Читать книгу The Viscount's Runaway Wife - Laura Martin - Страница 14

Chapter Four

Oliver didn’t lift his head as he heard Lucy’s soft footfall on the stairs, instead turning the page of the paper and pretending to be engrossed in the news. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her hesitate, then enter the dining room.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

Carefully he closed the paper, lowered it and looked up.

He grimaced—she was wearing that ugly brown woollen dress again. It made her look more like a milkmaid than a viscountess.

‘Good morning.’

He’d have to throw it out, perhaps instruct one of the maids to squirrel it away on the pretence of washing it and then unfortunately misplace it. Eyeing the coarse wool, he reconsidered, throwing it out wasn’t drastic enough; he’d have to burn it.

‘I’m ready to leave for the Foundation,’ Lucy said, the smile tight on her face as if she were having to force herself to be polite. ‘You mentioned a chaperon...’

‘Yes.’

She looked around, as if waiting for him to summon someone.

‘Perhaps you changed your mind...’ she suggested hopefully.

‘No.’ He stood, crossing to her side and offering her his arm. ‘I’m ready.’

He felt her stiffen beside him and wished he could see the expression a little more clearly on her face, but a loose strand of dark blonde hair had escaped her bun and obscured some of her features from him.

‘You?’ she asked, the tremor obvious in her voice.

‘Yes, me.’

‘Surely a footman...’ she suggested.

‘No,’ he said without any further explanation. He wasn’t anywhere near the point where he could trust her not to trick or evade a footman and disappear off into the slums of London.

She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Oliver smiled in triumph and gently steered her towards the door. He felt the exact moment that she rallied and pre-empted her protest by striding on ahead, only pausing for her to catch up when he reached the carriage.

They spent the entire carriage ride in silence, Lucy’s face stony and her indignation at being outmanoeuvred by him rising from her like steam from a kettle. For his part, he was content to sit quietly, pretending to peruse the top sheet of papers he’d brought with him, while surreptitiously regarding his wife out of the corner of his eye.

Even in the offensive woollen dress there was something almost regal about her. She sat with a straight back and lifted chin, a posture that screamed defiance. He couldn’t imagine her fitting in the slums of St Giles. She might be able to walk and talk with the locals, but she’d never assimilate. He couldn’t quite believe she’d spent the last year living there. Most people didn’t choose to live somewhere as deprived as St Giles and not for the first time he wondered what motivated her to live in such squalid conditions when, unlike many of the other residents, she did have other options available.

As the carriage made its way through Charing Cross, slowing to avoid the numerous pedestrians, Oliver stifled a yawn. It had been a long night and he had not got much sleep, finding himself staring at the canopy above his bed much as he had on the days following Lucy’s initial disappearance. He was happy to have found her, happy to know she hadn’t died of a fever or been stabbed for her purse, but he wasn’t so naïve to think these next few months were going to be easy. She didn’t want to resume her role as his wife and he knew that meant they would clash in the coming weeks. For his part, he was torn between wanting to spend time with his wife, so they could more easily take up their positions as husband and wife again, and wanting to distance himself from her. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to forgive her for taking their son away. It wasn’t something that a simple apology could solve. He doubted the trust between them could ever be repaired, but he was willing to accept a less-than-perfect marriage.

The carriage rounded a corner, turning north towards St Giles, and Lucy’s body momentarily rocked into his. Even through the coarse wool of her dress he could feel the heat of her skin and he had to take a deep breath to compose himself. The last thing that should be in his mind was renewing the physical side of their relationship. First he needed to focus on ensuring she wasn’t going to run away at the next available opportunity.

Even so, the distant memory of the nights they had shared at the beginning of their marriage fought to the surface. Her body writhing beneath his, the soft moans of pleasure, the frantic way she’d clutched his back, urging him on. He hadn’t expected such a physical connection and had known at the time Lucy had felt embarrassed by her reaction to him. That all seemed a long time ago, a different life, and he doubted they would ever share such intimacy again.

‘We’re here,’ Lucy said, forcing Oliver back to the present.

Quickly he regained his composure, gathering the papers from his lap before vaulting from the carriage and turning to help his wife down. They’d stopped on the main thoroughfare, the carriage being too large and unwieldly to take into the rabbit-warren streets of the slum, but already Oliver could see his wife growing in confidence, as if she were more comfortable now she was back in the area she considered home.

He could feel eyes on them as they entered the narrow streets, curious but not overly malicious at present. Not for the first time he wondered how his refined wife had thrived in such an environment and once again he had to remind himself that he barely knew the woman beside him. There was clearly much more to her than he’d realised when his mother had proposed her as a marriage candidate.

