Читать книгу Lord Ravensden's Marriage - Anne Herries - Страница 9

Beatrice fought her rising temper. She was slow to anger, but when something offended her strong sense of justice—as it did now—she could be awesome in her fury.

“If I could but get my hands on him!” she muttered furiously. “He should see how it feels to be treated so harshly. I should make him suffer as he makes my poor sister.”

No, no, this would not do! She must appear calm and cheerful when speaking to Papa. He had so many worries, the poor darling. This burden must not be allowed to fall on his shoulders. As for the added strain on his slender income…well, it made the idea of her becoming a teacher at Mrs Guarding’s school even more necessary. If she could support herself, her father would be able to spare a few guineas a year for Olivia to dress herself decently—though not, her sister feared, in the manner to which she had become accustomed.

Beatrice paused outside the door to her father’s study, then knocked and walked in without waiting for an answer. It would have done her little good to wait. Mr Roade was engrossed in the sets of charts and figures on his desk, and would not have heard her.

Like many men of the time, he was fascinated with the sciences and the invention of all kinds of ingenious devices. Mr Roade was a great admirer of James Watt, who had invented the miraculous steam engine, which had begun to be used in so many different ways. And, of course, Mr Robert Fulton, the American, who had first shown his splendid steam boat on the Seine in France in 1803. Bertram Roade was certain that his own designs would one day make him a great deal of money.

“Papa…” Beatrice said, walking up to glance over his shoulder. He was working on an ingenious design for a fireplace that would heat a water tank fitted behind it and provide a constant supply of hot water for the household. It was a splendid idea, if only it would work. Unfortunately, the last time her father had persuaded someone to manufacture the device for him, it had overheated and blown apart, causing a great deal of damage and costing more than a hundred pounds, both to repair the hole in the kitchen wall and to repay the money invested by an outraged partner. Money they could ill afford.

“May I speak with you a moment?”

“I’ve nearly got the puzzle solved,” Mr Roade replied, not having heard her. “I’m sure I know why it exploded last time…you see the air became too hot and there was nowhere for it to escape. Now, if I had a valve which let out the steam before it built up…”

“Yes, Papa, I’m sure you are right.”

Mr Roade looked up. Beatrice was usually ready to argue his theories with him; he was none too sure that his most recent was correct, and had hoped to discuss it with her.

“You wanted to talk to me, my dear?” His mild eyes blinked at her from behind the gold-rimmed spectacles that were forever in danger of falling off his nose. “It isn’t time for dinner—is it?”

“No, Papa, not quite. I came to see you about another matter.” She took a deep breath. “Olivia wishes to come and stay with us. I would like your permission to write and tell her she will be welcome here for as long as she wishes.”

“Olivia…your sister?” He wrinkled his brow, as if searching for something he knew he must have forgotten. A smile broke through as he remembered. “Ah yes, she is to be married. No doubt she wishes for a chance to have a little talk with her sister before her wedding.”

“No, Papa. It isn’t quite like that. For reasons Olivia will make clear to us, she has decided not to marry Lord Ravensden. She wants to come and live here.”

“Are you sure you have that right, m’dear?” Mr Roade looked bewildered. “I thought it was a splendid match—the man’s as rich as Midas, ain’t he?”

“That is a very apt description, Father. For if you remember, Midas was the King of Phrygia whose touch turned all to gold, and on whom Apollo bestowed the ears of an ass. Lord Ravensden must be a fool to have turned Olivia against him, but it seems, like that ancient king, he cares more for gold than the sweetness of a woman’s touch.”

“Must be a fool then,” sighed a man who had loved his wife too much. “Olivia is better off without him. Write at once and tell her we shall be delighted to have her home. Never did think it was a good idea for her to go away…your mother’s idea. She wanted the chance of a better life for at least one of her daughters, and her poor sister-inlaw was childless. Thank God the Burtons didn’t pick you! I couldn’t have borne that loss, Beatrice.”

