Lady Farquhar's Butterfly (3 page)

Impossible,
even. She needed to appeal to his obvious kindness, and she
believed she could do that. Anything more would end in tears for
both of them. She acknowledged the truth with weary resignation.
Regardless of the temptations, she could not pander to her heart.
Certainly not in
this
instance.

‘And here is
tea.’ On cue the door opened to admit the parlour maid bearing a
tray. ‘Surely you don’t object to a dish of strong hot tea while we
wait for Amelia and the boys? They are staying with me while
renovations are carried out on their home which is not far from
here.’

‘The boys?’
Olivia knew she’d jumped at the phrase with too much feeling. Her
mind had not been in the present. ‘There is more than one, Mr
Atherton?’

‘There are
three,’ he replied, rolling his eyes with a smile as she settled
herself back into her green wing back chair. ‘But only one is
mine.’

Oh, no,
he’s not
. Somehow, Olivia managed to keep her smile from
faltering. ‘How old is your little boy?’

‘Julian is
two-and-a-half. He’s been with me the past year since his father,
my late cousin Lucien, Lord Farquhar, passed away.’

‘The poor
child is an orphan?’ Anger and mortification threatened to swamp
her.

It was small
consolation that Max Atherton hedged his reply and obviously took
care with his words, as if he were uncomfortable at having to
explain the situation further.

‘The lad was
put into my keeping to avoid contagion when his father succumbed to
fever. When Lucien died the following month and the will was read I
discovered to my surprise – amazement, really – he’d made me the
boy’s legal guardian.’

‘So his mother
also died of fever.’ Olivia made it sound a statement. She gave a
pitying sigh, masking her anger with an expression of regret, as if
it were the only explanation since not even the cruellest husband
would exercise his legal rights to deny a mother her child.

‘The mother
was unfit to rear the next heir to Lord Farquhar’s estates.’
Yet
not unfit to be Lord Farquhar’s wife?
A terrible rage blackened
her vision. She dropped her gaze, unable to give voice to her real
feelings, instead murmuring, ‘How terrible. I think perhaps I
recall having heard something about Lady Farquhar.’

Max sighed and
looked even more uncomfortable as he fiddled with his cufflink.
‘Alas for the boy, she was a fortune hunter; a vain, showy creature
who trapped Lucien into marriage, ran into debt and led an
altogether dishonourable life.’

‘Yet she was a
mother. I cannot believe she behaved so heartlessly towards her
son. Did it surprise you, Mr Atherton?’

‘I never met
her—’

Olivia relaxed
with grim satisfaction only to jerk forward in alarm at his next
words.

‘—though I saw
her at a ball, once, two years after the pair eloped.’

She waited,
breathless.

Mr Atherton
indicated to her to pour. With shaking hand she lifted the teapot
while he elaborated. ‘She was with her husband, my cousin Lucien,
but Amelia refused to meet her and as I was accompanying her I
didn’t make it an issue.’

‘What did she
look like?’ Best to get it over and done with, if an unmasking were
inevitable.

Max smiled as
he accepted his tea and leaned back in the armchair opposite her.
‘Beautiful. Like you, Mrs Templestowe.’

She swallowed;
opened her mouth to speak but the words would not come.

He seemed not
to notice. ‘But obviously not a lady, like you, for her gown was
ostentatious and’ – he shrugged – ‘the way she carried herself I
could see the truth in the rumours.’

Lucien had
decided what she wore. She had given up selecting her gowns
herself, merely waiting and wondering in her dressing room whether
he wanted her to flaunt herself like a trollop, or deport herself
like a nun. With her husband’s moods increasingly erratic towards
the end, she had learned to accept his last dictate with the
meekness of a child.

Still, it took
all her willpower not to slump, defeated, into her chair. The fact
that the sight of her, albeit from a distance, only strengthened
his belief in the rumours was somehow doubly devastating.

Licking her
dry lips she whispered, ‘So you never sought her out after … after
Lord Farquhar gave you her child?’

