Lady Farquhar's Butterfly (2 page)

‘Good. You’re
awake,’ came a voice from the doorway, and she twisted her head to
see a young man advancing, his face obscured by the pile of books
he carried. ‘I was beginning to grow concerned.’

Bowing
slightly, he introduced himself before taking a seat at her bedside
and, to her astonishment, picking up her wrist.

‘Your pulse is
a good deal stronger,’ he said. ‘You appear to have twisted your
ankle quite badly, but only you can assess the extent of that
injury. The wound above your eye looks worse than it is. It should
heal with no scar. In the meantime I thought you might enjoy some
poetry.’

She was too
taken aback to utter a word. Perhaps struck dumb with horror would
describe it better, she thought, as she stared into eyes the colour
of rain-washed slate. The dark, fathomless, unreadable eyes that
had belonged to her late husband.

She swallowed.
Max Atherton, her late husband Lucien’s cousin: the man into whose
keeping her son had been placed. With those eyes, confident and
inscrutable beneath a high forehead, the straight nose and mouth
she had once thought sensitive, it could be none other. He might be
smiling but it was an act. Could only be one.

She gathered
her wits. He must not see her fear. He would take advantage of it.
Make her do things against her will.

Taking a deep
breath she fought for control. She could not afford to make
mistakes. Lucien was dead while Olivia had survived. She needed
only the return of her son to make her happy, and she would fight
for Julian to the death. He was the only reason she was here. She
and Aunt Eunice had worked out every detail to prove her innocence,
to make Max Atherton see the truth. Truth would be her ally, yet
she felt the same cornered desperation she had when Lucien had
confronted her.

She sucked in
another breath. The secret of her survival lay in her ability to
act. She could be whoever she needed to be.

‘Mr Atherton.’
She repeated his name, gaining confidence from the unmasked
admiration she saw in his eyes. ‘How very kind of you to come to my
assistance’ – she swallowed again, desperate to keep the fear from
her voice – ‘when I was so foolish as to take a tumble and thus put
me in your debt.’

‘On the
contrary, you have enlivened what promised to be a very dull week –
now that I know you are not mortally wounded.’ His smile was open,
but his eyes …

She turned her
head away. Any sign of vulnerability would put her in his power,
but how could she banter with a man who looked so like Lucien it
put the fear of God into her? How could she trust herself not to
jeopardize everything for which she had worked so hard?

‘When I looked
down to see you lying trapped beneath my horse’s hoofs, while he
was rearing above you, maddened by the storm—’ The visions he
conjured up were too close to her memories of being trapped beneath
Lucien. His description could just as easily have been that of her
husband’s mad eyes blazing, foam and spittle flying from lips which
had just bruised and bitten her.

She tried not
to whimper.

‘Forgive me,
my dear Mrs Templestowe,’ Mr Atherton said, his tone remorseful,
his expression concerned as he bent over her. ‘I have a deplorable
habit of not dressing up the truth when it may cause pain. Too long
a bachelor, I suppose,’ he added with a smile.

‘How do you
know my name?’ whispered Olivia.

‘I made
investigations around the neighbourhood and learned you were
lodging at the White Swan.’

She had
offered the publican her maiden name, for how could she present
herself as Lady Farquhar in these parts before she had convinced Mr
Atherton that the name was not synonymous with sin and vice?

The impulse to
correct him died on her lips.

Surely, the
pleasantness of Mr Atherton’s smile was a calculated ploy to trick
her into letting down her reserves?

He was smiling
at her, now, the corners of his eyes crinkling into well-worn lines
as if good humour were his natural state. But didn’t grand
manipulators have any number of ploys at their fingertips? Lucien
had seemed the most charming of them all, and surely a man couldn’t
sink to depths of depravity deeper than those he had gleefully dug
using pain and threats, violence and humiliation?

She had come
here imagining his cousin was different and that the truth would
answer.

Hiding her
trembling beneath the bedcovers, Olivia forced her mouth into
another cool, arch smile. ‘Then you know you are harbouring a
foolish, helpless widow.’