“Thank you, Papa.” She smiled and kissed his forehead lovingly. “You know, if you let all the steam go in one direction, it might pass through pipes before it finally escapes, and give some heat to the rooms. It would make the bedrooms so much warmer…as long as you could be sure the device that heats the water will not blow up like it did the last time.”

“Let the steam pass through pipes that run round the house.” Mr Roade looked at his daughter as if she had just lit a candle in his head. “That’s a very good notion, Beatrice. It might look a little ugly, I suppose. I wonder if anyone would put up with that for the convenience of feeling warm?”

“I certainly would,” Beatrice replied. “Have you made any advances on the grate for a smokeless fire? Mine was smoking dreadfully again last night. It always does when the wind is from the east.”

“It might be a bird’s nest,” her father said. “I’ll sweep the chimney out for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Papa, but I’m sure Mr Rowley will come up from the village if we ask him. It is not fitting for you to undertake such tasks.” Besides which, her father would make a dreadful mess of it!

“Fiddlesticks!” Mr Roade said. “I’ll do it for you first thing tomorrow.”

“Very well, Papa.”

Beatrice smiled as she went away. Her father would have forgotten about the smoking chimney five minutes after she left him, which mattered not at all, since she intended to send for the sweep when their one and only manservant next went down to Abbot Quincey to fetch their weekly supplies.

Seeing her father’s manservant tending the candelabra on the lowboy in the hall, Beatrice smiled.

“Good evening, Bellows. It is a terrible evening, is it not?”

“We’re in for a wild night, miss. Lily brought your letter?”

“Yes, thank you—and thank you for thinking to fetch it for me.”

“You’re welcome, miss. I was in the market at Abbot Quincey and it was the work of a moment to see if any mail had come.”

She nodded and smiled, then passed on up the stairs.

It was possible to buy most goods from the general store in Abbot Quincey, which was much the largest of the four villages, and might even have been called a small town these days, but when anything more important was needed, they had to send Bellows to Northampton.

They were lucky to have Bellows, who was responsible for much of the work both inside the house and out. He had been with them since her father was a boy, and could remember when the Roade family had not been as poor as they were now.

For some reason all his own, Bellows was devoted to his master, and remained loyal despite the fact that he had not been paid for three years. He received his keep, and had his own methods of supplementing his personal income. Sometimes a plump rabbit or a pigeon found its way into the kitchen, and Beatrice suspected that Bellows was not above a little poaching, but she would never dream of asking where the gift came from. Indeed, she could not afford to!

Walking upstairs to her bedchamber to wash and change her clothes, Beatrice reflected on the strangeness of fate.

“My poor, dear sister,” she murmured. “Oh, how could that rogue Ravensden have been so cruel?”

She herself had been deserted by a man who had previously declared himself madly in love with her, because, she understood, he had lost a small fortune at the gaming tables. She truly believed that Matthew Walters had intended to marry her, until he was ruined by a run of bad luck—he had certainly declared himself in love with her several times. Only her own caution had prevented her allowing her own feelings to show.

If she had given way to impulse, she would have been jilted publicly, which would have made her situation very much worse. At least she had been spared the scandal and humiliation that would have accompanied such an event.

Only Beatrice’s parents had known the truth. Mrs Roade had held her while she wept out her disappointment and hurt…but that was a long time ago. Beatrice had been much younger then, perhaps a little naïve, innocent of the ways of the world. She had grown up very quickly after Matthew’s desertion.

Since then, she had given little thought to marriage. She suspected that most men were probably like the one who had tried so ardently to seduce her. If she had been foolish enough to give in to his pleading…what then? She might have been ruined as well as jilted. Somehow she had resisted, though she had believed herself in love…

Beatrice laughed harshly. She was not such a fool as to believe in it now! She had learned to see the world for what it was, and knew that love was just something to be written of by dreamers and poets.