It would be easy to lose your way in the maze of streets, but the years Oliver had spent in the army meant he had a sharp eye for observation and thought he probably could escape from the slums if he needed to.

‘We’re here,’ Lucy said flatly, her voice without enthusiasm.

They stopped in front of a nondescript door, situated in a brick building with crumbling windows and nestled between a lodging house on one side and a building that leaned dangerously out over the street on the other. To Oliver it looked as though it should be condemned, but as they watched, a young girl threw open a window and hurled a bucket of water into the street below. Definitely lived in, then.

He observed her as Lucy hesitated for just a second, then pushed open the door. They entered into a narrow alley, the bricks on either side dank and dirty, and walked the fifteen feet to a courtyard at the other end.

‘Caroline,’ a middle-aged woman shouted as they entered the courtyard. She abandoned the scruffy young woman she was talking to and came rushing over. ‘I’ve been so worried.’

Oliver watched with curiosity as the two women embraced, wondering if this was the woman who ran the Foundation. Mary, Lucy had said her name was.

‘I should introduce my husband,’ Lucy said, the reluctance evident in her voice.

Mary’s eyes widened and Oliver wondered exactly what Lucy had told the older woman when she’d first arrived, desperate and destitute.

‘Mary, this is Lord Sedgewick, my husband. Lord Sedgewick, this is Mary Humberton, proprietress of the St Giles’s Women’s and Children’s Foundation.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, my lord,’ Mary said, rallying splendidly.

Oliver inclined his head in greeting, catching the puzzled glance Mary threw at his wife.

‘You are reunited?’ Mary asked eventually.

He saw Lucy hesitate for just a moment, and then nod.

‘Lucy has been telling me of the work you do here,’ he said, filling the awkward silence that was stretching out before them.

‘Caro—’ Mary started and then corrected herself. ‘Lucy has been a godsend. I don’t know what we would have done without her this last year.’

‘Miss Caroline,’ an exuberant voice shouted from one of the windows that overlooked the courtyard. Oliver looked up in time to see the flash of blond hair before the boy disappeared, heavy footfalls announcing his imminent arrival down one of the many staircases.

A door flew open and a boy of seven or eight hurtled into the courtyard, throwing himself into Lucy’s arms.

‘Old Bert said you’d been kidnapped,’ he said, his eyes wide with excitement.

‘Not kidnapped, Billy. I just bumped into an old acquaintance.’

Oliver grimaced at the casual way she described him. A husband should be more than an old acquaintance.

‘Is this him?’ Billy asked, squinting up at Oliver. ‘Bert said he had a big knife, more like a sword, and he dragged you off by the hair screaming.’

‘Old Bert can exaggerate sometimes,’ Lucy said, suppressing the smile on her lips as she looked down at the boy with affection.

‘Exaggerate?’ Billy mumbled with a frown. Then his face suddenly lit up. ‘Stretch the truth to make it sound more exciting?’ he asked.

‘Well done,’ Lucy said, ruffling the young boy’s hair.

‘Did he hurt you?’ Billy asked, his voice a loud whisper, a dark glance directed Oliver’s way.

Before Lucy could answer, Oliver saw the boy tense and fling himself towards him, fists swinging as he dived at Oliver, teeth gnashing and eyes dark. Catching the young lad easily, he held him at arm’s length, trying to remain gentle but at the same time determined not to be bitten. Who knew what diseases a street child carried in his mouth?

‘He didn’t hurt me, Billy,’ Lucy said quickly, stepping forward to pull the young boy away with a surprising show of strength.

Oliver received a dark, distrusting look from Billy, but no further attempts to attack him were forthcoming.

‘Get back to your studies, Billy,’ Mary admonished gently, ‘or you’ll fall behind the rest of the class.’

Reluctantly Billy gave Lucy one final hug before racing back up the stairs he’d come down. Within seconds there was a low rumble and a few excited shrieks followed by a dozen curious faces at the window of what must be the schoolroom. Billy had lost no time in informing his classmates about Lucy’s return and her mysterious companion.

‘Back to your seats,’ a deep voice called and slowly the faces trickled away.

‘One of the things I’m most proud of,’ Mary said, stepping closer and taking Oliver’s arm. ‘Our education programme. No child that stays here with us gets out of lessons to read and write. Some of those who stay longer also learn a little mathematics. Probably not enough to allow them to be clerks, but certainly enough to be able to take money behind a bar in an inn, or work out weights and prices in a butcher’s shop.’

