Love's Labyrinth (3 page)

Mary plumped down into the vacant seat across the aisle from the two friends.

“We’re on our way!” She blew two short bursts from her whistle. The bus doors unfolded, closed, and slowly the bus pulled away. She craned her head over the back of the seat in front of her, anxious as a mother hen with wayward chicks. “Everyone settled? Good!” She favored Alison and Olivia with a broad smile. “Did you two girls have a nice bit of lunch?”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” answered Alison, before Olivia could speak, “I was so full from breakfast I couldn’t even think about food. But there was a very interesting portrait back there by the ladies’ room—did you see it?”

“Hmm.” Mary frowned. “No, I can’t say that I did.”

“It looked just like Olivia.”

“Olivia!” Mary beamed at them both. “You don’t say!”

“Oh, the resemblance was remarkable,” Alison was saying as Mary turned the full force of her focus on Olivia.

“Fancy that! We must be sure to ask when we get there if they have any idea who it could be. They may know at the house. They’ve done tremendous research into the whole family history. And you girls do understand how important it will be to wear your glasses?” Mary looked as earnest as a kindergarten teacher. “After all, we don’t want any injuries!”

“You do remember, don’t you, Mrs. Higgins, that I won’t be part of the regular tour?” Olivia peered around Alison. “I’ll join you for the revel after I’ve had a chance to look into the Talcott records.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. I remember. You’re the one who’s doing the research into the Dark Lady, aren’t you?” Mary leaned across the aisle and patted Olivia’s arm. She favored both of them with another radiant smile, pulled her clipboard onto her lap, and adjusted her glasses on the end of her nose. “Thank you for reminding me. I’ll just make a little note of that right here so I won’t worry if you aren’t anywhere to be seen until dinner. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some items to check off.”

Olivia winked at Alison, who rolled her eyes toward the ceiling once more, settled back into her seat, and closed her eyes. What a good idea, thought Olivia. A nap was just what Alison needed.

The bus rolled along the winding country lane, where the hedgerows grew so high that the fields on either side were nearly totally obscured. Here and there, the roof of a house was visible behind the high green rows, and several times Olivia glimpsed wide meadows where cattle and sheep grazed contentedly. This was the England she remembered best, the England of winding lanes and drooping Queen Anne’s lace, of yellow cowslips that peeked out from unexpected places, and bridges of ancient stone arching over slow-moving rivers that flowed as steadily as the ages. She and her father had visited what felt like nearly every country churchyard, dovecote, and ruined abbey in all of Britain.

She thought of her father with an unexpected pang. Although their relationship had often been complicated by his unyielding interests and his inability to understand his daughter’s own passions, she knew he’d loved her in his own detached way. This trip had shown her just how much of his knowledge she’d absorbed. Ever since they landed, Alison had been saying over and over again how lucky Olivia had been. And when Olivia had responded that as a teenager, she’d also been lonely and bored in New Jersey, Olivia smiled to herself. The fact that they were both only children was one thing that had brought her and Alison so close.

Even though Alison herself had been an only child, the O’Neills were a loud and boisterous clan who’d welcomed the stray chick with open arms. When Olivia was younger, she’d thought her father had only allowed her to stay with Alison’s family to keep her out of his way. Now she was beginning to realize that perhaps he had not only been bewildered by her very presence in his life, but wholly incapable of understanding that his only child had not shared the passion that consumed his life.

Consumed it literally, she thought, her face turned to the glass. He’d died suddenly right after Thanksgiving, slipping and falling on a patch of ice as he’d hurried into the university library, eager to retrieve a book that had come in for him. His death had come just when he had nearly finished his research. With a little sigh, she laid her head against the high back of the seat and shut her eyes. The stuffy air and rhythmic jouncing of the bus were making her sleepy. Beside her, she knew Alison drowsed as well. This trip had been a good idea, she thought as she drifted closer toward sleep. Alison, in her own wise way, had somehow known just what Olivia needed to do in order to lay the last of her ghosts to rest.