She had been taught a hard lesson, and now she had her sister’s experience to remind her. If Olivia had been so hurt that she was driven to do something that she must know would ruin her in the eyes of the world…What a despicable man Lord Ravensden must be!

“Oh, you wicked, wicked man,” she muttered as she finished dressing and prepared to go down for dinner. “I declare you deserve to be boiled in oil for what you have done!”

Lord Ravensden had begun to equate with the Marquis of Sywell in her mind. After her uncomfortable escape from injury that evening, Beatrice was inclined to think all the tales of him were true! And Lord Ravensden not much better.

A moment’s reflection must have told her this was hardly likely to be true, for her sister would surely not even have entertained the idea of marriage to such a man. She was the indulged adopted daughter of loving parents, and had she said from the start that she could not like their heir, would surely have been excused from marrying him. It was the shock and the scandal of her having jilted her fiancé that had upset them.

However, Beatrice was not thinking like herself that evening. The double shock had made her somehow uneasy. She had the oddest notion that something terrible had either happened or was about to…something that might affect not only her and her sister’s lives, but that of many others in the four villages.

The scream she had heard that night before the Marquis came rushing upon her…it had sounded evil. Barely human. Was it an omen of something?

After hearing it, she had come home to receive her sister’s letter. Of course the scream could have nothing to do with that…and yet the feeling that the lives of many people were about to change was strong in her. A cold chill trickled down her spine as she wondered at herself. Never before had she experienced such a feeling…was it what people sometimes called a premonition?

Do not be foolish, Beatrice, she scolded herself mentally. Whatever would Papa say to such an illogical supposition?

Her dear papa would, she felt sure, give her a lecture upon the improbability of there being anything behind her feelings other than mere superstition, and of course he would be perfectly right.

Shaking her head, her hair now neatly confined in a sleek chignon, she dismissed her fears. There had been something about the atmosphere at the Abbey that night, but perhaps all old buildings with a history of mystery and violence would give out similar vibes if one visited them alone and at dusk.

If Beatrice had been superstitious, she would have said that her experience that evening was a warning—a sign from the ghosts of long dead monks—but she was not fanciful. She knew that what she had heard was most likely the cry of a wounded animal. Like the practical girl she was, she dismissed the idea of warnings and premonitions as nonsense, laughed at her own fancies and went downstairs to eat a hearty meal.

“Ravensden, you are an almighty fool, and should be ashamed of yourself! Heaven only knows how you are to extricate yourself from this mess.”

Gabriel Frederick Harold Ravensden, known as Harry to a very few, Ravensden to most, contemplated his image in his dressing-mirror and found himself disliking what he saw more than ever before. It was the morning of the thirty-first of October, and he was standing in the bedchamber of his house in Portland Place. What a damned ass he had been! He ought to be boiled in oil, then flayed until his bones showed through.

He grinned at the thought, wondering if it should really be the other way round to inflict the maximum punishment, then the smile was wiped clean as he remembered it was his damnable love of the ridiculous that had got them all into this mess in the first place.

“Did you say something, milord?” Beckett asked, coming into the room with a pile of starched neckcloths in anticipation of his lordship’s likely need. “Will you be wearing the new blue coat this morning?”

“What? Oh, I’m not sure,” Harry said. “No, I think something simpler—more suitable for riding.”

His man nodded, giving no sign that he thought the request surprising since his master had returned to town only the previous evening. He offered a fine green cloth, which was accepted by his master with an abstracted air. An unusual disinterest in a man famed for his taste and elegance in all matters of both dress and manners.

“You may leave me,” Harry said, after he had been helped into his coat, having tied a simple knot in the first neckcloth from the pile. “I shall call you if I need you.”

“Yes, milord.”

Beckett inclined his head and retired to the dressing-room to sigh over the state of his lordship’s boots after his return from the country, and Harry returned to the thorny problem on his mind.

