The Makings Of A Lady
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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.’
She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It is, I suppose. I have not pondered it overmuch. My horse is nearby.’ He looked at her levelly and her nervousness increased. ‘I must go back—they will be wondering why I am not yet returned.’
He inclined his head, but there was a knowing look in his eye. ‘May I accompany you back to your horse?’
She paused for a second. This was all highly irregular! But she could think of no reason to turn him down. ‘Very well.’
He offered his arm and turned towards the stepping stones. Ignoring it, she skipped ahead of him as far as the water’s edge. Now she was faced with a new problem. It would be entirely inappropriate to lift her petticoats to cross the stepping stones—for then he would see she was barefoot and might even see her bare ankles! She blushed at the thought. Heaven knows what he might think of her!
Turning to face him, she tilted her head on one side. ‘Please would you mind going first? That way I can perhaps take my balance from you.’
His eyes narrowed, but he murmured politely, ‘Of course.’ He stepped on to the first stone, then the second. She followed, lifting her skirts carefully, trusting he would not turn. They moved carefully across the river, she always a step or two behind him.
So intent was she on keeping her skirts as low as possible, that she nearly missed a step when they were almost there. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, putting a hand out towards him to steady herself. Her hand touched the warmth of his coat. He paused immediately and made as if to turn, Then he half-twisted, his eyes meeting hers. She removed her hand from his back.
‘Do please continue,’ she implored breathlessly. ‘I have my balance again.’
He turned fully and eyed her seriously. Her heart was fluttering like a trapped bird, and her hand wished nothing more than to touch again the warm solidity of his firm frame.
‘I am perfectly steady now,’ she insisted. ‘Please continue.’
He didn’t move and she was conscious of the still-frenzied beat of her heart. He could probably hear it, the throbbing was so loud in her chest. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then slowly, allowing her to draw back if she wished, he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.
Chapter Two
His lips were surprisingly cool and the kiss was gentle, questioning. Before she even had the chance to understand what she was feeling, he was gone again, mild amusement in his expression—perhaps at her lack of response.
‘Apologies! I do not know what came over me.’ She raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Well, perhaps I do. I am overwhelmed by your alluring beauty.’
‘Or maybe you are simply an opportunist and an adventurer!’
‘Ow!’ He clutched his chest dramatically. ‘She wounds me with cruel words!’
She snorted. ‘You are fortunate I did not push you into the water.’
‘But a lady like you would not do such a thing, surely?’
‘Oh, wouldn’t I? I’ll have you know I often gave my brothers a ducking on these very stones.’
‘Touché,’ he said lightly. ‘I shall make a tactical retreat on this occasion.’ He turned away, then twisted back immediately, as if a sudden thought had struck him. ‘Will you promise not to push me from behind?’ His eyes were dancing with laughter.
‘Will you promise not to kiss me again?’
‘Ah! Anything but that!’ He became serious. ‘No. I will not.’
‘Mr Manning, I grew up with two older brothers and I am aware of the ways in which words can be twisted. Now, explain. Are you saying you will not kiss me again, or that you will not make the promise?’
He only laughed and skipped ahead quickly. Reaching the safety of the river bank, he turned to smile a challenge, displaying white, even teeth. ‘That is for you to work out, Lady Olivia.’
Olivia tossed and turned, desperately trying to quiet her mind enough to fall asleep. Mr George Manning had disturbed her equilibrium and, really, she could not say why. Of course it was not fate that had brought him to the river at the same time as her! It was merely coincidence. Gothic novels were simply the product of someone’s imagination and, much as she and Lizzie enjoyed reading them, she must not be as foolish as to allow such notions to influence her in matters of importance.
Despite this, her mind insisted on playing out every detail of her encounter with Mr Manning—his handsome form and features, the expression on his face as he had taunted her, that kiss... Perhaps, she thought, I should marry. It would take me away from Chadcombe and would certainly be an adventure. A handsome, interesting husband and being mistress of my own home...
Do not allow foolishness to overcome you! she told herself. Others might sometimes forget it, but you are no longer a schoolroom miss. You are a grown woman of two-and-twenty and should know better than to be thrown off balance by a handsome face and a few clever words. You have been taken in before. It must not happen again.
She smiled into the darkness of her room. Perhaps she should have knocked George into the river! For a few moments she enjoyed the thought of him, dripping and astounded, sitting in the river, his beautifully polished boots ruined...
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.