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The Phoenix Of Love
“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.
Chapter Three
Olivia sat before the solicitor, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her black bombazine dress trimmed with the faintest smattering of lace, more appropriate on a widow of advanced years than on a young miss still very much in the schoolroom, loudly proclaimed to all and sundry her state of mourning.
It wasn’t that she was pretentious, thought the middle-aged gentleman sitting across his desk from her. Olivia just genuinely seemed to have preferred that particular style of gown above all others. He should know: his wife had helped her choose it. Still she looked neat and tidy. He studied her openly from his vantage point.
Olivia was a beautiful child, of that there could be no doubt. But her beauty lacked something. Mr. Potts’s frown deepened as he tried to ponder what that missing element might be. Then he had it. She lacked fire. Olivia was simply not a spirited child. Oh, no. And she was not your typical twelve-year-old, either.
Mr. Potts continued his analysis of the girl, careful to keep his scrutiny away from his visitor’s eyes. Olivia’s icy blue eyes unnerved her solicitor. Whatever thoughts she might have had on the matter at hand were carefully locked away behind those cool eyes. They absorbed everything around them and gave absolutely nothing back.
The rest of her face, while equally noncommittal, was much less disturbing to him. He studied her finely chiseled features and then frowned. She might as well have been a wall for all the information her attitude gave away to him.
Nervously Mr. Potts cleared his throat. He had thought this interview would be rather simple, really. Just give the chit the get-go and be done with it. Faced with her impenetrable silence, however, he wasn’t sure the task would be as easy as he had first imagined. He cleared his throat again, loosening his cravat with one finger. No, this wasn’t going to be easy. If only she wouldn’t stare at him so!
Thankfully, Olivia was getting rather impatient with her lawyer. She decided to have pity on him, if only to get the conversation moving. “You found a place for me to go.” Her voice, although still childish in pitch, sounded strangely grown-up. She didn’t phrase the sentence as a question. She simply stated what she knew to be true.
Mr. Potts jumped for the olive branch with startling quickness. “Yes!” he said in a relieved voice. Belatedly regaining some of his composure, he sat back in his chair pretending an ease he didn’t feel. “Yes,” he repeated more calmly.
In his element now that the topic had been broached, the solicitor pushed his spectacles to the bridge of his nose and looked condescendingly down at the girl before him. In the space of a few heartbeats, he managed to go from his impersonation of a nervous Nellie to that of a schoolmarm.
“As you know, my dear,” began the man somewhat fatuously, “it has been well over a month now since your poor father died.” Here he took the time to give Olivia a sympathetic look. “And you have borne your bereavement well. Nay! Better than well. You have been exemplary in your conduct.”