The Vicar's Daughter

by Deborah Simmons

  “I can return to Paris immediately!” the dowager said, clapping her hands together in delight. The breath that had so recently left Charlotte’s lungs was drawn back in, making a low gasping sound. She darted a glance at Max to see if he had noticed, but he was smiling in a most disconcerting manner at his mother.

  “Yes, Mother,” he said. Charlotte realized that she had never heard him call Sybille by that name, and the reason was soon evident. The lady flinched at the word and glared daggers at her son, who ignored her reaction and continued speaking in his usual smooth tones. “Do not feel that you must tarry on our account.”

  Charlotte thought he was teasing, but from the look on Sibylle’s face, she could tell that Maximilian was absolutely serious. Obviously, he knew his mother well enough to guess that she would rather go to France than stay with her son and his bride-to-be. Charlotte blinked in confusion, unable to believe it. “But surely you wish to attend the...wedding?” she asked.

  “What? Some provincial affair?” Sibylle waved a hand in dismissal, then her eyes brightened. “But if you would have the ceremony in London, I might—”

  “No, Mother.” Maximilian seemed to take pleasure in denying Sibylle’s wish for an elaborate event, and Charlotte might have taken him to task if she, too, did not long for a small ceremony among her family.

  “Stop calling me that! I do not feel old enough to be mother to a grown man,” Sibylle said, her eyes snapping. Throwing down her napkin, she rose from her chair, tossing her dark curls in a pretty pout. “I am going back to Paris where I am young again!”

  Alarmed at Sibylle’s attitude, Charlotte rose from her chair. “My lady, wait,” she called. Ignoring Max’s advice to let Sibylle go, Charlotte hurried after her, catching up with her in the hallway. No matter what Max might wish, she did not want to part on such terrible terms with his mother.

  “I wanted to...to thank you for opening your home to me. You have been more than gracious and generous and—” Charlotte began.

  “Hush, child!” Sibylle said with a laugh. “Do not make me out to be a paragon. That role is for Maximilian, and he is welcome to it. But you! You have the spark of life in you. Are you sure he is what you want? He is an earl, yes, but you could still hold out for the Marquess. Wroth is far wealthier and, I must say, monstrously intriguing.”

  Aware that her mouth had dropped open, Charlotte closed it as quickly as she could while trying to form a reply to Sibylle’s speech. “But I love him...Max, I mean,” she stammered.

  “Do you?” Sibylle asked. She sighed lightly. “I suspected as much, but... Ah, well. I wish you happiness. I think you will be good for him,” she added, as if that was some sort of consolation for the cruelty of her previous words. “Write to me in Paris, won’t you?” the lady asked, and suddenly Charlotte was engulfed in a cloud of expensive perfume as Sibylle leaned close and brushed a soft cheek against her own.

  Charlotte stood back, watching in bafflement as Sibylle gracefully moved away in a swirl of silk, more intent upon the social whirl of Paris than the happenings within her family. With no little wonder, Charlotte realized that she had just received a kiss from the woman who was to become her mother.

  The thought made Charlotte long for her own home, where meals were lively, affectionate affairs that did not seethe with dark undercurrents. Despite the inevitable quarreling, her relatives truly loved one another, and kisses were frequent and genuine, especially the great smacks on the lips that Jenny so ingenuously delivered. Charlotte realized that she wanted one right now. And she wouldn’t even care if the child was sticky with sweets.

  * * *

  They journeyed home immediately, spending much of their time alone together in the elegant Wycliffe coach. Although Charlotte’s new maid was ostensibly acting as chaperone in Sybille’s absence, the good woman was usually shunted to one of the other vehicles that made up Max’s retinue.

  Charlotte approved of the arrangements wholeheartedly, for she enjoyed the opportunity to spend so much time with the busy earl. Max often propped his feet up on the opposite seat as they discussed some salient point of Euripides, or sometimes Charlotte curled up against his shoulder, resting as comfortably as she had expected she would against his tall, hard frame.

