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“Is he unpleasant? This Montegomery?”
“N-no, not unpleasant, not really. Just…stubborn.” And for some reason she smiled; she couldn’t help it.
Lady Greentree’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? Then he’s just like you, my dear.”
Marietta giggled and, jumping up from her chair, took a turn about the room. “Can we go to the shops, Mama? I want to buy a new bonnet and a gown and new shoes and—”
“For heaven’s sake, Marietta, sit down! I am exhausted and I am not going anywhere for at least a day. You will have time enough to go looking at the shops tomorrow. I am sure Vivianna will be happy to accompany you.”
Then Lady Greentree turned to her sister, taking advantage of a private chat while Toby was not there. Marietta came and sat closer to Vivianna, her bright blue eyes shining with mischief.
“I know you haven’t told us everything,” she whispered, so that the others could not hear her. “You have fallen violently in love with Lord Montegomery, haven’t you? Mama heard from one of her London friends that he is very handsome and a terrible rake. She was so worried you might fall under his spell that she came to keep guard on you. Like one of the beefeaters at the Tower of London. I would like to fall under the spell of a rake. Have you? What is it like?”
“Marietta, will you be quiet!” Vivianna gasped. “You are talking nonsense. I have not fallen under anyone’s spell, and he is not a…well, maybe he is, but I came here to try to persuade him not to demolish the shelter. It is just that it is taking longer than I had hoped.”
“But he is handsome? I know he is. Your mouth is all primed up, like it always is when you’re telling fibs.”
Vivianna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Yes, Marietta, he is good-looking, but it is of no consequence. I don’t notice that when I am with him. I am too busy thinking of more important things.”
Marietta frowned, looked doubtful, and then sighed. “Well, I think that is very dull of you, Vivianna. If I met a rake I would make the most of it, and I wouldn’t be talking about any old shelters!”
Later, Lady Greentree had some time alone with Vivianna. “I was worried,” she admitted, her pale eyes, so like Helen’s, searching her elder daughter’s. “And besides, Marietta was driving me to madness with her pestering. I thought we should come to London for a little while, just to see all was well with you, and to give her a chance to work it out of her system.”
“There was no need to worry,” Vivianna assured her, while knowing in her heart there were plenty of reasons. If her mother knew half of what she had done, she would be appalled and insist she return to Yorkshire with them immediately.
That was why she had decided not to tell her.
“Maybe not, but I must admit I feel better having seen so for myself. Oh, I forgot, Francesca has sent you her latest watercolor.” She fetched out a small bleak picture of the moor, with a single stunted tree as its centerpiece, flattened against the gales.
Vivianna looked at it in dismay. “I think she is getting worse,” she said.
Lady Greentree smiled. “I am sure she is. But I think she has a real talent all the same. Remember, she is but fifteen; in a few years’ time, she will be just like any other girl, painting pretty cottages and…and kittens.”
Vivianna laughed. “I think you are being optimistic, Mama, but I hope you are right. I do not think I could bear to have any more of her watercolors—they bring down my spirits.”
Lady Greentree sighed. “They do, rather, don’t they?”
“We are all of us different, aren’t we?” Vivianna went on thoughtfully. “Marietta is vivacious and lively and full of mischief, whereas Francesca is solitary and dramatic and intense, and I…well, I am headstrong and difficult and…”
Lady Greentree took her hand and held it tightly. “You are passionate and caring and determined, my dear, and it does you credit. Believe me, I would not change any of you.”
For a moment Vivianna was tempted to tell her mother everything, but she stilled her tongue. What was the use of upsetting her? Comforting as it would be to unburden herself of her secrets, it would only lead to more trouble. Vivianna told herself that she had created this situation, and she must extricate herself from it.
After Oliver had left Vivianna he had gone to one of his clubs, and then another. He had thought of calling upon her again in Queen’s Square despite the late hour, but she would refuse to see him.
So he had gone on to play cards at White’s, and then to watch some fistfighting at the Bucket of Blood. Both occupations bored him, though, and he was home again long before midnight. He ignored Hodge’s long-suffering look and sat morosely in the library, trying to get drunk. And that was where he went to sleep.
And dreamed.
Strangely, in the dream he was running through Candlewood. His feet were slapping against the wooden floors on the upper story, bare feet, as though he had just risen from his bed and forgotten to put on his slippers. There was someone behind him. Someone following him, relentless in pursuit.
He knew then that he was running for his life.
There was something in his hand. Some papers. Letters? Thick paper and black ink, clutched in his fingers. Instinctively he knew it was the letters that whoever was behind him was seeking.
Down the uncarpeted servants’ stairs, dark and narrow. In front of him was the door to the unfinished wing of the house, and he wrenched it open and went through.
He ran on.
