Читать книгу The Makings Of A Lady - Catherine Tinley, Catherine Tinley - Страница 13

‘Do not speak to me!’ declared Lizzie, with fervour. ‘It is not yet noon and I am forced into polite company.’ She smiled to soften the words. ‘Why, I shall not be fit for conversation for at least another hour!’ Lizzie had just joined Olivia, Jem, Clara and Charlotte in the morning room. She had brought her sketchbook—Lizzie was a talented artist and often worked on her drawings and paintings during the afternoon.

‘Have you eaten?’ asked Charlotte solicitously.

‘I have, thank you.’ Lizzie leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I confess one of your wonderful housemaids brought rolls and chocolate to my bedroom. I truly appreciate Chadcombe’s hospitality—even if you do keep inconveniently early hours!’

Charlotte was just explaining that Adam was with his steward and Juliana and Harry—who also loathed country hours—had not yet emerged from their bedchamber, when the sound of a carriage approaching up the drive alerted them to the fact they were to have visitors. ‘Oh, dear,’ said Lizzie, patting her hair, ‘and I am not long risen!’

‘You look charmingly,’ said Olivia reassuringly. Lizzie beamed at her. Oh, it was good to have her friend at Chadcombe! Already life seemed less flat. And now, it seemed, they were to have visitors as well. She peeped discreetly through the lace curtains as five people emerged from the coach. ‘Two men and three women,’ she announced. ‘Although they are too far away for me to distinguish who they might be.’

‘Do sit down, Olivia,’ said Charlotte, ‘for they might see you looking through the window!’ Olivia complied, sitting beside Jem on a satin-covered couch. She hoped Jem and Lizzie did not think Charlotte was telling her off, as though she were a child. That had not been Charlotte’s intention—dear Charlotte would not do such a thing—but, still...

They all rose when the footman announced their guests. ‘Mr and Mrs Foxley, Mrs Buxted, Mr Manning, Miss Manning,’ he intoned, his final introduction slightly muffled by the scrape of Lizzie’s chair as she stood.

Mr Manning! Olivia’s heart began to race. She stood, maintaining what she hoped was a neutral look on her face. The ladies dipped into a curtsy, the men bowing politely, then Charlotte stepped forward to greet her guests.

‘My dear Faith!’ she said warmly, embracing her cousin Mrs Foxley. ‘Aunt Buxted!’ She embraced Faith’s mama next, though with rather less enthusiasm. However, her words were warm and genuine. ‘It is so good to see you! And where is little Frederick?’

‘We have not brought him, I’m afraid.’ Faith spoke in her usual gentle tones. ‘We have left him with his nurse.’

Her husband explained. ‘We recall the last time he was here, he managed to break not one, but two tea cups and we decided that, on this occasion, we should sacrifice his company in the interests of our sanity—and your china!’

They all smiled at this. Master Frederick Foxley was just past his second birthday and had recently become, as his doting father suggested affectionately, a tyrant.

Olivia could barely follow the conversation. Her attention was fixed on Mr George Manning and her foolish heart was still pounding wildly, and in complete defiance of her wishes. She was wondering if it was obvious to everyone in the room that she and Mr Manning had met before. Oh, how she wished she had mentioned it!

He stood a little to the side, awaiting formal introduction, and Olivia’s eyes were compulsively drawn to him. How elegant he looked! His tall figure equalled Jem’s—both were handsome, imposing men. Mr Manning had a peculiar stillness that spoke of assurance and composure. His handsome face looked relaxed, though his eyes were busy, observing everyone with keenness and intent.

By his side stood a beautiful woman, with fair hair smoothed into an elegant chignon, pale blue eyes, and the most stylish silk morning dress Olivia had seen outside London. She wore a delicate lace cap, proclaiming her status as a married lady, and, unaccountably, Olivia’s heart sank. Had the footman said Mrs Manning? Was George Manning, then, married?

She was conscious of a strong feeling of disappointment. She and Lizzie had often moaned in private about the fact that so many young men’s lives had been lost in the war and that there were usually three young ladies to every eligible gentleman at the balls and routs they attended. And even then, like as not, the most handsome ones were invariably already married. With Jem here, she needed the distraction of an eligible man.

She caught Lizzie’s eye. Her friend sent her an impertinent look, arching her eyebrows to signal the presence of an interesting new acquaintance. Olivia suppressed a smile and stood still, awaiting the introductions.

Mrs Buxted obliged. ‘My dear, dear Charlotte! Lord Shalford! Permit me to introduce to you my treasured friend Miss Manning, who is lodging in Albemarle Street, and her brother, Mr George Manning.’

Her brother! Olivia’s eyes flew to Mr Manning’s face. He was watching her intently and was clearly amused by her reaction. She flushed and looked away. Jem was looking at her, a crease in his brow. Everyone else, she noted, was surreptitiously studying Miss Manning.

