chapter two

Olivia slept fitfully that night, troubled to the depths of her being by indecision. On the one hand, she felt disloyal to her sister by not revealing what she’d seen. On the other, she was revolted by the prospect of having to play the role of tale bearer—and of such an ugly, distressful sort of tale as that.

Besides, she knew herself well enough to understand that she was not at all comfortable in dealing with matters of the heart. She’d had no experience of love herself, and she knew nothing of married life, not even as an observer. She was vaguely aware that she’d been brought up in an abnormal household. She had no recollection of her mother, and she had difficulty imagining her father in the role of a loving husband, although she’d been told he’d been a devoted one. As a father, Sir Octavius Matthews was a failure, not so much from a lack of warmth as from a pervading absentmindedness and lack of interest. It was as if his Greek studies absorbed so much of his emotions that there was nothing left for his family.

It was not at all the case that Olivia felt neglected or unloved. Her sister had been a most affectionate mother-substitute, and her brother, Charles, a wise and fond surrogate father. Even Jamie, self-centered and hedonistic as he was, treated her with playful affection. Nevertheless, Olivia realized that she had never experienced the normal relationships which existed in a household presided over by a happily married couple who showered each other and their offspring with natural and loving attention.

Olivia had never felt sorry for herself and only rarely yearned for a more conventional existence. But she’d never missed having a real mother as much as she did this night. How comforting it would have been to be able to confide in a sensible, thoughtful, mature woman. But the Mama of her imagination was too vague and indistinct a person to offer advice, and Olivia got out of bed the next morning no more certain of a course of action than she’d been the night before.

The morning was cold and wet, but the weather had evidently not daunted Clara. From across the hall, Olivia could hear the telltale sounds of Clara’s stirrings as she packed to leave. Olivia dressed quickly and started across the corridor to assist her, but some instinct kept her from knocking at the door. Perhaps, she thought as she turned away, it would be best to avoid Clara until I’ve made up my mind about what to do.

Seeking some sort of help or advice, she wandered down the stairs and into her father’s study. Although it was not yet eight, he was already bent over the papers on his desk, hard at work on his translation of Thucydides’ Melian Dialogue. She crept up behind him and planted a light kiss on the top of his head. “Will you come to breakfast with us, Papa?” she asked as he looked up at her, blinking distractedly. “Clara’s leaving this morning.”

Sir Octavius looked at his daughter through his spectacles, his eyes foggily revealing his struggle to concentrate on the Athenian envoys in the book before him rather than on this unwelcome interruption. “Is she leaving already?” he asked absently. “I thought she intended to remain for a few more days.”

“She’s been here over a week, you know,” Olivia explained patiently.

“Has she?” He shook his head and lowered his eyes to the pages before him. “I don’t know where the time goes.”

Olivia persisted in her attempt to gain his attention. “Leave the Athenians for a few minutes, Papa. I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, yes, but let me jot this down first. The Melians are saying, ‘It is natural in our position to indulge in imaginings.’ But ‘imaginings’ does not truly reflect the quality of the Greek. It should be more like ‘phantasies,’ I think. Look here, child … what do you think? Shall I use ‘phantasies’ instead?”

“I think ‘imaginings’ sounds perfectly clear. But if you are unsatisfied with it, why not try ‘fancies’?”

“Fancies?” He gazed up at her with a smile she could almost have called affectionate. “That’s very good! Very good indeed! Fancies!” He turned back to his paper and scribbled in the word rapidly. Then, as if his daughter were not there, he went right on reading.

Olivia determinedly perched on the desk in front of him. “Now that you’ve found your word, Papa, can you not talk to me?”

“Yes, of course, my dear,” he said, not looking up. “What is it?”

“I was wondering, Papa, if you … that is … er … have you a liking for Strickland?”

“Strickland? Clara’s Strickland?”

“Yes, Papa. Clara’s Strickland.”

“Well, of course I like him. Fine fellow, Miles. Very clever on the subject of tariffs and finance.”

Olivia snorted impatiently. “I’m not speaking of his Tory politics, but of—”

“Of course,” Sir Octavius mused, lifting his head and chewing the tip of his pen thoughtfully, “he’s perhaps not expert in Greek philosophy, but if he gave it some real attention, I’m sure … but really, Olivia, must you sit just there? You’re crushing my papers!”

“Sorry, Papa.” She slipped off the desk and straightened the pile of closely written notes. “I wasn’t speaking of his mind. I meant his character.”