Max raised one
eyebrow. The façade of genial, almost overeager host, slipped.
Wearing a look of censure he suddenly resembled Lucien once more,
and she clasped her hands together to stop them trembling as he
added, ‘One would expect she would make contact with
me
.’
His voice was clipped, and his nostrils flared, as if he were
speaking of someone utterly reprehensible. ‘I suppose she did,’ he
eventually conceded, stirring his tea with a frown. ‘But not until
a good eight months had elapsed. I heard talk she had been
gallivanting across the Continent in bad company until then.’ He
looked up, apology in his eye. ‘I should not have spoken like that,
Mrs Templestowe, yet I feel such a great anger on behalf of my ward
as well as sorrow that he cannot know his mother.’ He shrugged.
Then his mood lightened and he smiled as if encouraging her to move
on to another topic.

Olivia was not
ready to let this one die.

‘How would you
receive Lady Farquhar if she did contact you and ask for the return
of her child?’ She tried to keep her tone offhand though her breath
came in staccato bursts of anticipation as she waited for his
answer.

Her host
levelled at her a faintly quizzical look. Deliberating over his
choice of words he said, ‘I am bound to do whatever is in the best
interests of the boy and as Lady Farquhar had taken a lover—’

‘Surely
not!’

Olivia’s gasp
of outrage was thankfully misinterpreted by Mr Atherton. ‘I fear it
is not as uncommon as you might believe, Mrs Templestowe, however
discretion is required. It seems Lady Farquhar had neither
discretion nor wit. My cousin was not a man to take such a matter
lightly.’

On that they
were agreed at least, Olivia thought silently as she racked her
brains to think who her imaginary lover might have been. But then,
Lucien had always imagined conspiracies when there were none.

Fear crept
into the deepest recesses of her brain. No! She would not think of
it. Lucien could not truly have suspected Julian was not his.
Taking a deep breath she quickly dispelled any reflections of what
some would consider wrongdoing. If she had ever done wrong, then
Lucien’s hand was behind it.

She listened
to the chink of silver against china as he stirred his tea. His
expression was distant. ‘When I heard the boy had been made my ward
I sold my commission and took up residence on this estate which I
hold in trust for Julian until he comes of age.’

Olivia studied
his face, searching for more similarities with Lucien. The physical
family resemblance was there, particularly in the eyes, the
straight nose and firm chin. Now that he was speaking of serious
matters the almost self-conscious banter had gone. He was precise
and direct and clearly decided on what he considered right and
wrong. Very different from Lucien’s arrogance.

Amidst the
turmoil of her emotions, she felt a flicker of surprise.

‘You gave up
your career to look after a little boy?’

‘I’d seen
enough horror on the Peninsular to last a lifetime; was more than
ready to leave the soldiering life and resume my agricultural
obligations and’ – he smiled – ‘find a wife who would love this
home and, hopefully, find me not too objectionable.’ He cleared his
throat.

‘The boy needs
a mother’s love.’

Pointing at
the plate of seed cake he exhorted her to try some, adding with
sigh, ‘Whatever Lady Farquhar’s sins, her son’s a lovelynatured
little chap.’

She could not
trust herself to speak. Raising her cup to take a sip her hand was
trembling so much that tea spilled on to the Wilton carpet.

‘My dear Mrs
Templestowe, I think you are still in shock from your fall.’
Unexpectedly Mr Atherton moved from the mantelpiece to take a seat
on the arm of her chair, relieving her of her tea cup and setting
it down upon the table.

Surprised and
unsure what she should say as his hands gripped her shoulders, her
heart quailed at his expression. There was blatant admiration in
those slate-grey eyes and, like a traitor, her heart responded,
just as it had with such dreadful results when she had cast in her
lot with Lucien all those years ago.

But no, she
could only be sceptical of such admiration. She was certainly no
longer susceptible.

Yet his
concern seemed genuine; and in addition to the admiration was
something that looked dangerously like tenderness.

Tenderness? To
succumb to tenderness would be too rash and much too dangerous. It
was a trap!

And yet …

‘I’ve no idea
how long you lay in the mud, soaked to the skin.’ His voice was
like a caress, full of comfort and reassurance. He leaned across
her to pull on the embroidered bell pull, seemingly unembarrassed
by their proximity. ‘I shall have a warm rug fetched for you. Let
me feel your hands. Why, they’re as cold as ice. I’ll rub them for
you.’ Olivia closed her eyes and surrendered to those dangerous,
unfamiliar feelings: comfort, safety. Exquisite peacefulness.

