don’t you remember?’

‘Twenty-two? Really?’ Great-Aunt Clara looked astonished. ‘Well, bless me! I do think of you as properly belonging in the schoolroom! I am so sorry! But, yes, I remember you had your Season in London last year, or was it the year before?’

Olivia exchanged a brief glance with Charlotte. ‘I made my debut four years ago, if you remember.’ She spoke gently, hoping her elderly relative would recollect. ‘After Charlotte and Adam were married? It was the time Juliana came to stay with us—and she and Harry got married soon afterwards.’

‘Of course! Was that really four years ago? Yes, I suppose it must be—because we got the new oven and Charlotte was such a help... And then that dreadful Napoleon and the battle... I was never so relieved as to see Harry home safe after Waterloo, and married, and now he and dear Juliana live so close by with their dear little son—it all worked out so well...’ Great-Aunt Clara almost lost herself in a tangle of recollections. ‘So, yes,’ she concluded firmly, ‘it was three years ago. Or possibly four. So how old are you again, Olivia?’

‘I am two-and-twenty,’ said Olivia patiently.

‘Twenty-two? Twenty-two already!’ Great-Aunt Clara became animated. ‘Lord, I remember you when you were so little and your dear mama would sit here, in this very room, cuddling you...’

If Clara had wanted to divert Olivia, she was successful, at least temporarily. Olivia could never resist hearing tales of Mama, who had died giving birth to Olivia’s baby sister when Olivia was a child. No one would tell her what had happened that day and bewildered eight-year-old Olivia had just wished to know when Mama would be returning. Now that she was old enough to ask for the truth, she had never found the courage. To this day, Olivia felt the aching hole in her life caused by her mother’s death and had never fully come to terms with the sense of abandonment she had experienced.

And then, when she was eighteen, she had been abandoned again by someone else she had loved.

Quickly, she diverted her thoughts from that old wound. The past was done, finished, gone. She was a different person now—older, wiser, less naive.

After Mama’s death, she had been raised by her grieving father alongside Olivia’s two big brothers and Great-Aunt Clara, but it was never the same. So now, she plied Clara with prompts and questions, and her great-aunt dutifully obliged, retelling stories Olivia had heard a hundred times before. Olivia had many clear memories of Papa, who had died only a few years ago, but she tried hard to keep alive her hazy memories of her mother.

Today, though, after a time, the old stories did not satisfy Olivia. She could not settle to any task, and eventually Charlotte sent her away. ‘Olivia, do please go for a walk, or take Dahlia out and ride! I declare your fidgeting is making me nervous. I have restarted this list for Cook three times!’ Charlotte was smiling, but she looked a little concerned.

‘I have already walked this morning.’ Olivia indicated her mud-stained hemline. ‘I shall go for a ride. At least yesterday’s rain has stopped—it is a relief to have some sunshine.’ She rang the bell and within minutes a housemaid arrived. ‘Please, can you send a message to the stables to have Dahlia saddled and ask Susie to come to my room?’ The housemaid bobbed in assent and Olivia left the morning room, murmuring her goodbyes.

Charlotte’s head was bent to her housekeeping before Olivia had even left the room. She seemed calm, but Olivia knew how much her sister-in-law missed being able to ride since she realised she was expecting again. Riding was one of the ways in which Olivia and Charlotte had forged a friendship—both were excellent horsewomen and liked nothing more than to gallop neck-or-nothing through the fields and lanes—much to the disapproval of Adam and Harry.

There was, of course, no question of a pregnant lady riding and Charlotte, after two miscarriages, a stillbirth, and yet no living child, was being extra-cautious this time. Thankfully, all seemed well so far, but Olivia shared the concern felt by the whole family about Charlotte’s plight.

Olivia’s bedchamber was a beautiful room, overlooking the deer park in front of the house. It was decorated with delicate wall hangings and curtains in shades of lilac. Right now, Olivia could not appreciate the comfort or beauty of her surroundings. This restlessness within her had been building for an age, but it was particularly strong today.

She was quiet as Susie, her personal maid, helped her don a fashionable blue riding habit complete with military-style silver buttons, a white muslin shirt and riding pelisse.

Olivia stared at her own reflection. Stormy grey eyes, dark curls, fashionable habit. What is the point of wearing fine things, she was thinking, when no one ever sees me but my own family? I could wear my oldest muslin and nobody would care.