“Whose character?” her father muttered absently, having returned to his papers again.

“Strickland’s! Your son-in-law’s!” she said in complete annoyance.

“Oh, yes. Fine fellow. Already said so. Now here, in this next line, shall I say ‘council’ or ‘conference’? Council connotes a meeting of a body of men who meet regularly—wouldn’t you say?—while conference sounds like a more spontaneous assemblage. ‘Conference,’ therefore, seems closer to the facts, I think. Yes, ‘conference’ it shall be.”

Olivia frowned irritably at his bent head. She should have known better than to expect any help from him. Sir Octavius Matthews had a marvelous mind, but not for family matters. “But you will come to see her off, won’t you, Papa?” she asked as she walked dolefully toward the door.

“Eh? See whom off?” he murmured.

“Oh, really, Papa! Clara! She’s leaving right after breakfast.”

“Well, Olivia, I’m at a crucial place just now.” He didn’t look up from the page before him. “Tell her goodbye for me. Love to the children … good trip and all that.” And he waved her away.

She closed the study door behind her and sighed. Her father was a strange sort. He was not a bit gregarious—living people didn’t seem to interest him. Only dead Greeks engaged his mind. Even at dinner, the only time of day he joined the family, he scarcely ever engaged in conversation; his mind was still occupied with the books that had engaged him during the day—the Poetics, or Plato’s Republic or his favorite History of the Peloponnesian War. She was foolish to have expected to receive any assistance from him in dealing with real problems. If Thucydides hadn’t recorded it, if Aristotle hadn’t codified it, or if Plato hadn’t ruminated on it, the problem had no reality for him.

She had to turn elsewhere for advice, but she was not sure where. The logical choice should be Charles. He was the most sensible, well-rounded member of the family, despite the fact that he was a thirty-year-old bachelor and so promising a scholar that it was expected he would some day surpass his famous father. But although his head was crammed with learning, his feet were planted firmly in reality. She should really talk to him. But something made her hesitate.

It was Charles’ unfailing, uncompromising honesty that caused her to pause. What if she revealed the story of Strickland’s infidelity to Charles, and then they decided not to tell Clara? Charles would not be able to hide the truth. He was so straightforward that whatever was on his mind would be reflected in his face. He would try to say nothing to his departing sister but a simple goodbye, but Clara would immediately sense that there was something wrong. Charles was as transparent as glass. Olivia could not afford to chance it. It would be better to speak to her brother James.

Dear, pleasure-loving Jamie! He was not the sort to whom one would ordinarily turn for advice. Although he was the complete antithesis of his father in that he was all gregariousness, he was the most superficial and selfish creature in the family. He was so completely occupied with his cronies and the relentless pursuit of pleasure that he came home only to sleep. He had realized early that he had little interest in the subjects that absorbed the rest of the family, and he’d left school as soon as he could. A substantial inheritance from his mother made it possible for him to live a life of dissipation: sporting and gaming with his friends. However, it occurred to Olivia that he might be just the one to help her now. Perhaps his dissipated life had given him the sophistication in worldly matters that Olivia now needed.

She hurried up the stairs to his bedroom and knocked at the door. Of course he didn’t answer; he’d probably been up quite late the night before and was undoubtedly still deeply asleep. She pushed open the door and went in. The room was still dark, for the drapes were closely drawn against the light, but through the darkness came the sound of gentle snoring. She went to the bed and shook his shoulder firmly. “Jamie, wake up,” she said loudly. “I must talk to you.”

Jamie shuddered, turned his head toward her and opened one eye. “Go ’way,” he muttered thickly.

“But I need your advice. Urgently. It’s about Strickland.”

“Don’t care if it’s ’bout the Prince Regent! Go ’way!”

“Oh, Jamie, don’t be such an indolent slugabed. I need you!” And she ruthlessly tore the comforter from around him, exposing him to the cool air.

He shivered and groaned. “Give that back at once!” he demanded, huddling into a quivering ball. “I’m freezing!”

“I’ll give it back to you if you sit up and talk to me,” Olivia bargained, throwing open the heavy draperies and letting in a stream of bleak, grayish light.

Jamie groaned again, heaved himself into a sitting position and reached eagerly for his comforter. As soon as he’d pulled it about him, he cast a bleary eye at the window. “What an odious start for an odious day,” he muttered. “By whose leave do you come barging into a fellow’s bedroom?”