She was
satisfied by the candidness of his look. No veiled, hidden
knowledge lurking in those dark depths. Lucien loved to gloat,
murmuring his depraved suspicions for which he had already
condemned her.

He continued
to smile. ‘One who is guilty of nothing more than misjudging the
weather.’

Shame welled
up in her bosom but she kept silent. How could she possibly stare
into those slate-grey eyes and tell him she was the shameless widow
of his late cousin? Like as not he would punish her so that not
even Reverend Kirkman’s plan, if that was ever put into play, would
restore her son to her keeping.

She closed her
eyes and fought the tears.

She’d wanted
so much to tell her version of the truth and know the catharsis of
exoneration.

She slept.
Strength banished her lethargy and now all her senses were aroused
by the need to find Julian.

So far there
had been no sign of a child, anywhere. No childish laughter, no
nursery-maid, no children’s toys. The drawing room where Mr
Atherton carried her would be out of bounds to children, but there
must be evidence of a two-and-a-half-year-old boy, somewhere.

Olivia thanked
Mrs Watkins for the clean, dry clothes with which she supplied her.
She was quiet as the housekeeper combed and dried her hair then
helped her into the handsome blue velvet gown Max’s sister had lent
her. The fashions had changed since she had last paid attention to
what she wore.

Where
was
Julian? Her heart thundered as she sat at the dressing
table, forcing herself to sit still. Since the moment she had
entered this house it had taken all her willpower not to leap to
her feet and go dashing up and down corridors, like a madwoman,
calling his name.

She nodded
dismissal to Mrs Watkins and pressed her fingertips to her eyes.
Why could Mr Atherton not have simply escorted her back to the
White Swan?

If he
were
the antithesis of his cousin, Olivia had not the first
idea how to appeal to the instincts of a man who was charming, kind
and well meaning and would no doubt be horrified to learn of
Olivia’s past.

Olivia had
learned how to play the devil.

However that
was of no account. She would be gone by dinner time. Her mission
now was simply to discover what distinguished Max Atherton from his
late cousin so she could better craft her next anonymous entreaty
to have her son returned to her care.

Dropping her
hands she stared, distracted, at her reflection, then rose gnawing
her little fingernail.

What should
she do? What
should
she do?

For so long
she’d not made a single important decision on her own. Everything
had been decided for her from what she did each day to what she
wore.

Leaning toward
the mirror she studied herself properly. The simple blue gown
flattered her light hair and peaches and cream colouring. She
looked young and – frowning – she thought, innocent.

Innocent? She
gave a mocking smile as the familiar poisonous misery flooded
thickly into her veins.

Carefully she
smiled again: the kind of smile she’d practised so many times as a
seventeen-year-old debutante determined to rise above the rest and
waltz off with the season’s most eligible catch.

Then she
thought of young Julian, her darling baby, and her whole body
throbbed with pain and longing. With a sob she covered her face
with her hands. Forcing herself to breathe steadily, to slay the
demons that mocked her from the darkness, she focused on the task
at hand. Max
seemed
as unlike Lucien as it was possible to
be. What if his kindness wasn’t an act? The interest in his eye
when he’d looked at her suggested he—

The flare of
excitement she felt was quickly extinguished by self disgust.

How she hated
the effect she had on men. Turning quickly away from the sight of
her reflection, she knocked the silver-backed hand mirror to the
floor.

She froze. Her
breath caught and dread engulfed her as she waited, ears attuned to
the sound of approaching footsteps and a possible witness to her
crime. Lucien had been violently superstitious. He’d have beaten
her if she’d broken a mirror in his house.

She stared at
the object at her feet, at its back of figured silver which gave no
indication as to whether the glass were shattered. There was no
sound of footsteps, but of course it was ridiculous to imagine Mr
Atherton or his servants would keep such a vigilant eye upon her.
Those days were gone, though it was often hard to believe it.

Slowly she
bent. If the mirror were smashed she would leave immediately.