He should in all conscience have told his distant cousin to go to hell the minute the marriage was suggested to him. Yet the beautiful Miss Olivia Roade Burton had amused him with her pouts and frowns. She had been the unrivalled success of the Season, and, having been thoroughly spoiled all her life, was inclined to be a little wayward.

However, her manners were so charming, her face so lovely, that he had been determined to win her favours. He had found the chase diverting, and thought he might like to have her for his wife—and a wife he must certainly have before too many months had passed.

“A damned, heavy-footed, crass idiot!” Harry muttered, remembering the letter he had so recently received from his fiancée. “This business is of your own making…”

At four-and-thirty, he imagined he was still capable of giving his wife the son he so badly needed, but it would not do to leave it much later—unless he wanted the abominable Peregrine to inherit his own estate and that of Lord Burton. Both he and Lord Burton were agreed that such an outcome would not be acceptable to either of them—though at the moment they were agreeing on little else. Indeed, they had parted in acrimony. Had Harry not been a gentleman, he would probably have knocked the man down. He frowned as he recalled their conversation of the previous evening.

“An infamous thing, sir,” Harry had accused. “To abandon a girl you have lavished with affection. I do not understand how you could turn her out. Surely you will reconsider?”

“She has been utterly spoilt,” Lord Burton replied. “I have sent her to her family in Northamptonshire. Let her see how she likes living in obscurity.”

“Northamptonshire of all places! Good grief, man, it is the back of beyond, and must be purgatory for a young lady of fashion, who has been used to mixing in the best circles. Olivia will be bored out of her mind within a week!”

“I shall not reconsider until she remembers her duty to me,” Lord Burton had declared. “I have cut off her allowance and shall disinherit her altogether if she does not admit her fault and apologise to us both.”

“I think that it is rather we who should apologise to her.”

After that, their conversation had regrettably gone downhill.

Harry was furious. Burton’s conduct was despicable—and he, Harry Ravensden, had played a major part in the downfall of a very lovely young woman!

A careless remark in a gentleman’s club, overheard by some malicious tongue—and he imagined he could guess the owner of that tongue! If he were not much mistaken, it was his cousin Peregrine Quindon who had started the vicious tale circulating. It was a wicked piece of mischief, and Peregrine would hear from him at some point in the future!

Olivia had clearly been hurt by some other young lady’s glee in the fact that her marriage was, after all, merely one of convenience, that despite her glittering Season, and being the toast of London society, her bridegroom was marrying her only to oblige her adopted father. She had reacted in a very natural way, and had written him a stilted letter, telling him that she had decided she could not marry him, which he had received only on his return to town—by which time the scandal had broken and was being whispered of all over London.

Harry cursed the misfortune that had taken him from town. He had been summoned urgently to his estates in the north, a journey there and back of several days. Had he been in London, he might have seen Olivia, explained that he did indeed have a very high regard for her, and was honoured that she had accepted him—as he truly was.

Perhaps he had not fallen in love in the true romantic sense—but Harry did not really believe in that kind of love. He had experienced passion often enough, and also a deep affection for his friends, but never total, heart-stopping love.

He enjoyed the company of intelligent women. His best friend’s wife was an exceptional woman, and he was very fond of Lady Dawlish. He had often envied Percy his happy home life, but had so far failed to find a lady he could admire as much as Merry Dawlish, who laughed a lot and seemed to enjoy life hugely in her own inimitable way. Even so, he had felt something for Olivia, and he had certainly not intended the tragedy that his carelessness had caused. Indeed, it grieved him that she had been put in such a position, for without fortune and friends to stand by her, she was ruined.

So what was he going to do about it? Having just returned from the country, he had little inclination to return there—and to Northamptonshire! Nothing interesting ever happened in such places.

Harry’s besetting sin was that he was easily bored. Indeed, he was often plagued by a soul-destroying tedium, which had come upon him when his father’s death forced him to give up the army life he had enjoyed for a brief period, and return to care for his estates. He was a good master and did not neglect his land or his people, but he was aware of something missing in his life.