All too soon the bus jerked to a stop. Olivia took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and looked around. Alison’s head drooped against the back of her seat, and she was breathing deeply and slowly. Uh-oh, thought Olivia. Waking Alison from a nap was always next to impossible. She looked around to see Mary Higgins hauling herself to her feet, clipboard in hand, whistle poised between her lips, as the babble of the passengers increased steadily in volume. The bus doors pulled open with a sound like a loud belch. Olivia peered past Alison’s head and saw a sprawling mansion of peach-colored brick, which appeared to incorporate the architectural styles of nearly half a dozen centuries. She saw a Georgian bay window cut into a wall of blackened oak half-timbering beneath a gabled Tudor roof with twisted chimney pots, and what could only be a Victorian Gothic addition, with a glass garden room and long doors of stained glass opening out onto a pseudo-Renaissance terrace. The leaded diamond-paned windows that overlooked the courtyard were framed with ancient ivy. For all its incongruity, however, the house seemed to nestle into a dip in a low hill.

Mary raised her free hand and gave two short bursts from her whistle. “Ladies! Ladies and gentlemen!” Olivia glanced at Alison, who was totally oblivious.

“Now, do not—and I must repeat—do not forget your special spectacles!” She waved hers in the air. “The eclipse is now just eighty-two minutes away. Once we’ve exited from the bus, we’ll proceed into the dressing areas, which are part of the original stables. Gentlemen, your area is on the right. Ladies, you may follow me to the left.” She eased her considerable bulk from between the narrow seats, and Olivia tapped her arm.

“Excuse me, Mary?”

“Yes, dear?”

“My friend—she’s awfully tired, and, well, it’s sometimes difficult to wake her when she falls asleep like this. Can we catch up?”

Mary peered at Alison. “Oh, my.” She looked so blank, Olivia nearly laughed. This must be the one contingency she was totally unprepared for. “But of course, my dear. Do try to hurry. Our tour begins—,” she peered over her bifocals at her wristwatch, “in just fifteen minutes. You see that doesn’t really give us very much time at all.”

“We’ll be as quick as we can.”

“All right then, everyone!” Mary gave another short chirp from her whistle and marched down the aisle toward the doors. “Follow me!”

Olivia waited until the bus was empty. Gently she nudged Alison. “Allie?” Predictably there was no response. “Allie?” She shook her friend a little harder and, this time, was rewarded by a slight smile.

“Mmmm,” sighed Alison.

“Hey, come on, Sleeping Beauty. You have to wake up. We’re here.”

“Okay,” Alison breathed, nestling even closer into the seat cushion.

“Allie. Wake up now!” Olivia tugged at Alison’s arm, and she bolted upright, knocking her head against the back rim of the seat.

“Ow!” Alison rubbed the back of her head. “What’s up, Liv?”

“You are, finally. We both fell asleep on our way over here. But we’re here now—and you have to hurry. You’ve got to change into your costume and catch up to everyone else. The tour starts in less than fifteen minutes.”

“Oh…”Alison yawned and ran one hand through her short curls. She stretched her long arms over her head. “Okay, I’m up.”

Olivia got to her feet and struggled into the narrow aisle. “Come on. This will be fun.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Alison unfolded her tall frame from the cramped seat.

Olivia grabbed both of their purses and started down the aisle. She smiled at the bus driver, who was lounging by the side of the bus, smoking. “Which way?”

“That way, miss.” He took a long drag from the cigarette and pointed in the direction of two low stone buildings. Olivia paused, looking around, as she waited for Alison to catch up.

The curious blend of styles, ancient and new, was not unpleasing, she thought. Talcott Forest rose, stately and formidable, over the high stone walls that bounded the converted stables. The roofs of other outbuildings were just visible above the ivy-covered walls. There was a sense of peace here, as well as a sense of sterility, and inexplicably, Olivia felt sad. It was all so clean, so stripped of any evidence that lives had actually been lived here for centuries. Something had been lost here, she realized, something cannibalized and exploited, something that her father had appreciated in a way that had always escaped her, and that he had spent his life searching for.

She looked down at the worn cobblestones at her feet. The silent stones bore no testimony, but she wondered what kinds of men had tramped over them, what horses had worn them down. Had Cromwell himself marched across their uneven surface, or had the feet of the immortal Gloriana glided over them? And all the ordinary people—the foot soldiers, the milkmaids, the grooms and stable boys—her thoughts then trailed off in another direction. The people who lived here today—the landlords and shopkeepers and tour guides—so many must be the descendants of those very same people.

