Catherine Tinley - The Makings Of A Lady

They had just breakfasted and Adam had left them to begin his work for the day. Most of the household were still abed—both Jem and Olivia were renowned early risers. Even as Olivia politely agreed to Jem’s request, part of her was, with some sadness, remembering their habit of walking together in the garden in London immediately after breakfast.

Olivia had come to love those walks together during his convalescence—he struggling but determined to master his mobility, she cajoling and challenging him, bearing his frustration and elation with equanimity. As the time went on and his walking became easier, they had talked of many things—his childhood in the north of England, his sister Lizzie, who was to visit him in London, some of his experiences in the army, his hopes for advancement once his injury had healed.

He had not discussed Waterloo, the horrific leg injury he had suffered during the battle, nor how it had come about. Harry must know, but he never talked of it either. Adam had hinted her away from questioning them and, ever sensitive, Olivia knew better than to push either of them into reliving experiences they were trying to forget.

During those weeks, Olivia felt she had come to really know Jem and to feel comfortable in his company. Well, she recalled ruefully, as comfortable as one could feel with someone for whom one had developed such strong feelings.

But had she ever truly known him? She had not for a moment anticipated he would reject her so comprehensively, or that he would disappear so completely, uncaring of the devastation he was leaving behind.

He had been ever the gentleman, she acknowledged. Never had he spoken of love, or tried to kiss her. But his eyes had warmed when he looked at her and she foolishly had believed he had cared for her. How wrong she had been!Afterwards, she wondered if he had seen her as a child, which had of course offended her eighteen-year-old dignity. But I was a child , she reflected now.

Again her mind returned to that last day. Through a haze of tears she had watched him walk away, unable to fully comprehend that he was really leaving. Little did she know then that would be the last she would see of him for four long years.

It was for the best , she reminded herself fiercely, because now I am free of my old feelings and can be easy in his company. Perhaps—maybe—I could even be his friend. After all, he is Lizzie’s brother and I shall no doubt be forced to see him from time to time. Yes, I can be friendly , she decided . I must put aside my girlish foolishness and the anger that came from hurt pride.

Chadcombe had extensive gardens, from formal squares and ponds laid out in the French style to contrived wildernesses and a well-developed rose garden behind the ballroom terrace. She and Jem wandered through the archways and walks of the garden, the early flowers budding and unfurling in a promise of the glories of colour yet to come. Olivia had taken particular care with her dress today, opting for one of her favourite embroidered muslins, this one with a pretty yellow taffeta ribbon. She told herself she had done so because of Lizzie’s visit. There was no other reason.

‘I see Lizzie is just as much a night owl as ever!’ offered Olivia politely.

‘What? Oh, yes, yes, quite!’ said Jem. Olivia frowned. What was wrong with him? Unable to account for his distractedness, Olivia lapsed into silence, unsure of what to say.

This was unexpected. Having successfully passed the test of seeing him again, of spending an evening in his company and enduring an entirely restless night—or so she believed—she had emerged this morning with a determination to maintain a distant, friendly air with him. It was vital that he understood she was no longer an infatuated girl. But she had not thought properly about the fact that, as much as she had changed in four years, so also would he. Gone was the open, friendly youth who had so enjoyed her company four years ago. In his place was a stranger and one whom she could not read. At all.

They walked on a few yards more and found themselves at the Fountain of Eros in the centre of the garden. The air was still and the sky cloudy and dull. A wren called sweetly from a nearby branch. Jem stopped walking and turned to face Olivia directly.

His expression was grave, worried. Olivia’s heart sank. It reminded her of his appearance in the London garden, when he had said the words that had broken her heart.

Jem was in a quandary. His plan to be calm and easy in Olivia’s company had fallen completely flat. Last evening, and earlier at breakfast, he had been intensely aware of her, compelled to keep looking at her, and frustrated by his own lack of self-control. This old passion was proving difficult to conquer!

Give yourself time! he had told himself, even as he’d invited her to walk with him. Familiarity will help you see her differently.

As they walked, he was conscious of memories of those other days, in that other garden. The feelings from back then were once again flooding through him, like a Pandora’s box of unwanted emotion. His mind, too, was awhirl. In particular, he was wrestling with a topic that had occupied his mind obsessively during his long voyage to the Antipodes and for quite some months afterwards. What if I was wrong about her?

Soon after his arrival in the Fanton townhouse, Jem had heard Harry tease Olivia about a tendre she had had for a poet a few weeks earlier—just before Harry had left for Waterloo. The poet, it seemed, had professed his undying love for Lady Olivia, expressing his passion via some excruciating verse, and Olivia had, it seemed, quickly outgrown her infatuation. Harry—then a master in the game of flirtation—had advised Olivia on how she could gently discourage the young poet while avoiding unnecessary drama.

Blushing a little at Harry’s teasing, Olivia had confirmed that her feelings for the dashing Mr Nightingale were not what she thought they had been and that, yes, he had gradually responded to her gentle hints by transferring his attentions to another young lady. This lucky damsel had that week received a sonnet to her Glorious Shoulders.

They had all laughed, not unkindly, but Jem had been left with the impression that Olivia was extremely young and untried, and that it would be a long time before her heart would engage in anything deeper than a passing notion.

She will fancy herself in love a dozen times , he had thought.

So when she had, soon afterwards, occasionally looked at him with admiration in those beautiful grey eyes, he had known not to refine too much upon it. Especially when he himself had been struggling to resist an unlooked-for and inconvenient attraction to her.

But what if he had been wrong? What if she had actually developed a deeper attachment to him at the time? His heart leapt in the old way at the thought.

Be sensible! he told himself. These were the same agonies that had haunted him throughout his stay at the Fanton townhouse. Knowing she was not for him, yet helplessly obsessing about her, while continually reminding himself that she would forget him as quickly as she had forgotten the poet. Around in circles he had gone, day after day, night after night.

He shook himself. Even if her tendre had, in fact, been deeper at the time than her feelings for the unfortunate poet, after four years he would have been long forgotten.

His dilemma, however, was this: Should he apologise to her? He had done nothing to discourage her girlish regard at the time. He had continued to enjoy her company—in truth, he was unsure how well he would have managed his recovery without her encouragement and challenge. He had selfishly taken advantage of her healing company and had failed to discourage her attentions. He was only slightly older in years, but even then, he had been much more worldly-wise than she. And then he had vanished with sudden finality.