Lisbon

by Valerie Sherwood

  He hesitated. Then, “Walk with me as far as Friar’s Crag, Charlotte?”

  “Of course, but—” From the restless look he wore, she dared not argue further. He might very well leave without her!

  Although she tried to make conversation, Tom’s answers were short and glum all the way to the low wooded promontory of Friar’s Crag. His face was very set, for he had let Charlotte believe him to be what he was not. He had let her jump to the conclusion that his past would bear inspection, that he had been in the spice trade. Now he would tell her the truth and watch her draw away from him. Better now than later.

  “Charlotte, sit down,” he commanded tersely. “I have something to tell you.”

  Charlotte sat.

  He did not sit down himself, but stood with his face turned toward the mouth of Borrowdale Valley, where an arched stone bridge crossed the Derwent at a narrow point called the Jaws of Borrowdale. He felt as if those jaws were swallowing him.

  “I’ve never told you the truth about myself,” he said quietly. “You’re going to hear it now.”

  Silent, Charlotte listened, ached to hear of the little boy born out of wedlock on a sandspit in the Bahamas. Brought up helter-skelter, surviving as best he could, and then carried away as a cabin boy by his pirate father on the Shark to Madagascar. Tom spared himself nothing in the telling, his voice dispassionate—indeed he might have been speaking of someone else, someone for whom he cared little. But all the force of his character came through to Charlotte as he talked, and she saw before her a man who had hated the world of piracy, who had used what gold he had gained to help captives escape their sordid fate and reach their homes, and who had at the first opportunity jumped ship and made his way back to England to seek an honest berth on an honest ship.

  When he had finished, there were tears in her eyes but she felt a pride in him so strong she glowed with it.

  “So you see, I’m not the man for you,” he said quietly. “I deceived you, I let you think I was in the spice trade, perhaps I even let you think I had expectations. I have none. You deserve better than a man like me, and I’ll be out of your life now. ”

  Having told her the worst, he could not bear to meet her eyes. He turned to walk away.

  “Tom,” said Charlotte in a soft voice. “Come back. I don’t care about what you’ve been—I care about what you are now. And no man could suit me better.”

  Her voice was so rich as she said that, that Tom swung round sharply to look at her. His throat constricted as he saw all the love and trust in her young face—a trust that surely he did not deserve.

  “I have put aside the cutlass,” he said gravely. “As you can see, I wear no weapon. And when I came back to England this time, I intended to ask you to wife.”

  Charlotte swallowed uneasily, watching him, aware that he was speaking now in the past tense.

  “I meant to toss my heart and all that I had earned from the voyage at your feet. ” He sighed.

  “And now?” she asked fearfully.

  “Now I am off to Carlisle, where a ship called the Annie Clarette leaves for America day after tomorrow. I was offered a berth on her and now I’ll take it. I’ll be gone six months—maybe more.”

  “But . . . must you sail?” she protested. “Couldn’t you find some other job, Tom? Something here? On land?” “Not in Carlisle,” he said harshly. “My stepfather has poisoned the minds of all the likely employers against me.” And besides, Carlisle is too close; if I remained in Carlisle, I could not stay away from you. . . .

  “Liverpool then? Or Leeds?”

  His jaw hardened. “There’ll be trouble with the banns, Charlotte—you know there will be, for we’ve not got your uncle’s permission, nor are likely to get it. Even if we tried, someone would surely write and tell him and he’d come looking for you. You’re too young, he’d have us annulled. And then he’d find someone else for you—quick. And I’d have no money to take you away. Like as not, I’d be in gaol for abduction!”

  “But I ve waited all this time,” she said plaintively. “And now you’re leaving me again! It isn’t fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair.” His lips twisted into a crooked smile. They had not moved; only their low-voiced conversation had disturbed the stillness. Songbirds, gone quiet at their approach, had commenced singing again, soft throaty notes and gentle trills. Between the trees the waters of the lake glimmered calm in the summer sun, and nearby a bee buzzed lazily, plundering the nectar of the wildflowers.

  Charlotte had slid down on the grass with her arms behind her head. Lying there on her back in the thin white dress, she looked endlessly inviting.

  “If you’re going to leave me,” she said wistfully. “At least you might kiss me good-bye.”

  Tom drew a deep ragged breath. “Don’t try to break my resolve, Charlotte,” he warned, going down on one knee beside her. “It’s weak enough already.” But his long body bent over hers and he pressed a soft yearning kiss on her upraised lips.

  Charlotte reached up and twined her arms about his neck and pulled him down to her.

  “Oh, Tom,” she whispered. “Do stay . . . and if you can’t stay another night, at least stay close to me for a little while.”

  In Tom’s opinion he was too close already. His lean body had already caught fire at her touch and he could feel again that aching yearning in his loins to clutch her to him and make her his for all time. Charlotte was nuzzling ever closer to him, content to be held, reveling in his nearness, trying to push the future away. The very nearness of her—for all her innocence—was overpowering his senses.

  He pulled away and stood up, his voice slurred with feeling. “I do not hold you light, Charlotte.”

  “Ah, but we are betrothed, Tom,” she protested in a hurt voice. “We're going to spend our whole lives together. How can it matter if—”

  He spoke roughly. “All voyages are uncertain—life is an uncertain matter at sea. I could fall from the rigging, I could break my neck, I could drown. Do you think I want to leave you a little gift—a child perhaps? A babe that you could bring up alone after your uncle scorns you for taking up with me and casts you out? Do you think I want that picture before me on stormy nights at sea, Charlotte? No, I want to think of you safe and warm and cared for, even if the vessel I’m on is already sinking or burning down to her waterline!”