Rejecting the matching hat, she stated firmly that she would ride today with her head uncovered. Someone will see you tomorrow, an inner voice murmured. Jem will be here. After four years, you will see him again.

Ignoring the thought, she focused instead on her current frustration. This year they were not in London for the Season, because of Charlotte’s condition. Oh, but it was hard to be two-and-twenty and stuck in the country! At least in London there were balls and routs, and trips to the theatre, and people who realised you were a grown-up young lady. Not a child. And there were ways to avoid seeing certain people, if you did not wish to spend time with them. A house guest in the country could not be avoided.

Olivia absent-mindedly thanked Susie and made her way to the stables, enjoying the feel of the May sunshine on her shoulders. As always, she felt a rush of love when she saw her fine looking mare, Dahlia.

‘Hello, my beauty!’ She nuzzled the horse’s delicate cheek and slipped her a treat. Dahlia pranced impatiently and had to be told to hold still while the groom handed Olivia up and into the side-saddle.

‘I shan’t need you, Joseph!’ Olivia waved away the head groom, who was just about to offer to accompany her. ‘I won’t leave our lands, I promise!’ He looked disapproving, but refrained from chastising her.

‘Where do you plan to go, miss?’ He was always concerned when she rode alone, though why he should be, Olivia could not fathom. Nothing ever happened here. Well, she recalled, apart from that one time when poachers had entered the Home Wood. But that was almost five years ago.

Still, maybe she wouldn’t go to the Home Wood.

‘I’ll go to the river,’ she said decidedly, ‘and the Bluebell Woods.’

She could feel the groom watching her as she trotted out of the stable yard. She really felt it today—how much she was watched and protected, and imprisoned. It was an itch between her shoulder blades and it seemed as though it had been there her whole life. Her brothers. The servants. Great-Aunt Clara. Her sisters-in-law. Why could they not see she was no longer a child? And how was she supposed to appear different to—to other people—if her own family treated her as though she was still a debutante?

Stop it! she told herself sternly. This is no prison and they all care about you. That is why they do it—they are just trying to protect you.

The words failed to quell the burning inside her and so she did the only thing she could—she let Dahlia build from a trot to a canter, then to a full gallop through the deer park. She steered Dahlia eastwards through the fields and lanes of the estate farms, until at last she reached the Bluebell Woods. At this time of year, bluebells were everywhere—along the hedgerows, around the estate workers’ cottages and there was a good sprinkling of them in the Home Wood. But here, at the most easterly edge of the Chadcombe estate, here was where they grew in abundance.

Olivia directed Dahlia into the woods. Slowing to a walk, she savoured the coolness of the air, the smells of luxuriant foliage and fertile soil, and the magical colours of the woodland. Sturdy browns and greys mingled with lush green, and everywhere the indigo-purple beauty of the nodding bluebells. The canopy of ash and elm, oak and maple filtered verdant sunlight to warm the ferns and flowers on the forest floor. To her left, a startled squirrel raced up a tree, its tail a flash of rich bronze. Birds chirruped and called, and small creatures rustled in the undergrowth.

Olivia felt the tension leave her shoulders. This place never failed to calm her.

She made her way to the river and allowed Dahlia to drink. She dismounted, leaving her overskirts tied up, and tethered the mare to a nearby sapling in the cool shade. The horse promptly tilted one hind hoof and rested, her tail twitching at flies.

The next half-hour was delightful. Olivia wandered through her favourite part of the woods, up and down along the riverside, gathering bluebells as she went. Clara would love them. The day was warm, so, greatly daring, she removed her half-boots and silk stockings and sat down, dabbling her feet in the coolness of the sparkling river. She allowed the idyllic peace of her surroundings to soothe her, and—briefly—put tomorrow’s worries to one side. The sun gently warmed her shoulders, the river babbled to itself, and the woodland whispered and swayed, oblivious to its own beauty.

All it needs, she thought, a little wistfully, is for a romantic hero to appear. That was what would happen in the novels she and Lizzie delighted in reading.

The river was shallow and perfectly clear. Olivia and Adam and Harry had paddled here often as children—once she was old enough to be allowed to accompany them. Her adored big brothers had played games of dragons, and giants, and knights—much more exciting than the Greek and mathematics that her governess insisted on. At first Olivia had been content to be the damsel in need of rescue, but eventually she had insisted on being a knight, like them. When her brothers laughed, she had tried to box them. In the end, they had allowed her to be a squire.