  Max, she discovered, was the most wonderful of traveling companions. Intelligent, well spoken and wryly amusing, he kept her entertained even during the long silences, for then she would simply gaze at him, admiring his handsome features to her heart’s content. He was invariably polite and, for one usually so focused upon himself, he surprised her with his thoughtfulness.

  He did not, however, touch her.

  Not since the amazing morning in his bed had the man so much as kissed her, and Charlotte was a bit dismayed by this display of restraint. She suspected that his rigid set of rules about honor held him in check, but she was disappointed to find he could return so easily to the guise of the dutiful earl.

  She wondered if he would take his husbandly duties as seriously as he did all others, and the thought made her tremble with anticipation. Of course, she could have pressed the issue. Sometimes Charlotte imagined what he would do should she put her arms around him or slide her hands over his elegantly dressed body, but she knew Max enough to respect his wishes—just as long as he did not plan a lengthy engagement.

  Charlotte still found it hard to believe that he was to marry her, and since it all had come about so quickly, she was a bit bewildered as to his reasons. He had offered for her before their passionate interlude, so she knew he had not spoken out of guilt. However, she was just as sure that he did not love her.

  In truth, Charlotte feared that he had proposed simply because he knew she did not want Viscount Linley, and the thought tugged at her happiness. She did not want to be married out of pity or expedience or any other altruistic motive.

  She wanted Max’s affection, and she prayed that he had some feeling for her that had precipitated his actions. Obviously, something had swayed him strongly enough to override his objections to her background, for Charlotte knew that he held her lineage in contempt. A vicar’s daughter good enough for the Earl of Wycliffe? Never! And yet, he was marrying her.

  It all was a bit baffling, but Charlotte was loath to question her good fortune. She would love him enough for both of them, she swore to herself, though she had said nothing of her feelings so far. A man like Max was sure to scoff at such tender emotions. Romance, being not readily identifiable nor easily set to a schedule, was, she suspected, beyond his ken.

  * * *

  Their arrival in Sussex was met with a deal more interest than their departure from London. The moment the elaborate Wycliffe coach with its gilt coat of arms approached Upper Bidwell, they were hailed, everyone apparently agog with the news of the vicar’s daughter’s triumphant return. Heads stuck out of windows, hands were waved, and neighbors came to stand outside their doors just to have a look.

  Charlotte wanted to stick her head out the carriage window and wave back, but she could see from Max’s face that it would be an affront to his dignity. Since she had caused him to lose his composure often enough already, she restrained herself and gave him a warm smile instead. When he appeared to visibly relax, she had to look down and bite her lip to avoid laughing.

  Their reception at the vicarage was quite another thing entirely. The vehicle had not even stopped before Charlotte could hear youthful shouts emitting from the building. She glanced at Max to gauge his reaction, but he seemed pleased by the excitement. She could see the corners of his mouth twitching, and then, with heart-stopping suddenness, she realized that he was glad to be home.

  Oh, Max, I love you, Charlotte thought. She wanted to shout it and throw herself into his arms, but he was helping her down to stand before her old home, and greetings were erupting from the doorway.

  “Charlotte! Charlotte!”

  “Lord Wycliffe!”

  The sounds of the girls’ more restrained feminine voices mixed with the boys’ whoops as
they all tumbled out of the house. Carrie and Jane rushed up to hug and kiss their sister, while the boys chattered at Max, interrupting each other in an unintelligible babble of questions and comments.

  Ignoring the defection of the older boys, Charlotte grabbed Kit, who was deftly weaving among the others, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He looked a bit put out by such a loving gesture, but he positively preened when Max reached down to tousle his hair in a friendly manner. Charlotte noted the byplay with approval, for she did not begrudge Max his popularity. He seemed so much more...human among the children than he had in the glittering world of London that she wished they could stay here forever.

  “My lord! My lord!” They all turned to watch as Jenny came running down the walk, her face shining as brightly as her yellow curls. Without a moment’s hesitation, the littlest Trowbridge threw herself at the Earl of Wycliffe, and he swung her up in his arms, suffering her to strangle him with her tight grip about his neck. She gave him a loud kiss and then turned to them all. “My lord,” she announced.