Oliver had come across all sorts of people in the course of his life. Those who were selfish and thought only of their own profit; those who were determined to pauper themselves in the service of others. Mary was one of the kind ones, he could see, but she was astute, too. She knew exactly what the young children of St Giles needed, and it wasn’t lessons in French or Latin, but basic skills aimed at allowing them to navigate through life just a little easier than their parents.

‘Come, let me show you around,’ Mary said.

‘I don’t want to inconvenience you.’

‘Nonsense. This is purely selfish. I’m hoping if you see the good work we do here you’ll want Lucy to remain involved.’

* * *

Oliver was safely ensconced in the office. Hopefully his accounts would be absorbing enough to keep him from wandering, Lucy thought.

He’d been remarkably well behaved on his tour of the Foundation, asking Mary insightful questions and greeting the children and adults he met politely. Lucy didn’t know what she’d expected, but not this. Perhaps a surly superiority, or a dismissive air about him, but Oliver had been genial and courteous.

‘What on earth happened?’ Mary asked, pulling Lucy into her private rooms.

Lucy collapsed into one of the low armchairs and let out a heartfelt sigh.

‘Somehow he found me, followed me and insisted I went home with him.’

Mary was one of the only people who knew the truth about Lucy’s background. Most of the residents, as well as the patrons of the orphanage, believed she was the daughter of some minor country gentleman, probably caught up in a scandal that had brought her low in life. Mary had been the one to find her and David shivering on a street corner just over a year ago and she’d been the one to comfort Lucy when David passed away. She’d helped Lucy grieve, then slowly brought back her purpose in life by giving her a role at the Foundation. In return, Lucy had been honest with the older woman, telling her the details of her background and why she’d fled from her marital home.

‘He seems perfectly pleasant on the outside,’ Mary mused. ‘Has he hurt you?’

With the kind of women they helped at the Foundation they were both well aware of the outwardly charming man who beat his wife roughly behind closed doors.

‘He’s been gentle,’ Lucy admitted. ‘Hasn’t raised a hand against me, or even his voice.’

She knew Oliver would be well within his rights to lock her in her bedroom, beat her with a stick for her disobedience and force himself on her until she was with child. And, despite hardly knowing the man she was married to, Lucy did know he would never hurt her.

‘What does he want?’

‘To be my husband. And for me to be his wife.’

‘Hardly an unreasonable request,’ Mary murmured.

Despite the fear of the future Lucy was feeling, she couldn’t help but smile. Mary had never held back from saying exactly what she was feeling.

‘I thought he would have moved on by now,’ Lucy said glumly.

‘Do you want him to?’

‘Of course. I left. I could hardly wish him to wait for me all this time.’

‘But he has. And now you have the chance to be a lady again.’

‘I was never made for that life,’ Lucy said. It wasn’t quite true. The life of a lady was what she’d been born into, what she’d been raised to be. Her entire childhood had been aimed at preparing her for marriage to a respectable gentleman. This life, this vocation she felt at the Foundation, would have been foreign to her younger self, but now she couldn’t imagine returning to a pampered life of idleness, having a maid to help her dress, a cook to prepare her meals.

‘Perhaps there’s a way for your two lives to meet in the middle,’ Mary said. ‘It seems your husband is content to let you continue at least some of your work here and I dare say you could find a way to enjoy some of the perks of being married to a viscount.’

Of course Mary was right. That would be the ideal solution. It was much like what Oliver had proposed.

‘That’s what he said,’ Lucy grumbled, feeling decidedly put out and not quite knowing why.

‘Change, dear,’ Mary said, patting her on the hand. ‘It’s difficult to accept when the decision has been taken from your hands, especially when you’ve been independent for as long as we have.’

‘I don’t want to let you down,’ Lucy said, then corrected herself. ‘I will not let you down.’

‘I know.’ Mary paused as if wondering whether to say any more. ‘He’s not your father, Lucy. Give him a chance at the very least.’

Lucy’s relationship with her father could be described as sour at the best of times. She hadn’t contacted him in the year she’d been living in St Giles and would be content to not ever speak to him again. The old man was controlling, but worse than that, he was cruel. Lucy would never forgive him for how he’d treated her younger brother, William, and still blamed him for the young boy’s death. At the age of five, when the old man had realised William was different, unable to speak, unable to move around by himself, he’d sent him away to live with a succession of families, the last of whom had mistreated him badly. To this day Lucy still mourned her sweet younger brother.

