Читать книгу The Phoenix Of Love - Susan Schonberg - Страница 9

“Impossible!” The effrontery of the marquis stunned Wentworth. To come into his house with his insulting offer was bad enough, but now to add insult to injury, Traverston actually wanted him to sacrifice Olivia immediately.

“Impossible!” he shouted again.

“I beg to differ, my good sir,” replied the marquis, all calm, cool efficiency now that he had what he wanted. He reached for the glass he had set down long ago and took a long, satisfying pull. “You’ve already agreed to my bargain. What difference can it make when the actual ceremony takes place?”

Traverston studied his neighbor through slitted eyes, his fear and impatience effectively hidden behind a mask of contempt. “You wouldn’t want to go back on your word now.”

The marquis’s words hit home, as he knew they would. His blow to Wentworth’s honor stung the man, and his host fell for the simple trap with comical willingness.

“Of course not!” he blustered with bruised dignity. After a brief period of tugging at his waistcoat, as if that action would help him to straighten his spine, Wentworth continued in a calmer tone. “It’s just that it is so soon. I hadn’t expected…” His faltering tongue trailed off, unequal to the occasion. He dropped his gaze and returned to staring at his glass. “And what, if I may inquire,” he asked softly, all of the righteous indignation taken from his sails, “hour would you be expecting us?”

The marquis gave Wentworth’s dejected form a small and mocking bow. “Ten o’clock, if you please.” His sardonic imitation of his host’s politeness echoed hollowly around the room. “At Norwood Park. I have a private chapel there. I think you’ll agree with me that this is one ceremony that is better conducted without a large audience.”

The short nod Wentworth gave Traverston was almost lost on his guest, it was so brief. Wentworth sat lost in thought for a long time, oblivious to the silent, amused contemplation of the marquis. And in the end, it was up to Traverston to show himself the way out, for his host was not up to the courtesy.

Finally, just as Traverston was opening the door, a brief flicker of hope flitted across Wentworth’s brain. He sat up in his chair suddenly and, like a desperate man hanging over the edge of hell, he flung his question out with all of his strength.

“You have a license, I presume?”

The abject misery on his neighbor’s face almost caused the marquis to relent. What was he doing after all? His life was over, finished. He had no more claim to Olivia, a pure and sweet innocent child, than had the devil. And yet, here he was, demanding her to be sacrificed, willing her to a life of suffering and misery as his bride. Hadn’t he caused enough harm for one lifetime? Did he really need to do this?

But then the old resolve returned. This was a choice Wentworth had made, after all. He could justify his avarice any way he wanted to, but it was still plain and simple greed that motivated him in the end. If Traverston was a blackguard, then Wentworth was a traitor. Let him live with the consequences of his own actions and be damned for them, he decided.

Again Traverston gave his neighbor a mocking little bow, then laughed unpleasantly as he noticed his host’s reaction to his silent affirmation.

At the new insult, Wentworth grew both angry and remorseful, and without realizing it, he shrank further into his shell. Grasping his brandy glass with both hands, he hunched over it, seeking some warmth from the bowl as the front door to the house slammed shut, announcing the departure of the marquis. Black hatred and resentment welled up in him, directed both at himself and at the perceived source of his misery.

Ye Gods! he wailed internally. What had he done? He should have known that Traverston would not have come to Gateland Manor without a license. The marquis had expected to win, the damn villain, he thought miserably, and he had let him have his daughter without so much as a fight. For the first time since his encounter with the nobleman that day, Wentworth truly began to despair.

The approaching footsteps were bold and swift. They didn’t belong to anyone she knew, but Olivia could guess at whose they were. Calmly, knowing that she had plenty of time, she reached down to stroke the small kitten once more before holding out a tiny morsel for the ball of fluff to consume. Above the contented purring noises made by the cat, Olivia heard the footsteps hesitate, and she was surprised. He hadn’t struck her as the kind of man to be unsure of himself.

All at once he was there beside her. She turned her head to look at him, curious, but not overly so. As when she had witnessed his arrival earlier, she felt guided by an unknown force, and she moved her head and limbs as though she were merely following the actions written for her in a play.

