Free Lady Farquhar's Butterfly by Beverley Eikli Page A

neglected, shuttered air. Soon new tenants would make
themselves at home here, the only means Olivia had of managing the
financial upkeep on the nearby small dower house she shared with
her aunts and in which Lucien had allowed her to live during her
lifetime.
    He frowned.
‘We need to decide for ourselves if she is a fit and proper person
to keep charge of the lad.’
    ‘Charlotte has
cared for Julian since he was born! Her loyalty is beyond
question.’
    Their gazes
locked. Both of them knew this all too well. To Olivia it was a
comfort. She swallowed as doubt stirred within. But to Nathaniel,
Charlotte’s loyalty could represent a threat.
    To her relief
he conceded, ‘It is perhaps best to keep her close.’ They stopped
just inside the dining room. Olivia closed her eyes.
    The smell of
dust and damp were different from the beeswax and woodsmoke she
remembered, but the draughty remoteness was just the same. She and
Lucien had entertained regularly in this room. It had been the
setting for countless lively, raucous dinners, charades and games
of cards for ridiculous wagers. She shuddered as Nathaniel took her
past the long, mahogany table which could seat thirty, and upon
which she had regularly been made to dance.
    All but
naked.
    Nathaniel ran
his hand over its dust-sheet-covered surface and glanced at
her.
    The look in
his eye told her he remembered, too.
    But his tone
was bland as he reminded her, ‘Mr Charleston will arrive at the end
of the month. I thought it appropriate Julian should be given some
time, first, in which to settle in.’
    Olivia did not
say she wondered at the wisdom, even questioned the kindness, of
putting a boy so young into the charge of a tutor whom she had not
yet met. Years of being Lucien’s wife had taught her caution; to
think before she spoke. At least she had a little time to assert
herself if she were unhappy at Nathaniel’s choice of tutor. The
most important thing was that Julian would be with her.
    She must not
think of Max. She squeezed her eyes shut. She would think of
anything but Max, though recollections of his charming, easy manner
and the kindness of his smile were constant reminders.
    ‘Reverend
Kirkman, forgive the intrusion—’ Olivia faltered. The voice—!
Oh, dear God, no!
    They were at
the foot of the sweeping staircase about to ascend to the rooms
above. Turning at the sound of footsteps and their visitor’s voice,
Mr Kirkman’s face creased into a smile of welcome. Ushering Olivia
forward, he extended his hand.
    ‘Mr Atherton,
delighted you chose to accompany the lad.’
    Olivia could
not bring herself to raise her eyes. She gripped Nathaniel’s
forearm, her gaze fixed upon the sweeping stairs as if they
provided refuge. Heat and shame flooded her. She was exposed.
    Yet was it no
more than she deserved?
    ‘Excellent,
excellent. Pray, allow me to introduce my betrothed, Lady Farquhar.
Alas, she was indisposed when we met.’
    Dignified in
the face of what must be his inevitable horror and disgust, Olivia
slowly raised her head.
    ‘Mr Atherton,’
she said quietly, extending her hand, glad it was clad in neat fawn
kid so he could not feel its clammy iciness.
    She saw his
shock, quickly smothered by good manners as he bowed, brushing the
back of her hand with his lips, murmuring, ‘What a pleasure it is
to meet you, Lady Farquhar ’ – she could swear he almost
bared his teeth as he added – ‘having already met your betrothed .’
    The turmoil he
struggled to hide pierced her to the quick. A month on and she
could be in no doubt that he had felt her deception, her
disappearance, keenly. A vein throbbed at his temple. The simmering
anger in his slate-grey eyes reminded her more of her late husband
than the easy-natured Max she loved.
    Concentrating
on the points of her slippers she whispered, ‘I must thank you for
providing my son with such excellent care during this past year.
Where is he? I have waited a long time for this moment.’ It