One
Miss Olivia Holmes often found other women intimidating: the beautiful ones, the fashionable ones, the well-connected ones. And if they were all three at once, then she was certain to feel like a lowly grouse that had somehow wandered into an ostentation of peacocks.
The woman in front of her was handsome, rather than beautiful. She could not possibly be well-connected. And her attire would have bored Charlotte, Livia’s frippery-loving sister, to sleep; even Livia, who leaned toward the austere in her tastes, thought her guest’s visiting gown could use something: a brighter color, a more tactile texture, even a few folds and tucks to enliven the monotonous wintry blue of her skirt.
Yet Livia had never been as intimidated by a woman as she was now.
“Milk? Sugar?” she croaked. “And would you care for some Madeira cake, Mrs. Openshaw?”
Mrs. Openshaw was otherwise known as Mrs. Marbleton, who was otherwise known as the late Mrs. Moriarty. And she wasn’t really dead.
She inclined her head. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. Madeira cake would be delightful.”
“Excellent choice,” enthused Lady Holmes. “My housekeeper makes an exceptional Madeira cake.”
The Holmes family used to have a cook who made good cakes, when she’d been given the proper allowance for ingredients. But that cook had left their service several years ago, and the current cook was at best an indifferent baker. And the family hadn’t employed a housekeeper, who presided over a stillroom of her own, in decades—certainly never in Livia’s memory.
Livia would not have bragged about any cakes from the Holmes kitchen, not when their quality, or lack thereof, could be ascertained with a single bite. But her mother was a woman of scant foresight, for whom the pleasure of boasting in this moment always outweighed the embarrassment of eating her words in the next.
Their caller, who had already dined once in their household and had followed with an afternoon call, wisely set down the plate of Madeira cake Livia handed her.
Lady Holmes launched into a monologue on the importance of her family in the surrounding area (lies and exaggerations), and the advantageous match her eldest daughter had made (Livia wouldn’t touch Mr. Cumberland, Henrietta’s husband, with a ten-foot pole).
Then again, that might be why Livia herself approached spinsterhood at an alarming speed: There were too many men she wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole—and she was invisible to all the rest.
Except one.
When he’d unexpectedly walked into her house five days ago, she’d been so astounded—and enraptured—that she hadn’t immediately noticed that he wasn’t alone.
With him had come his parents.
Her pleasure had—well, not soured exactly, but been marred by enough tension and discomfort that she’d spent the rest of the evening on edge, unable to enjoy herself. Charlotte, in telling Livia about this young man, had been frank about the dangers of his existence—a hunted family, without a fixed abode or a trusted wider community, always on the move and never safe for long.
Livia, to her credit, had not imbued that life with any romance or excitement. She’d been deeply concerned, but even in her deepest concern she had not foreseen that—
“And what are your plans for this winter, Miss Holmes?”
Livia started. When had Mrs. Marbleton silenced Lady Holmes and taken charge of the conversation? She must have done so with sufficient skill, since Lady Holmes still gazed upon her with an intense and almost fearful hope.
That naked aspiration mortified Livia. But for her own purposes, Livia counted on Lady Holmes’s zeal for at least one more married daughter.
“I do very much enjoy a country Christmas,” said Livia in answer to Mrs. Marbleton’s question, not that she’d ever known any other kind of Christmas. “And you, ma’am, have you anything in mind for you and your family?”
This was a question she’d intended to ask anyway.
Mrs. Marbleton studied her for a minute. “I have been thinking,” she said with a certain deliberateness, “of the South of France. Winter is not the most charming season on this sceptred isle. The Côte d’Azur, on the other hand, has a sunny, temperate disposition even in December.”
Livia yearned to visit the South of France. She didn’t need to feign wistfulness as she replied, “Oh, how lovely that sounds. I can already imagine the aquamarine waters of the Mediterranean.”
“We might also spend only a day or two on the coast, and the rest of our time inland,” mused Mrs. Marbleton. “In Aix-en-Provence, perhaps. Or in a little hilltop village in the Alpes-Maritimes. Sitting by a roaring fire, sipping local wine, and savoring peasant stews, while looking down toward the distant sea.”
Livia felt a pang of homesickness for a life she had never known. She reminded herself that she must not forget that the Marbletons had been on the run or in hiding for at least two decades. That as alluring as Mrs. Marbleton made the experience sound, it couldn’t have been all sybaritic contentment. That even as they wined and dined and wallowed in the panoramic views, their pleasures were veined with fear and their lives riddled with instability.
“I daresay I don’t have the courage to try French peasant fare. I’d be afraid of a frog in every pot,” said Lady Holmes, laughing too loudly at her own joke.
Mrs. Marbleton did not respond to that. “And you, Miss Holmes, how would you fare in the French countryside?”
“Oh, I’ll be all right, ma’am. I don’t pay too much mind to my suppers. If there is sunshine I can walk beneath, and a good book to read in peace and quiet, then I’ll be happy.”
This earned her another considering look from Mrs. Marbleton.
Not an approving look, but at least not a contemptuous one. Mrs. Marbleton had her mind quite made up about Lady Holmes, but she didn’t seem to have an equally decided view concerning Livia. Yet.
Livia didn’t know what to make of it.
The door opened then, and her father and the Marbleton men came in—Sir Henry had taken the gentlemen to his study to inspect his latest acquisition of Cuban cigars, an extravagance the family could ill afford.
The senior Mr. Marbleton walked with a slight limp. Whether as a result of natural grace or sheer willpower, his strides gave the impression of near nimbleness, as if the ground he traversed were uneven, rather than his gait. And unlike Sir Henry, who put on a heartiness that seemed to say, Look how well pleased I am with myself. Could anything be amiss in my life?, Mr. Crispin Marbleton did not bother to convey any great conviviality. But in his soft-spoken words and his occasional smiles, especially those directed at his wife and his son, Livia thought she glimpsed a warmth that he reserved for his inner circle.
The younger Mr. Marbleton exuded far greater liveliness. It really was a shame that he’d led such a peripatetic life, never staying in one place for long: Livia could easily see him as a favorite among any gathering of young people, one whose good cheer and easy demeanor made his company sought after by both gentlemen and ladies.