“Why don’t I believe you?” Phoebe demanded.
Olivia sighed. “Because it’s not all true.” She met her friend’s somewhat outraged gaze with an almost apologetic smile.
“I was trying it out on you,” Olivia continued. “It has to satisfy my father and Giles. You need to help me perfect the details.”
“Were you hurt?” First things first, Phoebe thought.
“Yes, that’s all true about falling off the cliff and losing consciousness and being ill. Except that I always knew who I was, just not what was happening. It was the drink… it made me c-confused…”
“Drink? A drug? Someone drugged you?” Horrified, Phoebe pressed her hands to her mouth.
“It was purely medicinal,” Olivia said slowly. “It made me very confused, though, and most of the time I didn’t know whether I was asleep or awake. But once he decided I didn’t need it anymore, he stopped giving it to me.”
“He? Who?” Phoebe flung her hands in the air in utter frustration. “Olivia, would you please start from the beginning before I go crazy.” She pushed herself away from the door and came over to the bed. She stood looking down at Olivia and felt a stab of fear, as strong as any she had felt during the dreadful days of Olivia’s disappearance. There was something badly wrong. It was as if the Olivia she knew had returned only in body. The spirit, the person, had been changed in some as yet indefinable way.
“What happened to you?” It was an anguished whisper.
Olivia looked up. “I’m not entirely sure myself. I feel like a changeling.”
“You seem like one,” Phoebe returned. “And you aren’t answering me.”
“Do you believe in enchantment, Phoebe?”
“No, I believe in medicines and physic, birth and death, sunrise and sunset,” Phoebe said bluntly. “There’s no room there for enchantment, superstition… don’t you remember what happened to Meg?”
Meg, the healer, their friend from the years they had spent in Oxford, had been taken up for a witch after the death of a child she had physicked. The memory of that dreadful day was indelible for both Olivia and Phoebe.
“I’m not talking about witchcraft,” Olivia said. “But you do believe in… in passion, in… in… attraction, the mystery of attraction?”
Phoebe did not immediately reply. She sat on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. How could she not believe in those things? She herself had been conquered by love and lust, that devastating, unpredictable, mortifying pair. Against all reason, all logic, totally out of the blue, she had fallen in love and lust one winter morning with the marquis of Granville. And her life had been governed by them ever since.
“You met someone?” she asked, resigned now to hearing this story in a roundabout fashion. “Someone who attracted you… someone who…? Oh, Olivia, for pity’s sake, what are we talking about here? Just get to the point.”
“I’m trying,” Olivia said. For some reason she was finding it difficult to talk directly about Anthony. She had the feeling that anything she said would come out wrong, would either not do him justice or would make her seem like a passion-crazed loon. She wasn’t at all sure why she needed to do him justice, but… but it seemed that she did.
“I don’t know his surname. He wouldn’t give it to me.”
“Why not?” Phoebe asked sharply.
“Because he… well, he doesn’t live within the law,” Olivia replied. Then she shook her head dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again.”
“It most certainly does matter!” Phoebe exclaimed. “You haven’t told me anything that makes sense yet.”
Of the three of them-herself, Portia, and Olivia-Olivia had always seemed the one least likely to succumb to the sensual temptations of the human condition. Those temptations had felled Olivia’s two friends while Olivia herself had found all she sought in scholarship.
Until now, it would seem, Phoebe thought-always assuming she was somehow grasping the right end of the stick.
Olivia kicked off her sandals and flexed her bare feet. She couldn’t blame Phoebe for being irritable. She wasn’t making much sense to herself. The reason why she would never see Anthony again had nothing whatsoever to do with his illegal activities. But maybe that was the issue she could focus on to explain things to Phoebe.
“Rufus was an outlaw when he and Portia first met,” Phoebe pointed out. “That didn’t stop either of them.”
It was true that Rufus Decatur, Earl of Rothbury, hadn’t always been a pillar of respectability.
“Portia wasn’t my father’s daughter,” Olivia said quietly. Portia and her wastrel father had always lived outside the rigid confines of society. It wasn’t until his death that she had come under Lord Granville’s protection.
Phoebe took Olivia’s point but she brushed it aside, demanding, “Tell me the whole, now!”
Olivia told her everything, except what Brian had done to her… of what she had allowed him to do to her. That was a private shame, one never to be revealed.
“And so, after he’d finished his piracy, he sailed the ship back to its anchorage and had me brought home,” she ended with a little shrug.
Phoebe listened in frowning astonishment. Olivia had always been so vociferous, so certain that she would never yield to the wiles of man. And yet she’d fallen into this passion seemingly without a murmur of protest.
“Maybe the drugs affected you,” Phoebe suggested. “It can happen with some of the more powerful simples. Do you know what he gave you?”
Olivia shook her head. She found that she didn’t care for Phoebe’s explanation for her entrancement. It negated so much of what she had actually felt, and perversely she didn’t want that to happen. Even while she was trying to forget it, while she shrank in revulsion from what it had thrown in her face, she seemed still to want to keep some of the golden aura of that adventure.
There was a knock at the door, and Mistress Bisset entered with the posset. She set it on the table and regarded Olivia gravely. “Should we send for the physician, Lady Granville? Lady Olivia looks right peaky.”
“No, she had a bad bump on the head, but I can take care of it myself, thank you,” Phoebe replied.
The housekeeper hesitated, but Lady Granville’s skills as a herbalist were well known. Her ladyship might not be adept at the running of a household, but no one denied her other talents.
“Very well, m’lady.”
“That will be all, then, Mistress Bisset,” Phoebe prompted when the lady still remained, her curiosity evident.
“Yes, madam.” The housekeeper curtsied and left.
Olivia couldn’t help a half smile. “A year ago you could never have routed Mistress Bisset like that. She never took any notice of you.”
“No,” Phoebe agreed, momentarily distracted from Olivia’s situation. “And she calls me Lady Granville now instead of just Lady Phoebe. I think I’ve acquired a deal of gravitas since the boys were born.”
That made Olivia laugh, for a moment banishing her melancholy.
But it was a short moment. Then she said seriously, “My father mustn’t know anything of this, Phoebe.”
“Good God, no!” Phoebe exclaimed. “It wouldn’t do him any good at all!” She eyed Olivia seriously. “Do you want to see this man again?”
“No!” Olivia shook her head vigorously. “It was… it was almost a fantasy, a dream. It’s over, Phoebe, and I don’t want to think about it anymore. The most important thing now is to manage to keep it from my father.”
Phoebe hesitated. Something about the denial didn’t quite ring true. But Olivia was exhausted and mustn’t be pressed further. Phoebe handed her the sack posset. “You need to sleep, Olivia. We’ll talk more in the morning.”