Mary squeezed Lucy affectionately on the arm before bustling out to carry on with the business of the day. For a few minutes Lucy just sat where she was, wondering if she was being unreasonable in how she’d approached this situation with Oliver. Deep down she knew she was the one in the wrong. She’d run away without a proper explanation, she’d neglected to inform her husband that she was still alive, she’d built a new life without bothering to enquire if Oliver was doing the same. She knew all this, but it still was difficult to accept Oliver’s proposal that they return to being husband and wife.

Shaking herself from her self-imposed mental slump, Lucy rose and exited Mary’s rooms. Today she’d been planning on preparing the accounts for the next governor’s meeting in four weeks’ time. It wasn’t too time-consuming or difficult as she was the one who kept all the Foundation’s day-to-day accounts. This biannual meeting took a little preparation, but nothing too arduous.

Making her way back to the office, Lucy felt her heart sink as she saw the empty chair where Oliver had been sitting. His papers were neatly stacked on the desk, telling her he hadn’t grown bored and returned home. Instead he was somewhere loose in the Foundation.

Frantically she dashed from the office, racing down the stairs and into the courtyard. If she thought logically, there were only a few places Oliver could be. Most of the upper levels of the sprawling building were made up of small living quarters for the women and children needing shelter. It was only the rooms on the ground floor that were communal. Still, he could be in the dining room, one of the two classrooms, the laundry, the workrooms...

Hearing a soft peal of laughter, Lucy paused and listened for a few seconds before turning in the direction of the dining room. The large room was set out with two long tables for the residents to take a communal lunch together, but presently at eleven in the morning it was deserted, save for two figures hunched over one of the tables.

‘B-o-a-t,’ the young boy sitting squinting at the paper in front of him read.

‘And what does that spell?’ Oliver asked softly.

‘Boat.’

‘Good. How about this one?’

Lucy shifted and the noise was enough to make Oliver and Freddy, the young boy he was sitting with, look up.

‘Miss Caroline,’ Freddy shouted, throwing himself from his seat and rushing towards Lucy. ‘Billy said you’d been kidnapped.’

Rumours were always quick to spread in the Foundation. No doubt it would take much longer for the truth to circulate. It was nowhere near as sensational.

‘No, Freddy, not kidnapped.’

‘Mr Oliver is helping me with my spelling,’ Freddy said.

Lucy regarded her husband through narrowed eyes. She had no idea what he was playing at, wandering around the Foundation and talking to the inhabitants, but surely it wasn’t anything as innocent as just helping Freddy with his spelling.

‘That’s kind of him,’ Lucy said eventually.

‘Freddy tells me he wants to be a Bow Street Runner when he grows up.’

Coming from a family of mainly unsuccessful petty criminals, Lucy wasn’t sure how realistic this ambition was, but she always encouraged the children to have aspirations.

‘I need to be able to read so I can look at clues.’

‘Can I borrow Mr Oliver for a moment?’ Lucy asked.

Freddy turned back to his spelling and Oliver rose quickly, following her back into the courtyard.

When she was sure they couldn’t be overheard, she whispered, ‘What are you doing?’

Her husband frowned. He gestured back to the dining room where he’d left the young boy still puzzling over his spelling.

‘What are you really doing?’

Oliver regarded her for thirty seconds before speaking and when he did his tone was cool.

‘You seem to have a poor opinion of me, Lucy, when I have not given you cause to doubt me. All I want is for my wife to return home and once again be my wife. I’m not a monster, I’m not asking anything any reasonable man wouldn’t and I have been nothing but patient with you these last twenty-four hours.’ He paused, standing completely straight and looking like the army officer he’d been for many years. ‘You, on the other hand, have tried to run away, refused to divulge much about your life and now look at me like a monster for helping one of your young charges with his spelling.’

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. He was right, although she was loath to admit it. She was struggling with their reunion, but not because of how he’d behaved. Perhaps it would have been easier if he’d shouted and thrown things, behaved like the man she had once pictured him to be to ease her conscience.

Opening her mouth, she tried to apologise, but found the words wouldn’t come. It was rude and cowardly of her, but she wondered if maybe by not apologising she’d push him away, make him leave her here to the life she’d built.

‘What are you so afraid of?’ he asked, for the first time a hint of softness in his voice.

It wasn’t a question she had the answer to. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and resignation, before turning on his heel and returning to the boy in the dining room. It seemed he wouldn’t abandon a promise, even one as small as helping a child with his schoolwork.