Chapter 5

Chapter 5

January

In a cold, emotionless townhouse Olivia spent the winter quietly, avoiding society, whenever possible. In the evenings she wrote in her journal and continued writing the novel which she had begun to write during the autumn. She felt most alive when she lost herself crafting a story of mystery and romance, deep in the countryside of Buckinghamshire.

Jocelyn returned home to Swanbourne in time for their subdued Christmas celebrations. Uncle Harold begrudgingly allowed a Yule log, and decking the house with greenery of holly, ivy and mistletoe. Mrs. Jennings and Cook produced an excellent dinner for Christmas Day, and Twelfth Night, and the formal exchange of gifts with Uncle Harold took place.

Fully aware of the lack of enthusiasm of the master of the house, Mrs. Jennings made sure there was always a warm fire in the small morning room used by Olivia and Jocelyn. Mrs. Jennings, Ellen and Millicent, exchanged small, handmade gifts by candlelight on Christmas Eve.

As the short days of January passed, Olivia found joy helping Jocelyn choose a wardrobe of gowns and accessories, in preparation for her presentation at court and her first season in London.

Barely a week went by without Marianne sending a fashion plate, with suggestions for a Spencer instead of a Redingote, and the necessity of having several reticules to complement different outfits. And what did Jocelyn think of pale rose for a ball gown instead of winter white?

This year the anniversary of the death of their family in the first days of the new year passed quietly.

"I can't believe it's been three years," said Jocelyn. "I still expect to see Mama coming into my room with Marguerite to wish me goodnight."

"You keep them alive by remembering those moments. They are there in our hearts," added Olivia.

"Once we're back at Silverton I'll be able to visit their graves, but I talk to Mama all the time in my head. I know Papa would have loved to dance with me at my first ball. I'm not sure Uncle Harold will want to." For some reason that sent Jocelyn into a fit of the giggles, so infectious that Olivia joined her, and they both collapsed in a heap of laughter. Marguerite gazed up at them from her cushion in confusion.

A vision of a reluctant Uncle Harold, forced to dance a cotillion in a set with his great niece, was enough to send Olivia off into a further spasm of laughter. "That will be a sight to see," she spluttered. "And, my dear Jocelyn, I very much fear that as your guardian he might have to dance at your first ball. He must know the steps. I can't believe he didn't dance when he was young."

"Olivia, stop it now. I'm sure we have a distant cousin who can relieve him of dancing duty. In fact, I am sure that Viscount Leighton will step in and do the honors."

Later that evening Olivia wrapped herself in the warm shawl which Mrs. Jennings had given her as a Christmas gift, and felt the words flow as once more her quill pen flew across the parchment. Every evening, before retiring to bed, she wrote in her journal. Her thoughts often returned to that day in the glade at Leighton Manor, and the mysterious stranger.

Dear Journal,

Only here can I write from my heart about my deepest emotions. I can share my secrets with you and know they will be safe. I often think of that strange meeting in a forest glade in Leighton Woods. Did I dream about meeting a ruggedly handsome gentleman farmer with dark shoulder length hair, bound with a leather binding? Had I gazed into caramel honey-colored eyes in the warm, autumn sunshine, wondering if he might kiss me?

We ate bread and cheese, plain country fare, then picked blackberries and wild strawberries and feasted on them in shared companionship. How I long for another conversation about the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe or Mr. Richardson's heroine Pamela.

It could never have lasted. Even though I am penniless Uncle Harold would never permit me to marry a gentleman farmer, however handsome and cultured. I stayed too long in that glade, drawn into an almost enchanted moment, a long way from real life.

The impropriety of spending time with a man I had never met before, unchaperoned by a waterfall in a woodland glade could have cost me my reputation.

And the harsh reality was that as soon as Brandon, the stranger with the stallion, saw my scars he would have galloped away as fast as that black stallion could carry him.

Until I write again,

Adieu,

Olivia.

Had it all been a dream? She knew it wasn't but at times it felt that way.

The past was with her every day, memories of life before that January day—when everything had changed—still haunted her continually. When she wrote in the evenings the hero may have had dark, shoulder length hair and mesmerizing eyes into which the heroine could gaze forever. Her heroine might have fallen in love with this stranger, and that love would be reciprocated.

