1794_Charlotte

by Karen Hawkins

  She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. Goaded by his flat expression, she said, “Fine. A week then. It’s good it will take that long, for I’ve much to do. Far too much to come back here. I’ve a fitting tomorrow for my trousseau, and—and I’ve lunch with the vicar’s wife, and that’s just the beginning. I’ve got many, many other things – important things—on my calendar.”

  His expression had tightened as she spoke, and now his voice was cutting and cold. “We are both busy, it seems. Too busy to make a mistake like this again.”

  A mistake. Her eyes grew hot and her eyelids prickled. “Exactly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your work.” With a stiff curtsey, she swept out into the miserable sunshine, biting the inside of her lip to keep her tears at bay. It wasn’t until she reached the house that she realized that, in addition to her pride, she’d also left the moonstone behind.

  Chapter 7

  The meeting with the dressmaker was as unpleasant as Charlotte had expected. Madame Guillemot was a thin, gaunt woman with a heavy, questionable French accent and a militaristic approach to fittings that would have made a general proud. Madame, ever punctual, arrived exactly on time with a retinue of harried looking assistants, young women who wore the same expressions as hunted deer. In addition to her harried servants, the modiste also brought twelve partially finished gowns, six pairs of new shoes, ten chemises made of spider-web fine lawn, numerous stockings and bonnets, hats and cloaks, and a dozen sheer night rails with matching peignoirs.

  Overwhelmed by the rustle of lush silks and heavy brocades, Charlotte winced to think of the outrageous sums Mama was paying. The thought made Charlotte all the more determined to do her duty by the fitting, even though she’d have preferred to have a nail driven into her foot.

  It didn’t help that a few moments into the ordeal, Aunt Verity had whispered far too loudly that she rather thought Madame’s accent was fake, for she sometimes forgot it all together. Thus, Madame was in a far from charitable mood when the time came for Charlotte to try on some of the more sumptuous ball gowns. The modiste tugged and pinned, poked and prodded, and repeatedly hissed, “Stand still!” until Charlotte was ready to scream.

  She was relieved when Aunt Verity decided she’d finally had enough and told the woman that if she couldn’t work with the fittings she had, then they would hire someone who knew how to use their time more efficiently. True to her charade, Madame had flown into a raging Gallic tirade where she’d brashly called Aunt Verity ‘out of fashion.’

  Up until then, Aunt Verity had seemed half asleep, but Charlotte soon discovered that her aunt did not suffer insults lightly. The second Madame paused for breath, Aunt Verity had answered, calling Madame every name in the book but polite. But as Verity had spun her tirade in pure, perfectly spoken French, Madame couldn’t retort, for her atrocious accent and lack of vocabulary would have unmasked her.

  The only thing Madame could do was retreat. Fuming, Madame had taken out her fury on her harried assistants, snapping at them until everything was packed back into their bandboxes and cloth sheaths. The assistants, their arms piled so high that they could barely see where they were going, hurried from the room while Madame, ever the actress, paused dramatically on the threshold. “Make no mistake; I will be writing to Mrs. Harrington about this outrage!”

  “There’s no need.” Aunt Verity hid a yawn behind her plump hand. “Olivia will be home before a letter could reach her even if you knew where to address it.”

  Madame gasped, her mouth opening and closing like a fish thrown onto land. After a horrified moment, she spun on her heel and marched out.

  Charlotte turned an admiring gaze on her aunt. “That was masterful.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Aunt Verity hooked a foot around the leg of a tasseled stool and pulled it closer. “I have no patience with pretenders, which is odd when you think of the fact I was once married to a fake baron.”

  “Uncle Albert wasn’t a real baron?”

  “Lud, no.” Aunt Verity paused to kick off her slippers before she plopped her feet on the footstool, settling deeper into the settee. “My second husband was quite a charlatan, but he was charming, which goes a long way to making the unacceptable acceptable.”

  “But why did he lie about being a baron? Mama said he was quite well off.”

  “He was wealthy; he wasn’t pretending about that. He just didn’t inherit it as his father was a tailor.”

