The Fifth Kiss (21 page)

Strickland was not a bit comfortable worrying over domestic matters; he had never before needed to concern himself with them. His attentions had always centered on his political activities. His wife had run the household so expertly that he'd never given its management much thought. He'd taken care of the business of the estate, but the nurturing of the children and the household cares had been lifted from his shoulders. Now they were his with a vengeance. For the first time in his life, for example, he'd had to concern himself with the servants. There was a feeling of discontent among them. His valet, Gaskin, who had never enjoyed what he referred to as “ruralizin',” had already complained that he did not get along with the butler and had begun to ask impatiently “when your lordship intends to return to Lon'on.” The butler, on his part, had muttered about
his
dissatisfaction with the valet, whom he described as “insufferably 'igh in the instep, m'lord,” and suggested that he “consider me second cousin to replace th' chap.” Mrs. Joliffe had complained to him about the upstairs maid, a wench called Tilda, who was “gettin' ideas above hersel', if ye was to ask me, yer lordship, ever since she's been takin' care o' the little ones.” And then there was the matter of the tutor, whom Strickland would have to replace.

All these matters would have been a great nuisance at the best of times, but now, when he was trying to recover his equilibrium after the devastating blow of his wife's death, these problems seemed an intolerable burden. He'd never realized before how much his wife had done to make his home a comfortable, untroubled refuge for him.

Then, on top of all the rest, there was the problem of his sister-in-law. Olivia was an irritating, impudent, presumptuous chit, but there was no question that the children were happier when she was present in the household. She had overstepped her bounds on several occasions, particularly in the matter of keeping his wife's illness secret from him, but he had to admit that she meant well. Her return this afternoon had brought a breath of life back into the house that even
he
had found enlivening. Much as he hated to admit it, the girl had pluck, a redoubtable spirit, and an unmistakable touch of charm. In fact, there had been a moment this afternoon, when they had first emerged into the dazzle of the sunlit snow, when he'd had an unexpectedly powerful urge to …

But he would not permit himself to finish the thought. His wife had been gone for less than six months—he would not insult her memory with such thoughts. Of course, he couldn't help remembering the strange request Clara had made before she died—that he try to look at Olivia with
her
eyes. “You two have so much more in common than you dream,” she'd urged, “and there is so much each of you can give the other to fill the emptiness—” But he hadn't let her go on. He'd wanted only to talk to her about themselves—to ask for her forgiveness for having been so stupid and so blind. But Clara had given her forgiveness long before he'd asked for it.

Looking back on it now, he wished he
had
permitted Clara to talk about her sister. There was something more she'd wanted to say that he'd prevented her from expressing. Of course, it would have been better for Clara to have said those things to Olivia herself. It was Olivia who disliked
him
, not the other way round. He'd never had much liking for the bluestocking sort in general, but he had no
particular
dislike for his sister-in-law. She, on the other hand, had always managed to find fault with
him
and didn't hesitate to express her disapproval in the most outspoken fashion. Why, the day in London when she'd accused him of adultery, she'd not even had the grace to be embarrassed. What other female would have had the temerity, the lack of discretion, the
bad manners
to speak to him on such a subject?

He chuckled, remembering it. She'd held her head so high and her back so rigidly straight; she'd tried so hard to appear worldly—and had only succeeded in looking vulnerable and childlike. If his urge to throttle her hadn't been so strong, he would have thought her adorable.

But again his thoughts were circling dangerous ground. He had to take care. He'd been keeping himself isolated for so long, he was perhaps too vulnerable to the attractions of a vibrant young girl. It hadn't escaped his mind that, once before, he'd so far forgotten himself that he'd taken her into a quite-passionate embrace. He hadn't understood then—and he didn't understand now—those secret wells of his
psyche
from which that momentary passion had sprung. At that time he'd sincerely believed he disliked the girl. That night he'd been rather unnerved by the depth of his response to the embrace. He really must make certain that such an incident did not occur again. As a matter of fact, there was something decidedly unsettling in having the girl take up residence in his house now that Clara was gone.

Good Lord
! He sat up in bed with a start. Where had his brain been sleeping? There was something decidedly
improper
in her residing at Langley Park now! The tongues of the ladies of the
ton
would certainly be set wagging if they got word of this unconventional household arrangement. Whatever had her family been thinking of to permit her to return to Langley unescorted? He might have expected such indifference from her father—Sir Octavius was not aware of
anything
which had occurred after the fall of Rome—but
Charles
should certainly have known better.

Well, he himself could easily rectify the situation, he realized, and he lay down on his pillows again. He need merely send for a female relative to take up residence with them. All he had to do was decide which relative to invite.

After more than an hour of cogitation, Strickland had limited his choice to two females. One was his aunt, Mrs. Eugenia Cardew, a childless widow living in Derbyshire. She was a large, mannish woman, stubborn and opinionated, whom he utterly disliked. The other was Clara's cousin, Hattie Burelle, a spinster of advanced years who was small, thin and took the most negative view of every question. Strickland found it difficult to decide which of the two was the more intolerable. Neither of them, he surmised, would be likely to refuse an invitation to reside in the luxury of Langley Park for a time, but neither was likely to add any joy to the household. In the end, he chose his aunt Eugenia because he knew her well enough to make the request without embarrassment. Without waiting for dawn, he got out of bed, sat down at his desk and penned a note to her.

Thus it was that, a few days later, Olivia was startled by the arrival of an antiquated traveling coach bearing a formidable visitor. Mrs. Cardew bustled into the house, her shocking, dyed-red hair covered by an enormous feathered hat, bearing in her arms a large fur muff and a jewel case. She was followed by three heavily laden footmen, and she immediately took the house by storm. “Olivia, my dearest child, how good to see you in such high bloom. Your cheeks are positively glowing,” she began, her hoarse and mannish voice booming through the hallway.

