10. A Deeper Chill

10

A DEEPER CHILL

DO NOT POST! DO NOT POST

September 7, 1815

Dearest Olivia,

Never can I thank you enough for this summer. The few weeks spent with you outside of Duffield proved a balm over and above what I so desperately needed after birthing little Philip, only to never see him open his eyes, never hear him cry…nor feel his warm, breathing

smudges here made the ink blur

breathing little body suckling at my breast, protected against my heart.

I did not realize, until those solemn summer days, after Sarah returned to London and you sat peacefully with me outside, content to hold my hand or brush yours down my hair or do nothing at all except be near me, in silence, as we watched Nate and Faith digging out the overgrown gardens or listened to the welcome chatter of Charity ordering Hope about in the kitchens, while the two baked treats or prepared lemonade (and Hope hollered orders at her growing kittens to get off the counters before they got caught by grown-ups ), how much I longed for female companionship.

How much I missed my mother.

Thinking I was to become one myself, in the months prior, had so many thoughts of my own maternal parent hovering about.

I defied them, you know, her and Papa both, to marry James. Refused to entertain a word against him.

'Twas years after Nate left for the sea, and shortly after Ellen birthed Faith. Our parents seemed so old once Papa retired, and I felt so very misprized by them. Our village sorely lacked in amusements. I had known James forever, it seemed, and the time spent with him burst with fun and adventure. And kisses, welcome ones.

I persisted, nagging my parents till Papa gave his consent "against my best judgment, missy" and, I suspect, because neither he nor Mama knew what else to do with me. (Nor were there a glut of marriageable men clamoring around, so many in our area having either moved to bustling Birmingham, gone off to war, or simply not of an age, slumberous little village that we inhabited.)

But while I took to housewifery with a quiet joy that saw me maturing (I would like to think, well beyond my young years), eager to become a mother, James…

Well, I could not tell you this last summer, not with him waiting impatiently for my return, but he has proved a most wretched spouse. Simply put, without the stabilizing influence of his father's hand, James took to drinking in excess, to seeking idle entertainments beyond our quaint town and spending all his time with others disreputable in nature (or should I confess nefarious in nature?).

He fell to gambling and grumbling—and were it not for the financial wherewithal from his family, I know not how we would maintain our home and James his stable.

It wasn't until spending those weeks with you and Nate, watching how you conducted yourselves toward each other that stark realization slammed into my soul with all the force of a fist to my stomach. I believe it made me grieve even harder, not only for the babe buried, but also for the innocence lost after choosing the wrong sort of man to bind my life with.

Papa was right, I had realized shortly after his heart gave out and we saw him buried not long after my marriage. Accurate in his assessment that James lacked strength of character—something Papa had seen beneath the veneer of charm that had blinded me.

But when Mama followed to the grave not twenty months later and with Ellen's health beginning to fail and England still at war, I could not trouble Nate. Had nowhere to turn, save to endure the marriage bed I'd made, no matter how unpalatable.

And you know what I am beginning to think? As the hour grows ever later, and my jar of ink and the lamp both run low? That here I am, seeking to console myself through another unending night… Awake. And alone. Awaiting the return of my spouse, wondering if he will be soused enough to sleep or just bosky enough to rile at me instead…

In truth, apprehensive over whether he will arrive alone, or with a mate in tow, one he lost monies to, one expecting ? —

I realize now what I thought would be a simple thank you has turned into a rather maudlin ramble, has it not? As I bare my soul, not so much to you , I suspect, but to myself .

My guilt.

For I did not want a babe born into this union. This mockery of a marriage. One that has more trials than I will commit to the page.

My secret shame?

Is that no matter how fervently I wished to be a mother, I wished this babe away from me with even more fervor. I prayed this babe gone because I could not fathom bringing an innocent soul into the not-innocent-at- all environs of the hateful, artificious abode James has "provided". Nearly imprisoned me within.

Olivia, Mama, Papa, Nate, Ellen, Sarah: I confess to you all. 'Tis my evil thoughts and lack of strength to leave while I still could that killed my precious baby, and I will suffer that burden, that scar upon my soul forever.

Dear Lord…

Dear sweet, innocent Philip, please forgive me for acting the monster and not protecting you as a mother should.

Stifling silent giggles, amusement that shook their entire bodies, like misbehaving sinners during the Sunday-morning sermon, with Susanna again wrapped in his coat, secure in his arms, they peeked out the carriage house door Leo edged open.