  “Where did Uncle Albert’s money come from?”

  Aunt Verity pursed her lips. “I don’t know. We never really discussed it.”

  Charlotte burst out laughing. “Aunt Verity, you are the strangest creature! Did you know Uncle Albert wasn’t a real baron when you married him?”

  “Oh no. I didn’t find out until a few months afterwards. But he was still the same man I’d married – funny, loving, charming. And then there was the money. You can’t ignore that.” Aunt Verity tugged her shawl a bit closer around her shoulders. “I loved him, you know. And he was mad about me. It’s a falsehood to think that you can live with a person for years and know everything about them. Love never stops surprising.”

  “Mama knows everything about Papa.”

  Aunt Verity laughed. “Child, if you only knew! And don’t ask me to tell you, for I will not. Your father would ring such a thundering scold over my head—” She shuddered. “Oh dear, I feel the need for some tea. Should I ring for it?”

  “Yes, please.” Charlotte wished Aunt Verity would tell her more about Papa. Charlotte had always suspected there was a great deal she didn’t know about her father. He had the air of a man of mystery, even now.

  Aunt Verity picked up the small silver bell that rested on the table beside the settee and rang it.

  The door opened immediately, and a footman entered.

  “Ah, Johnson! I know it’s not yet tea time, but Miss Harrington and I just had a ghastly visit from a faux Frenchwoman and now we find ourselves in need of sustenance.”

  “I will bring a tea tray immediately, my lady.”

  “I knew there was a reason you have become my favorite footman. That would be lovely, Johnson. Thank you.”

  Smiling, he bowed and left.

  Charlotte eyed her aunt. “You are trying to steal him, as well, aren’t you?”

  “I’m trying. Sadly, your servants are very loyal. You should be glad to know that.”

  Tea was brought in short order. Charlotte sent the footman on his way and poured the tea herself while Aunt Verity pulled herself into a more upright position on the settee.

  Charlotte put two lumps of sugar into her aunt’s tea and stirred it, the silver spoon clicking against the side of the cup.

  Aunt Verity smothered a yawn. “Lud, but I am exhausted after that fitting.”

  “Me, too.” She handed Aunt Verity her tea cup. “Every time Madame visits, I feel like a pincushion.”

  Aunt Verity sipped her tea, watching Charlotte over the rim. “Once the trousseau is done, you’ll be one step closer to the wedding.”

  Charlotte picked up her cup of tea, ignoring her sinking heart. “Much closer.” To be honest, ever since she’d left Marco in his workshop yesterday, she hadn’t been able to muster enthusiasm for anything – not food nor sleep, but especially not thoughts of getting married. She was bound up in emotional knots, and she didn’t know why. Was it merely doubts because of Robert’s inattention? Or was it because she feared – no, she knew – she was developing a deep interest in Marco?

  She caught Aunt Verity’s sharp gaze and forced a polite smile. “My parents have been very kind in providing such a lovely trousseau. It’s more than I expected.”

  “La, child. Your father can stand the nonsense. He’s been very fortunate in his investments.”

  “Mama is quite proud of him for adding so much to the Nimway coffers. As much as she loves this house, it’s expensive.”

  “Old houses are like men. They are going to cost you, one way or another, especially the
ones worth keeping.”

  “True,” Charlotte couldn’t keep the sour note from her voice. In a remarkably short time, Marco had already cost her hours of sleep, a measure of her pride, and . . . well, other things, although right now she couldn’t think of them.

  Aunt Verity’s gaze moved over Charlotte’s face. “My dear, is something bothering you? You’ve been as blue as a megrim all day.”

  “I’m fine. There’s just a lot going on right now and everything seems so complicated. When I agreed to marry Robert, I didn’t realize it would be such a huge endeavor. I wanted a simple wedding, just enough to distract Mama.”

  Aunt Verity, who’d been in the process of putting a teacake on her plate, looked up and frowned. “Are you saying you’re getting married just to give your mother a project of some sort?”

