Chapter 4
Up Is Down; Down Is Up
Olivia had a wonderful night. She awoke well after the sun rose and was offered tea in bed. In bed! The other servants gave her a funny look – they certainly suspected something, but propriety of course forbid them from questioning the daughter of a Duke. Once she had dressed and breakfasted (on a luscious, rich meal of eggs and actual bacon, served on white toast) she descended into the living area of the house only to be alerted by the butler that she had received a morning call. Judging by Lord Balton’s initial scrutiny of her appearance, followed by an immediate acceptance of the situation, Olivia figured the Duke had warned him she would be impersonating Isabella, for he was one of the few who knew her well and would have recognized the difference immediately.
Feeling distinctly privileged to sort through the Lady Isabella’s personal correspondence, Olivia had a look:
As she surmised, the call was from the Earl of Balton, inviting her for a stroll of the countryside, accompanied by her Lady’s maid as chaperone, of course.
Olivia scowled. She was sure Lord Balton thought he was doing her a favour by not coupling her with the pruned face old Lady Miriam Horschester, but Olivia was not sure she could trust Miss Camille with her secret, let alone tolerate her behaviour. Yet, she would be going for a walk with The Earl of Balton. My goodness. She supposed putting up with Camille was the least she could do.
Eager to test the water, she rang the bell for Camille to come and help her dress appropriately. Camille entered, eyed her strangely for a moment, then said, “My Lady. You should fraternize with the Earl more often. You look like a whole new woman.”
Olivia grinned. Camille may have been higher in rank than her lowly housemaid self, but she certainly wasn’t higher in intelligence.
Olivia had good fun ordering Camille around. Trying on outfits, forcing her to assemble new ones. It was a new experience for Olivia, to give, rather than receive orders, and she took full advantage of it. If for a moment she felt a twinge of guilt at her behaviour, all she needed to do was remind herself that this was Camille. It was about time she was paid back for her simpering sycophantism.
Once gorgeously assembled – in a cream-coloured walking gown beneath a form-fitting, wine-red spencer – Olivia thought even she would have trouble recognizing herself as a housemaid, rather than the extravagantly rich Lady Isabella.
Ton society is really all in the look, she thought.
They departed and went to greet Lord Balton not far from the estate.
He, too, was dressed magnificently. He had ridden his horse there, and was therefore in full riding garb, from his firm, calf-hugging boots to his sheer, form-fitted pantaloons that matched his hand-embroidered riding jacket. He saw Olivia and bowed not only to her, but to Camille as well.
Both giggled, but Olivia at least had the self-control to stop after a moment’s indulgence.
“Shall we?” he said, offering his arm. Her heart skipped a beat, and she hooked her hand around his muscular bicep and accompanied him on his stroll. With a glare, she was sure to keep Camille respectfully distant.
“You seem different today,” he said after a time. His smile was so broad and welcoming that it caught the sun with his teeth.
“Do you mean, since last night, or in general?”
“Since last night,” he said. “Did the gunman’s attack leave you unduly worried?”
“No, my Lord,” she said, quite honestly. “Today I feel as if I am the most fortunate woman in the world.”
“Which would make me the most fortunate man,” he said. She caught his eyes, which were crinkled with admiration, and they both hurriedly looked away.
“On a serious note, however,” he continued at last, “I worry for you very much. Does His Grace have reason to believe such a heinous event might occur again?”
Worried that answering in the affirmative might scare him off, Olivia said, “No, my Lord. He believes that to have been a singular event. I don’t think you have any reason to worry.”
“I was not worried for my sake,” he murmured, and Olivia felt herself blush.
“I do so enjoy the opportunity to stroll and be outside,” she said, pausing with him to gaze down the hill they had just crested, which terminated in a lovely, clear mountain stream. She breathed deeply of the sweet fresh air, so different from the confines of the kitchen or the attic.
“What do you mean?” the Earl queried. “What are you doing that prevents you from pursuing your pleasures?”
Olivia faltered. She realized that, as Isabella, she would of course have plenty of time to do whatever she pleased. She didn’t have to work from dawn until dusk every day.
“Oh, I meant my reading. I try to study very hard, to improve myself for when my father returns. I want him to see I have spent my time wisely.”
That, at least in part, was true. Olivia had promised her mother, before the stillborn birth of her younger sister had killed her, that she would retain her literary capabilities, and in that way raise herself from the grim fate to which her mother had been subjected.
Lord Balton looked at her with what seemed an increasing respect.
“I know you like the works of Milton,” he said. “What other works interest you?”
“Oh, so many,” gushed Olivia. “Shakespeare, Keats, Yeats. Once, when I was younger, I got a hold of a copy of Playwrights of the Seventeenth Century. I read it so often it turned to dust, and my heart was broken when I had to get rid of it.”
“Your heart broke?” echoed Lord Balton. “Why did you not simply purchase another? Or borrow one from your many friends?”
Olivia paused, open mouthed. She realized how easily she could take for granted the excesses of Lady Isabella’s wealthy life, especially when talking to Lord Balton, with whom she felt dangerously at ease.
“Oh … I was sentimental about that particular version … you know, it had all my marks and annotations.”
“I see,” he replied, but he continued to look at her strangely.
“What about you?” she asked, desperate to take the scrutiny off her.
“Actually, I’ve been reading a lot about the rise of the industrial revolution and its effects on the lower classes. As you may know, I have several sheep farms as part of my estate, which have been profoundly altered by the new demand for wool, and …”
He continued, and Olivia listened in equal parts of surprise and wonder. He was talking about things the servants and their families only whispered about. Olivia knew she was lucky. She could have landed in a factory. She could have been a scullery maid. It was only her pretty face and her connections through Thomas that allowed her to land this incredible opportunity for which she was profoundly unsuited. She knew what other sorts of workers endured, ones born not so fortunate in features.
