Lady Farquhar's Butterfly (16 page)

‘Don’t mind
Dorling over there. Known him since we was lads together afore he
joined ’is Majesty’s Service,’ said the publican, with a dismissive
wave in the soldier’s direction while he poured Max an ale.

Dorling, eyes
not meeting theirs, jerked his head in acknowledgement, his
expression sour.

‘Never bin the
same since his daughter died,’ the publican explained in a stage
whisper, as he pushed Max’s drink across the counter top and
lowered his bulk on to a stool behind. ‘So,’ he added in regular
tones, ‘you’ve just come from the big house, I gather. Me wife, Mrs
Mifflin, used to be lady’s maid to Lady Farquhar.’ There was pride
in his tone.

‘To the good
lady,’ muttered the soldier, raising his tankard.

Max’s response
was cut short as the publican slammed his fist down on the
counter.

‘You keep yer
thoughts to yerself tonight, Dorling, or you’ll be kissin’ Jack
Mifflin’s great fist,’ the publican warned, wagging a menacing
finger in the old soldier’s direction. ‘Mr Atherton ’ere is a guest
of the Misses Dingley.’ The pewter ware rattled and a great log in
the fireplace shifted noisily in the threatening silence.

Max raised his
eyebrows but kept silent. The publican’s response seemed excessive,
especially as he heaved his great bulk to his feet and continued to
glower in Pat Dorling’s direction.

Dorling looked
almost smug.

‘Guest of my
lady, eh? He who is smitten shall be smited.’ The old soldier
cackled at his obscure joke, baring an incomplete set of yellowed
teeth. He squinted at Max. ‘Acquainted with Lady Farquhar already?
I’s sure you was amply rewarded, a handsome gennelmun such as
yourself.’

Steadily, Max
regarded the odorous creature, the tattered scarlet uniform visible
beneath his greasy greatcoat. The dirty, unsteady hand that reached
for his drink told its own story. The man was drunk and had some
grievance against the elderly sisters and their niece. Perhaps he’d
been a former employee, dismissed for his fondness for the bottle.
Perhaps he’d harboured a
tendre
for Olivia and been given
his marching orders.

‘Observe the
respect due to Lady Farquhar,’ he warned.

The publican
settled himself back upon his stool. ‘Or you’ll be out on your
ear,’ he threatened.

‘Even without
your good lady to issue the orders?’ Dorling fixed Max with a
baleful look, adding, ‘Ain’t allowed to cross the threshold when
Madam Viper’s around.’

‘Well, you’ll
’ardly get much sympathy from that quarter, mouthing off at them
refined ladies at the dower house when you know my missus’d give
’em ’er last farthing if they’d only say the word, poor as church
mice they all be. Now be off with yer afore you say summat you
really regret.’

‘Ah, Jack,
that ain’t no way to treat a friend of forty years an’ more.
Leastaways let me finish me drink wot I paid good money for, then
I’ll go, quiet as a lamb.’

The man laced
his fingers round his mug, settled himself more comfortably in his
corner chair and looked morose. ‘I hear The Lodge is all shut up
now.’ He sighed. ‘The widow Farquhar hadn’t the funds to keep it up
so it’s kept in dust sheets until it’s leased again, or the boy
comes into his inheritance. Ah, there was merry times there afore
the merry widow were a widow.’

He sucked his
gums loudly in the silence, his quick darting eyes showing he knew
how to play to an audience.

Max shifted in
his seat, his discomfort growing. Could this pockmarked old soldier
suspect the secrets Olivia hugged so closely to herself? The
secrets she had promised to reveal to Max and which Max had sworn
to forgive – he licked lips, suddenly dry – on the basis that
Olivia was a helpless, unwilling victim of circumstance?

‘Lady Farquhar
has mourned her late husband a full twelve months, sir,’ he said.
His voice held a note of warning.

‘Oh, aye,
she’s entitled to find herself a man to her liking, I’ll grant you
that,’ Dorling conceded readily enough. ‘Spoiled for choice, no
doubt, with all them gennulmen who’ve tasted ’er wares lining up at
her door. Me being one of ’em, but o’ course she don’t remember me’
– he gave another plaintive sigh and fixed his rheumy eyes on Max –
‘when I were just one o’ so many.’

‘Out!’ roared
the publican at the same time as Max rose to his feet, his hand
going to his hip where once his scabbard hung; but it was more than
a year since he’d swapped soldiering for farming and he no longer
carried a weapon.

