Laura Matthews (27 page)

It was the day after Miss Stewart left that Olivia had a surprise visitor. She was reading in the Winter Parlor, snug against the cold and gathering gloom, when Jarette announced James Evans.

“Lady Olivia, how kind of you to receive me without notice,” he commented as he entered, his curly black hair gleaming in the candle and firelight.

“I’m delighted that you should pay a call, Mr. Evans. What brings you to our neighborhood?”

“I’ve been cataloguing Lord Cranston’s library. His seat is just beyond Attleborough, and I recalled that Sir Noah resided in the vicinity of Thetford. I could not resist calling on you when you were so close. Is Sir Noah at home?”

“Not just at present. I expect him in a few days, with his mother and sister who have been in Bath,” Olivia replied casually.

Mr. Evans smiled warmly. “It is thoughtful of him to escort them, even though it does take him away from you for a few days.” He evidently noticed for the first time that she was with child. “At this particular time you must wish him close at hand.”

“Yes,” Olivia sighed, “it would be pleasant.”

Although their discussion ranged over a wide variety of subjects, Olivia found herself continually in a position where she had to make excuses for her husband’s behavior. No, he had not been here when she was redecorating her rooms. No, it was not he who had taught her to drive a pair. No, he had not been with her when his mother and sister came back from the London season. Well, no, he had not actually been with her while Lady Lawrence and Julianna were in Bath. If she had not known better, Olivia would have suspected him of harassing her on the subject, but clearly he was merely startled and sympathetic.

“Could you stay to dinner, Mr. Evans? It would be nice to have company. My former companion, Miss Stewart, has just left and I am bereft of companionship.”

“I would be delighted, Lady Olivia. I’ve already taken a room at the Bell in Thetford, but I had not bespoken my meal, and I could not expect to find such charming company there.” He grinned engagingly. “In my work I frequently travel, and it’s a rare treat to spend an evening out of London with an acquaintance.”

“Excuse me a moment, if you will, and I’ll inform the cook.” Olivia hastened from the room and, noting that there was probably time for the change, urged the cook to supply a more elaborate meal than she had previously ordered.

When she returned she found Mr. Evans examining the candlesticks Noah had brought her from Paris. “These are most unusual,” he remarked. “Not English, I think.”

“No… my husband brought them to me from Paris last summer.”

“He went to Paris without you?” Mr. Evans asked, obviously appalled. Then he noticed her chagrin and hastened to add, “Perhaps it is for the best, however, as I understand there is a very rough element abroad in the French capital. And no doubt Sir Noah was not there long.”

Olivia, at the limit of her tolerance in defending Noah, blurted, “No more than three months, I should think.”

Mr. Evans pursed his lips and said nothing. His unspoken censure accorded well with Olivia’s grievance, and she warmed to him. Always he had kept his tongue, even when she was most exasperated with her brothers. She could feel that he sympathized with her now, as he had then, and her need to tell someone her aggravations was great. Miss Stewart had not provided the proper encouragement, believing the less said the better. And Olivia would never, never voice her complaints to her mother-in-law or Julianna. She was far too proud for that, if not to drop a few astringent words in Miss Stewart’s ears. But here was a heaven-sent opportunity to discharge her anger without any recriminations. Mr. Evans was the soul of discretion.

“Sir Noah,” she said, giving in to her need for an encouraging listener, “has not spent two months with me since we were married last March.”

“How can that be?” Mr. Evans was shocked.

“Oh, he always has the best of excuses, I dare say, but really, it is too much. You must understand, Mr. Evans, that I did not look for him to be forever with me. No, no. I think I am a very reasonable person. Certainly he should go off, as he always has, to seek his own enjoyments. I would not object to that. But I know for a fact, from things his mother has said, and Julianna, too, that he has not been in the habit of absenting himself for such long periods of time. There are any number of things here which required his attention.”

Mr. Evans nodded his understanding, his face grave and his eyes warm with sympathy.

“What am I to think?” Olivia continued, bolstered by his obvious interest. “It is true that he was kind to offer for me under the circumstances, but when all is said and done, it was his fault that I was in an awkward situation in the first place. You remember the night he came to claim my assistance with... a sick guest at Stolenhurst.”