She remembered how her father had often stood staring up at the great medieval keeps, or how he sometimes muttered to himself as he traced his way through the ruins of some old fortress. Was this what her father had seen when he’d looked at those churches and castles and towers, as if the past had leaped into life? She’d tagged along, occasionally stumbling over half-buried stones, usually bored in the way that teenagers and older children are often bored by their parents’ interests. If he had thought to make her a historian, he was sorely disappointed. But something must have stuck, she thought. The plays of Shakespeare and Marlowe and Jonson had drawn her to the theater.

“Hey, which way?” Alison’s voice interrupted her reverie.

“You go that way.” Olivia pointed. “And I go this way. I’ll catch up with you in—” she checked her watch. “About an hour. Beware of tourists bearing cameras.”

“Thanks for reminding me. Have fun.” With a wave, Alison strolled off yawning.

Olivia made her way to the main office, where an ancient air conditioner loudly blasted cold air in all directions.

“Can I help you, miss?” asked a woman wearing a pink Fair Isle sweater around her shoulders. She sat behind a battered desk.

“I’m Olivia Lindsley. I telephoned yesterday—”

“Oh, yes, of course. The American professor.” She peered over her bifocals at Olivia, looking her up and down, and, self-consciously, Olivia smoothed her jeans with one hand while she clutched her notes closer with the other. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you seem a bit young, dear.”

“Professor Lindsley was my father,” Olivia answered. “I’m—I was his research assistant.”

“I see.” The woman raised one eyebrow as if to suggest she was anything but, and rose to her feet. “Well, come this way, Miss Lindsley. Lord Talcott left word that you were to be provided with whatever materials you requested. I’m Doris Parmell. I’m in charge of the archives.”

She led Olivia down a short corridor and into a small, well-lit room that, unlike the main office, was obviously climate-controlled. It reminded Olivia of the rooms where precious manuscripts were kept in libraries. Which, she realized with a start, was exactly what it was, on a smaller scale. “Now, I believe you were specifically interested in the family around the turn of the sixteenth century? I’ve taken the liberty of searching out everything we have on the family during that period. It’s all there.” She pointed to several leather-bound books of obvious age, wrapped in special cloths.

“Thank you,” Olivia said. She placed her notes on the table. “There seems to be a fair amount here.”

“If you tell me what you’re looking for specifically, I might be able to help you pinpoint it. I understand you’re here for the revel as well?”

“Well, my friend is. She came along for the ride, so to speak, and we thought that might be a fun way to while away the time.”

“Of course.”

“Specifically, I’m looking for an Olivia, Lady Talcott. She would have probably been about—well, my age—in the mid-1590s or so.”

“Nicholas Talcott was the master of Talcott Forest during that period, and—” Doris hesitated and then smiled. “Come to think of it, I believe his wife was named Olivia. Didn’t you say that was your name?”

“Just a coincidence.”

“Ah, well. Right over here.” With an efficient bustle, Doris opened the book lying on top of the stack. “I think you will find the information you’re looking for here. But Olivia Talcott was very obscure, surely. Why the interest?”

“As I explained to Lord Talcott, my father believed that Lady Talcott may have been Shakespeare’s Dark Lady. You’ve heard about the cache of letters discovered a few years ago? Well, as part of that find, there were a number of letters written to Shakespeare from a woman who signed herself Olivia, Lady Talcott. There’ve been several candidates, but it’s taken quite a while to track them all down. And actually my father, right before his death, felt that this Lady Talcott—if certain things add up—might well be the Dark Lady. But there’s a certain mystery surrounding her. My father wasn’t ever able to discover exactly who she was.”

“Hmm,” mused Doris. “How interesting. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Miss Lindsley. I’ll be right down the hall. Do call if you need any assistance.” With another chilly smile, she left Olivia alone.

Olivia settled into the straight-backed chair with a little sigh and a fervent prayer that this might be the answer to her father’s lifework at last.