  “Of course not, although I would be lying if I didn’t point out that it has helped her. Between planning my wedding and redecorating, she’s stayed busy and is much happier than she was in the weeks after Caroline died.”

  “Hm. Tell me, child, what are your plans after your wedding?” Aunt Verity ate a bite of cake, her sleepy gaze never moving from Charlotte’s face.

  Charlotte opened and then closed her mouth. What would happen after the wedding? Good God, I hadn’t thought of that. Not really. She considered it a moment. “I suppose I’m to live with Robert in his home in London.”

  “I thought you weren’t fond of the city. When I sponsored you and Caroline for your seasons, you said the city smelled of old eggs, and the people were cold and unfriendly, both valid observations, I should add.”

  Charlotte winced. “Did I say that?”

  “You and Caroline said it.” Aunt Verity looked regretfully at her empty plate. “Repeatedly.”

  “That’s horrid. You should have smacked us for being so ungrateful.”

  “You were merely being honest. The streets of London smell horrid, some worse than others, and the people can be quite cold and unfriendly, especially if they think they are superior in some way.” Aunt Verity put her empty plate on the table and reclaimed her tea cup and saucer. “But we were talking about your coming marriage, not your unfortunate season.”

  Charlotte laughed. “It was an unfortunate season, wasn’t it?” Two years ago, when she and Caroline had been seventeen, Aunt Verity had sponsored her and Caroline for their first – and what turned out to be – their only season. They’d been presented at court and had attended a whirlwind of balls and dinner parties. They’d met dozens of eligible men, all of whom were madly in love with Caroline and painfully polite to Charlotte. “I never understood why Caroline demanded to end our stay in London and return home when she did.”

  “And after only three months! She was the bell of the season, too, a position most girls that age would die for.” Aunt Verity lowered her teacup. “Charlotte, did you know your sister received no less than three proposals in the short time you were in London?”

  “What?”

  Aunt Verity muttered something under her breath. “I vow, but I must have told them a hundred times that you deserved to know.”

  “Them? My mother and father?”

  “And Caroline. They feared you’d feel slighted.”

  “I wouldn’t have. I’d have been happy for her.”

  “Of course you would have been. You don’t have a selfish bone in your body.”

  A flicker of irritation made Charlotte say rather sharply, “They are always trying to protect me, and it’s not necessary.”

  “True. You do quite well for yourself. Neither you nor Caroline ever lacked for strength of character. She could be quite opinionated, although in a polite, modest-seeming way.”

  “Papa always said she was quietly stubborn, while I was loudly stubborn.”

  “A very good description.” Aunt Verity pursed her lips. “You know, I was surprised Caroline didn’t accept any of her suitors, for they were all wealthy, well born, and of the peerage. One of them is now a duke. But she turned them all down.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Caroline never told me.” How had she kept such a thing secret? “Perhaps that explains why she wished to return home so suddenly. Perhaps it became too much.”

  “She didn’t ‘wish’ to return home. She demanded it.”

  “Oh, I remember,” Charlotte said with a smile. “She refused to attend another event. Mama was quite unhappy about it.”

  “I always thought your sister would have enjoyed her season more if she’d had a little less success. I believe at times she felt like a rabbit in the middle of a pack of hungry wolves.” Aunt Verity sighed and looked around the room. “Your sister loved this house. She glowed whenever she spoke about it.”

  “It made her so happy. The week before Caroline died, she awoke me in the middle of the night. She’d had a bad dream that she’d left Nimway and couldn’t find her way back. She was shaking and teary, and I let her sleep in my bed. In the morning, she was much better, but she seemed sad after that. As if the dream lingered.”

  “Poor dear. And then a week later, in the middle of the night, she packs a bandbox and rides off to do God knows what, only to meet a tragic end. None of it makes sense.” Aunt Verity sighed. “I wish we might find your sister’s diary. It would answer so many questions.”

