Brenda Joyce Page 3

  Olivia understood her meaning exactly and almost clawed the other woman’s face. Hatred, an emotion foreign to her, swept her in a heated rush. “If Hannah is spoiled, it is no less than she deserves,” she said, low and strained.

  “Is there a child in the house?” Sir John queried. “I’m sorry, I could not help overhearing. A blessed thing, a child is. Good God, is it a secret that you and Lady Ashburn have a child, Arlen?”

  Arlen looked at Sir John, remaining silent.

  Olivia wet her lips, knowing that she would be the one to pay for this, when it was not her fault—or was it? “It is hardly a secret,” she finally said uneasily.

  “The child is a girl, then,” Sir John asked, surprised.

  “Yes.” Arlen finally spoke.

  Olivia glanced at her husband and then at Elizabeth, who hid a smile, turning her face away, fluttering her fan. “Our daughter has recently had her eighth birthday,” she said.

  “Eight years of age!” Sir John was bemused. “I hadn’t a clue. How odd. But then, had you a son, I’m sure we would all have known.” His amiable manner was gone. His pale eyes were speculative. The man had not made a fortune by being an idiot.

  “It is not a secret, Sir John. But Hannah is hardly an interesting topic for discussion.” Arlen was perspiring and flushed. He faced Olivia. “Go, then.” But his angry eyes told her that this was hardly over—that he would punish her in some form or other in the morning for everything that had thus far transpired that night.

  Olivia curtsied to the company, distressed. Arlen was ashamed of Hannah, and Olivia had never been able to get over it or to forgive him for it. She caught Elizabeth’s eye. Her sister-in-law seemed pleased.

  Temples pounding now, Olivia left the salon, rushing up the stairs, tripping in her haste. The nursery was on the third story—and Olivia also slept on that floor when Arlen was not home. She heard Hannah crying, soft little whimpers, as she approached the open doorway. The room was now blazingly alight with candles.

  The Irish maid sat with the child in the four-poster bed, her freckles standing out on her starkly white skin. She leapt to her feet as Olivia raced inside the child’s room. “Mum, I beg your pardon,” Megan cried.

  “Mama,” Hannah also cried, simultaneously, her arms outstretched. Her eyes were wide, unseeing, the exact same shade of silvery gray as Olivia’s. For Hannah was blind. She had been blind since birth.

  Olivia rushed to her daughter, pulling her into her arms, cradling her against her chest. Livid, she faced the young maid, who was now standing nervously by the doorway.

  “You allowed the candles to burn out,” Olivia cried, thinking, Thank God Miss Childs will be back in another two days.

  “A blind girl don’t need candles,” the girl began.

  “Just leave us,” Olivia said, holding her daughter tightly. She would not explain, for it was almost incomprehensible. Hannah was blind, but she was terrified of the dark, insisting upon candles when she slept. “It’s over now, darling.”

  Hannah held on to her hard, no longer whimpering. “I’m sorry, Mama, I didn’t mean to cause you trouble,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I’m such a coward.”

  “You are not a coward! You are incredibly brave,” Olivia whispered, aghast, smoothing her daughter’s pitch-black hair. It was tied into a single, waist-length braid. “I know of no other child as brave, my darling.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears burned behind her lids. Arlen’s angry eyes filled her mind. She was a peaceful woman, but she almost hated him.

  “Then why am I so afraid when I go to sleep?” Hannah asked, a plea in her tone.

  “Many people sleep with a candle lit,” Olivia said gently, thinking, But if you are afraid of the dark at night, doesn’t that mean you are also afraid of the darkness you live with every single second of every single day? Inside her heart, she wept. She lived with her tears the way Hannah lived with her affliction of blindness. Olivia held her daughter close and rocked her.

  “Mama, don’t be sad,” Hannah said suddenly. She pulled back, and had she been able to see, it would have been as if she wanted to meet her mother’s gaze. But Olivia looked into her beautiful, silvery, sightless eyes without her daughter being able to share the regard. Still, they shared other things, far deeper than a glance.

  “I am only a little sad,” Olivia whispered, forcing a smile.

  It was a moment before Hannah answered. “Father is furious.”