He preferred living in town, where he was more likely to find stimulating company, and would not have minded so much if Olivia had gone to Bath or Brighton, but this village…what was it called? Ah yes, Abbot Giles. It was bound to be full of dull-witted gentry and lusty country wenches.

Harry’s eye did not brighten at the thought of buxom wenches. He was famed for his taste in cyprians, and the mistresses he had kept whenever it suited him had always possessed their full measure of both beauty and wit. He believed the one thing that had prevented him from giving his whole heart to Olivia was that she did not seem to share his love of the ridiculous. She had found some of his remarks either hurtful or bewildering. Harry thought wistfully that it would be pleasant to have a woman by one’s side who could give as good as she got, who wasn’t afraid to stand up to him.

“What an odd character you are to be sure,” Harry told his reflection. It was a severe fault in him that he could not long be pleased by beautiful young women, unless they were also amusing.

Harry frowned at his own thoughts. It was not as if he were hiding some secret tragedy. His mother was still living, and the sweetest creature alive—but she had not been in love with his father, nor his father with her. Both had carried on separate lives, taking and discarding lovers without hurting the other. Indeed, they had been the best of friends. Harry believed he must be like his mother, who seemed not to treat anything seriously, and was besides being the sweetest, the most provoking of females.

No matter! He was a man of his word. He had given his word to Olivia, and the fact that she had jilted him made no difference. He must go after her, try to persuade her that he was not so very terrible. As his wife, she would be readmitted to the society that had cast her off—and that surely must be better than the fate which awaited her now.

“Beckett…” he called, making up his mind suddenly. “Put up a change of clothing for me. I am going out of town for a few days.”

“Yes, milord,” said his valet, coming in. “May one inquire where we are going?”

“You are going nowhere,” Harry replied with an odd little smile. “And if anyone asks, you have no idea where I am…”

“Come in, dearest,” Beatrice said, meeting her sister at the door. It was some six days since she had received Olivia’s letter, and her heart was pained by the look of tiredness and near despair in Olivia’s face. Oh, that rogue, Ravensden! He should be hung, drawn and quartered for what he had done. “You look cold, my love. Was the journey very tiresome?”

The road from London to Northampton was good, and could be covered easily enough in a day, but the country roads which led to Abbot Giles were far from ideal. Olivia had travelled down by one of the public coaching routes the previous day, and had been forced to find another conveyance in Northampton to bring her on. All she had been able to hire was an obliging carter, who had offered to take both her and her baggage for the sum of three shillings. A journey which must have shaken her almost rigid! And must also have been terrifying to a girl who had previously travelled in a well-sprung carriage with servants to care for her every whim.

How could the Burtons have sent her all this way alone? Anything might have happened to Olivia. It was as if her adoptive parents had abandoned all care for her along with their responsibility. The very least they might have done was to send her home in a carriage! Their heartlessness made Beatrice boil with anger, but she forced herself to be calm. It did not matter now! Her sister was here and safe, though desperately weary.

“Beatrice…” Olivia’s voice almost broke. Clearly she had been wondering what her reception would be, and Beatrice’s concerned greeting had almost overset her. “I am so very sorry to bring this trouble on you.”

“Trouble? What trouble?” Beatrice asked. “It is with the greatest pleasure that I welcome my sister to this house. We love you, Olivia. You could never be a trouble to me or your family…” She smiled and kissed Olivia’s cheek. “Come and meet Aunt Nan, dearest. Our father is busy at the moment. We try not to disturb him when he is working, but you will meet him later. He has asked me to tell you how pleased he is to have you home again.”

At this the sweet, innocent face of Miss Olivia crumpled, the tears spilling out of her bright blue eyes.

“Oh, how kind you are,” she said, fumbling for her kerchief in the reticule she carried on her wrist. She was fashionably dressed, though her pelisse was sadly splashed with mud, and the three trunks of personal belongings she had brought with her on the carter’s wagon would seem to indicate that the Burtons had not cast her out without a rag to her back. “I know you must think me wicked…or at the very least foolish.”