‘What would a
man like yersel’ know of such a lady? You’ve insulted Lady Farquhar
and I’ll not have it. Get out!’ roared the publican, towering over
the little man whose disgusting appearance belied his
insinuation.

The soldier
rolled his red-rimmed eyes and made a smacking noise with his lips
as he kissed the tips of his fingers in an extravagant gesture. He
did not move. ‘I’s told you afore only seems you were a lot more
eager for the details than seems to be the case tonight.’

Though a part
of him hated himself for doing so Max needed to hear the worst from
a stranger: from the lips of a coarse and common soldier who, under
normal circumstances, should think himself lucky to kiss the hem of
a lady so superior to himself.

Dorling
drained his mug and pushed it across the counter with a nod for it
to be refilled. He sniffed. ‘No doubt you gazed at the great lady
with awe, sir, though I’d challenge you to ’ave said no to a taste
of Lady Farquhar’s butterfly if it were presented to you on a
platter.’ In the horrified silence he added with relish, ‘Aye,
literally.’

Max felt the
bile rise up in his throat as the publican yelled, ‘Slander!’ and
wrapped his large, meaty hands around the little man’s neck.

‘God’s honour,
’tis the truth,’ gasped Dorling.

‘Let him
repeat the story he no doubt tells any who’ll listen,’ Max said
coldly as he finished his ale. ‘Then it’s my turn to wrap my hands
around his neck.’

Reluctantly,
the publican released his erstwhile friend. The little man chuckled
as he resumed his seat, jauntily nodding his thanks as he picked up
his tankard.

‘I were
invited to the great house on account of my skill wi’ the cards and
it pleased Lord Farquhar to put on a little entertainment for the
assembled company.’ He leered at the two men, his beady little eyes
greedy for their shock, undeterred by their hostility and contempt.
‘Just so happened it was his wife that were the main event. Served
up on the most enormous silver platter all covered with fruit. Aye,
sirs, fruit and cream with the lady revealed in all ’er splendour
when the cover were removed. Then the music started and she did ’er
little dance upon the table with the company roarin’ an’ cheerin’
their approval.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘You think the likes of
me ain’t fit to lick ’er boots, but let me tell you, I licked a
damned sight tastier morsel that night.’ He bared his yellow teeth
in a parody of a grin as he said with satisfaction: ‘Lady
Farquhar’s Butterfly. Taught ’is Lordship some rare tricks wi’ the
cards that night and were ’appy not to ’ave to pay for the
privilege of rolling that cherry round on me tongue like the others
to whom ’is Lordship were indebted—’

The smack as
Max’s fist connected with his jaw was stifled by his bellow of fury
as he threw himself upon the man. Gathering him up by the scruff of
his neck he slammed him against the doorframe. Dorling squealed
like a rabbit being skinned, but his expression was defiant as he
glared at the two men who brandished their fists above his
nose.

‘You think a
lady’s above reproach just because she puts a fancy title in front
of her name?’ He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth,
grimacing at the blood. ‘Well, me blessed Meg, God rest ’er soul,
were a hundred times more of a lady when Lord Farquhar took a fancy
to ’er an’ do you think she had any say in the matter? Now she’s
dead on ’is account while me lady who laughed and danced upon the
table like a tuppenny whore sails on to greener pastures.’

With an air of
injured dignity he shrugged himself free and headed for the door,
rubbing his jaw. ‘Anyone’d think you had designs on the lady,
yersel’,’ he muttered, with a narrow-eyed look in Max’s
direction.

‘Reckon you
’as to be mighty plump in the pocket if she’ll flutter ’er lashes,
or anything else, at you.’

‘Lady Farquhar
is to become a clergyman’s wife,’ the publican said, brandishing a
heavy pewter mug as he waved the man out.

Dorling
turned, disbelief warring with ribaldry. With a guffaw he gripped
the doorframe to steady himself.

‘Well, don’t
that beat all!’ He shook his head. ‘Not that clinging little
Reverend Kirkham who sprinkled holy water on ’er ladyship’s
footsteps before ’e spirited her away after each debauch?’

Sick to the
stomach, Max watched as the publican dealt the old soldier a
parting kick.

‘Reckon it was
the clergyman what fathered that child o’ hers!’ Dorling taunted
from the doorway. ‘Ain’t no wonder ’e wants to marry her!’

