The Viscount's Runaway Wife. Laura Martin
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out of lessons to read and write. Some of those who stay longer also learn a little mathematics. Probably not enough to allow them to be clerks, but certainly enough to be able to take money behind a bar in an inn, or work out weights and prices in a butcher’s shop.’
Oliver had come across all sorts of people in the course of his life. Those who were selfish and thought only of their own profit; those who were determined to pauper themselves in the service of others. Mary was one of the kind ones, he could see, but she was astute, too. She knew exactly what the young children of St Giles needed, and it wasn’t lessons in French or Latin, but basic skills aimed at allowing them to navigate through life just a little easier than their parents.
‘Come, let me show you around,’ Mary said.
‘I don’t want to inconvenience you.’
‘Nonsense. This is purely selfish. I’m hoping if you see the good work we do here you’ll want Lucy to remain involved.’
* * *
Oliver was safely ensconced in the office. Hopefully his accounts would be absorbing enough to keep him from wandering, Lucy thought.
He’d been remarkably well behaved on his tour of the Foundation, asking Mary insightful questions and greeting the children and adults he met politely. Lucy didn’t know what she’d expected, but not this. Perhaps a surly superiority, or a dismissive air about him, but Oliver had been genial and courteous.
‘What on earth happened?’ Mary asked, pulling Lucy into her private rooms.
Lucy collapsed into one of the low armchairs and let out a heartfelt sigh.
‘Somehow he found me, followed me and insisted I went home with him.’
Mary was one of the only people who knew the truth about Lucy’s background. Most of the residents, as well as the patrons of the orphanage, believed she was the daughter of some minor country gentleman, probably caught up in a scandal that had brought her low in life. Mary had been the one to find her and David shivering on a street corner just over a year ago and she’d been the one to comfort Lucy when David passed away. She’d helped Lucy grieve, then slowly brought back her purpose in life by giving her a role at the Foundation. In return, Lucy had been honest with the older woman, telling her the details of her background and why she’d fled from her marital home.
‘He seems perfectly pleasant on the outside,’ Mary mused. ‘Has he hurt you?’
With the kind of women they helped at the Foundation they were both well aware of the outwardly charming man who beat his wife roughly behind closed doors.
‘He’s been gentle,’ Lucy admitted. ‘Hasn’t raised a hand against me, or even his voice.’
She knew Oliver would be well within his rights to lock her in her bedroom, beat her with a stick for her disobedience and force himself on her until she was with child. And, despite hardly knowing the man she was married to, Lucy did know he would never hurt her.
‘What does he want?’
‘To be my husband. And for me to be his wife.’
‘Hardly an unreasonable request,’ Mary murmured.
Despite the fear of the future Lucy was feeling, she couldn’t help but smile. Mary had never held back from saying exactly what she was feeling.
‘I thought he would have moved on by now,’ Lucy said glumly.
‘Do you want him to?’
‘Of course. I left. I could hardly wish him to wait for me all this time.’
‘But he has. And now you have the chance to be a lady again.’
‘I was never made for that life,’ Lucy said. It wasn’t quite true. The life of a lady was what she’d been born into, what she’d been raised to be. Her entire childhood had been aimed at preparing her for marriage to a respectable gentleman. This life, this vocation she felt at the Foundation, would have been foreign to her younger self, but now she couldn’t imagine returning to a pampered life of idleness, having a maid to help her dress, a cook to prepare her meals.
‘Perhaps there’s a way for your two lives to meet in the middle,’ Mary said. ‘It seems your husband is content to let you continue at least some of your work here and I dare say you could find a way to enjoy some of the perks of being married to a viscount.’
Of course Mary was right. That would be the ideal solution. It was much like what Oliver had proposed.
‘That’s what he said,’ Lucy grumbled, feeling decidedly put out and not quite knowing why.
‘Change, dear,’ Mary said, patting her on the hand. ‘It’s difficult to accept when the decision has been taken from your hands, especially when you’ve been independent for as long as we have.’
‘I don’t want to let you down,’ Lucy said, then corrected herself. ‘I will not let you down.’
‘I know.’ Mary paused as if wondering whether to say any more. ‘He’s not your father, Lucy. Give him a chance at the very least.’
Lucy’s relationship with her father could be described as sour at the best of times. She hadn’t contacted him in the year she’d been living in St Giles and would be content to not ever speak to him again. The old man was controlling, but worse than that, he was cruel. Lucy would never forgive him for how he’d treated her younger brother, William, and still blamed him for the young boy’s death. At the age of five, when the old man had realised William was different, unable to speak, unable to move around by himself, he’d sent him away to live with a succession of families, the last of whom had mistreated him badly. To this day Lucy still mourned her sweet younger brother.
Mary squeezed Lucy affectionately on the arm before bustling out to carry on with the business of the day. For a few minutes Lucy just sat where she was, wondering if she was being unreasonable in how she’d approached this situation with Oliver. Deep down she knew she was the one in the wrong. She’d run away without a proper explanation, she’d neglected to inform her husband that she was still alive, she’d built a new life without bothering to enquire if Oliver was doing the same. She knew all this, but it still was difficult to accept Oliver’s proposal that they return to being husband and wife.
Shaking herself from her self-imposed mental slump, Lucy rose and exited Mary’s rooms. Today she’d been planning on preparing the accounts for the next governor’s meeting in four weeks’ time. It wasn’t too time-consuming or difficult as she was the one who kept all the Foundation’s day-to-day accounts. This biannual meeting took a little preparation, but nothing too arduous.
Making her way back to the office, Lucy felt her heart sink as she saw the empty chair where Oliver had been sitting. His papers were neatly stacked on the desk, telling her he hadn’t grown bored and returned home. Instead he was somewhere loose in the Foundation.
Frantically she dashed from the office, racing down the stairs and into the courtyard. If she thought logically, there were only a few places Oliver could be. Most of the upper levels of the sprawling building were made up of small living quarters for the women and children needing shelter. It was only the rooms on the ground floor that were communal. Still, he could be in the dining room, one of the two classrooms, the laundry, the workrooms...
Hearing a soft peal of laughter, Lucy paused and listened for a few seconds before turning in the direction of the dining room. The large room was set out with two long tables for the residents to take a communal lunch together, but presently at eleven in the morning it was deserted, save for two figures hunched over one of the tables.
‘B-o-a-t,’ the young boy sitting squinting at the paper in front of him read.
‘And what does that spell?’ Oliver asked softly.
‘Boat.’
‘Good. How about this one?’
Lucy shifted and the