Blackthorne. Ruth Langan

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      Olivia stood alone, unmindful of the cold rain that soaked her clothes and turned the open grave into a sea of mud at her feet. It seemed fitting somehow that it should rain. “The angels in heaven are weeping,” Mum had often said of the frequent English rains.

      She couldn’t tear her gaze from the two caskets as the village gravedigger slowly covered them with earth. Even when the task was completed, she continued to stand alone, grieving as though her heart would break.

      “Come, girl. Your aunt will catch a chill.” It was the rough grasp of her uncle’s hand upon her wrist that had her turning away. As soon as she was seated, a whip cracked and the carriage lurched ahead.

      Her aunt’s words, spoken through gritted teeth, penetrated Olivia’s layers of pain. “I told Margaret that she was marrying beneath her station, but she would not listen. Her inheritance has been badly mismanaged.”

      “Inheritance?”

      “Alas, there is little enough left. You are practically penniless.”

      “We were forced to live quite frugally, Aunt Agatha. Mum said that her money was in London, and under your control. Yours and Uncle Robert’s.”

      Her uncle’s lips thinned. “You can be grateful for that, young lady, or it would all be gone. Had it not been for our son Wyatt’s careful scrutiny, that befuddled father of yours, with his nose stuck in dusty old books, would have squandered his wife’s inheritance years ago.”

      “Papa had no interest in Mum’s money.”

      “That was plain enough. As it is, there’s barely enough left to pay your keep, though I suppose we can get something for the sale of your cottage.”

      Her husband gave a snort of disgust. “According to the vicar, even that will fetch no coin because your niece insists upon giving it away.”

      “Giving it...?”

      As her aunt began to issue a protest, Olivia struggled to keep the rising anger from her voice. “I have already offered it to the widow Dillingham, who is a dear friend of ours. Since the death of her son, she has no one to see to her. I know that Mum and Papa would have wanted to share what little they had with her.”

      “No matter.” Her uncle dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “It would fetch little, since it is no more than a hovel.”

      The cruel words brought a fresh stab of pain to Olivia’s heart. “It is the only home I have ever known.”

      “And now you have none,” Agatha said with a sigh of impatience. “Out of respect for my sister’s memory, I suppose I shall have to take you back to London.”

      “That isn’t necessary. I can take care of myself here in Oxford. I don’t wish to be a burden, Aunt Agatha.”

      “Nor will I permit it.” The woman’s eyes glittered with shrewdness. She took note of the coarse, shapeless gown, the worn, shabby boots, the threadbare traveling cloak. The figure inside the clothes was equally unimpressive. Small and slight, with few womanly curves. Dark damp hair, tucked beneath a nondescript bonnet. If this girl had inherited her mother’s striking beauty, she kept it well hidden. Perhaps, Agatha thought, the unfortunate girl had inherited her father’s eccentric behavior instead.

      How could this creature possibly fit in with the wealthy, titled women of London? Agatha thought of her own children, a daughter, Catherine, betrothed to the Earl of Gathwick, and a son, Wyatt, who shared his mother’s fondness for amassing a fortune. Thanks to Wyatt’s careful management of their estates, they had become one of the most prosperous families in England, and had even been invited to dine with the king. That had been one of Agatha’s proudest moments.

      “At least you can earn your keep. The vicar told us that you have a fine mind, and that your father saw to your education. I suppose I can find you a position with one of our better families in London.”

      London. Olivia thought about her impressions of the city on her single visit some years ago. Row upon row of town houses. Carriages clattering along narrow, dirty streets. Vendors, and parades of people, and parks filled with nannies and children. She had returned to her quiet country home and breathed a sigh of relief. “I cannot go to London. I prefer to remain here.”

      “It is out of the question. As your mother’s only kin, I have no choice but to take you back.”

      The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a modest cottage. “Pack your things, girl,” Agatha said sharply.

      “Now?”

      “Of course,” Agatha snapped. “Did you think we would make another trip just to fetch you later?”

      “Will you come inside?” Olivia struggled to remember her manners. “And perhaps have some tea while I pack?”

      Agatha’s reply was curt. “No, girl. Now move quickly.” She folded her arms across her ample bosom. “We are eager to return to London. We’ve suffered quite enough discomfort.”

      Olivia was relieved that her aunt had refused her invitation. She was in desperate need to be alone. To gather her thoughts. To fill herself with the scents and sights and sounds of her home. To allow her heart a moment to grieve.

      As she closed the door and leaned against it, her eyes filled with fresh tears. How she loved this place. For as long as she could remember, it had been her home. A home filled with love.

      She touched a hand to the shelf that held her parents’ precious manuscripts. She had instructed the vicar to see that their papers were given to the university.

      Perhaps to others the St. Johns had seemed odd. Always walking about the countryside, sketching the wild creature, observing and recording in a journal. But scholars had held both husband and wife in high esteem. As for Olivia, she adored them both, and had enjoyed nothing so much as the time spent in their company.

      Hearing the impatient stomp of the horses, she hurried to her room and began to pack. There was little enough to take with her to London. Two serviceable gowns, one gray, one blue. A shawl, a bonnet, a parasol. As for the rest, she knew the widow Dillingham would distribute them among the needy of the village.

      On a sudden whim she walked to her parents’ room and carefully folded the small, embroidered coverlet that lay across the foot of their bed. Her mother had made it before her wedding. Olivia pressed it to her face, inhaling the scent of her parents that lingered in the folds.

      “Are you ready, girl?” came her uncle’s irritable voice.

      She raced back to her own room and picked up her valise. As she stared around the little cottage, she had to swallow the lump that was threatening to choke her. How could she leave all that she held dear? How could she just walk away from her memories, her childhood, her life?

      She glanced at the two crude rocking chairs, fashioned by her father’s hand, placed side by side in front of the fireplace. She could hear, inside her head, her mother’s voice. “The mind is a wonderful gift, Livvy. In it we carry all of life’s treasures. All the laughter, all the love. And so long as they are tucked safely away in our mind, they are always there when we need to take them out, to remember, to savor...”

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