As she turned her head to face him, Traverston was momentarily taken aback. What he had expected, he did not know, but it was not this silent child-woman before him. Her skin was like porcelain, a soft creamy white, except on her cheeks where the wind had kissed them a soft rose. Her hair, as blue-black as the edge of night, was lush with luster and health as it hung down her back. But her most exceptional feature, the one that made him stop breathing just for a moment, were her eyes. Olivia had eyes of a blue so pale they seemed as translucent as ice, and about as forthcoming.

When she spoke, her voice was low and clear, yet with a girlish quality at odds with her serene and mature appearance. “You’ve been to see my father,” she said, and she watched his reaction with unblinking eyes.

The feeling of unreality for Olivia intensified with his answer. “Yes,” she heard him respond, and she knew without question that was all he was going to say. Distantly, as if she had no more control over herself than an automaton, she evaluated him.

His clothes were worn, but they were those of a gentleman. But it wasn’t his clothes that interested her, so she dismissed them with hardly another thought. His hair, like her own, was black, but it was the dead black of charred wood, not the vibrant shade of night like hers. It was wild, untamed hair, coarse and difficult to train, and too long in places, as though he had tried to trim it himself without the use of a looking glass. But even this feature had no prolonged interest for her. What Olivia really needed to study, what she had to understand, she knew, deep inside her, was his face.

It was a hard face. The line of his jaw was much too strong, his chin too pronounced. His eyebrows were live things, crouched beneath a creased forehead too tall and noble to speak of mercy. His nose, full and proudly Roman, was not the nose of a man known for his kindness and generosity.

But, she thought, there was more to him than that.

The lines of his chin and the hollows in his cheeks were more the result of hunger than anything else. She could tell because she had seen that look before on beggar children in the street. He was tall, very tall, but his jacket flapped loosely with space that had once been filled with muscle.

As for the bags under his eyes, she knew they were due to a combination of sleeplessness and drink. Her father, on rare occasions, looked like that when he had had a particularly rough night of carousing in town. And the wrinkles on his brow, and the intimidating way his eyebrows drew together, those could be fixed if he were but to smile.

That, of course, was the heart of the question. Could this man be brought to smile?

And so it was that Olivia finally sought the one part of him that would tell her the answers. She looked into his eyes. Dark, dark eyes, she thought. Exceedingly dark; they were stormy eyes, full of horrible promises. Eyes that had seen too much from a mind that had done too much. Eyes that were full of terrible secrets that could haunt you in the night.

Eyes that begged for help.

And then, without realizing it, Olivia answered their silent plea. “If you want,” she said slowly, offering him the only thing she had to give at the moment, “you can pet her if you like.” And she held up the small ball of fur for his scrutiny.

A shudder ran through the marquis. It gripped him so strongly that, for a moment, Olivia thought he would surely fall. But then, just when she knew he would turn away, the tremor passed, and he slowly sank down to the ground beside her. Then, tentatively, as though he were afraid the small animal might bite him, he reached out one hand and began to pet its tiny head.

“Maddie,” exclaimed Olivia that afternoon as she grabbed a jam tart and popped it into her mouth, “did you see the pirate?”

“Now, love,” shushed the young girl’s nursemaid tenderly, “you know there are no such thing as pirates.” She held up an admonishing finger to her charge. “And how many times have I told you not to talk with your mouth full? And what do you mean by not washing your hands after playing with that filthy kitten?”

Olivia, not the least bit abashed by this chastisement, tried to hold on to her nanny’s attention. “But there are! I saw one here today! He even played with Isis!”

Maddie, having glimpsed the marquis herself earlier, knew full well whom Olivia meant. But she didn’t believe in giving in to flights of fancy, and she told Olivia as much.

“Olivia!” chided Maddie just as she was about to retort. “I told you not to talk with your mouth full. Now no more talk of pirates, child. I mean it!”

Olivia, left to her own thoughts as she munched her tart, reflected that it was a pity her nursemaid couldn’t have been with her to see the pirate. But her father had seen him, and he would surely understand her reference. After all, he certainly did look like a pirate. Even if he hadn’t exactly acted like one.

