The Pirate's Lady (Spies of London #1)

Chapter 26 Part 2

Time for the familial crux of the story… Hope it keeps you guys entertained!

TPL Chapter 26 Part 2

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Olivia was quietly sitting on the diwan next to her husband, wondering at his sombre expression. It did not bode well for the conversation, she knew, because she had rarely seen him thus.

James eyes had taken on a faraway look, as if he had been transported to a time beyond her comprehension. His mouth was set in a straight line as he stared unblinking through the window, and it was beginning to startle her. “James?”, she called out softly touching his hand with her own.

James turned to face her then, eyes now cleared of their previous emotion. Abruptly he stood, letting out a shaky breath and pacing a few steps away from her. She longed to urge him to come back, but knew instinctively that he needed the distance to collect himself for whatever he planned to say to her, so she remained silent.

“My mother was a tiny woman, constantly cowed by my over bearing father. Theirs was a classic union of two families for wealth and social standing. My mother, Eunice, was not very happy, but she had to do it for the sake of her family’s honour. So she did. My father did his duty and planted a seed in her, and I was born a year after their marriage.” James paused, to let those words sink, and continued.

“Everything was going on as it does in every titled lord’s house till the year I turned nine. My mother had a passion for poetry, and she used to dabble in the art herself, even reading a few of her milder works to me once or twice. My father had no knowledge of this, as he would never have approved of flowery notions like poetry. He used to diligently handle the Winchester estates, and had no time for a wife and child who was his heir.

Oh he took care of us, do not mistake me. But never was there a kind word spoken or praise given when deserved. He hardly ever turned up for meals, even. My mother, started growing bolder at his ignorance, however. She was not accustomed to contacting the ladies of the ton, as they were barely civil since she was wealthy but not titled before marriage. She only had me to talk to, a child of nine.

She told me of her poetry, how it set her free, buoyed her spirits. How much she enjoyed it. I too was happy listening to her talk of her love for the subject. It became a daily pastime of ours, to sit and talk about poetry whenever I was free from my lessons for the day.

But one day she came home from a carriage ride, looking dazed and slightly winded. She saw me standing at the foot of the stairs, and pulled me into a nearby room, telling me to sit and listen. I still remember what she said to me that day.

“James”, she said, “I met someone today! A most exciting, compelling man! We sat together and spoke for hours. He too loves poetry like me, perhaps even more so! We discussed so much together, our likes, dislikes, all of our life even! Oh James dear, it was perfect!”

I of course, thought it was acceptable for my mother to speak to other people, never mind that it was a man. So I listened like I always did, my love for my wayward mother, shining in my eyes. After all she was the one that was always with me, even though my father was not.

For a month, her stories about her ‘mystery man’ continued, and I continued to think nothing of it, though even I had begun to have my own suspicions as her descriptions were becoming different, and she cut off her sentences more often, refusing to tell me any thing even if I prodded her to.

One day she just let slip that she was going to meet him in the evening the next day, and that I should not worry if she did not come home till the next day. I was worried, but how could I tell her? The stars in her eyes were too hard to depress. My father was not in London for a few days as he had business in the country, which was probably adding to my mother’s boldness.