“I think nothing of the kind,” Beatrice said, leading her into the tiny back parlour, in which a welcoming fire was burning. It was usually not lit until the evening, neither Beatrice nor her aunt having time to sit much during the day, but this was a special occasion, and the logs they were using had been a gift from Jaffrey House, sent down specially by their very wealthy and illustrious neighbour the Earl of Yardley.

The Earl had a daughter named Sophia by his second marriage, of whom Beatrice imagined he was fond. The girl was near Olivia’s own age, and very striking, with black hair and bright eyes. Beatrice knew her of course, though they seldom met in a social way.

Mr Roade did not often entertain, nor did he accept many invitations, but the Earl’s family were seen about the village, and Beatrice was sufficiently well acquainted with Lady Sophia to stop and speak for a few minutes whenever they met. She thought now that it was a pity her father had turned down some of the kind invitations the Earl had sent them over the years. It would have been nice for Olivia to have made a friend of Sophia Cleeve.

“My dear Olivia,” Nan said, bustling in. She was wearing a mob cap over her light brown hair, and a dusting apron protected her serviceable gown. “Forgive me for not being here to greet you. I was upstairs turning out the bedrooms. We have only the one maid, besides the kitchen wench, and it would be unfair to expect poor Lily to do everything herself.”

Olivia looked amazed at the idea of her aunt having been busy working in the bedrooms, then recollected herself, blushed and seemed awkward as she went forward to kiss Nan’s cheek.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I fear I have caused extra work for you.”

“Well, yes, I must admit that you have,” Nan said, never one to hide the truth. “However, I dare say the room needed a good turn-out—it was your mother’s, you know, and has not…”

“Nan doesn’t mean that you are a bother to us,” Beatrice said as she saw her sister’s quick flush. “The room you have been given was our mother’s private sitting-room, not her bedroom—that is where she died, of course, and I felt it might distress you to sleep there.”

“I was about to tell Olivia that,” Nan said. “We’ve been waiting for the bed to arrive—it was ordered from Northampton, but arrived only this morning on the carter’s wagon. Had we not needed to wait, your room would have been ready days ago.”

“It was time we had a new bed,” Beatrice said smoothly, with a quick frown at her aunt. “The one we have in the guest room, which is at the back of the house and depressingly dark, is broken in the struts which support the mattress. It is still there, of course, though since no one ever comes to stay, it does not matter…”

“I see I have caused a great deal of trouble,” Olivia said. “You have been put to considerable expense on my account.”

“Nothing of the sort,” replied Beatrice. “Take off your bonnet and pelisse, dearest. I shall ring for tea—unless you would like to go straight up to your room?”

Olivia looked as if she would dearly like to escape, but forced herself to smile at them.

“Tea would be very nice,” she said. “I have a few guineas left out of the allowance my…Lord Burton made me earlier in the season, but I did not care to waste them on refreshments at the inns we passed. Besides, I was in a hurry to reach you. I shall give you what money I have, Beatrice, and you may use it for expenses as you see fit.”

“Well, as to that, we shall see how we go on,” Beatrice said, and reached for the bell.

It was answered so promptly that she imagined Lily had been hovering outside in the hall—a habit her mistress disliked but not sufficiently to dismiss her. Like Bellows, Lily did not complain if her wages were late, though Beatrice paid the girl herself, and usually on time.

“Tea please, Lily.” She turned to her sister as the maid went out again. “That’s right, dearest, sit by the fire and you will soon feel better. We shall talk properly later. For now, I want you to tell me all the news from London…that is, if you can bear to? We hear so little here, you know, except when neighbours return from a visit to town.”

“You know of course that the Prince was declared Regent earlier this year?” Olivia looked at her doubtfully.