Olivia had erred. Seeing Miss Manning’s cap, she had assumed the woman was married. Instead, she was clearly wearing it to indicate she was no longer of marriageable age. Now aware that Miss Manning had to be older than she first appeared, Olivia looked for the signs. And there they were—subtle lines at the corners of the eyes, between her delicate brows and at the corners of her mouth. Still, Miss Manning was a remarkably beautiful woman. It was difficult to estimate her age—perhaps she was in her early forties, thought Olivia. At least ten years older than her brother.

‘...and this is my sister-in-law, Lady Olivia Fanton.’ Charlotte’s voice intruded into Olivia’s musings, but, thankfully, years of social schooling meant she had reached out automatically to touch Miss Manning’s pale, white hand.

The woman’s grasp was weak, but she murmured something appropriate with cool politeness. ‘I am happy to meet you,’ Olivia replied cordially, though, in truth, she scarcely knew what to make of Miss Manning. Briefly, an intent look flashed in those pale blue eyes and Olivia was put in mind of a swan on a lake, sailing serenely by, but with webbed feet pumping furiously beneath the waterline.

‘My brother, George,’ said Miss Manning, gesturing to him, then pausing to watch as George bent over Olivia’s hand to kiss it.

Olivia flushed and pulled her hand away, wishing she could wipe away the feeling of his warm lips on her skin. Her skin tingled pleasantly where he had kissed her hand, but it angered her that she should feel pleasure when she did not choose it.

They all sat, Jem returning to his place by her side. He was still frowning. He turned as if to speak to her, but Olivia’s attention was taken up by the new arrivals. By the time she realised he wished to say something, he had already subsided and indicated with a slight shake of his head that whatever he had intended to say was of no matter.

Relieved, Olivia returned her full gaze to George Manning and his sister. Looking at Jem was altogether too confusing. It was easier to avoid it. It was difficult enough being seated beside him and being so conscious of his nearness.

Once again, she reached for that old sense of betrayal. Jem was nothing to her now. An acquaintance. Possibly a friend. No more than that. Having George’s admiring gaze on her helped soothe the Jem-related anxiety.

Mrs Buxted was explaining the friendship between them was of recent date, as the Mannings had lived in London for only the past few months. ‘We met, would you believe, in Rotten Row, during the evening perambulation,’ declared Mrs Buxted. ‘We struck up a conversation and Miss Manning was most obliging. She was quite willing to listen to me nattering on about my daughters and my dear niece Charlotte, who is now, of course, a countess!’

Olivia squirmed a little at Mrs Buxted’s vulgar words. Charlotte, always ready to say exactly the right thing, diverted her by asking about her other daughter.

‘Oh, my dear Henrietta is well, though suffering from great tiredness. She has just written to tell me her fifth petit paquet will be delivered in the winter!’ Since Henrietta’s fourth child had been born last November, and her firstborn had just turned five, this news, naturally, caused some exclamations. ‘Oh, never worry about Henrietta,’ said Mrs Buxted, in a confiding manner, ‘she always wanted a large family.’

Faith, Henrietta’s sister, looked dubious at this assertion.

‘You will be wondering, I am sure,’ continued Mrs Buxted serenely, ‘why Miss Manning and her brother look so little alike!’ Olivia almost gasped. She had met Mrs Buxted many times, yet never failed to be astonished by her impropriety. ‘And why should you not, for I wondered exactly the same thing myself!’ She patted Miss Manning’s arm affectionately. ‘You are so fair, my friend, and your brother is so dark in his colouring, so everyone who sees you must wonder at it!’

Miss Manning’s expression did not change, apart from a slight hardening of her lips.

Perhaps, thought Olivia, the friendship with Miss Manning is not so firm as Mrs Buxted says it is.

She glanced at George Manning. He looked decidedly uncomfortable and as she watched he drummed his fingers on his strong thigh. Olivia sympathised. How uncomfortable the Mannings must be, to have Mrs Buxted talk about them as if they were not present!

‘George favours his father,’ said Miss Manning coolly, ‘while I am like our mother in looks.’

‘Are your parents also staying in London?’ asked Charlotte politely.

‘Our parents died many years ago,’ said Miss Manning calmly. ‘Smallpox.’

Great-Aunt Clara, who had a morbid fear of the disease, gasped. ‘Oh, dear, how unfortunate! I am so sorry you lost your parents, Miss Manning.’

Miss Manning shrugged slightly. ‘It was a long time ago.’

Another silence ensued. This time, even Mrs Buxted seemed aware of the tension. She looked from face to face uncertainly.