Max steadied
himself against the back of a chair.

‘Ain’t no more
than wot the designing trollop deserves! Cursed my Meg, she did,
and stole the reverend’s sister from ’is lordship!’ Dorling’s eyes
were pinpricks of malice. ‘Well, ’e’s welcome to ’er, ’e is. Lord
Farquhar took away her son on account of her loose morals and t’was
no more’n she deserved, but my Meg didn’t deserve what she got.

’Twas the
reverend wot let my Meg die
and
the child she bore, leaving
me wi’ now’t!’

CHAPTER NINE

FOR FIVE DAYS
Olivia existed in a haze of hope but as the week drew to a close a
heavy resignation descended upon her.

She saw the
dubious glances her aunts exchanged when Miss Latimer held up the
bolt of dun-coloured fabric she’d selected for her wedding gown,
and was unmoved.

‘That will do
nicely.’

If she thought
only of the fact that marriage to Nathaniel was still – as it
always had been – her only alternative, she could survive.

She clasped
her hands at her breast. The spark of hope which had flickered so
brightly since she had met Max had died inside her. Her confession
had killed his love.

His silence
was killing
her
.

Nathaniel had
played his trump card and Max had conceded. There could be no more
testimony of his change of heart than his silence to the letter of
confession she had written him.

Olivia gazed
at her little boy who was playing with some wooden pegs under the
table and her heart swelled with love.

Then
constricted with fear.

What would
happen now?

Perhaps Max
would publicly declare Julian a usurper. The repercussions went
further than public humiliation and an uncertain future. The small
allowance Olivia was allowed as custodian of the child would be cut
off.

‘Do you not
think the gown will be a little … plain?’ Aunt Catherine
ventured.

‘It’s not in
your usual style.’ Eunice touched the drab coloured sarsanet and
sighed. ‘Though I suppose it’s been eight years since I saw you
clothed according to your own taste.’

‘My own
taste?’ Olivia’s lips twitched. It was a relief for her mind to
travel beyond the grief that held her hostage. ‘Do you remember the
sparks that flew as we fought over the gown in which I was to be
presented?’ She ran her eyes over the fabric and the sketch which
Miss Latimer was holding up. It held no interest or meaning for
her. Marriage was a bargain, after all. Few women married for love.
What did the reasons for her impending nuptials matter? She and
Julian needed a roof over their heads and now that Nathaniel was
getting his way he may well be kind to them both. ‘I thought you’d
be pleased at my new-found sobriety.’

‘You’re going
to be a clergyman’s wife, not take holy orders.’

‘Is there no
pleasing you, Aunt Eunice?’ Olivia sighed. Once she’d have flared
up and flounced from the room. Now she strove for measured calm and
her words contained a note of sorrow rather than recrimination.
Indeed, she felt little real emotion. It was as if her heart were
contained in a glass box. Now that her future had been determined
she told herself she had little further interest in it.

‘Let us walk
Miss Latimer to the garden gate and then take a turn around the
garden,’ Aunt Eunice suggested with clearly an ulterior motive.

‘So you can
try yet again to talk “sense” into me?’ Olivia whispered with
deceptive sweetness, as Aunt Catherine helped the seamstress roll
up the fabric.

She took her
aunt’s arm and, smiling at Miss Latimer, ushered her to the
door.

‘So, young
lady, Nathaniel is determined to mould you to his own fashion, just
as Lucien did. And once again, you’re following like a little
lamb.’

Olivia’s step
faltered but she made a quick recover and continued resolutely
along the pathway which had been swept clear of snow.

‘I can tell
you are trying to provoke me into a passion, Aunt Eunice,’ she
said, calmly, ‘therefore I shall not dignify that with an
answer.’

‘Good Lord,
Olivia, if ever there was a girl to try one. I don’t know what your
mother would have made of you.’ She heaved in a breath. ‘I expect
you’d have been at each other’s throats, you’re so alike.’

Olivia felt
emotion surge through her veins. She did not want to talk of her
mother, just as she did not wish to speak of Max.

‘Olivia.’

Olivia was
surprised at the urgency in her aunt’s tone. Even more so when her
aunt gripped her shoulders and held her clumsily against her for a
brief moment before letting her go.

Resuming her
footsteps, head bent, she went on, ‘Why do you persist in this
madness of atoning for …’ Her words trailed off, though she did not
slow her pace. Finally she added, ‘For I wish I knew what,
exactly.’