What surprised her, was that he, an Earl, knew it too.
“I had no idea the upper gentry concerned themselves with such things,” she exclaimed.
He frowned. “What do you mean? You are upper gentry.”
Olivia sighed. She should stop talking. Perhaps if she quieted long enough, they would start kissing again.
Lord Balton seemed to sense her intention, for after a moment’s silence, he paused. A downed tree, overhanging the stream, offered itself as fine seating. Lord Balton took her hand and led her to it. She sat, and he settled himself beside her.
“I never thought I could experience something like this,” she murmured to herself. She placed her hand on the log beside him, clearly visible.
“Why not? You can be given the world.” Ever so gently, his hand alighted upon hers.
“But what sort of world?” Her voice had withered into a whisper.
He took her chin in his hand, and guided her face towards his, so that their noses nearly touched.
“Whatever world allows you and me to be together, in this moment and forever,” he said, and kissed her.
She gasped, then threw herself upon him. She
felt his arms encircle her body. She, too, cupped his shoulders, his back, his hair. But the more fervently she embraced him, the more she felt tears spring unbidden to her eyes.
“Forgive me,” she said, pushing away from him. “Forgive me.”
“My dear, what is the matter?” he asked.
“I have not been fair to you. Us, together forever … I’m afraid … it can never be!”
He stared at her with wide eyes full of hurt. She wrested her hand away from him and fled.
Camille, waiting nearby, saw the tear-stricken face of her mistress and gaped. Olivia could not look her in the eye, and instead strode directly past her, and hurried back to the estate, her silent sobs shaking her the entire way. Lord Balton waited, forlorn and confused, until the Lady was out of sight.
●●●
By the time Olivia was kissing the Earl of Balton by the stream, Lady Isabella’s hands were blistered and bleeding.
“My goodness,” Thomas exclaimed. “What have you been doing? You’re not a scullery maid.”
Rather than answering him, Isabella seized the pail of water he had in his hands and hefted it herself. She was determined not to let this lowly commoner watch her suffer. With her jaw set, she staggered from the well where he had drawn the water to carry it into the house. Her arms and legs were so sore she was forced to waddle, the pail held in quite an undignified way between her legs, which made her problems even worse: By the time she made it through the door and up the stairs, half of her efforts had been spilled out onto the floor, so not only did she have to take extra trips, but she had to mop that up as well.
Overwhelmed by not only the hopelessness of the situation but by the sheer ridiculousness of it, Isabella felt tears, unbidden, spill from her eyes.
“Whoa, whoa,” Thomas murmured, inching up beside her on the stairwell and taking the bucket from her. Like a bridge held together by the weight of its uppermost stones, this sudden relief made Isabella feel lightheaded. She collapsed, with a smattering of sniffles and tears, onto a step.
As if it were light as a cup of tea, Thomas placed the bucket on a lower step, then sat down beside her.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about it, and I realized I’ve been treating you unfairly since last night. You did not ask to be attacked by political enemies, nor did you concoct this preposterous plan your uncle has forced upon you. How could I have possibly expected you to understand or empathize with Miss Olivia or myself, given the life you have led?”
His sympathy, rather than helping, seemed to upset Isabella all the more. Her intermittent tears broke into sobs, and she lowered her head into her arms as she wailed:
“Stupid Olivia! Stupid Thomas! Stupid uncle! I did not ask for any of this! It was my misfortune, brought on by the cursed circumstances of my birth, which has cast me into this situation. Oh, unfortunate me, to be born into a life that would condemn me to such a fate ...”
She trailed off, sensing Thomas’ eyes upon her, half pitying, and half deeply amused. Why should he be amused? What possible humour or irony could he see in her misery?
“Oh,” she murmured. Thomas put his arm around her shoulders. For a moment, she was startled, scandalized, and began to draw away. But in his gentle touch, the muscular, steady weight of his arm upon her, even in his smell – earthy, like horses and barley – she suddenly found comfort.
Her sobbing quieted. She rested her head against his neck, breathing in a sort of easement she had never before experienced. She felt him stroking her golden locks, and, with the gentleness of the brush of a sparrow’s wing, he kissed the crown of her forehead.
She gasped. Her hand, unbidden, found his. Their palms were naked. Never before had she touched a man without gloves. Tenderly, he began to massage her sore and blistered flesh. She closed her eyes and felt tears fall. But, she realized, they were not tears of sadness.
“My Lady!” cried Mrs. Mason, whose sole duty in the household, it seemed, was to interrupt pleasurable moments.
“Mrs. Mason!” Isabella screamed back, suddenly sharp and nettling as her old self. “You cannot be heard calling me that!”
“I know, my dear, but I only do so for your own benefit. If someone sees you neglecting your duties, you are bound to undergo scrutiny. We still do not know who informed your enemies of your wardrobe. It could have been any member of the staff.”
“Yes, thank you,” she said with a sigh, wanting to call Camille to massage her temples. Then she remembered that, for the moment, Camille served that blasted Olivia.
She took a deep breath, exhaled, then staggered to her feet. With utmost determination, she reached down and seized her bucket of water and began to heave it once again up the stairs.
“Would you like me to help –” Thomas began.
“I would not!” Isabella snapped. Then she said more softly, “I am the daughter of a Duke, one of the gentry of this fair kingdom. If I can rule an estate, I certainly should be able to carry this bucket. I … thank you for your apology, and for your words of comfort.”
With that, she leaned forward, and placed a kiss of thanks on his lips. It was little more than a peck, but by his blush and the sudden widening of his eyes, she could see it struck him deeply.