"You were right," he whispered, lips to her ear. "The storm has moved on."

She claimed it was so moments ago, and the validity now presented itself before his eyes.

The snow had stopped, the moon high enough and clouds retreated sufficiently to allow the reflection to beam over the blanket of white that cloaked everything , giving a blue glow to the still landscape.

The fresh inches of snow subdued the muddy sludge of the past two days, bathed the land with new beginnings. And without the rain and wind to interfere, smoke from the inn's chimneys greeted his nose.

As did the frosty nip in the air.

"Told you I do not mind emptying the chamber pot should you wish to use it again." She squirmed against him and pointed—outside.

Please, she'd written only moments ago, a shy smile partnering the request. Now that we are more than strangers, I— Please. Outside will do.

So outside it was, he'd agreed, not allowing himself to beg her clarification on exactly what more they might be. But he would not take her to the inn's outer "office", not when that increased the chances of them chancing across anyone. The opposite direction it would be, deeper into the woods. No sense courting the danger of discovery.

Once his eyes accustomed to the night, he secured the door behind them and journeyed forth a few cautious steps, keeping keen watch all around. When all remained still, including the warm woman bundled against his chest, and idly wondering whether Reaver might disobey and join them, Leo took up a brisker pace, mindful to take a criss-cross, meandering path, one that would avoid leading directly to their haven.

By his estimation, nearly two hours had passed as they exchanged tidbits and confidences both. Surprisingly blissful ones.

Oh, the desire was still there, floating just beneath the surface like a good portion of the hull on a great hulking ship, but 'twas the sails sailing said ship that commanded his attention: conversing with her.

Though his body lodged its impatience, he was enthralled. Her mind, her personality, he had learned, drew him, lulled forth his interest in her with every shared laugh. Every suspected sorrow.

Through gestures, words—many written, some spoken and mouthed—he'd gleaned much of her recent past.

A deeper chill settled in his limbs, far worse than anything mere temperatures could cause, thinking of all she'd told him as he worked his way over the snow-covered paths and further into the trees.

Of her less-than-satisfactory marriage and overly controlling spouse.

She'd confided of a wild plan to sneak out when she learned she was pregnant, her goal of escaping to London to seek refuge with her sister-in-law. But when Mitchell discovered her sewing men's garments (ones made with seams she'd intended to let out as the babe grew, not knowing exactly when she might realize her escape), she'd fabricated a tale about sewing them for her brother and, eventually, abandoned the idea of leaving as too risky. Too adventuresome, now that she had a growing life within me to think of .

By the time he knew of her protective sister-in-law, the London Sarah, Susanna had scribbled across three worn letters, front and back both, started on a fourth and he'd feared that at any second their light might wane to nothing. Without exception, it had been the most unique, artless time he could remember ever spending with a female.

The restrictive nature of her spouse, the confines of her marriage, explained her restless need for adventure.

He'd shared a few memories of his time aboard the Restless , teasing her that with the day's events—or yesterday's events, as it were—she had gone well beyond restless adventure to her own reckless one.

And then came, to him at least, the most shocking revelation of all?—

When he noticed the top three words on the next page she drew forth to write upon.

"Dear Lady Scandal ? Whatever have you to do with that ?" Only someone buried beneath a rock had not heard of the infamous female daring enough to advertise for a spouse not quite a year past.

What did this fierce little puss who kissed like his every dream have to do with Lady Scandal? For even Leo, who practically did have his head buried under a rock (outside of his work for Farnsworth) knew of the mysterious woman who had put advertisements in every paper that would run them, requesting only inordinately wealthy men, those with superabundant pockets, apply for the position of being her husband.

"Wait. 'Tis very forward of me to demand," he'd said, "even to request, explanations from you. You need not say more. I shall pinch my curiosity to nothing and you may decide what we discuss next."

The pencil flew.

Good man. Polite.

He snorted at that. "Ha. Tell that to my mama and sisters. They would call me many things, doubtful polite among them."

He found it all too natural to rest his chin on her shoulder as she again put pencil to paper.