George Manning spoke. ‘We are delighted to have been included in the invitation to stay at Monkton Park. Mr and Ms Foxley are generous hosts, indeed, to have included people they had never met. We are exceedingly grateful.’

Olivia could almost feel the tension ease. George’s speech struck a perfect note, diverting attention from Mrs Buxted and the topic of the Manning parents’ unfortunate demise. Mr and Mrs Foxley both responded enthusiastically, declaring that, of course, they were happy to welcome Mrs Buxted’s friends and that visitors enlivened their common routine.

Olivia could not resist sending a thankful glance in the direction of Mr Manning. The look he returned her was half-amusement, half...something darker.

He is interested in you.

He was still looking at her and she, as if turned to stone, was returning his gaze. Becoming aware, she blushed and, breaking her gaze, wriggled slightly in her seat. Beside her, she noticed, Jem’s back was ramrod straight. She stole a glance at him. His face was rigid, impassive. Despite George’s intervention, Jem was probably still uncomfortable with Mrs Buxted’s rudeness. She hoped he would feel at ease soon.

Tea was served and they all supped politely. Charlotte, Faith, George and Clara carried the conversation, while the others remained largely silent—even Mrs Buxted. Charlotte promised to call at Monkton Park tomorrow, which made Olivia sit up straighter. She must go, too!

She was still unsure what her opinion was of Mr George Manning, but one thing was certain—she very much wished to see him again so that she could find out.

Monkton Park was a pretty estate bordering Chadcombe to the east. Since the Foxleys had wed and taken up residence, the friendships between them all had deepened. Olivia had visited many times and had enjoyed seeing how Faith had adapted to her new roles as wife and mistress of Monkton Park. The birth of little Frederick had added to the happiness of the young couple and Olivia always looked forward to seeing how he had changed since she saw him last.

Today though, Olivia’s thoughts were not on Frederick, or Faith, or indeed any of Monkton Park’s permanent residents. Foolishly, her preoccupation was solely with only two people: Jem and the enigmatic George Manning.

The carriage lumbered on and Olivia let the lull of voices wash over her. Lizzie and Juliana were engaged in some frivolous talk about Juliana’s new fan, while Jem and Harry remained silent in the facing seats. The others were travelling in the new carriage, which gave more comfort and safety for Great-Aunt Clara’s old bones and Charlotte’s delicate condition. This could well be Charlotte’s last excursion away from home, as her confinement was only weeks away.

They had completed their courtesy call earlier in the week, staying for less than an hour. Olivia had enjoyed no further conversation with Mr Manning, as he had been seated with Lizzie during their call. However, Faith had invited them all to a dinner party tonight, in honour of her guests. They would all stay the night, as there was to be no moon, which would make it too dangerous to travel the road home.

‘Lord, I am hungry!’ announced Lizzie. ‘I deliberately took no nuncheon, as I knew we were to dine out tonight, but now I wish I had indulged myself. Even some thin gruel would be welcome for my present distress, for I declare I shall faint if no one feeds me soon!’ They all chuckled at Lizzie’s pronouncement—even Jem, who seemed generally more taciturn than he used to be.

Encouraged by this sign of animation, and under cover of Juliana and Lizzie’s speculation about what food might be offered by the Foxleys tonight, Olivia leaned forward and spoke to him.

‘It will be good to spend time with the Foxleys together, as we did that summer when you stayed with us in London. Do you remember? We went for a picnic.’

‘Of course I remember!’ he retorted. ‘You wore a yellow dress and I gave you a yellow flower that matched the colour exactly.’

She smiled, surprised he had remembered. She still had that flower, had treasured it. She could still recall the thrill that had gone through her when he had handed her the flower.

Finally, she had thought, here is a sign he is interested in me!

How wrong she had been. She had read too much into the situation, had been wilfully blind. He was looking at her expectantly, so, in a rush, she responded.

‘As I recall, I told you my dress was a perfect shade of jonquil, not yellow. A high-class dressmaker would never make anything in a colour as common as yellow!’

‘Yellow,’ he repeated and there was a definite twinkle in his eye. ‘It did not suit your complexion. You were decidedly sallow that day.’

She took this in good spirit. ‘Sallow? Sallow? I did not look sallow! Why, did not Charles Turner tell me I looked beautiful that day?’ Her eyes danced with merriment.

‘“Angelic”, I believe, was his epithet.’

‘Angelic, then. He certainly did not call me sallow!’

Jem rubbed one long finger thoughtfully along his jawline. ‘He may not have said it aloud, but—’

‘But nothing!’ She decided to enlist Lizzie’s assistance. ‘You remember my jonquil dress? I wore it to the picnic in London when you visited Jem that summer. Now, did I look sallow in it?’