As always when she thought of her father, a smile began creeping its way up her face. Papa had promised to teach her about the ancient Greeks tonight, and she loved his lessons on Greek mythology. Maybe when he was done, they could talk about the pirate, and she could find out why he had come….

After dinner, much the same as before dinner, Olivia was alone. Wandering now through the empty house, she stopped suddenly as she heard voices raised in anger. She immediately recognized her father’s voice, but the other one was unfamiliar to her.

Softly tiptoeing around the corner, Olivia made her way gradually to the door of her father’s study. The door was open a crack, and without feeling the least remorse for her actions, she peeked through the opening.

Her father was in what her nurse would have called a “heated discussion” with a local tradesman. After racking her brain, Olivia remembered having seen this man make deliveries of wine and brandy to their house. It wasn’t an unusual conversation for her father to be having, thought Olivia morosely. She’d overheard several of its kind in the recent past.

As Olivia moved quietly away from the door and went upstairs to the bedroom, she grew increasingly unhappy. She was an intelligent child, and she knew that her father didn’t have much money. Ever since she could remember, Maddie had emphasized to Olivia the importance of practicing economies. But no matter what lengths Maddie and she went to in order to cut expenses from their daily budget, it never seemed to be enough.

Olivia sat down on her bed, her chin in her hand. She didn’t know what she could do to help her father pay the bills, but she was determined to try. Perhaps she and Maddie could expand the kitchen garden out back? She’d have to think about it.

Wentworth had long ago done away with the age-old custom of children eating their meals upstairs. It wasn’t really out of any noble sentiment that he ignored that form of etiquette—just the opposite, in fact. If the truth be known, Wentworth simply got lonely.

At supper Wentworth seemed inclined to be more melancholy than at any other time of the day. Perhaps it was the candlelight. Perhaps it was the empty expanse of table and the encroaching shadows. Who knew? In any case, before Margaret’s death, he liked to have his children with him at supper to keep him company. After his first daughter died, he grew almost fanatical about having Olivia there.

Wentworth’s melancholy tonight was so palpable that Olivia could barely eat. Sometimes she chattered brightly in order to shake her father from his blue studies, but tonight Olivia’s attempts had met with dismal failure. Her father spoke in monosyllables throughout the indifferently cooked meal, speaking only when spoken to, and often not even then. It didn’t take much, thought Olivia, to see that he was preoccupied with his own thoughts.

After a time, Olivia could stand the oppressive atmosphere no longer. Without realizing what had put her father into such a depressed mood, she asked in an unusually loud voice, “Who was that man today, Papa?”

Wentworth’s head snapped up from where he had been studiously examining a chip on his plate. The eyes of his innocent young daughter speared him in his seat like a pin in a butterfly, and for a second all he felt was agony. If Olivia had slapped him in the face and called him a devil, he could not imagine how she could have struck him with a deeper sense of guilt.

Gazing at her in a kind of shock, Wentworth vainly attempted not to think about Olivia’s resemblance to his now long-dead wife. Silently he cursed the impulse that possessed him in a moment of madness to name his second child after his wife. His beloved’s creamy white skin, lush dark hair, firm chin and high cheekbones were replicated on the smaller version before him. Worst of all, though, were Olivia’s eyes. His dead wife’s eyes stared back at him from across the table, and tonight, in his own mind, they were full of accusation.

Tiny wrinkles formed on Olivia’s brow as she realized that something was dreadfully wrong with her father. He looked angry, upset and terrified. Worse, she thought, her father looked possessed.

Trying desperately to bring him back to the here and now, Olivia asked her question again, enunciating each word slowly and carefully.

“Papa. Who was that man?”

Wentworth, dropping his eyes before the interrogative stare of his daughter, attempted to take a bite of the boiled beef on his plate. But the dry meat stuck in his throat, choking him. Recovering quickly from his coughing fit, he got up from the table and threw his napkin onto his plate. The next second, he strode from the room without saying a word.

The long shadows, with their ominous shapes creeping across the room, were the only response to Olivia’s unanswered question.

A few hours after Olivia had finally drifted off to sleep, she was gently awakened by Maddie. The woman’s voice was soothing and calm. Although indistinct at first, the sound finally became words in Olivia’s consciousness.

