“I call upon a friend,” Charlie said after he gained the settee. “I had met Lady Willa at Viscount and Viscountess Courtland’s home in May and thought I would present myself.”
“Courtesy, is it?” the earl pressed. A shrewd light dawned in her father’s eyes which put her on guard. Had he known Charlie Compton was the Courtlands’ vicar? Since when? And if he had, he didn’t like it. Furthermore, she suspected that he planned some move. What was it?
She shivered.
Charlie acknowledged him with a nod. “Indeed, sir.”
“Reverend Compton and I struck up a friendship while I was at the May Day Frolic and he is most kind to come to see me.” She was in a rush to declare their relationship. But in the telling, could she possibly have been more bland? Why not just stand up and shout that he was here to hold her hand and embrace her and kiss her?
“I see. Well. Do tell me how you find your work with your parishioners. Fulfilling?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any problems?”
“With what, sir?” Charlie blinked as if he played the vicar who is much too superficial and slightly dim.
Wills threw him a frown.
He cocked a brow at her.
Her Papa pulled at the points of his waistcoat and said, “Dunno. Got any n’er do wells or drunks? Women with no morals? That sort.”
“No parish is without those who need a clergyman’s guidance.”
“And you offer it.”
“I do.”
“Like it better than soldiering?”
Dear heavens. Papa also knew Charlie had been in the army. Why should she be surprised? The upper hundred knew far too much about each other. They should be improving the lot of their tenants and their employees rather than learning gossip.
“Soldiering,” Charlie said with a certain sourness, “has its own challenges. Men fearful, bleeding, dying, mad with…” He cleared his throat. Anger ripe upon his cheeks, he said, “Sir, the friend I came to call upon is Lady Willa.”
“I thought as much.” The earl had a smile of pride that quickly faded.
“I’m here to ask you to bless my proposal for her hand in marriage.”
Wills was on her feet.
Charlie was on his. Taking her hand.
And she was tempted, so tempted to throw herself into his arms and kiss his marvelous lips. “Oh, Charlie.”
“Has he asked you, Willa?” Her papa still held his place in his chair.
“No, sir.” She adored Charlie’s darling green eyes.
“What can you give her, Compton?”
Charlie smiled at her with a fervor she yearned to keep forever on his handsome face. “From my father, two thousand a year to live on and use of his house in Hanover Square. Later, perhaps, if I want the appointment, the bishop tells me he has marked me for elevation.”
Willa stared at him. Her Charles Compton was a man to admire. To cherish. He had more than status from his father, he had built his own reputation in the army, as his father’s temporary steward and now in the Church, too. He had improved himself. By his own hand. He was a man to love.
Her father huffed. “Your Papa is generous.”
“I have earned it, sir.”
“And your bishop kind.”
Charlie stared at the man, anger lining his lip. “I do work, sir, for whatever I gain, from whomever I serve.”
“Two thousand is sad, sir. Sad.”
Willa gasped at the insult. Swinging around, she glared at her father.
Charlie tightened his hold on her one hand.
“Compared to how our girl lives here?” Her father extended his hand to indicate the room. “Pitiful.”
“Papa, you are rude!”
Charlie circled an arm around her waist and held her fast to his side. “I love her, sir. And she…” He examined her features with the tenderness of a suitor. “She cares for me. But has not declared herself. I have worked to make it possible that you would come to me, my dear, and live well. I do love you. Will you marry me, Wills?”
This proposal was so unlike the other two. She wanted this man. Admired this man. For good reasons. He was brave, loyal, patriotic, prudent, honest, tender, loving. Oh, there could be no man to compare. Yes, she did love him.
“She refuses, Compton.” Her father was on his feet. “Refuses.”
Then he strode out and left them both there, staring after him.
Shaking, she turned to Charlie. “Oh, that was hideous of him. I would apologize for him but he has utterly outraged me. And you.” She cupped his cheeks. Sorrow eating at her, she began to shake and could not stop her sobs. “Oh, my darling Charlie.”
He brushed away her tears with his thumbs. “I care only for you, sweet Wills.”
“I shall reprimand him. Unconscionable of him to be so bold. He would not stand for it in me. Why do it himself?”
“Because often we cannot honor our own ethics when we see our world crumbling about us.” He cradled her close and put his lips to her forehead. “I need an answer from you, Wills.”
Torn between her love for him and what little was left of her loyalty to her father, she balked. Dear heavens. She also had the plans of her new alternative future to consider. What a mess she had before her. “I cannot…cannot commit to you now.”
He shuddered and pulled her so near their bodies aligned as they always had before. “Tell me why.”
Too many reasons stood in the way now of marriage. It was as if they had multiplied. “He is so opposed to it. That hurts me. His manner too. How can he be so ignoble, so rude? I always knew he and your father were politically opposed, but I thought that public policy, not private.”
“I must tell you that my father is not opposed to our match. He accepts whatever I want because it is what I want.” He trailed a finger down her cheek. “You must know that your father’s logic stands on shaking ground. Our marriage would not change the course of legislation in this country.”