Olivia, having just come in from an outdoors excursion with the children and Strickland (an activity that was now a happy, daily event), urged the youngsters to kiss their great-aunt and hurry upstairs to shed their outer garments before coming down to tea, all the while glancing wonderingly at Strickland who was welcoming the new arrival in more cheerful spirits than Olivia would have believed possible.

“I hope you've put me in the blue bedroom, Miles,” his Aunt Eugenia was saying, giving her hat and muff to the butler but keeping her jewel case to herself. “I cannot abide any of the bedrooms on the north side—drafty barns, all of them. As you see, I've brought only a few of the barest necessities with me, not having had sufficient time to do anything but toss a few things into the boxes and trunks I had at hand—” Here she paused only long enough to signal the overburdened footmen to take her things upstairs. “So you shall have to send someone for the rest of my paraphernalia as soon as my housekeeper sends us word that she's completed the packing. I hope you won't mind if, in the meantime, my dinner dress lacks the proper formality. I've brought my jewel case, of course, but a number of my best shawls, my turbans, my blue Persian silk gown and any number of other items of importance had to be left behind in the rush. And speaking of dinner, I hope you intend to keep country hours and serve dinner at an early hour. I dislike having to wait for dinner until eight or nine, you know, as one does when in town. One goes to bed with the food still undigested in the stomach, and it makes for all sorts of discomforts and for bad dreams as well. Country hours, Miles, my dear … I shall insist on that! And, Olivia, I hope you don't make a
practice
of having the children down for afternoon tea. We can make an exception today, of course, but not as a daily thing. Tea is quite my favorite time of the day, you know, and children, no matter even if they are as delightful and agreeable as Strickland's,
do
have a tendency to cavort about and make noise. Their presence at the tea-table does seem to make the occasion quite dreadfully chaotic, don't you agree?”

“Well, no, I don't, Mrs. Cardew. You see, I feel—”

“You must call me Aunt Eugenia, as Miles does, my dear. I am not the sort to stand on strict formality in matters of address. Formality has its place, but we are going to
be family
, are we not? And excessive formality among family members makes life so difficult, don't you agree? But
do
come upstairs with me, my love, and help me to settle in. Miles, you may go about your business. Olivia and I shall deal famously and shall manage without you, you know.”

She took the girl's arm and led her forcibly to the stairs, continuing to ramble on ceaselessly. Olivia had time only to look back helplessly at Strickland, but since he met her pleading look with one of sardonic amusement, she found small comfort there.

Eugenia kept Olivia with her for almost an hour, maintaining a steady stream of observations and opinions of how a country house should be run—from the appropriate time to serve breakfast to the times of day one should visit the nursery. The more she spoke, the more Olivia felt the necessity of biting her own tongue, for Eugenia's ideas were almost all in direct conflict with her own. But it was not until Aunt Eugenia let fall a chance remark that “it was quite about time that Strickland sent for me,” that Olivia's patience snapped. “
Sent
for you, ma'am?” she asked, stiffening.

“Why, yes, my dear. And very proper that he should have done so. Running a house like this can scarcely be the province of a mere child like yourself. It will be my place to take some of the burden from your little shoulders.”

Olivia excused herself abruptly and, with teeth tightly clenched to keep herself from bursting into tears, flew downstairs to the library. Breaking in on Strickland without so much as a knock on the door, she confronted him accusingly. “If you've been so dissatisfied with the running of the household that you felt it necessary to send for
reinforcements
,” she cried, “you could at least have had the courtesy to
warn
me!”

“But I'm not at all dissatisfied with the running of the house,” he said calmly, getting to his feet.

“Then
why
on earth did you send for her?” the bewildered Olivia demanded.

Strickland rubbed his chin, a bit nonplussed as to how to answer. He had not anticipated the necessity of explaining to his hot-tempered but naive sister-in-law the impropriety of their continuing to reside at Langley as they did when Clara was alive. “I … er …
often
invite relatives to visit the Park,” he said lamely.

“A
likely
tale! Clara told me many times how much you dislike visitors while you're here. She said you have so much society in London that you consider Langley your
retreat
. And, if my memory serves, she told me also that your Aunt Eugenia is
not
a relation of whom you're especially fond.”

“Perhaps I'm not terribly fond of her. However, Olivia, I
did
send for her. You will oblige me by making her feel at home.”

“Make her feel at
home
? When she tells me that we may not have the children down for
tea
? When she expects to be dressing for a country dinner wearing a turban and the family
diamonds
? When she thinks it
improper
to visit the nursery except for an hour before luncheon?”

“Good heavens, has she already suggested all
that
?” Strickland asked, feeling half amused and half chagrined.

“Don't play the innocent with
me
!” Olivia snapped. “You must have known what to expect when you sent for her to take over the running of the house.”

“Take over the running of the house? You must be
mad
. I never—”

“She told me that quite distinctly.” Olivia drew herself up, took a deep breath, lowered her voice an octave and, in an almost perfect imitation of his aunt's voice, repeated her words to him. “Running a house, my dear, can scarcely be the province of a
child
like yourself. It will be
my
place to take some of the burden from your
little
shoulders.”

“Olivia—!” Strickland said, appalled. “I promise you I
never
asked her to—”

“Then why
did
you send for her?”

He felt his neck redden, and he sat down in his chair feeling deucedly awkward. How was he to explain to this little innocent that what he'd done was necessary? “It's rather embarrassing to explain, my dear,” he began.

“Is it, indeed?” she asked scornfully. “I don't see why. You've told me often enough that you don't like my so-called meddling. Well, you needn't feel embarrassed, my lord. I do not
need
an explanation. It is all quite
clear
!”