“Here now, my love,” cooed the nurse. “I know you’re tired, poor wee thing, but we’ve got to get you ready for a trip.”

Olivia sat up in her bed slowly, stretching and rubbing her eyes. She blinked sleepily, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind. After a moment, she was able to focus her eyes on her nanny.

“A trip?” she asked uncomprehendingly.

Maddie turned away from Olivia and returned the covers the little girl had tossed about in her sleep to the end of the bed. The old woman had her doubts about this strange trip in the middle of the night, but she kept them to herself.

“Indeed, yes,” she replied in as cheerful a manner as she could manage. “You and your father are going to Norwood Park.”

Olivia stared blankly at her nurse, the words not making any sense to her. Where was Norwood Park? What was it? Finally comprehension dawned.

Olivia’s eyes went round with fear. She had seen the park, and not so very long ago. Occasionally Olivia was able to slip away from Gateland Manor unattended, and on one of her more recent forays, she had glimpsed the house through the woods. The thought of going to that spooky old mansion, with all of its encroaching weeds and darkened, windows, did nothing to assuage her fear.

“Now, now, my poppet,” soothed Maddie, gently patting her charge’s hand. “’Tis nothing to be worried about, I’m sure. You mustn’t believe all those Banbury tales about the place being haunted, for I’m sure it simply isn’t true.”

In point of fact, Olivia was so isolated at Gateland Manor that she had never heard this particular rumor about the house, but she didn’t think that now was the appropriate time to bring up that fact. Maddie would just be upset if she found out Olivia had never heard the story before now.

Maddie made a dismissive gesture as she continued. “Besides, the master is going with you, and you know he would never put you in harm’s way.”

Olivia digested this bit of wisdom from her nurse and concluded that what she said was true. Her papa would never let anything happen to her.

“And look, Olivia. He brought you this.”

Maddie’s voice broke into the girl’s reverie, and she looked up to see her nanny holding the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. The material was pale blue and trimmed with navy ribbons. Around the neck and cuffs was delicately scalloped lace, and it felt rich to the touch of Olivia’s tiny fingers. When she put it on, the dress reached to the middle of her calves. Maddie had given her a pair of white stockings to complete the ensemble, and to Olivia, the effect was enchanting.

“Oh, Nanny!” cried Olivia, spinning around in circles in front of the peer glass. “Is it really just for me?”

Maddie laughed softly, her eyes gleaming with pride. “Yes, my dear,” she answered fondly, “it really is for you.”

When Olivia came down the main staircase thirty minutes later, Wentworth’s breath caught in his throat. Never had he seen such a perfect-looking angel! The dress, with its contrasting shades of blue, was the perfect setting to show off his daughter’s unusual eyes and creamy skin. Her dark heavy hair, held back from her face with a navy ribbon bought specifically to match the dress, swayed gently against her back as she descended the staircase.

“You look just like your mother, child,” he whispered as she approached him.

And then it hit him. The vision struck so hard, it was just like a physical blow. Wentworth staggered back, his hands out before him in a plea of supplication and remorse. “No, my dear,” he pleaded as the ephemeral form of his former wife floated down to him, her eyes ablaze with righteous anger. “It’s not what you think! I did it for you! I did it for you!” He cringed as the dress he had just given her burst into flames around her form, consuming everything within its reach but leaving her fragile figure unscathed. He closed his eyes and moaned piteously until he felt the frantic tugging on his greatcoat.

“Papa!” Olivia cried, her eyes wide with alarm. “Are you all right?”

Silently he stared at her, his eyes uncomprehending. Then, with just the barest hesitation, his expression changed. His lids closed halfway over orbs that were crafty and furtive. He straightened his back, took hold of his daughter’s arm and scrutinized her appearance carefully.

Yes, he thought. This was going to be just as he planned. That dress made his beautiful sweet daughter look just like Persephone, the goddess of spring. The marquis ought to appreciate her sweet innocence, he chortled internally.