She shook her head, her tears dry upon her cheeks. “Stubborn—childish—of him to think it, I know.”
“And while he will not likely approve of my manner of it, I have worked to improve my standing and my income.”
This she had seen over the past few months as she read the Edinburgh Review. “Your articles appear with more frequency. Members of Parliament quote you.”
“And to my surprise, my bishop approves of the improvements I promote. I’ve written to you of my work for my father to improve crop yields on the estate. He pays me well. And that includes a gift of use of his house in Hanover Square. I am not rich, darling. Will never be. But I can provide well for you. Honorably.”
“And it might be possible for me to marry you if I didn’t think you’d fall ill or suffer an accident—” And if I had not committed myself to this position in Brighton.
He took her by the shoulders and dug his fingers into her flesh. “You will not kill me.”
She gazed at his charming face with sorrow swimming in her heart. How to impress upon him her inability to marry him now. “You cannot be certain. Cannot predict.”
He exhaled in exasperation. “I told you I would find a way to prove to you that you would not kill me. This is that way.” He stepped backwards, his arms lax at his sides. “I will leave you now. I expect to see you at the end of the month at the Courtlands’ house party. There you will see me and have even more proof.”
“I don’t know what that could possibly be.”
“God works in His own ways.”
She considered the pattern on the Turkey rug.
He exhaled and beneath his breath, gave a groan of displeasure. “Very well. Still determined, eh? So then, before I go, I want you to promise me something.”
Her throat clogged with tears again, but she would grant him this favor. “Yes. What?”
“When you decide that this curse of yours is a hoax, I expect you to come to me and propose marriage.”
That would happen when pigs flew. Her father would
disown her, though at the moment, she could not care so much of that. Her new employer would not be happy to lose her, though what could she do if she never appeared?
“Promise me,” he insisted.
She shook her head. “Oh, Charlie, how can I do that?”
He took her in his arms. “Promise me, my darling Wills.”
She raised her face. She had to talk him out of this. “I never promise lightly.”
“I didn’t think so.” He thumbed the edge of her lower lip. “Promise me.”
“It may never happen.”
In his eyes, laughter combined with certitude. “But it could. So promise me.”
And she did.
Miss Esme Harvey
Courtland Hall, Wiltshire
April 26, 1816
Dearest Wills,
I am in receipt of your letter to me of yesterday. Oh, my dear friend, I urge you to attend my wedding to the Marquess of Northington next week and our family May Day Frolic!
Your news that your father demands you wed before your next birthday in January also adds an unsettling aspect to your future, I agree. His further stipulation that you marry one who will bring him political alliance with those of his own persuasion poses a vexing detail to a complicated project. Family importance is of value to your father. But what price do you pay for your papa’s political prowess if you spend your hours—and your years—with one who makes you miserable?
A brief flirtation—as I now serve as example—can indeed engender greater affections. My fiancé and I met by accident in a dark sitting room where I had escaped (alone, champagne in hand) the tedium of men who simpered over me. All for my money, of course. (So tiresome!)
I do beg you to come to the May Day Frolic. You love it so. Each year you’ve found something new to adore. The mummers. The music. This year, perhaps, you will find another man who enchants you. Mama has made a point to invite many new guests. What with the war over, we have so many eligible gentlemen in want of good entertainment—and fine ladies to court.
I do understand your wish not to see our dear vicar once more. What happened between you and Charlie last year was unexpected. Yet despite all, you called it delightful. Your moments together did inspire your faith that you could attract a man who set your heart aflutter. Then too if Charlie’s kisses also swept away that belief in your awful curse, all the better.
Moreover, you write that in this past year you have not found another to compare to him. Does that not speak to the issue louder than any words I can write here?
Our Reverend Charles Compton is a charming man. You cannot deny it. Mama adores him, his humor and his devotion to our tenants and neighbors. Papa declares he brings a bit of youth and boldness to his sermons. Our tenants think him comforting. But he has taken a contemplative turn. Since early April when he returned from a trip to a mysterious destination, I find him sitting alone outside his little vicarage in the Grecian folly and the expression on his face is one of utter madness. I fear for him. I have tried to lure him from this dark wee hour of his soul. But I tell you truly, only when I speak of you, do I see his expression brighten. Whatever you were to each other, he becomes a different man whenever your name is mentioned.
He needs you, Wills. He needs your friendship to sit with him and talk and laugh. He needs you to show him the finest elements of humanity. Friendship, solace, communion of like minds are what he needs. I conclude that only you can bring that to him.
So then, what will you gain from your attendance at my wedding to Northington? You will renew your faith in yourself as a woman who does inspire friendship and love.
Please come to my wedding, Wills. Charlie needs you. I need you, too, more than I have told you here.
With great love for your undying friendship,
Esme
* * *
April 27, 1816
De Courcy Manor
Hampshire
Wills cast another glance at the Brighton Gazette upon the table. The announcement of Esme’s wedding in that newspaper stirred her blood.
BRIGHTON GAZETTE, Friday 27 April 1816
A special license has been obtained for the marriage of Miss Esme Harvey to the
Marquess of Northington, which is to take place next week.
