“Yes, so I did,” Olivia replied, brightening. “Yes. I remember. It was a rather splendid picture book of fairy-tales that I was given as a child and brought with me. Thank you for reminding me, Nan. I shall put on my bonnet and go this instant.”
“That is a very good idea,” Nan said. “And when you return, you may sit down and write to your sister—tell her that you would be very happy to accompany her to Brighton.”
“Yes,” Olivia said, and on impulse went to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you for your good advice, Nan. Perhaps a little scold was just what I needed. Papa is always so kind…”
“And so wrapped up in his work,” said her aunt. “Neither he nor I are congenial company for a young lady like you, Olivia. We care for you, but we can only give you so much. Somehow, you have to make a life for yourself…and I do not believe that you find much pleasure in preserving or baking.”
Olivia laughed. “If I could bake like Beatrice, I might find it an absorbing task—but even Farmer Ekins’s boy will not eat my cakes!”
“I dare say you could learn in time, but why should you? No, my dear. I believe you should go to Brighton with Beatrice and Lord Ravensden. Perhaps you may decide then precisely what it is you wish to do with your life.”
“It was kind of you to come all this way,” Annabel said, later that afternoon. “Rebecca will enjoy listening to these stories—and the woodcuts will fascinate her. She has never seen anything like this book. Something like this would be too expensive for me to buy.”
The book contained several woodcut engravings of characters and scenes from the fairy-stories, some of which had been hand coloured. It was an expensive gift, one of many similar which had been lavished on Olivia as a child.
“I am pleased for her to have it,” Olivia replied, smiling. “I spent many happy hours looking at it as a child. Is Rebecca in her crib?”
“Yes. I had just put her down when you arrived. She needs her afternoon nap.”
“Then we must not disturb her.”
“But you will stay for some tea before you go?”
“Thank you.” Olivia sat down. “The news about Lord Sywell was shocking, was it not?”
“Yes, indeed.” Annabel shook her head. “There are so many stories going round that it is difficult to know what is true and what is false.”
“My aunt was told that he was completely… naked.”
“There are even more shocking stories,” said Annabel. “I cannot bring myself to repeat most of them, nor do I believe they are true—but it seems that there must have been a terrible struggle.”
“Yes, so we were told.”
“Surely the murderer must have been covered in blood?”
Olivia shuddered. “Pray do not! May we not speak of something else?”
“Yes, of course. How does Lady Ravensden go on? Have you heard from her recently?”
“Bellows fetched a letter from the receiving office at Abbot Quincey earlier today. Beatrice is very well and very happy. She and Lord Ravensden are to visit Brighton next month, and they have asked me to go with them.”
“How lovely,” Annabel said. “You are fortunate to have the opportunity, Olivia.”
“Yes, I am,” Olivia replied. “Had Beatrice not fallen in love with Lord Ravensden, our lives would have been very different. We have more servants to look after the house, and we do not go short of anything. My sister and Lord Ravensden have been very generous.”
“Yes…” An odd expression crept into Annabel’s eyes. She drummed her nails on the arm of her chair. “Your sister was not expected to marry—to make such a match must have been beyond her dreams.”
“I believe Beatrice had no thought of marriage until she met Lord Ravensden. It was truly love at first sight in their case.”
Annabel nodded. Once again, her look struck Olivia as being wistful, even a little distracted, as though her mind were elsewhere. Perhaps she was thinking of the husband she had lost? They had never spoken of him, despite their growing friendship. Annabel did not seem to wish to discuss her past, and Olivia was too thoughtful to ask impertinent questions.
“Aunt Nan says I should go to Brighton,” Olivia said. “She told me I must face the gossips. Of course she does not know how cruel some of the important hostesses can be. I dare say there will be some who will give me the cut direct.”
“But you will not care for them? Lady Ravensden must be received everywhere—do you not think most people will be prepared to forgive you?”
“Perhaps. I shall simply ignore those who do not,” Olivia said bravely. “Now, tell me, what did you make of the Reverend Hartwell’s sermon last Sunday?…”
Olivia was thoughtful as she walked home that evening. It was warm and pleasant as she skirted the walls of the Abbey grounds. How odd to think of it empty and deserted, except perhaps for Solomon Burneck. She supposed the Marquis’s butler was still living there, that he would remain as a caretaker until the new owner arrived.
Who did the Abbey rightfully belong to now? Olivia did not know. Everyone had a different opinion as to what would happen to it, though she suspected that in their hearts most would like to see it return to the Yardley family.
Olivia knew much depended on whether or not an heir could be found, and since no one seemed to know if the Marquis of Sywell had any distant relatives, it was a matter for speculation, and would likely continue to be so for many months.
The fate of Steepwood Abbey did not, however, occupy her thoughts for long. What was she to do with her own life?
Since Lord Burton had banished her to the country, Olivia had refused to dwell on his unkindness. She had resolutely guarded against giving into self-pity, for there was no use in crying over something that was spoiled and could not be mended.
At first she had tried very hard to settle into the life at Abbot Giles. She had quickly grown fond of dear Papa, for who would not? She sensed that her aunt felt her lacking because she did not have Beatrice’s skills in the stillroom and the kitchen, though she was not unkind, and they went on well enough together.
Olivia was not precisely unhappy, merely restless. She did not have enough to occupy her time now that there was no need for either her or Nan to do so many of the tasks that had been necessary when they had only Lily and Ida, and Bellows, of course.
Olivia had been educated as a lady. She had been taught to read and write and to calculate figures; she had studied a little history, a little art and music, and she was proficient at embroidery; she played the pianoforte and the harp, sang, and did a little sketching.
Perhaps if she had married a man with an important title, she would in time have become a brilliant society hostess, her drawing-room the meeting place for artists, poets and politicians. Olivia knew this was very unlikely now. She had jilted a man, an important man, and she did not expect to be given a second chance, since gentlemen did not like to be made fools of, and most would not care to risk a repeat of her disgraceful behaviour. Besides, she would only marry if she found a man she could love, who also loved her—as much as Harry Ravensden loved Beatrice.
So if she was not to marry, what was she to do with herself instead? She was an intelligent girl, and she knew her education was lacking. She did not know many things Beatrice had been taught, but then her sister had been educated at home by their father, who was an unusual man.
Olivia could study at home, of course, and indeed she had begun to borrow books from her father’s library, books she would not have considered opening in the past. Although she was determined to