Olivia had allowed herself to be persuaded, until she discovered her role was limited to carrying wooden swords and crudely made arrows, and fetching the arrows after they had been inexpertly shot at targets on trees.

And now, they were all three grown up and Adam and Harry were married. Olivia loved their wives—Charlotte and Juliana truly were like sisters to her—but she could not shake the feeling that everyone else—everyone but her—had their lives in place.

She felt stuck in a place between girl and woman—too old to be a girl, yet not permitted to be a woman. At twenty-two, yet still unmarried, she had no place. She had no responsibilities, no cares—but nothing to challenge her either.

Chadcombe was run efficiently by Charlotte, ably assisted by the household staff, while Adam managed the estate. Great-Aunt Clara, who had struggled for many years keeping house for Adam, had settled into retirement with obvious relief. Juliana was mistress of Glenbrook, wife to Harry and mother to darling little Jack.

Of all of them only Olivia had no role, no task, no purpose. I am a shadow person, she thought. I am aunt, sister, great-niece. But I wish to be Olivia!

The small river marked the edge of Chadcombe’s lands, forming the boundary with their neighbours at Monkton Park. As children, Olivia and her brothers had been wary of Monkton Park’s grumpy old gamekeeper, who did not, apparently, approve of children. When they had dared each other to venture across the stepping stones to pick blackberries or find conkers on the far side of the river, they had done it in fear he would catch them, and give chase, and shout in a purplish fury that was half-comical, half-scary. He had died a few years ago, but Olivia still carried the fear that, somehow, he would return from the grave to glower and glump at her.From here, Olivia could see a mass of white flowers on the far riverbank. On impulse, she stood and gathered her skirts. Leaving her stockings and boots with the small pile of bluebells, she ventured across the stepping stones barefoot, lifting her petticoats to make sure she was putting her feet in the right places. Reaching the far side safely, she began plucking handfuls of sweet-scented lily-of-the-valley—they would be the perfect foil for the bluebells.

Monkton Park’s owners, Mr and Mrs Foxley, were Olivia’s friends. Indeed, Mrs Foxley—Faith—was Charlotte’s cousin. Olivia had nothing to fear from being on the wrong side of the river. Or so she thought. Old fears run deep, so when a man’s voice suddenly spoke nearby, Olivia’s heart leapt in alarm.

‘“The summer’s flow’r is to the summer sweet,”’ the voice intoned.

Olivia whirled around to face the speaker.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘a rose indeed!’

His cultured accent—and his knowledge of poetry—proclaimed him to be a man of information and learning. She took in his appearance at a glance. My, she thought, he is handsome!

He looked to be a few years older than her—possibly around Harry’s age. He had expressive brown eyes, thick, dark hair, and an unfashionably swarthy complexion—as if he had been in a warmer climate than England. His clothing proclaimed him the gentleman—a crisp white shirt open at the neck in a way which Adam would have abhorred, well-fitting unmentionables, boots that gleamed with a polished shine, and a well-cut Weston coat. He was, in every detail, the embodiment of a romantic hero.

Olivia’s jaw dropped. Just moments ago, she had been wishing for just such a man to appear. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck spring to attention. Fate had never yet noticed her, or interfered in her life. Was this to be a turning point? Was this, in fact, the beginning of a story that would be truly hers?

‘George Manning, at your service, ma’am—or miss?’ He bowed gracefully, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

She bobbed a curtsy as gracefully as she could, given her bare feet and the inconvenient way in which her heart seemed to be racing. ‘I am Lady Olivia Fanton.’ Her voice sounded breathless—she hoped he would assume it was because he had startled her.

‘Ah! You are the Earl’s younger sister, then!’

She inclined her head. ‘I am.’

‘I am a guest at Monkton Park and my hosts have naturally informed me of the various neighbours I am likely to meet. I admit I have had some difficulty in recalling who is who, so at least now there is one person whose name and face has already seared itself indelibly into my memory.’ His gaze held hers, causing a slow blush to warm her cheeks.

‘I have been gathering wildflowers for my great-aunt. She adores bluebells.’ Her words came out in what she felt must be a jumbled rush.

‘England’s bluebells are delightful at this time of year,’ he agreed. ‘Er...how far are you from home? I understand the estate is large.’