Lisbon

by Valerie Sherwood

  Outside, as if to suit her mood, the weather changed. Overcast days replaced sunny ones. Gray clouds swirled overhead and there was a mist of rain in the air. Charlotte, now back in her buff homespun, wandered out uncaring into the dismal weather. She found her way aimlessly northward along the eastern shore of the Derwent Water, feeling the dampness in her hair, feeling her clothes grow limp.

  Tom had not come after all. No doubt she had been a fool to expect him, Charlotte scolded herself. More than a year and a half had gone by since Tom had left England— perhaps he had found another girl somewhere. The thought cut deep.

  A low promontory rose just ahead, but Charlotte had not the heart to climb it. She sat down on a rock and pulled up a blade of grass from nearby, tested it with her teeth. It tasted springlike and sour—but no sourer than her thoughts. For until now she had had a lover, if only in her dreams. Now she had no one.

  She sat there, head drooping, for a long time. Finally she decided that there was no sense coming in drenched, and she threw away the grass stem she had been twisting in her fingers. She got up and tossed back her wet blond hair.

  As she did so she saw a figure silhouetted against the gray sky, a figure in a tricorne hat.

  Charlotte s heart gave such a great leap inside her chest that she felt it must surely burst her bodice. Before her the figure on the promontory saw her as well and waved. Now he was hurrying down the incline, moving awkwardly, she saw, because he was walking with the aid of a stout stick. That was why he hadn’t arrived before, he’d been hurt! Charlotte picked up her skirts and ran like a deer toward him.

  And came to a halt halfway up the slope, suddenly overcome by shyness.

  Not so Tom. At sight of her he gave a whoop and began to run down the slope, tossing aside his stick as he ran. And brought up before her, beaming.

  “So you’re still here,’’ he said. “I was afraid you might not be.”

  Charlotte found her voice. “Oh, yes, Tom—I’m still here.”

  And then—neither of them ever knew later just how it happened or who made the first move—they were in each other’s arms, Tom was holding her so close the buttons of his coat bit into her flesh, and Charlotte was saying, “I knew your ship had come into port, and oh, Tom, I was so afraid you weren’t coming!”

  Tom’s grip tightened and his lips were on her wet hair so that his voice was muffled as he said huskily, “Little chance of that!”

  It had begun to rain in earnest now, but neither of them noticed.

  “When I first saw you, I thought you were hurt!” she exclaimed.

  “No, tis my shoe,” was his cheerful rejoinder. “There’s a hole worn in it I could put my fist through. I had stuck a piece of leather in it but I lost it.”

  “Your . . . shoe?” she asked, fascinated. “But why haven’t you had it fixed?”

  “I didn’t want to take the time. ” He laughed. “For I had a wench waiting at Aldershot Grange.”

  “But you’ve been home a week or more!”

  “I’ve been in Scotland.”

  She stared at him openmouthed, and tasted the falling rain. “Scotland?”

  “Aye,” he said grimly. “And a fool's chase it was.” He explained that they had cast anchor in Carlisle harbor at night and he had gone ashore with the others, meaning to get a good night’s sleep and hire a horse to ride to the Grange. He’d had but two rounds of ale with his shipmates before he left the carouse and headed back for his inn. “ ’Twas in a dark alley that they set upon me. Five men who’d been lying in wait. I might have managed the four who came at me from the front and sides, but the one from the back near cracked my skull, and my friends found me later unconscious and robbed of my entire ship’s wages. ”

  “Oh, Tom,” breathed Charlotte. “How awful!”

  “Awful it was,” he agreed dryly. “And I have naught but my own folly to blame.”

  “Oh, but you couldn’t know—”

  “I could,” he said, his tone definite. “I’m used to rough towns”—and rougher men, he might have added, but didn’t—“and I was not taking proper care when I went into that alley. My mind was on a wench.” He gave her a whimsical smile that made her heart lurch happily.

  “Did they ever find the men?”