She felt with bitterness that should she fall in love with her mysterious stranger, that love could never be returned.

***

March

Olivia gazed beyond Uncle Harold at a still life painting of a dead pheasant on the wall of his study.

What more can I say? We've had this conversation three times now.

The elderly man ran his fingers through his frazzled gray hair, staring at her in frustration. "This is non-negotiable. Until you are twenty-five years of age, I am your guardian, and you will do as I say."

"No, Uncle."

He banged his fist on the table and his eyes never left her face.

Olivia stepped backwards. They had argued about his insistence on her attending a London season and could reach no compromise. This was the first time she had seen his face turn a vivid shade of crimson in an apoplexy of rage. Despite his penny pinching, miserly character, she had no wish to cause him ill health.

"Olivia," he spoke so quietly that she had to peer forward to hear his words. "Very well. No season for you and no season for Jocelyn. You can both go to Silverton Hall and spend the season there."

"But Uncle …"

"You have what you wanted, niece. No London season."

"But Jocelyn …"

"Jocelyn will do as I say. You will both return to Silverton."

"You cannot deprive Jocelyn of being presented at court. You know that Lady Leighton will sponsor and chaperone her throughout the season. It's arranged."

He continued to glare at her, still crimson with anger. "You have disobeyed me, niece. I stipulated that you needed to join Jocelyn in her season. I even agreed to the Viscountess sponsoring her. Then I find you had no intention of attending any events and seeking a husband."

"Uncle. I cannot do this. You cannot make me attend balls and recitals alongside Jocelyn. One or two perhaps, but a whole season?"

"You are the elder. Propriety demands that you have a season alongside Jocelyn. I know she is your niece, not your sister, but there are less than four years' difference in your ages. I've also said before, and will say again, that you must endeavor to find a husband. I speak out of concern for your welfare and future security. If you do not engage in a season, it will be too late. You will be an old maid on the shelf."

Olivia stared at him, furious as his brutal words fell heavily on her shoulders. Tears welled up in her eyes, as she struggled to keep her composure.

I will not cry in front of him. I will stay calm.

"Uncle, I beg you to reconsider this plan. No one will want me, I could attend a hundred balls and it would make no difference. I see the looks on people's faces. I remember the Duchess of Denver recoiling in horror and whispering behind her fan to the Marchioness of Wilmslow. I wish it was different with all my heart, I wish I didn't carry these scars."

"Nonsense, niece. You exaggerate as always. The disfigurement is nowhere near as bad as you maintain. I hardly notice those scars, and your maid arranges your hair in such a way that hardly anyone can see the disfigurement, unless they look closely."

How can he say that? she thought to herself. My skin is tight and taught. When I look in the mirror I see puckered skin, raised red scars under my hair, which stand out against the fairness of my complexion. I am repulsed by my own appearance.

She looked up at her uncle and spoke quietly and calmly, pushing down the anguish she felt at his lack of understanding for her situation. She was not only scarred, but being made to feel guilty for feeling grief at her changed appearance.

She almost pushed back her hair to show the bald patch and the wizened skin, always disguised by her looped hairstyle with a variety of ribbons and headdresses, which Ellen had collected over the last three years.

"You are wrong uncle, wrong in so many ways. I wish to live quietly, away from the glare of society. However, I cannot deprive Jocelyn of her season. If you insist, then I shall join her at events."

He had won. She had admitted defeat. She glanced at her uncle and saw no triumph on his face, only intense weariness.

Perhaps he truly thinks he is doing the right thing. Who knows? I've never thought him cruel. A miser, and a controlling personality, but not deliberately cruel.

He stood up and came out from behind his desk. He patted her on the shoulder. "I knew you would see sense eventually," he said. "Now, tell Mrs. Jennings we are ready for dinner. Where's Jocelyn? She has such a tendency to be late."

At that moment the door burst open and there stood Jocelyn. "I've been looking for you everywhere," she said brightly. "Mrs. Jennings says that dinner is ready, and that Cook is concerned the partridge will be dry if we don't eat soon. Apparently, the gamekeeper has sent the partridge down from Silverton and Cook has been braising them all afternoon."

Observing, almost as an outsider, Olivia noticed that her uncle seemed genuinely affectionate toward Jocelyn.