  “We’ve looked everywhere for it, but there’s no trace of it.” Charlotte looked out the window where the sunshine glittered on the surface of Myrrdin Lake. The lawn waved in the breeze, colorful flowers nodding from where they’d been planted around the water’s edge. Beyond the lake, the harvest gold field rippled as if a giant’s hand gently stroked the bobbing heads of grain. Meanwhile, in the distance sat mysterious and beckoning Balesboro Wood. It was so beautiful here at Nimway, the only home she’d ever known. Caroline, why were you leaving? And without a word, too. I don’t understand.

  “Do you know else what I wonder about?” Aunt Verity helped herself to another tea cake. “Caroline had to know she’d receive offers while in London. I mean, that is the purpose of a season, so why did she find that very thing so taxing that it sent her running home?”

  “Perhaps she just wanted the fun of visiting London, and going to balls, and seeing the sights, and – well, all of it. At first, she enjoyed herself so much. She met interesting people, saw the theater and the park, and danced until her feet hurt.” Charlotte smiled. “Robert once escorted us to a ball and even though he was standing with us in the receiving line, he didn’t get one dance with her as she was mobbed the second she set foot in the ballroom. He was quite miffed about that.”

  “He’s a good dancer.”

  “He is, indeed. I should know, for I danced with him at every event. My dance card wasn’t as full and he was very kind.” He’s a good man. I know that and should remember it. Yes, he’s a horrid correspondent, but not everyone takes to the pen. But that doesn’t make him a poor choice for a husband, does it?

  She stirred restlessly, pouring herself more tea even though her cup was still nearly full. At one time, she’d thought being ‘kind’ was enough of a reason to marry someone. But was it? If Robert was indeed the man she should be with, why did she kept finding herself in Marco’s company? She bit her lip, thinking of the simple, platonic kiss on the cheek she’d given him which had turned into something much, much more. Something heated. Now that her pride had healed a bit, she knew he’d been right to send her away. They could not be alone.

  But shouldn’t she feel wanton desire when she thought about Robert? Wasn’t that a part of marriage? All they had was friendship, and she feared it wasn’t enough to carry a marriage through the years.

  “You’re thinking of Robert, I can tell, for you’ve lost every vestige of your smile.” Aunt Verity set her half-eaten tea cake aside. “Your Mama would not approve of what I’m about to say, but I cannot leave it unsaid. I’ve been married a number of times. Five, if you’re counting. Four, if you’re not. That makes me an expert on the subject of marriage. If you’ve any doubts abo
ut this marriage, then say so. Your parents might be shocked at first, but they would understand, and – from what little I know of Robert – so would he. He’s always seemed a most pleasant man.”

  “He’s a good person.” Charlotte gave rueful smile. “Too good for me, I sometimes think.”

  “Nonsense. Although to be honest, I was surprised when your Mama told me he’d offered for you. Not because I don’t think you’re beautiful, because you are, but because after Christmas the year before last, I was certain he was—Oh my!” Aunt Verity’s gaze, which had absently followed a streak of sunlight to one of the large windows, was now locked on some distant point outside.

  She blinked. Once. Twice.

  She flushed as she slowly stood, her hand stealing to her throat. “That’s . . . oh dear.”

  What on earth? Charlotte stood, too. Still holding her cup of tea, she leaned to one side and peered around her aunt to see what was so intriguing.

  There, walking along the path from the lake to the stables was Marco. He’d apparently gone for a swim, for his hair was wet, his white shirt – usually so loose – clung to his wet shoulders and broad, muscular chest. The sleeves were rolled back to his elbows, his powerful arms visible even from this distance. The sunshine lingered on him, outlining every well-defined muscle, the breadth of his shoulders, and the tight line of his stomach. Beads of lake water glistened as he reached up to rake back his wet hair, his muscles on fine display.

  Charlotte’s mouth was suddenly dry, and she absently lifted her cup to her lips but forgot to drink. He looked so—

  Aunt Verity whirled to face her. “No!”

  Charlotte blinked. “What?”

  “You cannot look at that! And I, as your chaperone, will not allow you to!” Aunt Verity leapt between Charlotte and the window with a rustle of silk, holding her arms out in an effort to block the view. “Stop looking! Why, if your mother knew you’d seen that, she’d be furious with me.”