“By my own leave,” his sister declared, perching on the bed. “I think I’ve stumbled upon a family crisis, and I have no one to turn to but you.”

He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Since when have I been considered useful in a family crisis?”

“Never, as far as I know. But this is as good a time to begin as any. Please, Jamie, don’t be so sullen. I’ve never come to you this way before, have I?”

“No, you haven’t. I must say that for you.” He looked at her with a sudden frown. “What sort of scrape have you got yourself into, Livie?”

“Not I. It’s Clara I’m worried about.”

“Clara? I don’t believe it! What’s she done?”

“Nothing, you gudgeon. Clara would be the very last one of us to do anything amiss. It’s Strickland who’s put us in this coil.”

“Strickland, eh? Now what on earth—?” He leaned toward his sister in sudden irritation. “Have you shaken me up like this just to tell me that he’s submitted another of his damnable Tory proposals to the Lords?”

“Good heavens, no! I wouldn’t wake you for something as commonplace as that! This is much more … more personal.”

Jamie fell back against the pillow in surprise. “Personal? Now I am nonplussed. Speak up, girl. You have me quite agog.”

“I wish you will take this a bit seriously, Jamie. It may affect Clara’s entire future! I saw Strickland last night … on the street … with a … a … fancy piece!”

If Olivia expected her news to shock her brother, she was doomed to disappointment. His face remained impassive. “Well?” he asked, as if expecting more.

“What do you mean, well?” she demanded.

“Well, what else?”

“Good lord, isn’t that enough? He was kissing her … right there on the street!”

Jamie shrugged. “That was a bit of bad manners, I suppose, but I hardly see the matter as a family crisis. Is that what you woke me up to tell me?”

Olivia gaped at her brother in surprise. “Of course it is! Don’t you think it’s shocking?”

“Not at all. All the men in London have fancy pieces.”

“Jamie!” she cried, not believing.

“They do!” he insisted. “Perhaps not often, and some more often than others, but sooner or later all of them—”

“Stop it, Jamie!” Olivia put her hands to her ears in horror. “I think you’re only saying these dreadful things to take a paltry revenge on me!”

He gave her a look of disgust. “Don’t be such a little innocent. London is full of—as you call them—fancy pieces. Why would there be so many if men didn’t patronize them?”

“B-But … married men … w-with little children … like Strickland?”

“Why not? Strickland is a prime candidate for a liaison. He’s here in London, alone, for almost half the year. Where else is he to look for female companionship?”

“If he wants female companionship, he can jolly well go home to his wife!” Olivia snapped, her voice trembling.

“Well, don’t fire up at me. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Olivia glared at him. “Well, whatever the other men of London choose to do is of no concern to me. But Lord Strickland is our sister’s husband, and I’m at my wit’s end as to what to do about it.”

“Do about it? What is there to do about it?” Jamie asked flatly.

“Do you think I should tell her?”

“Tell Clara? Whatever for? Keep your nose out of it and your mouth shut. That’s my advice.” With that, he slid down under the cover, turned on his side and shut his eyes. “Now, I hope you’ll take yourself off and let me sleep without further disturbance.”

But Olivia hadn’t moved. She sat staring abstractedly into the middle distance, her brow furrowed in puzzled anxiety. “Do you really think silence is best? That we should let our sister continue to play the fool, believing that her dear Miles is … above reproach?”

“Clara’s no fool. She knows all about it,” Jamie answered, his voice muffled by the pillows.

Olivia jumped to her feet and stared at the lump under the bedclothes. “Knows about it? She couldn’t!”

“She would if she had any sense.”

“Do you mean to say that she knows and meekly accepts it?” Olivia asked incredulously.

Jamie turned his head and opened his eyes with a patient sigh. “Yes, my little innocent. That’s what any sensible wife would do. And so will you when your time comes.”

“Never!” she declared vehemently. “I would never permit myself to be … betrayed. I think all men are dastardly, and I shall never marry any of them!”

She stalked to the door in a fury, but before she grasped the doorknob a horrible thought occurred to her. Slowly she turned back to her brother. “Jamie, you don’t mean to imply that you …? No, I won’t ask.”

Jamie broke into a loud guffaw. “Do you want to know if I have a fancy piece?” he asked challengingly, lifting his head and grinning at her mockingly. “Well, now—”

“No! Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know … now or ever!” And she fled from the room, slamming the door behind her.