At the thought of Olivia’s impending marriage, Wentworth’s mercurial mood turned instantly black, and he scowled at his daughter. He was glad she looked so lovely and innocent. Just let Traverston see the beautiful creature whose life he was about to destroy. Just let him see what his black hand was about to corrupt. By God, he vowed, he would see the marquis in hell for this! Quickly he yanked his daughter with him toward the door and the carriage, before he could lose his newfound sense of purpose.

Although Norwood Park was really quite close to the manor, the carriage ride in the hired post chaise took over fifteen minutes. For Olivia, the minutes dragged by. Far from being reassuring, her father’s presence in the coach was an added torment. His actions today had been so strange that Olivia didn’t know what to think.

When they finally did arrive, Olivia was stunned by the spectacle that met her eyes. She had expected the house to be a forbidding sight, but instead the building and its surroundings were serenely beautiful. In the autumn moonlight, Norwood Park was enchanting. A silvery lake, illuminated by the brilliant moon, reflected a hauntingly mellow vision of the grounds around the water. A great oak arched majestically over the edge of one shore, hinting to the observer of quiet summer nights long past.

The house itself was a marvel, as well. Great blocks of gray stone formed the exterior, suggestive of chivalrous times and knights in shining armor. And best of all, every single window was brightly lit with candles, welcoming Olivia to the ethereal home. By the time the carriage stopped, she was breathless with wonder and excitement.

If her father had expected her enthusiasm to die down once she was inside the dusty tomb of a house, he was sadly disappointed. Although the interior of the home was sagging and tired, Olivia saw only what the mansion must have been like once long ago, and she wandered the halls behind her father in a daze.

Olivia’s attention became riveted on her immediate surroundings when she realized that the butler had taken them a long way into the house. The guest parlor, she rationalized, should have been located much closer to the great hall she and her father had just come through. They were no longer in the main wing of the house, and she wondered where the servant might be taking them.

Olivia was more than a little relieved when the servant finally stopped before a door. As the man stepped back in order to let them pass through the opening, she could see he had led them to a chapel.

Wentworth, not being overly religious, had taken Olivia to church but rarely, and usually then only on special occasions. So it was that now Olivia racked her brains trying to remember what religious holiday today might be. But she could think of nothing.

Puzzled, Olivia looked up at her father for an explanation, but his face was as closed and shuttered as it had been all day. He was as silent as the grave.

The butler slipped away, his footsteps making no more noise on the worn carpeting than those of a ghost. Father and daughter were alone. Following some inner instinct, Olivia wandered a few steps into the room, gazing around in awe at the ceiling and walls. The chapel was a beautiful example of Gothic architecture, with high pointed arches, an intricately ribbed ceiling and delicate stained glass windows. Lost in the pleasure of the moment, she started toward a small statue set in one wall, but before she could walk more than a few steps, a sudden tug on her arm brought her up short. Still silent, Wentworth pulled her back to his side and began to march her down the aisle between the pews.

It was then that Olivia noticed what she had failed to see upon entering the chapel. She and her father were not actually alone. Facing the pair was what appeared to be a minister. At least his vestments proclaimed him to be a religious man, but she was unfamiliar with his particular costume.

A second man was facing toward the minister and so had his back to Olivia, but she recognized him all the same. He was her pirate.

His dark green velvet coat fit his broad shoulders perfectly while his black pantaloons showed off every lean muscle in his thighs. Although Olivia didn’t know much about gentlemen’s clothing, surely, she thought, these were the sort of clothes only a pirate would wear!

When they reached the front of the chapel, Wentworth nudged his daughter forward just a bit. The action brought her parallel to the pirate, and she was able to take her second close-up look at his face.

What she saw there made her want to gasp. She stared at him unabashedly. Why had she not noticed what must have been so obvious before? He was, she decided without any hesitation, a handsome man. His gray eyes, so dark and unusual in color, stared straight ahead, looking at neither the minister nor at her. His nose, a perfect aquiline in profile, sat between prominently chiseled cheekbones. Olivia thought he had a noble brow. His forehead was tall and square without being too large, and it carried his raven black hair without pretension.

But the expression she had noted earlier on him was still there. He had a solemn, unhappy look to him, she thought. Oh, he wasn’t crying or anything like that— grown men didn’t cry, after all—it was just that he looked so…so determined. And intense. And more than a little scary.