But if it was
not …

Heart racing,
not knowing what outcome she wanted, she turned the mirror
over.

And stared
into her unfragmented reflection.

A strange
cocktail of emotions flooded her: hope and despair, excitement and
terror, but overall a renewal of courage that perhaps this time she
could use her charms to find happiness.

Mr Atherton
had read her poetry. He had remained at her bedside for nearly an
hour earlier in the day, chatting with her as if he enjoyed her
company. And all the time she’d had a bandage on her head!

Perhaps she
really could entrance Mr Atherton as she had entranced Lucien, and
be happy for it. Then she thought of the dangers. Perhaps Mr
Atherton’s kindness was simply an act, a prelude to the seduction
of his unexpected house guest. Lucien would have found such a
challenge amusing.

Sickened, she
retreated from her simple idea that Mr Atherton’s inherent decency
was such that he would be so overcome by the emotional reunion
between mother and son when he finally produced Julian he’d
understand the boy’s place was with his mother, with Olivia.

She had no
idea what kind of man Mr Atherton was. It was far too early to
judge, though she was inclining towards the opinion that he was
nothing like Lucien. That he was kind.

She bit her
lips and pinched colour into her cheeks, checking her smile one
last time. Yes, she looked pretty and ingenuous. There would be no
sultry pout and sinuous sashaying as she made her entrance: the
kind of entrance she’d used to captivate Lucien. Stupid, ignorant
child that she’d been! Mr Atherton wanted a demure, honest young
woman, and that’s what she’d give him, though in truth she had no
idea what she was, anymore.

When her host
turned from where he’d been lounging against the mantelpiece and
she saw only kindness and concern in those disturbingly familiar
eyes she felt even further emboldened.

Admiration was
something she’d had enough of to last a lifetime yet this man’s was
somehow comforting. She need no longer check over her shoulder in
case Lucien was silently observing, interpreting the lust he saw in
other men’s faces as a deliberate lure she’d set for which he’d
punish her in private, later.

The genuine
pleasure in Mr Atherton’s expression caused an unexpected lurch in
the space her heart once occupied.

‘Amelia’s gown
becomes you, my dear Mrs Templestowe. It’s the colour of your
eyes.’ He advanced, his hands outstretched as if he’d known her far
longer than a few hours. ‘No limp?’ He looked almost
disappointed.

Olivia gave a
little shrug and smiled. She strove to sound lighthearted, though
her heart thundered. How strange that she should feel such an overt
attraction to the type of gentleman she had once derided for being
tame and unexciting. Well, anyone had fallen into that category
when she had been seventeen, simply because he were not the
dangerous and alluring Lucien, Viscount Farquhar whom she must have
at all costs. She dropped her eyes, her shyness not an act. ‘I must
have just bruised it. I’m sorry for disrupting your plans for
today, Mr Atherton. You have been very kind but as soon as
convenient I will return to the White Swan.’

She saw his
disappointment as he led her to the seat closest to the fire,
saying, ‘It is not often storms around Elmwood result in such
charming strays. But look.’

She was still
taking in the possibilities as he pointed to the window. He was
attracted to her. She should not be so surprised at that. It was
not vanity, simply a fact. When she was married to Lucien it was
something to be frightened of. As a widow she had grown weary of
the desire and derision she received, in equal parts, as if her
beauty were somehow a mask for the corruption within. She saw that
snow was falling fast in flurries of fat, floating flakes, but all
she could think of was Lucien’s lies. And how readily people had
believed them.

‘You can’t
possibly travel in weather like this, Mrs Templestowe.’

Briefly he
squeezed her hand before indicating the white, frozen landscape.
‘For one thing, you’re not dressed for it and, until my sister
returns with the carriage, I have no way of conveying you to your
lodgings.’

He looked
rather pleased at the state of affairs. Nor could Olivia deny she
secretly felt the same. Though not in the same, uncomplicated way.
Out of the corner of her eye, as she pretended to gaze with dismay
upon the thickly falling snow, she realized that acknowledging an
attraction to this man would be deeply dangerous.