  He shook his head. “One of my friends found me—and brought me to with a bucket of water and some brandy. I had the damnedest headache. And then we searched the town for the thieves who robbed me. Twas late morning before we learned that a party of five who met their description had been seen around dawn setting out for the north. We tracked them over the border and there lost their trail.” His voice turned rueful. “Save for the few coins my friends lent me—all spent for hired horses and lodgings along the way—I’m as poor as the day you found me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Charlotte told him warmly. “I don’t care for money at all.”

  Tom snorted. “Shows how young you are! Tis money keeps a roof over your head and the rain out—never say you don’t care for money, Charlotte!”

  “Well, you know what I mean. " She was suddenly aware that water was running down her forehead and into her eyes. “It’s raining," she said wonderingly.

  Tom laughed and hugged her. “We didn’t seem to notice!"

  But he let her retrieve his stick and urge him down toward Aldershot Grange, where, she told him blithely, “We’ll hang up our clothes and dry off."

  His brows shot up at her choice of words, but the idea was so appealing that he went with her willingly enough. She brought him into the kitchen with a flourish.

  “I am entertaining a gentleman tonight," she told them all grandly. “We will have supper for two served in the dining room, if you please. "

  Cook winked at Wend, and Ivy gasped, but Livesay was equal to the occasion. He rose and acknowledged his mistress’s order with a deferential nod. “Yes, Mistress Charlotte," he said gravely.

  “Oh, and . . . we re both soaking wet."

  “We can all see that," muttered Wend, eyeing the puddle in which they were standing.

  “I’m going up to change, and I’ll need a hot bath. Wend, will you bring it up? And Tom will be wanting a hot bath too. In the green bedchamber, I think. And a dressing gown—one of my uncle’s—while his clothes dry by the hearth. Would you see to it, Livesay?"

  Again that courtly nod. All the servants loved their employer’s young niece, and if she wanted to play hostess, they would do their best to assist her.

  Tom limped gingerly over to the hearth and sat down upon a three-legged stool.

  “Tom wore a hole in his shoe while he was out chasing the covey of thieves who stole his money and fled to Scotland," she announced regretfully. “I’m afraid we can’t do anything about that. My uncle didn’t leave any shoes here when he left for London."

  Livesay cleared his throat. “I was apprenticed to a cobbler in my youth," he explained. “ ’Twas a trade I disliked, which is why I don’t talk about it. But there’s leather in the stable and I can still mend a shoe. If you’ll give me the shoe tonight, young sir, I'll guarantee you ’twill be fixed by morning.’’

  Tom’s eyes lit up and Charlotte breathed, “Oh, Livesay, that would be wonderful. I do want to show Tom the countryside, but how can I if he’s limping?’’

  Everyone in the kitchen beamed.

  Charlotte left them and went upstairs to bathe in the hot water Wend brought—along with word that both Cook and Ivy were atwitter over Tom’s arrival. She dashed away carrying Charlotte’s white voile dress to be pressed by Ivy, who had a knack for those things. Charlotte soaked lazily in the metal hip tub and then dried herself on linen towels. She thought she might not have given Tom time to get his clothes dry and to climb back into them, but when Wend arrived bearing the meticulously pressed white voile dress, she rolled her eyes and warned Charlotte that “Tom Westing is pacing the hall waiting for you to come down those front stairs, and you’d best hurry, for I think Ivy has fallen in love with him!’’

  Ch
arlotte laughed and Wend helped her into the dress, and between them they got her long hair—which had gotten wet in her bath—combed out and tied back with a riband.

  “And if you don’t come down quick,’’ Wend warned, giving Charlotte’s hair a last pat, “Cook is going to have a fit, because she’s been waiting supper for you.’’

  Thus alerted, Charlotte ran soundlessly down the hall on her soft white slippers ad paused at the head of the stairs to drink in the sight of the broad-shouldered man who paced restlessly about below. In the wild excitement of seeing him again she had not realized until now that he was wearing new clothes. The russet trousers that encased his strong muscular legs now matched a russet coat that sported brass buttons instead of wooden. And the coat had wider cuffs and was of a better cut than the one he had worn when he embarked (she would have blushed with pleasure had she known he had bought them both to impress her at his last port of call).

