Olivia Twist(57)
I awoke this very morning to find my diamond and topaz wedding ring missing. I suspect Edward, Edwin’s son from his first marriage. The boy has turned to opium to escape his father’s abuses. He steals from us to feed his habit and then disappears for days. His beloved son’s addiction has become the final break for Edwin. He rants about leaving his significant fortune to a child who does not besmirch his good name.
Before Edwin stole my ring, I had planned to pawn it and start a new future with this precious babe that grows within me. But even that avenue of escape has been taken from me.
I feel her, Mother. Just as you always said you could sense me before my birth. Her spirit is strong! I dream of her vivacity and fortitude—I know in my heart, she is much stronger than I.
Olivia’s chest shuddered, and her mother’s script blurred before her eyes. Strong was the last thing she felt at that moment. Brom’s heavy head rested on her lap, his large tongue lapping at her knee. She clutched his furry neck and blinked rapidly at the ceiling, letting the tears burn down her face. This was why her uncle had hidden the letter from her; the reality hurt far worse than anything she had imagined. But she couldn’t stop now. She had to read the rest.
Father, I beg your forgiveness. I dishonored our family and for that I am eternally sorry. If you allow me to return home, I will be the ideal daughter—all that is sweet and demure. I will live in the attic. Become a dutiful servant. Whatever you wish, is my command.
Just please, I beseech you, help us! If only for your unborn grandchild who does not deserve to live in the fear that I’ve come to know with every breath.
Your loving daughter now and always, Agnes
The night her grandparents had received the letter, they’d flown to Leeford House, but it had been too late. Her mother had fled without a trace. Uncle Brownlow had once said they had searched for her, but to no avail. Olivia suspected they hadn’t dared look so deep into the slums of London. At least not deep enough to find her.
Footsteps, clanking dishware, and hushed voices sounded in the house as she shoved the secret drawer back and locked it, replacing the panel with the golden emblem. Then, she returned the heavy key to where she’d found it, stood, and pushed in her uncle’s chair. With a quick glance around the study, she confirmed that she’d returned everything to its approximate place.
No longer caring if anyone saw her wearing breeches, she exited the room with Brom on her heels, the letter held tight to her chest. Putting one foot in front of the other, she walked through the hallway and past a staring Thompson as she mounted the stairs.
Once in her room, Brom’s warm comfort tucked beside her on the bed, she read the letter again, whispering the words aloud. Then, she read it again and again until she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Following a solid eight hours of sleep and a good meal, Olivia’s head was clear and she had a plan. With some assistance from the upstairs maid, she donned her chemise, drawers, corset, and several petticoats, along with her best day dress.
She ran her hands down the scarlet silk and arranged the panels to reveal the matte black-and-white-checked underskirt. Never mind that it was a hand-me-down from Frannie’s last season wardrobe; with its striking colors and tailored fit, Olivia felt confident—something she would need to accomplish her upcoming errand.
She checked the mirror and adjusted the small ebony hat with scarlet feathers to a saucy angle. Looking smart and proper, she scooped up her reticule, her mother’s letter tucked securely inside, and headed for the door.
Brom rose from where he’d been sleeping in front of the hearth and padded over to her side. “Sorry, boy, not this time.” He gave a long, pathetic whine. She rubbed his soft ears and had to force her gaze from his huge liquid-brown eyes. “I promise we’ll go to the park in the morning. Now go find Uncle Brownlow.”
She gave him a dismissive pat, and he turned left down the hall toward her uncle’s bedchamber. Shutting her door behind her, she shook her head with a smile. Sometimes she suspected Brom understood far more than she gave him credit for.
When she reached the front entryway, Thompson appeared, took her cashmere wrap and draped it around her shoulders. “Will Mrs. Cramstead be arriving to escort you, Miss Olivia?”
Violet’s mother, her aunt Becky, served as her chaperone more often than not, but this was something she needed to do on her own. “I’m meeting Aunt Becky and Violet in Piccadilly at the new confectioner’s shop. Apparently, they have hot cocoa served in tiny silver cups that’s to die for!” The story slipped easily from her lips.
“Shall I call a maid to escort you, then?” His words had taken on that disdainful tone that implied her actions were not at all proper.
Having years of experience diverting her well-intentioned butler, she opened the door and replied breezily, “No thank you, Thompson. ’Tis not far, and I fancy a bit of a walk this fine afternoon.”
When she stepped out onto the portico, the late-afternoon sun warmed her cheeks and an unseasonably mild breeze ruffled her skirts. That much, at least, had not been a lie—it was an uncommonly gorgeous November afternoon. So why were tears burning behind her eyes? She’d read her mother’s letter until she’d memorized every heart-shattering word. For some reason, it made her feel more alone than ever.
Blinking up at the sun, she swallowed her emotion. Over the years, she’d accumulated vast experience putting on a brave face, and as a wise boy once told her, Don’t let the others see ya bawlin’. Tha’s a good way to get trounced. No way was she letting her half brother trounce her or anyone she loved. Ever again.