  “It’s all right, and you have not gotten me into trouble, dear, not at all. I can manage the earl.” Olivia inhaled, trembling. She and her daughter shared far more than a deep sensitivity to one another’s feelings and thoughts. Hannah was cursed with the gift, too. Only she hardly understood it at the age of eight. “Your father will be leaving in two days. There is nothing to worry about. And when he is gone we shall picnic again at the lake, every day, and read books together, and pick berries and flowers. When he is gone, we shall once again be free.”

  Hannah was silent, her expression doubtful.

  “What is it?”

  “What if he finds out?”

  Olivia tensed. “He must not find out, Hannah, not ever, and he will not, not as long as you are very careful. Promise me.” Her tone caught. “Promise me you will be very, very careful.”

  Hannah nodded, lying back against the pillows. “I promise.”

  Olivia did not relax. She did not know what Arlen would do if he ever found out that his daughter was as different as his wife, that she, too, had been cursed with the gift of sight.

  Weeping. Soft and filled with anguish.

  Olivia jerked awake. Was she dreaming? No, she could still hear someone, a woman, crying. She sat up slowly. Her bedroom was cast in darkness, for she had not left a single taper burning. She knew it was impossible to hear crying from any of the guest rooms, all of which were at the far end of the corridor. Was the weeping in her mind? Or had she been dreaming?

  But she could still, just barely, hear it. Olivia shoved the covers aside, filled with unease. There was desperation in the insistent, barely audible sound.

  It was Susan. Olivia had not a doubt.

  She lit a taper and slipped on her light lawn wrapper. The feeling she’d had all day, dread filled, that something terrible was going to happen, swept her again, stronger than before. She hesitated. And thought, She will die.

  Olivia froze, aghast with the thought, now etched upon her mind. It was not a thought she wanted. But she never wanted the thoughts God so often gave her! Who will die? Surely not that young girl, Susan Layton?

  Olivia padded barefoot to the door and opened it. Her pulse was pounding. Across the hall, her husband’s paneled oak door was solidly closed. She knew he had already retired, and for that she was thankful, while now she could only hope that he was soundly asleep.

  She strained to hear. The weeping continued, but it did not seem to come from any particular direction, and certainly not from the opposite, far end of the corridor where the Laytons had their rooms.

  What she was hearing, she knew, was in her mind, even though it sounded real.

  Olivia felt it again, the absolute certainty that death was lurking not far away. Panic tightened her limbs. Why hadn’t Hannah said something? This was so strong, and her daughter was far more gifted—or cursed—than she herself was. Why hadn’t Hannah mentioned these feelings?

  Olivia again glanced at Arlen’s closed door. If he caught her up and about, she would be in an even more difficult position on the morrow than she already was. But she had to find Susan. Olivia turned toward the end of the corridor, the weeping stronger now, and with it, the sheer, stunning desperation.

  She will die.

  Olivia inhaled, heard soft footsteps, whirled. Hannah raced blindly toward her, tears streaming down her cheeks. But she did not make a sound.

  Olivia’s first thought was that the candles had somehow gone out. Her concern for Susan vanished. She rushed forward, embracing her daughter, who clung. A moment later Olivia p
ropelled them both into her bedchamber, closing the door behind them.

  “Mama, we have to help her,” Hannah cried in a whisper, gripping Olivia’s hands. “She is going to die if we don’t stop her.” Hannah tried to pull Olivia back to the door. “I saw it. Mama, please!”

  “Susan?”

  Hannah nodded, her silvery eyes huge in her pale face. “The lake. She has gone to the lake.”

  And Olivia saw it all then, the frail, female body drifting in the shallows, the pale white muslin dress billowing out about her—and the body was facedown.

  “Stay here,” Olivia ordered, adrenaline surging.

  “No!” Hannah cried. “Don’t leave me!”

  Olivia took one look at her daughter, realizing that the weeping had ceased. Did that mean Susan was already dead? There was no time, dear God. She took her daughter’s hand and together they raced from the room, down the two flights of stairs, and through the house. The lake was almost a quarter of a mile from the house. How could they make it in time to avert this tragedy?