  But new clothes or no, Tom had not really changed, she thought fondly, looking down at that shock of fair hair, and jaunty gait. Still . . . there was something different about him. She pondered over what that difference was, and it came to her that it was in indefinable presence. The wild lad had become a man, no longer a tall stripling gone a-roving, but a strong man to reckon with. And to love.

  And the green eyes that looked up and caught her standing there were a man’s eyes, hot with passion, yet steady too. Her heart abrim, clad in her lovely new white dress, Charlotte floated down the broad front stairway to meet her lover.

  Standing in his stocking feet in the hall below—for he had surrendered his shoes to Livesay—Tom Westing thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. Charlotte had toweled her wet hair almost dry before combing it, and it now cascaded from its riband down her back in a blonde shower of silk. The shapeless clothes in which he remembered her had given little hint of the beauty of her slender form, any more than had the wet bedraggled homespun in which she had greeted him today, but now her young loveliness was deftly revealed by the white voile gown. He had left behind him a child, but he had come back to a woman. He stood the straighter and drew a deep breath. It seemed to him that everything a man could possibly desire in this world was coming toward him down the stairs.

  “Charlotte,” he said wonderingly, “you’ve become a beauty. ”

  There would be no compliment in her life Charlotte would ever treasure like that one.

  They went in to the dining room, which, under Livesay’s supervision, was set out as majestically as if the master was entertaining Lord Pimmerston from nearby Castle Stroud. The board was heavy with silver—most of it tarnished, for there’d been no time to clean and polish it. There was a loaf of sugar and a pair of great salts, and a large white linen cloth—clean but mended, for the master cared little for such things.

  It didn’t matter really. Neither Tom nor Charlotte saw anything but each other that night.

  Tom was looking at her wistfully down the long board.

  He had meant to bring his ship’s wages and throw them— along with his heart—at her feet. He had meant to propose marriage and ask her to run away with him, for he was not fool enough to suppose that her uncle would favor a marriage between a man like him and the niece of the master of Aldershot Grange. On shipboard, all those nights away from her, it had seemed possible, reasonable even. He would return, she would be waiting . . .

  And he had returned, and she had been waiting, and now none of it was possible because he’d been fool enough to let himself be robbed in some dark alley in Carlisle. Now he had nothing to offer her, nothing.

  Looking into each other’s eyes, they ate Cook’s best hasty supper—and never knew afterward what they ate.

  They sat long at table, laughing and talking, and when they had done at last, Charlotte rose and spoke to Livesay, who hovered nearby.

  “Master Tom and I are going to take a stroll in the garden if it’s stopped raining,’’ she told him. “Please have Ivy prepare the green bedchamber for him when we return. ” Livesay frowned, and when Charlotte ran upstairs to get a light shawl against the damp, he went up to Tom, who stood waiting by the garden door. Livesay might not have been wearing livery these days, but he knew what life in a gentleman’s household should be like—indeed had been like when Charlotte’s grandfather was alive.

  “I’m sorry to speak out like this, young sir,” he began. “But seeing as there’s no proper chaperon for Mistress Charlotte about the place—”

  “I take your meaning, Livesay,” Tom interrupted. “Very commendable of you to mention it. I won’t be sleeping in the house tonight, or any other night, but I will avail myself of a space in the stables if that’s convenient?”

  “Oh, most convenient.” Livesay looked vastly relieved. “And there’ll be clean sheets on the straw and a pillow waiting for you in the loft. Timmy, the stableboy, will show you just where they are. And come morning there’ll be a basin and towels for washing too. ”

  Tom chuckled. “You’ll spoil me, Livesay, that you will.

  And you can rest easy about Mistress Charlotte. I promise not to overstep the bounds, chaperon or no chaperon."

  Then Charlotte appeared and Livesay melted away obsequiously into the background while she took Tom into the garden.

  They walked past dripping rosebushes unburied at last from the weeds, for Charlotte had been getting the garden ready for this walk for over a year and a half now. Their feet trod the wet stones of the narrow garden path and Charlotte had to swish her lifted skirts toward Tom s knee breeches to keep them from getting wet from the dripping shrubbery.