Mr Atherton
held the key to her future happiness: her son. If he admired her
and she could
prove
to him she deserved it, surely happiness
might follow?

Then insidious
reality intruded and she had to steel herself against her despair,
her defeat.

She thought of
Reverend Kirkman, imagining his outrage if he learned of the
venture on which she had so rashly embarked.

It was he who
had cautioned patience. Patience, he had exhorted her, was what she
needed when once again her impetuous nature threatened her
happiness. Patience would be her salvation, he’d soothed her, when
she’d leapt up from her chair at the reading of Lucien’s will and
later, when he’d physically torn her from her carriage, overruling
her determination to drive the horses herself in order to reclaim
Julian.

Olivia was
pliant, her eyes still closed as she heard the maid enter, felt Mr
Atherton tuck the blanket around her, making sure her feet were
well insulated, bringing the warm wool up around her neck with
tender, competent fingers.

‘You must be
very tired,’ she heard him whisper, as he stroked a strand of hair
back from her face. ‘And still in shock from your accident.’

‘Yes,’ she
murmured, her head falling to one side. Vaguely, she realized it
was resting against his thigh as he sat on the arm of her chair.
She didn’t move it. Didn’t want to.

Mr Atherton
could get her what she wanted.

Her son …
happiness.

If Reverend
Kirkman would sanction it. She could be happy. She
could
.

She was in the
midst of a dreamless sleep when it happened: the meeting upon which
her whole life had been focused for more than a year, the reason
she was here.

Jolting awake
at the sound of a carriage drawing up before the front door, her
ears seemed suddenly acutely sensitive to the crunch of the gravel
under what sounded like a dozen little feet, and the joyful chorus
of young voices.

Then the
drawing-room door was thrown open unceremoniously and three small
boys burst into the room.

‘Uncle Max!
Uncle Max!’ they cried, as they leapt upon him.

Olivia opened
her eyes. Gripping the side of her chair for support she stared at
the three youngsters, all jostling for prime position on their
Uncle Max’s lap.

Fourteen
months. It had been fourteen months since she had last seen Julian.
The baby who had been removed from her care when Lucien had fallen
ill was now a boisterous and sturdy toddler with a mop of dark
curls and a sunny smile. His cousins were both fairhaired, a little
older than he, but just as comfortable with their Uncle Max whom
they were now pummelling with cushions.

‘Boys!
Boys!’

The nursery
maid clapped her hands for calm. Olivia could only stare.
Charlotte, who had accompanied Julian to his new home fourteen
months earlier, smiled. She’d been told to expect Olivia but to say
nothing. Her pride in her young charge was clear, however the
small, thin woman who followed in her wake was less forgiving of
the youngsters’ unruly behaviour.

‘Boys, your
manners!’ she cried, when she saw Olivia. ‘Your uncle Max has a
visitor. And Max, you’re no better, the way you encourage
them.’

Mr Atherton
exhaled on a long-suffering sigh as he stood up to greet his
sister. ‘Afternoon, Amelia. They make me feel young again and I
missed them,’ he said, his grin half apologetic. ‘And Mrs
Templestowe doesn’t mind. She likes small boys. At least, you gave
me to think you do.’

His laconic
smile, as he turned back to her, suddenly became one of concern.
‘My dear Mrs Templestowe, are you all right?’ He took a couple of
quick strides across the room and bent to clasp Olivia’s hands.

‘Amelia!’ He
swung round. ‘Your vinaigrette, or burnt feathers, or whatever it
is you ladies use. Mrs Templestowe had a nasty fall earlier and is
still recovering.’

‘I’m all
right,’ Olivia managed, faintly, as Max with great solicitude,
patted her arm and eased her back into her chair.

‘I’ll send the
boys away,’ he said. ‘Boys! We can play as soon as I’ve ensured our
visitor is—’

‘No, please!
I’d love the boys to stay.’ Olivia was aware of the urgency in her
voice, which she hoped would be interpreted as politeness, as she
struggled upright in her chair. ‘Tell me your names, boys, if you
please.’

The exuberance
had been knocked out of them. Almost sullenly they ranged before
her, fidgeting, anxious no doubt to be out of doors and away from
this strange lady. Olivia’s heart nearly broke.