  The siblings laughed and all started talking at once while Charlotte caught Max’s gaze over their heads. She felt an unaccountable pressure behind her eyes when she looked in his fathomless brown ones. They were wide with chagrin and wonder and...a need that was buried so deeply that for a moment she did not even recognize it. When she did, she blinked at him in surprise and blamed herself. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

  The Earl of Wycliffe, with his ordered, responsible life and his important meetings and schedules, desperately craved affection.

  The knowledge both stunned her and moved her to action. Although he glanced away to answer a question from Kit, Charlotte kept her attention focused on him as she made her way through the group to his side. Then she placed a trembling hand on his arm and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “I love you, Max.”

  The startled look he sent her was followed by a smile such as she had never seen from him. His full lips curved up in a grin of pure, unadulterated pleasure, with a bit of male smugness thrown in.

  “I love you, Charlotte,” said a small voice. Jenny, not to be outdone, was looking at her solemnly over Max’s shoulder.

  “I love you, too, pumpkin,” Charlotte said, tweaking the girl’s nose and eliciting a shriek that made her wriggle in Max’s arms. Laughing gaily, Charlotte was pulled away by Jane to see her efforts in the garden. She was appropriately impressed by the roses and honeysuckles and tall hollyhocks that were standing free of rambling weeds that had once choked the beds.

  “It is truly wonderful, Jane. You have wrought a miracle!” she added, giving her sister another hug. Then she heard Max’s voice ring out above the babble of the children.

  “Thomas, James, cease your squabbling. I have a present for each of you,” he said.

  His words made Charlotte turn toward him. She stopped at the corner of the house to watch as he tried to impose some order on the mob that surrounded him.

  “You may notice the two handsome animals that are following the second coach—”

  “A matched pair of bays!” Thomas interjected.

  “For us? You cannot mean it!” James breathed, his face a study in awe and amazement.

  “Yes, for you, but you shall have to keep them up at the Great House, since you have no stable here,” Max said. Horses for the boys? He had said nothing to her. The thoughtful gesture made Charlotte’s heart melt in its cavity. “Do not look so disappointed, Kit. I have brought presents for all of you, but you must wait your turn.”

  “Charlotte.” The sound of her father’s voice brought Charlotte out of the dreamy euphoria in which she was drifting. She blinked back the liquid that had somehow formed in her eyes and stepped into her papa’s arms.

  He hugged her close, and Charlotte felt the love that he gave so freely close around her like a welcoming cocoon. “Oh, Papa, it is so good to be home,” she whispered. “I did not realize how much I would miss all of you.”

  The vicar smiled gently. “I am glad that you have returned to us unspoiled by the gaiety of London,” he said. “And how can I complain about losing my second daughter when you shall be so close to us?” he asked, glancing toward Casterleigh, whose chimneys could be seen over the crest of the hill. He entwined her arm with his and patted her hand. “God certainly works in wonderful ways.”

  Although he spoke not a word of rebuke, the children parted for him, enabling him to walk to Max. “Lord Wycliffe,” he said, with a friendly smile. Max was more than gracious, as though he genuinely liked her papa—and all of them, Charlotte thought dizzily. The girls were already rushing inside, giggling under their burden of hatboxes and other parcels. Obviously, Max had chosen their gifts well.

  “Papa! Papa!” Kit was fairly dancing around their feet. “Lord Wycliffe has a pony for me!”

  “Oh, my lord, you shall spoil them,” the vicar chided.

  “Shall I?” Maximilian asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That was certainly my intent!”

  They all laughed, and Papa turned his teasing eyes upon Charlotte. “See what kind of a father your betrothed will make, Charlotte,” he warned. “Lord Wycliffe will be forever spoiling the children, while you shall have to mete out the discipline.” The vicar gave Maximilian a broad wink, and Charlotte blushed. If her father only knew how close they had come to creating a child between them already, he would find no jest in the matter, she thought.