Olivia gave a start. The whole time she had been staring at the man she called her pirate, the one who looked like a minister had been speaking. She had been so engrossed in studying the man next to her, she had completely failed to take in the rest of her surroundings. Guiltily she tried to concentrate on his words now. She blinked a time or two before she gave up trying to follow the lofty language. She had never been fond of religious talk, anyway.

As the odd ceremony continued, a frown began to form on Olivia’s delicate brow. What did this evening mean, and why was everyone acting so strangely? She tried to puzzle the clues out, glancing back at her father as she did. But from his glassy eyes, she guessed she would get no help from that quarter.

With another guilty twinge, Olivia brought her attention back to the front of the room. The minister had stopped speaking and was staring at her with an intensity that was somehow frightening. Had she missed a response? Gads, that would be awful. He would think she didn’t know the first thing about religion. Usually when there was a silence like this, it meant a response of some kind was in order. Muttering the only religious phrase she knew, Olivia quietly avowed, “Amen.”

As the silence stretched on, Traverston began to collect that the chit standing next to him had no idea what was going on. Her ridiculous response to the question only confirmed his suspicions. Wentworth must not have told his daughter a thing. His already low opinion of his neighbor dropped another inch. The cad probably hadn’t even mentioned that she had a speaking role in tonight’s little drama, he thought disgustedly.

For the first time in that strange, unearthly night, the tall stranger looked down at Olivia. His eyes, smoky with a depth that seemed to penetrate her to her very soul, smiled gently into hers. Carefully taking one of her small hands into his own, he spoke.

“You have only to say ‘I do,’ and your father will take you home and tuck you into your nice warm bed. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Olivia?”

His deep voice, soothing and gentle to her ears, lulled Olivia into a kind of trance. Acting without conscious thought, she nodded as she opened her mouth and softly repeated, “I do.”

Traverston rewarded the child with a smile and turned to face the minister, her hand still firmly held in his own. Olivia glanced back at her father, but he looked as though he had been turned to stone. His eyes never left the marquis’s back.

The ceremony ended quickly. Before leaving the room, the minister signed a piece of paper and handed both pen and paper to the marquis. With quick efficiency, he scrawled his name and title across the page. Next he handed both over to Olivia whom he instructed to do likewise. Finally, Wentworth also signed the page, his handwriting barely legible.

Without saying a word to his host, Wentworth grabbed his daughter by the hand and began pulling her down the aisle at a rapid pace. Olivia looked back over her shoulder to see if the pirate was following her, but he simply stood near the alter and watched them go.

As the pair reached the hallway, Olivia managed to tug herself free from her father. Frustrated and tired, she demanded, “Papa, what was that all about?”

Wentworth did not bother to answer her, but simply regained his grip on his daughter and resumed dragging her toward the great hall. He had one thought and one thought only—to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

Stumbling behind him, Olivia was just about to descend the stairs leading down to their hired carriage when a voice from behind brought them up short. Wentworth took one look at Olivia and ungently pushed her in the direction of the coach. “Get in the carriage,” he commanded. His tone brooked no argument.

The Marquis of Traverston’s tall, lean frame appeared in the giant entrance of his home. “Ah, there you are, Wentworth.” His smile was sardonic, triumphant. Without giving the least hint he was aware of his guest’s discomfort, he paused to take an object out of his coat pocket before continuing. “’Tis a trifle big for her now, but I will expect it to be on her finger when I come for her eight years from now.”

Slowly Wentworth opened the box the marquis had handed him. Inside, a magnificent diamond and sapphire ring rested on a bed of velvet. When Wentworth failed to make a response, Traverston added cuttingly, “The ring was entailed with the estate. It was one of the few things I wasn’t allowed to hock in this crumbling heap. Otherwise, you can be sure, she would have received nothing from me.”

Without a word, Wentworth snapped the box shut and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Traverston noted the speed with which his guest raced down the stairs was most unbecoming to a gentleman. Pleased with Wentworth’s reaction, the marquis smiled. His new father-in-law had acted as though he were being chased by all the devils in hell. Good, he nodded to himself complacently. It would be nice to have some company when he got there.