  Yet there was nothing but silence now, surrounding them, cold, cold silence.

  “Run,” Olivia cried.

  They ran. The path, often traveled, was smooth enough, especially as it had not rained in some time, but periodically stones and pebbles dug into their bare feet. Fortunately the sky was lit with stars and three-quarters of a moon, illuminating the way. They topped a rise, panting and out of breath. Below, Olivia saw the lake, blacker than the sky, glistening silently—and she saw a white shape.

  A white figure, walking into the water, step by agonizing step.

  “No!” Olivia screamed. She released Hannah’s hand and, lifting her nightclothes to her knees, ran as hard as she had ever run in her life. Her ankle twisted and pain shot up her leg, but she did not stop. The very air burned in her lungs, which heaved and begged for more. Ahead of her, the lake lapped the sandy shore. Susan was chest deep in the shining black water. And then she disappeared.

  Olivia screamed, barreling into the water after her. Her nightclothes, coupled with the weight of the water, made it seem as if she were moving in slow motion, as if in a dream. Olivia pushed on through. The water reached up to her chin, and she ducked under where Susan had disappeared. Olivia could not swim and hoped the water didn’t get any deeper.

  The water was pitch black. But immediately she touched the fabric of Susan’s dress. Olivia moved forward, bumped into the solid mass of Susan’s flesh, and put her arm around her. She pulled her furiously to the surface, dragging her limp burden all the way.

  Olivia gulped in air desperately. Before she had regained her breath, she turned to look at Susan, whose head lolled on her shoulder. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks pale. Then her lashes fluttered and her mouth opened in a gasp as she too sucked in the precious, life-giving oxygen.

  Olivia continued to hold her as her feet touched solid ground. They stood chest deep now, with Susan coughing and choking beside her. Olivia pounded her on the back until the choking had subsided.

  Susan met her gaze weakly, then her face changed, becoming twisted with emotion. “Let me go!” she screamed, struggling.

  Olivia slapped her, hard, across the face.

  Susan gasped and burst into tears, collapsing against Olivia. Qlivia held her and stroked her, murmuring soothing sounds. She raised her eyes to search for Hannah, who stood ankle deep in the water, facing them, listening intently.

  “We are all right,” Olivia called.

  Hannah nodded. “I know. I heard,” she called back.

  Olivia put her arm around Susan’s waist as all the strength and energy she had suddenly drained away from her, leaving her feeling exhausted as never before, then led her to the shore. Once there, they collapsed on the sandy ground. Hannah rushed to them and hugged her mother, hard.

  Susan wept.

  Olivia kissed Hannah’s cheek and turned. She gripped Susan by the shoulders, shaking her. “It is not so bad. What you tried to do was terrible! Miss Layton, I beg you, please, rethink yourself!”

  Susan shook her head. “You should have let me die. I wanted to die. Oh, God, death is far better than my fate.”

  Olivia grimaced, pushing strands of thick wet hair out of Susan’s eyes. “Dear, dear child, you have a long and happy life ahead of you, I am sure of it.” But she wasn’t. She was only consoling the young woman; she had not a clue if she spoke the truth or not.

  “No. I have a horrid life ahead of me—and death would be better!” Susan burst into tears again. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

  “She is afraid,” Hannah whispered to Olivia, her head cocked toward Susan.

  Olivia nodded, for the fear was as tangible as the anguish and, now, the resignation. “What is so terrible that you tried to take your own life?” Olivia asked kindly.

  At first, Susan was so upset that she could only shake her head. Her tears still fell. Finally she looked up. “I have been betrothed.” Her tone was bitter. “To a man no one wants, no one else will have, not in all of England. My father has sold me off, so that one day his grandchild will be an earl.” She swiped at her eye with a small, balled-up fist.

  “And that is a fate worse than death?” Olivia asked gently.

  “It is if your betrothed is Garrick De Vere, the viscount of Caedmon Crag.” Her eyes filled with anguish again. “And that is why I wished to die, my lady.”