  Then, suddenly, Charlotte realized that her father had spoken of Max as her future husband, but how had he known? She glanced sharply at the earl, deciding that he must have sent a messenger on ahead to apprise her father of the change in circumstances. If her father found the abrupt switch from Viscount Linley to the earl himself unusual, he did not let on. In fact, he seemed immensely pleased with her choice.

  As if to confirm her thoughts, her papa turned around. “I would say congratulations are in order to our happy young couple!”

  “Yes, Papa!” was followed by a chorus of well wishes, and soon the group was surrounding them again, dragging them inside for a celebration of sorts.

  There her father toasted the betrothal with a glass of Sarah’s homemade wine. Although Charlotte eyed him warily, Max, God bless him, did not bat an eye as he drank down the sweet brew. He was, she realized, making the transition from London to Sussex far more easily than she could ever have credited. Smiling happily, she found herself clinging to him and squeezing his arm tightly, as though he might evaporate like a figment of her girlish dreams.

  The evening was a busy one, and Charlotte had no time to speak to her father alone. Sarah and Alf joined the party, and preparations for the wedding were launched. The date was set for two weeks’ time, sending the ladies into a frenzy of activity, and somehow, something always prevented Charlotte from broaching the subject of Viscount Linley, a subject which, in any event, she really did not care to discuss. She assumed that Max had refused the Viscount’s suit, but whenever she thought to ask him about it, she was diverted. And so the matter was forgotten.

  * * *

  The days until the wedding seemed to fly. Suddenly, the ceremony was but a night away, and Charlotte was tucking in the children, urging them to get their sleep before the morrow. Sarah, whispering gently in her low voice, blew out the lamp, and they filed down the narrow steps together, as they so often had in the past.

  Papa and Alf were waiting in the parlor, but Sarah drew her toward the kitchen, where they sat companionably, each with a glass of cool milk from the cellar. Charlotte eyed the simple drink with a smile, for she imagined Max was probably being served a glass of brandy by one of the innumerable servants up at the Great House.

  “Charlotte.” The tone of Sarah’s voice immediately dragged Charlotte from her thoughts. Sarah was seated across from her with a rather grim expression on her face, heralding what, Charlotte did not know. Surely Sarah did not intend to express misgivings about Max at this late date?

  Sarah seemed to cling to her healthy suspi
cion for the nobility, as though they were a breed apart, of some derivation than other men. And the Great House with all its trappings was so remote from Sarah’s expectations that she could not understand how her sister could plan to live there. Charlotte did not have the heart to inform her that Max considered Casterleigh nothing more than a small holding.

  “Please do not worry about me, Sarah. I know that Wycliffe’s wealth is intimidating, but if you had seen the houses in London, enormous places full of glitter and pomp, gilt dishes and golden spoons and...” She stopped when she noticed Sarah was eyeing her with no little skepticism.

  “Believe me, Sarah, all the fripperies there did not make the people any happier than our neighbors in Upper Bidwell. And, as strange as it would seem, I think the earl would much rather be here with us than dashing from one crush to another as his calendar dictated.” Charlotte leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Do not breath a word of this to anyone, but...I think Max was a very lonely man.”

  Sarah stared, as if stunned by her confidences, before finally smiling slowly. “I will not worry about you, Charlotte,” she said. “I admit that I was wrong about the earl. There were so many differences between you two that I thought it was impossible, but I should have known that impossible is not a word you recognize!”

  Love and admiration glowed in the glance Sarah sent her, taking the sting from what might have been a scold. “In the past two weeks, I have seen the earl watching you, and it is obvious that he loves you...very intensely.” Sarah drew in a breath. “I know he will take fine care of you, but, in truth, that is not what I wished to discuss.”

  She paused to look down at her milk, and Charlotte realized that Sarah, dear, solid Sarah, was turning pink. Since nothing, but nothing, daunted the eldest Trowbridge, Charlotte sat up straighter and fixed her attention keenly upon her sister.

  “Charlotte,” Sarah began. Then she cleared her throat. “Mama is not here, so it falls to me to...speak with you regarding a wife’s obligations to her husband.”