“Yes, and how unselfishly you accompanied him,” Mr. Evans assured her, admiration lighting his eyes.

“Just so,” she sniffed. “Had I taken my maid with me, there would have been none of that ridiculous talk. But he wished me to come alone ... because of the delicacy of the situation. Well, I was happy enough to comply, as I took my duties as hostess very seriously. I still do ... or would if there were any need of me as a hostess,” she grumbled.

“You are a very gracious hostess.”

“Thank you, Mr. Evans. I should like to be able to show Sir Noah that I can handle that role in his home, but he is never here to observe. He was supposed to take his mother and sister to Bath and return here. He did not. He went racing off to Paris again at the slightest word from his friend.” Her voice fell to almost a whisper. “His friend has a very beautiful sister.”

Mr. Evans’s voice was full of concern. “Surely he wouldn’t... but, Lady Olivia, your husband has a beautiful wife at home.” He stopped in confusion.

She waved a deprecating hand. “This Françoise is a mature, sophisticated lady, just such as Sir Noah admires,” Olivia returned, thinking of Mrs. Dyer. “To my husband I seem a child. Why, even his sister is several years older than I am. There is nothing I can do about my age, and if I were to act older and more sophisticated, I do not doubt he would laugh at me.”

“Does he not appreciate the freshness of your youth and candor? Can he possibly prefer the hardened worldly wisdom of ladies bored with society and life?” Mr. Evans protested.

Olivia regarded him wonderingly. “That is what I had hoped, you see, but alas it does not seem to be Sir Noah’s choice. It was naive of me, no doubt, but I had thought he might like a wife who was not so entirely
set
as these ladies who have been about in society for so long. Not that they are old! I do not mean that, Mr. Evans. It did occur to me, though, that they would not be so adaptable, perhaps, and I assure you I had every intention of adapting to Sir Noah’s likes and dislikes, his interests and his aversions.” She regarded her hands sadly. “I don’t even know his likes and dislikes.”

“He does not discuss such things with you? And find out your own preferences?” Mr. Evans seemed greatly annoyed with this intelligence.

“He tells me very little of himself,” she confessed, “but at first he did listen
to my reminiscences and my hopes. There has been little opportunity of late to discuss anything with him.”

Mr. Evans said nothing, only his eyes offered consolation. One hand was balled in a fist on his knee and his mouth was set in a grim line.

“Oh, listen to me,” she chided herself contritely. “You would think I had some right to expect it otherwise. Noah was very kind to offer me his name when I had nowhere to turn. I’m wallowing in self-pity, which is ridiculous. It was far worse at Stolenhurst, where no one cared for me at all. Here Julianna and Lady Lawrence are very solicitous of me, as is Noah, when he’s home. Forgive me for my outburst, Mr. Evans. I’m ashamed of myself.” She dropped her eyes from his intent ones and was surprised when he took her hand.

“Nonsense, my poor lady. You are the daughter and sister of earls, and as such deserve far more observance than you have had. Your condition, too,” he said hesitantly, almost, it seemed, with embarrassment, “necessitates an even greater attention to your needs.” He stared at his hand as though he could not imagine how he happened to have gained hold of hers. “Forgive me! That I am moved by your plight is no excuse for my taking liberties. Would that I were your equal that I might comfort you as a friend should. Would that it had been I you could have turned to when you had nowhere else to go,” he said fiercely as he turned from her and clenched his fists at his sides. “I have never felt so cursed with my insignificance!”

“But, Mr. Evans,” Olivia protested, shaken, “you are a most admirable young man, and very talented. I... I am grateful for your friendship and do not regard the difference in our positions, I promise you.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Jarette entered to announce dinner before Mr. Evans could reply to his hostess. He placed her arm on his and led her into the dining room with his accustomed ease of manner. Olivia sat in her usual place at the foot of the table and had him seated to her right. Their discussion of but a few minutes past was set aside, and he entertained her with tales of the households he had visited, ever discreetly withholding family and place names.