"We can't have dry partridge," he said, with almost a laugh in his voice.

Olivia looked at Jocelyn with pride. Jocelyn looked at her uncle and then at Olivia, "You've been arguing again, and I suspect it is about my coming out season," she said. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"The matter has been settled," said Uncle Harold. "Olivia has agreed to attend all your events alongside you."

"Have you Olivia?" asked Jocelyn with surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Of course, it's all settled," agreed Olivia, seething in silent fury at the tactics of her uncle in manipulating the situation.

There's no way out for me, she thought. Uncle insists that I try to find a husband, but it's a lost cause. In the end he holds the power as my guardian. I wish I could find a husband as the idea of living here with him, after Jocelyn has left, fills me with despair. Why can't I just live somewhere on the Silverton estate with quiet dignity.

The idea of living in a society, where people talked about her disfigurement behind her back, made her feel nauseous. She would do it for one season, for Jocelyn, but no more than that.

The evening passed quickly enough. The partridge was not spoiled, Cook triumphing again with her presentation of the meal. Olivia excused herself as soon as politeness allowed, leaving Jocelyn talking with Uncle Harold.

Half an hour later she heard a faint tap on her door and Jocelyn's voice calling her name. "Olivia, are you awake?"

Opening the door, she smiled at her niece. "I'm not asleep. My conversation with uncle has put me out of sorts. I'd like to write, but the words won't flow."

"I knew you were upset," said Jocelyn gently. "I didn't want you to be on your own."

They sat together in front of the small fire in the grate. Silent companionship was what Olivia needed, and having Jocelyn's support helped to mend her mood.

"We'll be fine," said Jocelyn. "Lady Leighton has friends and influence. You mustn't worry about others talking about you. Lady Leighton won't allow it to be tolerated. Now, shall I read from that new book about the sisters in search of a husband. It's quite funny and I could see the author making Uncle into one of her characters."

"Very well," said Olivia. "Read to me from that novel by The Lady."

Later, when she was alone, the candle burning low, Olivia reflected on her plight.

I need to find a way to settle my thoughts and accept what has happened to me. It was difficult when she had so many flashbacks, and a feeling of overwhelming intense grief.

I need to stop caring what others might think and look after myself. I've almost finished the first draft of my novel. Marianne has read it, and she thinks it's good enough to publish. I just need to find a publisher for it, and that will mean I have my own money.

If I can help Jocelyn find a husband, I won't need to worry about her anymore. Then I may have enough money to live a quiet life, close to nature in a cottage in the countryside, visiting my friends when I want.

Olivia turned to Marguerite. "You'll stay with me, won't you" she said to the spaniel.

Olivia held her manuscript close, wondering if her writing, the words she poured onto paper every evening, might be a way to earn a living? Every lady of quality she knew had a collection of romantic and gothic novels, and many streets in town had a penny lending library. Olivia vowed to find the courage and send her story of lost love to a publishing house the next day.

Olivia's thoughts then turned to when she had returned to society, after she lost her family.

Each time she entered a drawing room for a soirée, or a ball in a great house, her anxiety levels rose so high that she could hardly move her feet. Sometimes she felt as though a waterfall were gushing in her head, as dizziness made her feel faint. Her smelling salts clutched in her hand made no difference.

She saw the ladies looking at her, their heads close together, murmuring behind their fans. She imagined the conversation they were having.

"That's her, you know, Lady Olivia Sherwyn. You must have heard the story? No? Well, about two, possibly three years ago there was a terrible fire at Silverton Hall.

"Lady Olivia was almost at the door, safe from the flames when she realized her brother and sister-in-law, the Earl and Countess of Riversmead, were still upstairs. The servants tried to prevent her returning, but to no avail, and as she crossed the great hall the staircase collapsed, and she was knocked out by a piece of burning wood. Disfigured for life, they say.

"A terrible tragedy, she lost her family, and her looks, in the same night. Before the fire she was rumored to be a great beauty but look at her now."

Every time she attended an event the same thing happened. Marianne had looked at her in surprise when they had returned from a concert, and she had disclosed her fears.

"Nonsense," her friend had exclaimed in surprise. "I heard Lady Falkener and the Honorable Miss Carteret talking, and yes, it was gossip, but not about you my dear. It seems the Dowager Duchess of Billington is leaving the county to live in the Highlands of Scotland, with a laird she met last summer. It's quite the talk of the town."

