Page 29 of Anastasia and the Duke
Oliver strolled outside and took a puff on his cheroot, but found the taste of tobacco was not as appealing as that of fresh spring air. He was just about to extinguish it and return to his search for Miss Blackmore when another guest made a noisy entrance into the library.
"Ruddy Sotheby," he heard a gentleman grumble, "Can't even leave a jar of spills out for his guests--a-ha!"
From the jubilant cry, Oliver deduced that the new entrant had found the jar of spills. There was a pause, followed by the sound of someone puffing furiously, and after a few moments the Earl of Morris appeared at the French doors, smoking a pipe.
"Hawkfield," the earl exclaimed, as he spotted Oliver standing beneath the trees, "Didn't realise there was anyone else here."
Oliver waited to answer, for the earl had descended into a bout of coughing.
"I am seeking refuge from the masses," Oliver said, once Morris had got his breath back.
"Ruddy crowded inside," Morris agreed, as he tapped some more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, "I wouldn't have come, only I wanted to see for myself..."
The earl cleared his throat, this time out of awkwardness, rather than phlegm. The rumours about Miss Blackmore had obviously reached his ears.
"You wish to see your mother's companion," Oliver stated, and the earl gave a weary sigh.
"Yes," he said, as he tapped his free hand nervously against his leg, "I fear that Mama has once again fallen victim to a charlatan, and that I must come to her rescue. Only I will not be seen as the hero of the hour, rather the villain."
It was disconcerting for Oliver to see a gentleman two decades his senior look so lost and forlorn. Not for the first time in his life, Oliver wished that he were better with words, so that he might offer something of comfort to the man.
"She thinks that I don't care," Morris continued, referring to Lady Lansdowne, "But of course I do; I, as much as anyone, would love to see the child returned to us, but we have to accept the reality that such miracles are only found in the Bible."
"Grief is never rational," Oliver offered, by way of consolation.
"It is not," Morris looked him in the eye, "And I know that because I too mourned my sister, I too hoped that her child had somehow survived the terrible fire. I gave up on that dream a long time ago, but my mother clung onto it, and I am forced to dash her hopes, over and over again."
Oliver felt a stab of pity for poor Morris, for the grief he had endured, a pain which was perpetuated with each scheme his mother fell for in her search for Anastasia.
"If it's any consolation," Oliver offered, "Miss Blackmore is not pretending to be Anastasia; she is adamant, in fact, that she is not. She is merely acting as a companion to your grandmother, who appears to enjoy having someone to dote on."
There was a silence, as Morris eyed him with amusement.
"I heard she was pretty," the earl said with a chuckle, "Now I know she must be."
Oliver bristled with indignation at the implication that he had fallen for a pretty face, he was just about to argue his point again, when Morris' attention was caught by something in the far windows.
"There's mother," he said, leaving Oliver's side to walk closer to the window.
Oliver followed and saw Lady Lansdowne, accompanied by Miss Blackmore, chatting to several other guests in the drawing room.
"Miss Blackmore is the young woman in pink, standing next to your mother," Oliver offered, but Morris gave no reply.
Oliver turned his head to look at the earl, who had gone white as a sheet. His pipe, which he still held in his hand, was spilling hot ash out onto the ground.
"My God," Morris finally whispered, his eyes still on Miss Blackmore.
"You see the resemblance?" Oliver prompted.
"I see a ghost."
The earl, his face still pale and his breeches now sooty from the ash which had spilled on them, began to back slowly away.
"Are you alright?" Oliver followed him, filled with concern, "Shall I fetch you a glass of water?"
"No," the earl barked, before collecting himself, "I mean, no thank you, it's not necessary. I shall return home; I have seen enough. If my mother wishes to fritter away her money on another mad fantasy, then on her head be it. I'm done. Goodnight, Hawkfield."
With that, and in a great state of agitation, Morris swept from the garden.