Lord and Lady Courtland happily welcome a large party of relatives and friends to their annual May Day Frolic to commence Tuesday, April 30, at their home Courtland Hall, Wiltshire. Festivities begin with the Courtlands’ annual May Pole Frolic, May 1, their May Day Ball to follow that evening. The next morning they present their only daughter, Miss Esme Harvey in marriage to her intended, the Marquess of Northington in the chapel of St. Andrew’s.
Nine o’clock. Rev. Charles Compton, Vicar, presiding.
As this day is also that of the joyous celebration of the wedding of our gracious lady, Her Royal Highness, the Princess Charlotte of Wales to Leopold, Prince of Saxe-Cobourg, Lord and Lady Courtland present a wedding breakfast in the house for their guests consisting of every delicacy, and a general Cold Collation, Tea, Coffee, Ices, and Etc.
Those in the parish are welcome. Public service will be laid on the lawn at eleven o’clock.
Wills wanted to go. Badly. News of Charlie sad and in despair drove her desire to attend to frenzy. She crushed Esme’s letter and tucked it into her skirt pocket. What was she to do? Go? See Charlie again? Stir the sorrow once more? What choice did she have, given what she’d committed herself to do in the interim?
Since Charlie had called here three weeks ago, her life had changed dramatically. Her relationship with her father had frozen into a tundra of icy disdain. Her mother attempted to thaw them but at each turn had failed. Her papa had not apologized to her, nor had he written to the Reverend Compton to ask the man’s pardon.
“I will not lower myself!” he’d yelled at her that afternoon when she confronted him minutes after Charlie had climbed into the Courtlands’ traveling coach.
“And I, sir, am ashamed of you!”
“What gall, you have, girl! I will bend you to my will. You will not see him. You will not wed him. But you will most certainly wed one man before the New Year!”
“Over my dead body!” She trembled when it came home to her what she uttered. Was she the one to die now over a failed proposal?
“You will wed or I will cut you off without a penny!”
“Do it!” She’d swung round to leave him where he stood.
Never had she been so appalled by her father. Never had she seen him so hateful toward others and toward her.
During the following weeks, she’d barely spoken to him. Instead she made plans for her escape and the means she would use to effect it. That began with her announcement that she would attend the Courtlands’ annual frolic and, too, Esme Harvey’s wedding on May second. The trip was a ruse, a camouflage, but the best she had to conceal her new endeavor.
When she finished stating her plans to leave for the party, her father virtually shook with exasperation as he pointed to the letter from Esme that Wills held in her hand.
“Gatherings like that?” her father blustered, his cheeks red with anger. “No! It’s meant for the riffraff to mingle with the toffs. Better to cultivate a refined set than tarnish one’s image with the ordinary.”
Of course, he knew that the man who had asked for her hand would not only attend this year’s house party, but also that the Reverend Charles Compton was the man who would officiate at Willa’s friend’s wedding.
“Why must you always attend this ridiculous party?” Her father continued his argument. “I see no point in it. You and I must finish charting the tenth generation of the de Courcy family before we return to Amboise in June. No use courting him! I will never approve of you with Southbourne’s son. A lady should marry well.”
Ah, yes. One of Papa’s Rules. Marry for position and money. A useful rule for most gels. Not this one.
“Bark, dearest.” Her mother removed her pince nez, yet pinned him to his spot with her sh
arp eyes. “A lady who marries the man her father wants for her gets what he wants for her. Not what she deserves.”
Her papa, a tall brusque fellow, wrapped himself in his rectitude. His imperious stance—long practiced and used successfully on many—was intended to sway his opponent to his cause. “And a lady who marries the man her mother wants for her gets a mama who visits too often.”
Unimpressed, her mother sniffed. “The man I want for our girl is one she wants.”
Oh, Mama. Do give over. You cannot change his mind. And much will you rue the day you could not. But next week…yes, next week, much will change in this house.
“Willa could want any of the very fine men I have suggested in the past year!”
If I were blind or dumb, perhaps.
“Bark.” Mama shook her head. “A bookworm. A skinflint. And a snob.”
“You must look beyond their noses,” he insisted.
“I did, my darling man.” Her mother waved her tiny glasses at him. Poor dear, she tried to lure him back toward his sweeter self. “I saw a bore, a bully and a dandy dressed finer than I in my Season.”
In earlier days, Before Charlie, Wills called it—B.C. to be exact—she might have chuckled. Mama had been the Diamond of the Year she debuted. Beautiful, lavishly attired and richly endowed.
Before Charlie, her father had indulged in a sense of humor and could be cajoled.
Her mother was no longer successful at it. Ever intrepid, the countess wrinkled her nose. “Our Wills could not love any one of them.”
True.
“Rubbish!” he shot back. “She can! She’s done grieving for…for…what was his name? Wilfred?”
“Wit,” Willa supplied the name of her first betrothed, Wittford Williams, second son of the Earl of Dunford.
“Wit! That was it. Imagine! Wit and Wills! That’s what they termed the two!”
Lady Willa’s Divinely Wicked Vicar: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 4 Page 6