  The moon cast a silvery radiance over the Derwent Water, and nearby there was the whir of owls; the scent of roses, made clinging by the dampness, filled the air with a heady perfume. Somehow at that moment Charlotte felt more aware of the world around her than she had ever been. Somewhere nearby a bird trilled a single sleepy note and the small questing sound went right through her. The tall man beside her was looking down at her with love in his eyes, and his very nearness made her dizzy.

  “God, I’ve missed you," he murmured, and she went wordlessly into his outstretched arms, felt her knees grow weak as she leaned against that deep chest and listened to the strong regular beat of his heart.

  She wanted to tell him how much she had missed him too, but her heart was too full at that moment to speak. The magic of the world was all around her—and then he bent his lips to hers, slowly, tenderly, with grace, and the world disappeared and there was only Tom. Tom, her lover.

  She felt his mouth change position over her own, she felt his tongue now delicately probing her lips, finding its way gently, demandingly between them, she felt her young body bent backward until she seemed to be lying on his strong outstretched hand, and she twined her arms around his neck and gave herself up to whatever lay in store.

  Nothing lay in store.

  Tom put her away from him suddenly and his voice was roughened with feeling.

  “You’re too much for me tonight, Charlotte. I’ll say good night.’’

  Charlotte opened her eyes and looked up into his rueful face. For a moment she felt confused, indignant; then it came to her that he was not rejecting her—in his way, he was protecting her. And with the knowledge came a wonderful new feeling, of being precious to someone, and all the joys of being a woman flooded through her.

  Still lying back on his spread hand and outstretched arm, she smiled her enchanting smile and slid her arms from around his neck to cup his face in her hands.

  “Why, Tom?’’ she asked with innocent witchery. “Tell me why.’’

  He groaned. “You know why, Charlotte,’’ he said firmly, and straightened her up and abruptly removed his arm. “Good night.’’

  He was moving away from her before she said, “You’re going the wrong way. The house is over here.’’

  Tom turned. “Aye, it is.’’

  For a dreadful moment she thought he was leaving Aldershot Grange, and the moonlight l
ost its luster.

  “Didn’t you like the green bedchamber?’’ she asked, crestfallen. “It’s the one I had made up for you.’’

  His deep sigh reached her across the scent of roses. “I liked it, Charlotte. But I’ll not be sleeping in it. I’ve already told Livesay to bed me down in the stables.’’ “You’ll not sleep in the stables!’’ she flared.

  “I will,’’ he said. “And that’s final. I’ve a care for your reputation if you do not. You’ve no female chaperon here and your uncle’s not in residence. Do you want word to get around that you’re entertaining a gentleman caller— and one who’d be placed below the salt at that—overnight? In the green bedchamber?’’

  His humorous assessment of the situation brought an answering flicker to her violet eyes, but she was prepared to insist.

  “Nevertheless,’ she said, “you are my guest, and—” “And therefore bound by honor to remain on good behavior,’’ he said lightly. “Should your uncle arrive in the night, I’d not like him to find you entertaining a male guest in the house. Just suppose he arrived toward morning, Charlotte—what do you think he’d do?”

  “If he didn’t like your explanation, he’d most likely horsewhip you,” admitted Charlotte with a sigh.

  “Right,” he agreed cheerfully. “And he’d be within his rights. No, I’ll be better off in the stable loft and you’ll be better off if you let me have my way in the matter. ” Charlotte pouted, but she bade him good night. From the garden door she watched him head out for the stables.

  After all, she told herself sternly, for all they were in love, they hardly knew each other. . . .

  But all her admonitions to herself faded when she went back to the kitchen to find Cook and Livesay gone—and Tom’s sheets neatly stacked on the kitchen table on top of a pillow.

  “Well, look at that!” marveled Wend, coming in just then. “Ivy must have forgotten to take those sheets out to the stables when she spilled the drippings and Cook chased her out of the kitchen!” Her smile on Charlotte was bland. “Would you like me to take them out to Tom?”