Page 8 of House of Thorns
Miss Mackenzie? He looked down at her with only respect now. His suggestive manner had vanished entirely.
“Olivia?” Louisa barged through the door. “I’ve been looking…” The words died on her lips as her gaze fell upon Lord Randall.
Olivia stepped back at once, lest Louisa misunderstand. “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured to Lord Randall and then turned toward the door. “I’m ready, Louisa. Is the carriage here?”
“You can wait on the step,” she replied.
The coolness of her tone couldn’t be missed.
“Surely, you don’t have to leave so quickly, Miss Mackenzie?” Lord Randall queried as he followed her into the hall.
“Yes, she does,” Louisa answered in her stead. “She has an ill father to attend, my lord.” Locking her eyes with Olivia’s, she rubbed her palm over Lord Randall’s chest in a blatant statement of ownership.
“Yes, I must go,” Olivia quickly agreed. “Good evening.”
She’d be foolish to stay a moment longer, not with the way Louisa stood there, marking her territory like an angry cat.
“Good evening,” Louisa replied with a firm nod. Then, fluttering her lashes at Lord Randall, she cooed, “The card table is ready, my lord. Shall we?”
To Olivia’s horror, Lord Randall shook Louisa free with an irritated clench of his jaw and stepped forward.
“Allow me to see you to your carriage, Miss Mackenzie,” he offered, gallantly offering his arm.
“That isn’t necessary, my lord,” Olivia said. She didn’t have to glance at Louisa to know she was furious. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going.”
She marched to the door, keenly aware of Louisa’s venomous glare boring through the back of her head.
The dour-faced maid stood by the open door.
“Thank you.” Olivia nodded with a tight smile.
She’d scarcely set foot on the stoop before the door clicked shut behind her. She bit her bottom lip, worried.An Enchanted Summer Evening’sconcert was less than two months away. She couldn’t risk upsetting Louisa, but there could be no soothing of ruffled feathers tonight—not with Lord Randall’s wandering eye in the house.
As the coach rolled into view, Olivia heaved a sigh and stepped into the street.
Who knew befriending opera singers would prove so troublesome?
* * *
The strains of the piano reached Olivia’s ears as she stepped into the dimly lit music shop. She smiled and stood still, letting her father’s music sweep her back to a happier time.
Almost four years had passed since the carriage accident, but her heart still ached, almost as much as it had on the day of the tragedy itself. She’d watched her parents leave early in the morning, so excited to meet with the owner of the Theater Royale over the prospect of renting the venue for a concert of her father’s music. By noon, Mrs. Lambert had rushed into the shop with the terrible news of the bridge collapse.
Olivia closed her eyes and drew a wavering breath. Her mother. Gone. Her father, when they’d pulled him from the River Clyde, was barely alive. He’d suffered tremendous injuries, but by far the most grievous had been the blow to his head. For weeks, he’d hovered on the brink between life and death. A week after he opened his eyes, she’d realized the awful truth. He’d changed forever. His injury had rendered him childlike, forgetful in all concerns, with the exception of his music.
“Is that you, child?” Mrs. Lambert’s deep voice called through the curtained doorway at the back of the shop.
Olivia straightened. “Yes, Mrs. Lambert. I’m coming, straightway.”
She glanced about. The small oil lamp flickering on the edge of the back counter provided enough light to reveal the shop boy had, again, forgotten to sweep the floor. He’d also failed to straighten the sheaves of music on the shelves.
She scowled and tugged off her jacket. There would be little sleep for her this night. She pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the narrow hall, hurrying past the print room to the small parlor tucked at the very back of the shop.
The room was cozy. Her father’s worktable took up the entire center of the room, its surface scattered with sheets of music, quills, and several inkpots. A large beeswax pillar candle burned in the very center, lighting the room. Near the window, Mrs. Lambert sat in a blanket-covered, wing-backed chair.
At the back of the room, her father hunched over the piano keys, a wiry, spry man with spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose. His cap had fallen to the floor, laying his injury bare for all to see. Even after all these years, the hair had not grown back over the scar.
Olivia scooped his cap from the floor. “Good evening, father.” She dropped a kiss on the top of his head and then eased the knitted wool over his scars.