“Last year when I was with a family near Edinburgh, I visited the Scottish capital and heard the tale of a store-farmer in Caithness who had large tracts of land under lease from the gentleman whose library I was cataloguing. The store-farmer, a Mr. C., would sell his wool for a good sum and pocket the price to go down to town and waste it at law. He was one of the mad litigants for which Edinburgh is so famed.

“On his way to town he would pay twice the cost of each meal, so that when he had nothing on his return, he might have one free. Forever attired in his Highland trews, with a gray or tartan jacket and a bonnet on his head, he would arrive at the Parliament House with a tin case almost the size of himself, which contained the plan of his farms. He was used to declare that he and his laird were close to agreement—there was only some
ten miles
of country debated between them now!”

Olivia laughed appreciatively, but asked, “Why is it that some men are forever suing their neighbors? Surely such a man must know that he could not afford to spend all his earnings on so wild a venture.”

“With some it is a matter of principle, I think. However, it is often the fear of being bested by one’s neighbors, and having people snigger at you behind your back that motivates such an action. Few gentlemen can tolerate the thought of being laughed at. And some are so sensitive that they see persecution where none exists. When I catalogued a library at... in the north, the gentleman called me into his sitting room one day to berate me for having several of his books in my room. The maid had told him of it. You may remember that I told you I
take the opportunity to read those works in which I am particularly interested while I am resident. I pointed out to this fellow that the books were already on the lists he had received and I had no intent of absconding with them, but he would not listen and ordered me from his house.”

“Poor Mr. Evans. Did the matter get straightened out?”

“Oh, yes. A member of his family interceded for me, and a servant was sent to bring me back from the inn where I spent the night. The appearance of guilt is almost worse than the commission of it with some people. When I was a child I used to bring bunches of heather to my mother when I had been into some mischief—broken a window with a cricket ball or muddied my best clothes by the pond. It took me some time to realize that I was proclaiming my guilt rather than propitiating it,” he laughed.

Although Olivia shared his amusement, she was sobered by her reflection of Noah’s gifts to her on his return from France. Was he, too, proclaiming his guilt?

“Not that I have never made a mistake in my work,” Mr. Evans was continuing. “I assure you I have done so on many occasions. Well do I remember the time I thought I had found an original handwritten Farquhar. It was
The Recruiting Officer,
which he wrote in ‘06, you know. There were crosscuts and additions; certainly it could be none other than the author’s own work, I thought! Imagine my surprise when I very solemnly presented my find to the lord of the manor only to have him tell me that his great uncle was known to have copied that gentleman’s work any number of times in the mistaken belief that he himself was Farquhar.”

Olivia was enchanted by his easy acceptance of his own fallibility. There was in Mr. Evans a modesty of manner which did not exist in Noah, whose pride made him unapproachable and uncommunicative at times. She was encouraged to relate some of her own scrapes, and they sat laughing over their meal.

The intimacy of the setting reminded her of the time she had spent with Noah at Frobess Grange on their honeymoon. Mr. Evans was every bit as attentive to her as Noah had been, and a good deal more forthcoming about himself. It was charming to be in his company, to be admired as his eyes frankly told her he did. Olivia drank more than she should have.

Mr. Evans did not wish to leave Olivia alone to stay at table for his claret. “I would rather forego it than desert you, Lady Olivia,” he said with mock gallantry, his eyes twinkling.

“You are too civil, Mr. Evans,” she laughed. “Jarette will see that it is brought to the Drawing Room.”

Jarette clearly disapproved of this order, but Olivia was oblivious to his haughty gaze. When they were seated in the Drawing Room and the tray had been brought in, Olivia dismissed the servant and motioned Mr. Evans to serve himself. “I should not drink alone,” he insisted. “May I pour you a small glass?”

“I believe I will, thank you.”

Mr. Evans raised his glass to toast her in the traditional manner: he looked fixedly at her, bowed his head and then drank with due gravity. Somehow it was not quite a traditional glance, however, for Olivia read depths of meaning in it and flushed slightly under his scrutiny. After she had sipped from her own glass she suggested, rather more loudly than she meant to, that she play for him. Not waiting for his answer, and unable to meet his eyes, she hastened to the harpsichord and sifted through the music she found there.