Page 36 of House of Thorns
The day was bright; all traces of last night’s storm had vanished. A pleasant breeze played with the ends of her long hat ribbons as she hurried down the cobblestone street, nodding greetings to each passerby.
Gaily dressed folk strolled the paths of Glasgow Green as she entered the park. She’d gone no more than ten yards before she spied Mr. Pitt approaching with his wife on his arm. Olivia altered course at once, but spared a quick glance at the dowdy woman at his side. As usual, she walked with her chin high, but with a perpetual look of disappointment on her face—but then, with Mr. Pitt as a husband, such feelings were entirely understandable.
“Move along, Mrs. Pitt,” Mr. Pitt said, his voice carrying across the green. “Move along, right quick.”
Olivia rolled her eyes and hurried down the woodland path, nodding her greetings to passersby along the way.
Lady Winthrop’s house wasn’t far, just down the lane bordering the eastern side of Glasgow Green and overlooking the river. Though newly built, the tidy establishment still held an older-world charm with its arched doorways, diamond-paned windows, and rough-hewn beams.
Carriages lined the drive, the horses stamping lazily in their harnesses under the tall, nearby oaks. The coachmen laughed and played a game of battledore and shuttlecock. They waved as Olivia passed by and ducked inside the servant’s entrance at the back of the house.
“Lawks, there you are, Miss Mackenzie.”
It was Elena. The young brunette hovered by the door, plucking the feathers sewn on her dress, her soft, brown eyes worried.
Relief flooded through Olivia. “I’m so pleased you’re here. We need to speak—”
Elena grimaced and grabbed her arm, pulling her close. “That’s just it, Olivia,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t be here, at all. Louisa will be furious.”
Anger flashed over Olivia. “Do you know where she is?”
The young singer shook her head and glanced away, looking almost guilty.
So, shedidknow. “Please, tell me. I must speak with her.”
“She’s not going to sing for your concert, Olivia. Not anymore,” Elena whispered.
“But, but I havecontracts.” Or, shehad, but Elena didn’t need to know that.
Elena hesitated, then confessed in a rush, “I can’t sing for you anymore, either, Olivia. I feel so very dreadful over the matter, but she’ll ruin me and she hasconnections. I had to tell Lady Winthrop I suffer from a sore throat. I brought Marie. She’s in the drawing room, now.”
Olivia blinked. Another betrayal? And Marie? Marie Geertz. She worked closely with Foster and Sons’ Publishing House. They specialized in the classics, not the lighthearted ditties that she printed.
“I’m sorry,” Elena choked. “I really am.”
Olivia sucked a deep breath. “But you signed a contract yourself—”
“I can’t. I really can’t.” Elena blanched, then she pushed past Olivia to run out of the house.
Olivia closed her eyes, battling the sudden urge to bang her forehead against the wall.
Why had she even bothered with the contracts? The singers treated them like discarded letters from a scorned lover. But then, perhaps they knew she didn’t have them any longer. She drew a sharp breath. Had Louisa had a hand in the robbery? Stolen her mother’s locket?
The sounds of Mozart’s “O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn”drifted from the floor above, intruding upon her thoughts. Of course, it was music she never printed.
Irritated, she left the house. Lady Winthrop wouldn’t miss her. The women of society tolerated her presence at their charity gatherings out of pity and respect to Lady Blair.
Blowing her hair out of her face, she headed for a row of willows bordering the banks of the River Clyde. The wind rustled the long, sweeping branches as she walked through them, letting them close after her like a curtain.
She needed a new plan. She still owed Mr. Pitt fifteen pounds and another five for the musicians. The concert was in a month. She had a month to convince Louisa to return or she reallywouldbe out on the streets, as a true charity case of her own.
Olivia closed her eyes and rubbed the back of her neck.
Was this really over a man? And of all men…Lord Randall? Something about him made her hackles rise. He spoke so smoothly and in far too polished a manner—almost as if he had something to hide.
“Miss Mackenzie.”
Olivia jerked and glanced over her shoulder.