“Yes, dearest. Papa takes The Times. I am aware that trade has been bad, because of Napoleon’s blockade of Europe, and that unemployment is high. I didn’t mean that sort of news…a little gossip perhaps, something that is setting the Ton by its ears?”

Olivia gave a little giggle, her face losing some of its strain.

“Oh, that sort of news…what can I tell you? Oh yes, apart from all the usual scandals, there is something rather exciting going on at the moment…”

She had taken off her outer clothing now, revealing a pretty travelling-gown of green velvet.

“There is a new French modiste in town. She is the protégée of Madame Marie-Anne Coulanges, who was herself once apprenticed to Rose Bertin—who, you must know, was a favourite dressmaker to Queen Marie Antoinette.” Olivia paused for effect. “They say Madame Coulanges was once a friend of Madame Félice’s mama, and that is why she has taken her up—anyway, she presented her to her clients, and Madame Félice has taken the town by storm.”

Beatrice smiled as she saw the glow in her sister’s eyes. Her little ruse had worked, and Olivia had lost her shyness.

“How old is Madame Félice?”

“Oh, not more than two-and-twenty at the most, I would think. She has pretty, pale hair, but she keeps it hidden beneath a rather fetching cap most of the time, and her eyes are a greenish blue. I think she might be beautiful if she dressed in gowns as elegant as those she makes for her clientele, but of course it would not be correct for her to do so. Though no one really knows much about her…she is something of a mystery.”

“How exciting. Tell me, dearest, is she very clever at making gowns?”

“Oh, yes, very. Everyone, simply everyone, is dying to get their hands on at least one of her gowns—but she is particular about who she dresses. Would you believe it? I heard she actually turned down the Marchioness of Rossminster, because she had no style! She will dress only those women she thinks can carry off her fabulous gowns. Of course they are the most beautiful clothes you have ever seen. No one can touch her for elegance and quality.” Olivia dropped her gaze. “She was very nice to me. I have one of her gowns and she was to have made a part of my wedding trousseau…” Her cheeks fired up as she spoke. “I have the gown she made for me in my trunks. I will show it to you later, if you wish?”

“I would like very much to see it,” Beatrice said. “If it is as smart as the one you are wearing…it must be lovely.”

She had been about to say that her sister would have little opportunity to wear her beautiful clothes now, but bit the words back before she was so cruel as to remind Olivia of all that she had lost.

“We shall talk of other things later,” she said. “There is much to talk about, Olivia—but we have time enough.”

“Yes,” Olivia said, losing the sparkle she had gained when telling her sister the news about Madame Félice. “Of course, London is thin of company now. I believe the Regent is to leave London for Brighton at the end of this month…Oh, that is today, isn’t it?”

Her mouth drooped as though she were remembering that she would no longer be a part of the extravagant set that surrounded the Prince Regent and privileged society. However, the arrival of the tea-tray and the delicious cakes that Beatrice had spent the morning baking brought her out of the doldrums a little.

“These are delightful,” she said, choosing from the pretty silver cake-basket and chewing a small, nutty biscuit. “Quite as good as anything I have tasted anywhere.”

“Beatrice made those for you herself,” Nan said. “They are Bosworth Jumbles, but Beatrice adds her own special ingredients to the recipe, which some say was picked up on the battlefield at Bosworth in 1485, hence its name. Your sister will make some lucky gentleman an excellent wife one day.”

“Did you really make them?” Olivia stared at her. “You are so clever. I have never cooked anything in my life.”

“I can teach you if you like, and there is a very good manual by Mrs Rundle, called Domestic Cookery,” Beatrice said. “I know it may seem tedious at first, Olivia, but living in the country has its compensations. We have nut trees and fruit from our own orchards, berries from the kitchen gardens, and we make our own jams and preserves. It can be a rewarding way to pass the time.”

“Yes, of course.” Olivia lifted her head, as though wanting to show she was not above such things. “Yes, I am sure I shall soon settle in…”