She threw out her legs, swung sideways, and straddled the branch. The rest was easy.
“So there you are, duckie.” Portia came to the window as Olivia emerged from the magnolia. “Did you have a delicious time?”
“Delicious.” Olivia jumped down. Her face was in shadow as she bent to acknowledge Juno’s exuberant greeting. “Is all well?”
“Cato and Rufus aren’t back yet. Phoebe and I have disposed of the food Mistress Bisset sent up and sat vigil around the bedcurtains. No one’s asked any awkward questions.” Portia struck flint on tinder and lit candles.
She lit the two-branched candlestick that Anthony had used for the chess game. Olivia moved into the shadows as Portia raised the candlestick.
“What’s wrong, Olivia?” Portia’s voice sharpened.
“I drank too much wine last night.” Olivia laughed slightly, keeping her face averted from the light.
“That’s all?” Portia set the candlestick on the mantelshelf. Her green-eyed gaze was uncomfortably penetrating.
Olivia turned to the bed, drawing aside the curtains. The soft white solitude offered by her deep feather bed was the only thing she desired. Bigger, deeper, more comforting than any passion.
“There’s no future to it, Portia.”
“Ah.” Portia understood. “No,” she said. “How could there be? Lord Granville’s daughter and a pirate in some cozy domestic setting? Impossible. That’s why Phoebe’s so troubled. It’s not so much your pirate’s somewhat unsavory means of earning a living. She doesn’t want you to be hurt… Oh, neither do I, of course… but it’s easier for me to see that you must decide for yourself.” She put her arm around Olivia’s shoulders.
“You do understand,” Olivia said quietly.
“How could I not?” Portia squeezed her shoulders.
Could she tell Portia about the wrecking? No, she couldn’t. It was too shaming. That she had allowed herself to be lost with desire for a man she didn’t understand at all… a man who could do such a thing.
“Will you see him again?”
“I don’t know,” Olivia replied.
Portia regarded her in silence for a minute, her eyes concerned. “It might be better to make a clean break now,” she suggested.
“Yes,” Olivia agreed.
Portia waited for her to go on, and when she didn’t, she said, “I can see you need your bed. I’ll leave you to it.” She kissed her and went to the door. “Oh, by the bye, Lord Channing came a-calling. In saffron silk.” She raised an ironic eyebrow. “With a gold plume to his hat. Quite the dandy, he is. He seemed quite put out when we said you were busy with your books and not receiving visitors.”
A shiver went down Olivia’s spine.
“Someone walk over your grave?” Portia inquired, her hand on the door.
“Does he remind you of Brian?”
Portia considered, her head to one side. “In what way?”
“His eyes. They’re so small and cold and hard. When he smiles it’s not really a smile at all. Just like Brian.”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to look at him more closely next time. I can’t say I like him, though. He kicks dogs. Sleep well, now.” Portia went out, Juno on her heels.
Olivia sat down on the bed. Her head ached fiercely and she felt beset on all sides.
Anthony himself had sailed her to the cove just below Chale. He had walked with her to the boundary of the estate and left her to skirt the orchard and go in through the gate in the kitchen garden. To her relief he had seemed to accept her silence and had not questioned her mood. Olivia guessed he had put it down to the ill effects of her unwise evening.
He’d kissed her good night and said with one of his quiet smiles that she should look for him at Carisbrooke the next evening if she chose to attend the king’s presence.
Olivia didn’t know whether she would or not. She didn’t know whether she could bear to see him again. The black cloud enveloped her. He seemed to have a hand in everything that was unsavory, unlawful, immoral. What had once seemed amusing, exciting about his lifestyle and his view of the world now struck her as tawdry, as wrong. Everything about him was in direct opposition to her father, his beliefs, his honor, the way he lived his life. The way hitherto she had lived her own. And Anthony was going to try to rescue the king. She knew this and she had to keep this knowledge from her father. By keeping silent, she was colluding in a wrecker’s plot to outwit him.
Cato and Rufus returned the next morning. “You’re looking well, Olivia,” Cato observed as he passed her in the hall, noticing how her glowing complexion had a golden tinge to it. “Have you been out in the sun?”
“We’ve been taking the children for picnics,” she said.
“Ah, that would explain it.” He smiled. “I was just talking to Phoebe and Portia. They are attending the audience at Carisbrooke this evening. Will you accompany them?”
Olivia hesitated. Maybe her father could help her with one of her problems. “I would come willingly, but Lord Channing troubles me.”
“In what way?” Cato frowned.
“I don’t like him, sir,” she said simply. “And I don’t want him for a suitor, but I don’t know how to tell him that when he hasn’t actually declared himself. I was wondering if you might put him off for me.”
“It’s hard to put him off if he hasn’t declared himself.”
“I know, but maybe if you told him in passing that I intend never to marry, he’ll take the hint,” she suggested.
Cato shook his head in some amusement. “You’ll have to forgive me, Olivia, if I don’t take that too seriously. At some point you’ll change your mind. But you may rest assured I’ll make no attempt to press you to do so.”
He thought how like her mother she was. The same thick creamy complexion and black hair. Olivia had his own dark eyes, but they took their velvety quality from her mother. She had inherited from her father the long Granville nose and a certain determination to her mouth and chin. Additions that added distinction and character to her otherwise conventional beauty.
“I foresee an endless procession of prospective suitors,” he went on, still smiling. “You’re of age to marry and you have much to recommend you.” This last was said in a teasing voice, and Olivia couldn’t help responding with her own somewhat rueful smile.
“I shall reject them all, sir,” she declared. “But please c-could you try to reject this one for me? I really c-can’t endure to be in his presence.”
Cato knew the stammer only escaped her under pressure. “What has he done?” The question was sharp with concern.
Olivia shrugged helplessly. “Nothing… it’s just a feeling.”
Cato looked relieved. “I’ll see what I can discreetly do,” he offered, beginning to move away, his thoughts once more returning to the issue uppermost in his mind. Someone, somewhere on the island, had information about a plan for the king’s escape. Ordinarily the king’s affairs were known to his jailers almost before Charles was aware of them himself. It made the present impenetrable secrecy all the more puzzling.
It was this issue that had summoned him to London. Cromwell had suggested strongly that they move the king to some other, more secure prison. Cato had been reluctant to make the king’s life even more restricted than it was when they had nothing definite to go on, and it had been left that he would make what decisions he considered necessary as circumstances developed. If the king did escape, Lord Granville would be held solely responsible. It was an uncomfortable burden.
Olivia made her way to the parlor, where Phoebe and Portia were to be found in the noisy midst of their children.
“You came back just in time,” Phoebe said bluntly. “Cato returned at dawn.”
“And I was safely asleep in my bed,” Olivia said. “Thank you for… for, well, you know what I mean.”