The Makings Of A Lady. Catherine Tinley
left the morning room, murmuring her goodbyes.
Charlotte’s head was bent to her housekeeping before Olivia had even left the room. She seemed calm, but Olivia knew how much her sister-in-law missed being able to ride since she realised she was expecting again. Riding was one of the ways in which Olivia and Charlotte had forged a friendship—both were excellent horsewomen and liked nothing more than to gallop neck-or-nothing through the fields and lanes—much to the disapproval of Adam and Harry.
There was, of course, no question of a pregnant lady riding and Charlotte, after two miscarriages, a stillbirth, and yet no living child, was being extra-cautious this time. Thankfully, all seemed well so far, but Olivia shared the concern felt by the whole family about Charlotte’s plight.
Olivia’s bedchamber was a beautiful room, overlooking the deer park in front of the house. It was decorated with delicate wall hangings and curtains in shades of lilac. Right now, Olivia could not appreciate the comfort or beauty of her surroundings. This restlessness within her had been building for an age, but it was particularly strong today.
She was quiet as Susie, her personal maid, helped her don a fashionable blue riding habit complete with military-style silver buttons, a white muslin shirt and riding pelisse.
Olivia stared at her own reflection. Stormy grey eyes, dark curls, fashionable habit. What is the point of wearing fine things, she was thinking, when no one ever sees me but my own family? I could wear my oldest muslin and nobody would care.
Rejecting the matching hat, she stated firmly that she would ride today with her head uncovered. Someone will see you tomorrow, an inner voice murmured. Jem will be here. After four years, you will see him again.
Ignoring the thought, she focused instead on her current frustration. This year they were not in London for the Season, because of Charlotte’s condition. Oh, but it was hard to be two-and-twenty and stuck in the country! At least in London there were balls and routs, and trips to the theatre, and people who realised you were a grown-up young lady. Not a child. And there were ways to avoid seeing certain people, if you did not wish to spend time with them. A house guest in the country could not be avoided.
Olivia absent-mindedly thanked Susie and made her way to the stables, enjoying the feel of the May sunshine on her shoulders. As always, she felt a rush of love when she saw her fine looking mare, Dahlia.
‘Hello, my beauty!’ She nuzzled the horse’s delicate cheek and slipped her a treat. Dahlia pranced impatiently and had to be told to hold still while the groom handed Olivia up and into the side-saddle.
‘I shan’t need you, Joseph!’ Olivia waved away the head groom, who was just about to offer to accompany her. ‘I won’t leave our lands, I promise!’ He looked disapproving, but refrained from chastising her.
‘Where do you plan to go, miss?’ He was always concerned when she rode alone, though why he should be, Olivia could not fathom. Nothing ever happened here. Well, she recalled, apart from that one time when poachers had entered the Home Wood. But that was almost five years ago.
Still, maybe she wouldn’t go to the Home Wood.
‘I’ll go to the river,’ she said decidedly, ‘and the Bluebell Woods.’
She could feel the groom watching her as she trotted out of the stable yard. She really felt it today—how much she was watched and protected, and imprisoned. It was an itch between her shoulder blades and it seemed as though it had been there her whole life. Her brothers. The servants. Great-Aunt Clara. Her sisters-in-law. Why could they not see she was no longer a child? And how was she supposed to appear different to—to other people—if her own family treated her as though she was still a debutante?
Stop it! she told herself sternly. This is no prison and they all care about you. That is why they do it—they are just trying to protect you.
The words failed to quell the burning inside her and so she did the only thing she could—she let Dahlia build from a trot to a canter, then to a full gallop through the deer park. She steered Dahlia eastwards through the fields and lanes of the estate farms, until at last she reached the Bluebell Woods. At this time of year, bluebells were everywhere—along the hedgerows, around the estate workers’ cottages and there was a good sprinkling of them in the Home Wood. But here, at the most easterly edge of the Chadcombe estate, here was where they grew in abundance.
Olivia directed Dahlia into the woods. Slowing to a walk, she savoured the coolness of the air, the smells of luxuriant foliage and fertile soil, and the magical colours of the woodland. Sturdy browns and greys mingled with lush green, and everywhere the indigo-purple beauty of the nodding bluebells. The canopy of ash and elm, oak and maple filtered verdant sunlight to warm the ferns and flowers on the forest floor. To her left, a startled squirrel raced up a tree, its tail a flash of rich bronze. Birds chirruped and called, and small creatures rustled in the undergrowth.
Olivia felt the tension leave her shoulders. This place never failed to calm her.
She made her way to the river and allowed Dahlia to drink. She dismounted, leaving her overskirts tied up, and tethered the mare to a nearby sapling in the cool shade. The horse promptly tilted one hind hoof and rested, her tail twitching at flies.
The next half-hour was delightful. Olivia wandered through her favourite part of the woods, up and down along the riverside, gathering bluebells as she went. Clara would love them. The day was warm, so, greatly daring, she removed her half-boots and silk stockings and sat down, dabbling her feet in the coolness of the sparkling river. She allowed the idyllic peace of her surroundings to soothe her, and—briefly—put tomorrow’s worries to one side. The sun gently warmed her shoulders, the river babbled to itself, and the woodland whispered and swayed, oblivious to its own beauty.
All it needs, she thought, a little wistfully, is for a romantic hero to appear. That was what would happen in the novels she and Lizzie delighted in reading.
The river was shallow and perfectly clear. Olivia and Adam and Harry had paddled here often as children—once she was old enough to be allowed to accompany them. Her adored big brothers had played games of dragons, and giants, and knights—much more exciting than the Greek and mathematics that her governess insisted on. At first Olivia had been content to be the damsel in need of rescue, but eventually she had insisted on being a knight, like them. When her brothers laughed, she had tried to box them. In the end, they had allowed her to be a squire.
Olivia had allowed herself to be persuaded, until she discovered her role was limited to carrying wooden swords and crudely made arrows, and fetching the arrows after they had been inexpertly shot at targets on trees.
And now, they were all three grown up and Adam and Harry were married. Olivia loved their wives—Charlotte and Juliana truly were like sisters to her—but she could not shake the feeling that everyone else—everyone but her—had their lives in place.
She felt stuck in a place between girl and woman—too old to be a girl, yet not permitted to be a woman. At twenty-two, yet still unmarried, she had no place. She had no responsibilities, no cares—but nothing to challenge her either.
Chadcombe was run efficiently by Charlotte, ably assisted by the household staff, while Adam managed the estate. Great-Aunt Clara, who had struggled for many years keeping house for Adam, had settled into retirement with obvious relief. Juliana was mistress of Glenbrook, wife to Harry and mother to darling little Jack.
Of all of them only Olivia had no role, no task, no purpose. I am a shadow person, she thought. I am aunt, sister, great-niece. But I wish to be Olivia!
The small river marked the edge of Chadcombe’s lands, forming the boundary with their neighbours at Monkton Park. As children, Olivia and her brothers had been wary of Monkton Park’s grumpy old gamekeeper, who did not, apparently, approve of children. When they had dared each other to venture across the stepping stones to pick blackberries or find conkers on the far side of the river, they had done it in fear he would catch them, and give chase, and shout in a purplish fury that was half-comical, half-scary.