Brother. Navy. Nathaniel Oliv ? —

"Nate?" he burst out, straightening in shock. "Captain Nathaniel Oliver is your brother? Miracle of miracles. We served together before he received his own ship." Then he remembered. "Oh, Susanna, I am dreadfully sorry. I recall now. He left the navy, returned to land when his wife died, to care for his daughters." Her nieces. Little girls he'd heard a few lively stories about, but their aunt? Very little…

Married now , she wrote.

"He is? Found himself another wife? That scoundrel. Did not take him long. Good for him. Hope he's happy."

going there

"There? To visit Oliver?"

And did he dare tell her he knew her brother sufficient to receive his own invitation to visit for the holidays? Or would such knowledge halt every bit of the ease with which she had been confiding in him?

A small mark, indicating affirmative, had him laughing. "If only all my conversations could be so succinctly resolved.

"But wait, I cannot help but ask again. What does your brother have to do with Lady Scandal? He married her?"

Nooooo. Nate wasn't one for anything so outlandish. Leo couldn't fathom it. "Answering an advertisement for an obscenely wealthy spouse? Does not sound like him at all."

Not the sort of thing captains in the navy would ever qualify for.

Not unless Captain Nathaniel Oliver led some sort of secret life…

As you do yourself? Pretending the life of a roofless roamer?

With fingers to his cheek, she directed his startled gaze to her lips. "Nay. 'Twas her, Lady Scandal's, com-pan-ion, companion …wed…his lady…"

"Repeat the last."

"Im. Post. Ter. Imposter."

"Nate wed his very own Lady Imposter ?" She beamed at him and he knew he had it aright. Dismay bellowed up from his chest. " That sounds like him now. Exactly what he needed."

She was nodding, eyes bright with excitement that made her look even younger. "I helped. My nieces…letters…solicitor…" He made a circular motion with his hand, inviting her to share more. Given the hour, and the waning oil, gathering her words took more effort and he feared he missed more than he gleaned.

"Tomorrow?" she said after he'd bent to check the lantern, measure the weight of the remaining oil. "…share more…the morrow?"

"Absolutely." Because how could he imagine not seeing her after tonight?

Leo was a sailor, roughened by sea and by life. Now surrounded by darkness more often than not. By silence—always. Yet he wanted her with every cell of his being. Craved her light. Wanted to be the one to see her smile, to make her laugh. Wanted to banish those shadows even her mischievous nature could not hide.

Trouble, it appeared, hounded others beyond himself. Much like dogs and soldiers, smugglers too, it traveled in packs.

He knew the precise instant her brain cobbled everything together.

He knew her older brother. And she had just bared secrets to Leo that he'd wager his randy prick she had not voiced so fully to another.

Mortification swept over her, painting her cheeks and forehead pink as she skittered away, crossing back to the opposite seat, tucking her spine into the corner and damn near shrinking in on herself.

He waited for her to face him again. Her eyes shadowed with that wounded look—one he never wanted to be the cause of again.

"No, sweetheart, nay. Whatever you may be thinking, please halt." The carriage may have been grand, large by coach standards, but he was a big man and could easily reach between them. He brushed the dark hair from her face and behind one ear. "Please, trust me. Do not try and hide.

"Aye, I count Oliver a friend. A good friend. That does not mean I would ever betray your trust. Ever.

"Know that anything you have shared with me this eve will remain on these broad shoulders and in this thick head." He indicated each with a light slap, the same hand still tingling from touching her cheek after tucking her hair back connecting with first his opposite shoulder and then above one ear. "With ease, yet with sorrows for all you have endured, I will carry your secrets to my grave. Happily, will I shoulder them for you…" He trailed off when she started scribbling again.

do not talk of your grave , you wretch

But her embarrassment had abated, in part, an impish glint brimming in her gaze as she glanced up at him before looking down to write again.

Exactly how close are you and my brother?

Close enough, he and his new lady extended an invitation to join them for the holidays through Twelfth Night… But Leo couldn't tell her that, not yet. Not until he smoothed away any hint of lingering apprehension.

If he were to count on fingers the number of friends not family, easily would Nate Oliver be among them. "Close enough that I'm more than a little astonished he had anything at all to do with Lady Scandal." She didn't seem mollified by that answer, so he blurted, "I've certainly never spent hours straight sharing confidences with him. Never kissed him."

Which made her laugh. And Leo feel powerful again. In charge. Because he was the one to return the lightness to her spirit.

And if his reckless, wondrous lady desired a spot of privacy in the bracing outdoors before they both retired for the night, he was blame well going to provide it.