Marianne had taken both her hands in hers and looked intently at Olivia. "I wish with all my heart that this tragedy had never happened. Losing Frederick and Mary and living with those scars caused by the fire is a heavy weight to bear." Marianne had paused, struggling to find the words to give solace to her friend.

"Believe me, your personality shines wherever you go. There are scars, but it is you who notices them more than others. When you become distracted and forget they are there, then you hold your head high, your blue eyes shine brightly, and no one notices those scars in your hairline.

I saw it tonight at the concert, until you saw those two gossiping behind that fan. They are far more interested in a duchess and a Scottish highland laird, than whether you choose to style your hair in low loops to cover a disfigurement."

Olivia knew there was truth in her friend's words, but the scars ran deep, both physically and emotionally. She had been so convinced that Lady Falkener and Miss Carteret had been talking about her. "Is that true? The Dowager Duchess of Billington is moving to the highlands?" she had asked Marianne.

I'm lucky to have a friend like Marianne, she thought. That's one good thing about being forced to return to society. As Marianne is sponsoring Jocelyn then we will get to spend lots of time together.

Since then, she had withdrawn from society, but she now needed another project.

Olivia remembered the story she had started to write in the autumn, about a romantic meeting in a woodland glade. Her cheeks flushed bright pink as she remembered the interlude of the impromptu picnic, and the way Brandon's hand had brushed against hers, while they picked wild strawberries, under a shaded canopy of autumnal forest colors. The story needed an ending and for once the ideas did not flow easily.

Now, as she faced the prospect of a season again, an idea began to form, a way of coping with the ordeal of a season in society. A game her mother used to play with her when she was a little girl came into her mind. Mama would tell me to create a character and talk and move as though I was that person. I could do that for the season. I can pretend to be someone else and turn the season into a game. I can tell Marianne and Jocelyn what I'm doing, and they'll help.

The more she considered the idea, the more she thought it could work. She was always creating characters and scenes in her stories. It will give me time and space to find a plan, to work out a way to earn a living and live independently.

The embers in the meager fire burned low, and she shivered, pulling her shawl close around her. Ellen knew that sometimes Olivia worked late into the night, and had left a pile of logs next to the grate.

Olivia, feeling reckless, placed two on the fire and warmed her hands as the flames grew stronger, and the warmth spread through her hands. It was only later that she realized that she had been close to a fire, enjoying the warmth, without remembering the flames engulfing Silverton.

Sitting close to the heat of the fire, she reached for the paper and began to write.

The candle flame flickered, its shadows dancing on the white walls of her bedchamber. An idea for how to overcome her fear of the reactions of others to her disfigurement formed.

Why didn't I think of this before?

A wave of confidence flowed through her body as her words spilled onto the paper.

I can write a story about an heiress who is bored with society but loves dancing at balls. She is a gifted pianist, who can play competently, and is determined to have a good time, break as many hearts as possible and enjoy being part of the ton.

I'll not only write a story, I'll play one of the characters when I'm at society events—hmm—let me think. She picked up her pen and a new piece of paper. The ideas flowed and the crippling anxiety drained from her body.

I'll play Contessa Allegra Fortuny and I move so quickly when I dance, that no one ever notices those scars.

A distraction to get through those balls and recitals without anxiety. Lady Allegra would never be nervous.

Watch out, tabbies of the ton! Lady Allegra is a confident, accomplished, beautiful heiress.

Maybe, just maybe, I can get through this ordeal, and write a story at the same time. Her anger diffused, she fell asleep into a deep slumber in the chair by the fire.

This might even be fun.

The Confident Contessa

By Lady Olivia Sherwyn

Chapter 1

Lady Allegra, descended from a family of Venetian counts, knew she would find a husband in her first season in London. She reveled in the idea of tossing her chestnut curls, which set her apart from other young ladies, as she handed her dance card to eager suitors.

No one danced the waltz as smoothly as Allegra, her feet barely touching the ground as she whirled around the ballroom. When she sang, the sound was sublime and when she played the pianoforte people were entranced. When she spoke, she had a slight stutter, but no one noticed, as her confidence in conversation diminished the impact of her stutter.