  Olivia stared. And the dark, anguished image of a man, one whom she had never met before, filled her mind. It was so clear that it was startling—she could see his chiseled features, his straight nose and high cheekbones, the strong jaw, even the color of his golden eyes. Had she met this man before? she wondered, surprised by the shock of recognition she had just felt. Then she felt so much more—his pain, his sorrow, his grief. The intensity of his emotions was far more than shocking; it was disturbing. “Is that not Stanhope’s son?” she asked slowly, with trepidation, quite certain now that they were not acquainted.

  “So you have heard of him?” Susan said, lifting her head.

  “What I have heard,” Olivia said slowly, “is sheer rumor, and not much of it. I thought he had been banished to one of the sugar islands.”

  “He was exiled to Barbados ten years ago, but he is in London even as we speak.” Susan smiled without mirth. “He has returned to marry me.”

  Olivia wet her lips, oddly ill. “Is that not a cause for celebration, my dear?” she asked.

  “I am to marry a man who murdered his own brother. That is hardly cause to celebrate!” Susan’s gaze was accusing.

  Olivia could not find a suitable reply.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The moon was shining more brightly than before. Olivia held Hannah’s hand as they trudged back to the house, Susan beside her. In spite of the fact that Susan had been saved from taking her own life, the young woman was despondent. She hung her head and every now and then wiped a stray tear from her cheeks.

  But Olivia had far more to worry about now. The house loomed into view, a solid, imposing square structure. She had not given a single thought to leaving it, but now she was anxious about returning without being discovered. What would Arlen say if he saw the three of them just now, with both Olivia and Hannah in their nightclothes, soaking wet and barefoot? He would demand an explanation. Olivia’s grip tightened upon Hannah’s palm.

  They paused before the steps leading to the terrace. “Susan, you go in ahead of us. Try not to wake anyone.” Olivia managed a smile, and she hugged the girl. “I do not think we should share the circumstances of this night with your parents—or anyone else.” She held her gaze meaningfully.

  Susan shrugged. “If my reputation is blackened, then I shan’t be marrying well, will I?”

  “He is not bad.” The words had come unthinkingly. They had surprised even Olivia.

  “How do you know?” Susan asked. “I’m sorry. Clearly you are one of the kindest ladies on this earth. I imagine you defend everyone. Even a murderer.” She rubbed her temples. “
I won’t make a sound. And …” She hesitated. “Maybe we can take breakfast together in the morning? We are leaving tomorrow for London.” Her mouth pursed, and again she seemed close to tears. “I must meet my fiancé.”

  “I would love to have breakfast with you,” Olivia said. “Try to keep your spirits up, my dear.” She watched Susan walk away, her heavy, wet skirts slowing her down, until finally she disappeared into the house.

  Hannah clung to her hand. “Maybe Father is awake,” she said uneasily.

  “Don’t be silly,” Olivia replied with forced cheerfulness. But she was looking upward at the higher floors. Had she just seen a flickering light? She prayed they would not be discovered tonight. What excuse could she give? Her pulse beat hard. How she wished Arlen would go back to town.

  “Come,” Olivia whispered, taking hold of Hannah’s hand. They hurried up the stone steps, across the terrace, and through the doors, which Susan had left open for them. The salon was cast in shadows, and it was almost impossible to see, so Olivia let Hannah lead the way. She did so effortlessly, around the sofa, past two chairs, around a small side table. They stepped into the corridor.

  Arlen raised his taper. Candlelight flickered across his grim visage.

  Olivia froze.

  He stared, taking in every inch of Olivia’s disheveled, wet appearance and then raking his eyes over his daughter. “What is going on here?” he demanded. His gaze returned to Olivia but slid downward from her face.

  Hannah shrank against Olivia. Olivia wrapped a protective arm around her. The lie came easily. “Hannah was walking in her sleep. I went into her room to check on her and found her gone. She fell into the water fountain, Arlen. I am lucky she did not drown!” Hannah could not swim.

  Arlen continued to stare at her. Olivia’s unease and fear grew. Suddenly she realized that her wet cotton nightclothes were sticking to every inch of her flesh. Olivia inhaled, realizing then how transparent her soaking garments had become. Her fear changed. Arlen had not touched her in years, but he was staring at her breasts.