‘I cannot remember the particular dress, I’m afraid,’ Lizzie admitted, ‘but I am certain of one thing. You could never look sallow, Olivia!’ She glared at her brother, but with a smile lurking in her eyes. ‘Jem, you should show some discretion when talking to ladies about their looks. Why, we are sensitive creatures, easily crushed by criticism!’

Olivia glanced at the other ladies. Both Juliana and Lizzie wore similar expressions of mock outrage—mirroring her own. She decided to test the men.

‘So then, Jem—and you, Harry!’

Harry flung his hands up. ‘This is nothing to do with me and I will not engage with you!’

‘Coward!’ muttered Jem.

Olivia ignored this. ‘What would you say about our appearance tonight?’

The men exchanged glances. ‘You expect, I suppose,’ drawled Jem, ‘a dozen outrageous compliments on your dresses and your hair, and no doubt any further attributes, possessions and qualities.’

‘At least a dozen!’ confirmed Olivia, her eyes brimming with mischief.

‘A dozen and no more!’ He eyed Olivia from head to toe, then quickly scanned Juliana and Lizzie. ‘I can affirm,’ he said theatrically, ‘that you each have beautiful dresses and hair, and—er—’ his eyes scanned them again, a hint of theatrical panic mixed with his amusement ‘—gloves!’ he said triumphantly. ‘That is surely a dozen things!’

‘It is only three and well you know it!’ challenged Juliana.

He shook his head. ‘There are three of you and I named four items, so that is twelve!’ He nudged Harry in the ribs. ‘Wouldn’t you say so, Captain?’

His former commanding officer smiled broadly. ‘I heard only three for each lady, so that is nine.’

Jem clutched his heart. ‘Betrayed by my comrade! But none of you can count!’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Lizzie.

‘I know exactly what he means’, said Olivia, dimpling. ‘He is counting the gloves as two separate items!’

Jem nodded, smiling indulgently. ‘You always understood me, Olivia.’

Jem’s tone was entirely familiar to Olivia—it was exactly how he always had spoken to her when she was eighteen. She sighed inwardly. How often had she wished he would see her as a woman, not a girl? She frowned, her thoughts returning full circle to the realisation that no-one, including Jem, saw her as an adult, even now.

Yet, as they travelled on to Monkton Park, Olivia recognised with some surprise that she felt the glimmerings of peace. To her right the sky was colouring up for what promised to be a glorious sunset—glowing purple and gold and orange-red. Although the same frustrations dogged her, at least here, in this very carriage, were people with whom she felt at ease.

Jem sat back, enjoying the sensation of simply looking at her. She’d blossomed into quite a beauty. While she had been striking at eighteen, at twenty-two she was simply exquisite. As to her character, it was too early to tell, but he suspected her nature was basically unchanged.

Yet some changes were apparent. Gone was the naive girl who had glowed in his company. In her place was someone more reserved, less easy to read. It surprised him just how much he desperately wanted to get to know her all over again.

Who knew what experiences she’d had in the intervening four years? Had she fallen in love? Four years ago, he had foolishly allowed himself to become lost in her company, knowing it was destined to lead nowhere. The Earl, Olivia’s brother, had barely been aware of his existence.

And why should he? As a family they regularly hosted guests and the Earl had been busy with Parliament, his duties to the estate and his new marriage to Charlotte. He had spent little time with Jem and, although unfailingly polite, had showed no particular interest in him. Any suggestion of a relationship between Ensign Jem Ford and the sister of the formidable Earl of Shalford had been unthinkable.

Knowing he was a guest in their home and that he was trusted by her brothers to behave appropriately towards Olivia, he had acted the gentleman throughout and never so much as kissed her.

I was a damned fool! he thought now, as the realisation of the lost opportunity washed over him anew. I should have kissed her while I had the chance—while she might have wanted me to.

Desire flooded through him at the thought.

Or perhaps not, he thought a few moments later, as his rational mind reasserted itself and he pictured the ramifications. Olivia might have responded with enthusiasm and his heart skipped at the notion of the joy that would have brought to him then, but had the Earl discovered them Jem would undoubtedly have been banished from the Fanton home—and from Olivia’s life.

How might it have changed her feelings for him? Could he have secured her deeper affections, if he had breached the boundaries around them? Eighteen-year-olds were not normally renowned for constancy. Even if he’d tried to fix her interest—which would have been madness—it would not have survived four years apart.

Which brought him right back to the present, sitting opposite her in a carriage, desire and yearning confusing his senses. He glanced at her again. She was looking out of the window at the beautiful sunset, calm and serene. Certainly there was no awkwardness in her dealings with him—she was friendly, warm and gracious. Equally, there was no indication of any warmer feelings.

We had our chance, he thought, and we let it pass us by. The opportunity was lost.

The realisation hit him like a blow to the stomach.