  He wrenched away from her and stood up, fleeing himself as much as those gentle hands that were caressing his hair.

  “That’s ridiculous!” she shouted, sitting up.

  Alarmed, the birds around them took off with a whir of wings.

  “It’s not ridiculous,” he snapped. “That’s the way it’s going to be. And you wouldn’t think it so ridiculous if something happened to me on this voyage!”

  “Then go and don’t come back!” she flared.

  “You don’t mean that, Charlotte?”

  “No,” she said bitterly. “I don’t mean that. Have a fine voyage, Tom, with fair winds to guide you home.” But she turned her face away from him.

  “I hoped you’d say that.” He leaned down and ruffled her bright hair.

  “If you really loved me ...” she mumbled resentfully.

  “I’ll not leave you with child,” he said harshly. “I’ve seen too much to wish that on you.” At least if the ship goes down I’ll not find that waiting for me in hell!

  Then he was gone, swinging away from her through the trees.

  She jumped up, for a moment intending to follow him, to make him take her with him.

  Then the futility of it closed down around her. That stiff back of his told her he would never relent.

  And Charlotte could not know that Tom was at that very instant fighting himself with all his might, and that if she had followed him just then, had run after him and thrown her arms around his neck, he would have flung all his good intentions to the wind and made her his on the spot.

  It might have changed their lives.

  7

  So much might
have happened that morning when Tom swung off on the road to Carlisle . . . but Charlotte was young and confused and she was not sure what was in any man s mind, least of all Tom s. She stayed where she was, turning over and beating her fists on the grass, and sobbed. When at last she sat up and dashed the tears from her eyes he was out of sight.

  After a long while she got up, inspected her dress for grass stains—fortunately there were none—and trudged home. Her step quickened when she saw the horses hitched around the front door of Aldershot Grange and her gaze quickly roved over them. There were several carts in evidence—and there was Uncle Russ's big bay horse, she would have recognized him anywhere by his rolling eyes and his lips drawn back over his teeth. Which meant that Uncle Russ, after being absent for more than two years from the Grange, had returned. And there was a small dun horse—not distinctive, it could belong to anyone. Most of the other horses were nondescript too—she guessed they belonged to the grooms, who were doubtless in the kitchen at this very moment quenching their thirst with apple cider.

  But to whom did the handsome roan stallion belong? And who had ridden in on the beautiful light chestnut with a coat as sleek and shining as polished sandalwood, just now pawing the ground lightly with his forefeet? Had any of the grooms been present, she would certainly have asked.

  And then she caught sight of another cart just now being driven up and saw that its driver wore the maroon-and-gold livery she had heard described as belonging to the owner of Castle Stroud. Her heart quickened. So Lord Pimmerston had come north from Sheffield at last to visit the ancient seat of his family! He might indeed give a great ball and invite the whole countryside.

  She put aside the thought of great balls and strangers on dashing mounts. It was important that she get Uncle Russ aside and speak to him about Tom. If she told Uncle Russ how desperately she loved Tom—perhaps he would help. Oh, he must help! Maybe he would think of some friend who might employ Tom, and perhaps it would not be too late to overtake him and keep him from signing on the Annie Clarette and being gone forever and ever!

  She hurried inside through a front door that now stood wide in the afternoon sunlight, realizing suddenly that she was windblown and perhaps even a little sunburned. Fortunately there was no one in the great hall, and instinctively she walked softly, half-expecting her uncle and his friends—perhaps he had brought a lady with him!—to come surging out of a doorway and find her with her hair all mussed. She should certainly go upstairs and comb it before she came down to be presented to the company—on this of all days, her appearance must not shame her uncle.

  With that in mind she was tiptoeing past the drawingroom door, which stood slightly ajar, when she heard her name mentioned—and in a way that froze her in her tracks.

  ‘Come now, Russ, if I'm to marry this niece of yours, where is she?” rumbled an unfamiliar voice from the other side of the door.

  Charlotte stopped as abruptly as if her feet had suddenly become stuck to the floor, and heard her uncle’s familiar voice say, "She’ll be along, Pimmerston, she’ll be along. Out strolling, according to Livesay.”

  Pimmerston! That rumbling voice then would be Lord Pimmerston from Castle Stroud. She had heard he was a roue and vain. Somehow her uncle had managed to arrange a match between her and Lord Pimmerston, whom he doubtless considered to be a great catch. Well, he could disabuse himself of that idea right now, for marry him she would not!

  She could hardly wait to tell her uncle so, and her hand was already reaching out to push the door open when Lord Pimmerston’s next words gave her pause.

  "Are you certain the girl s a virgin?” Again that rumble, sounding petulant.

  Charlotte felt a quick rush of scarlet to her cheeks and withdrew her hand as if the door were hot to the touch. How dared he?

  "Absolutely certain,” came Uncle Russ’s reply, very solemn. "Charlotte is a virgin, I promise you.”

  "She could hardly be anything else, trapped in this backwater!” Arthur Bodine’s voice, she realized with a start.

  Charlotte yearned to kick the door open, and she was contemplating doing exactly that, no matter what the consequences, when with the next overheard words horror washed over her.

  " Tis absolutely essential she be a virgin.” Again that scolding rumble. "For the only reason I’d wed her at all is to rid myself of this ‘gallant’s disease’ I’ve contracted—and Bodine here insists that marriage to a young virgin will cleanse the gallant’s disease from my body.”

  "And you could find no virgins in London or Sheffield?” wondered a fourth voice, attractive and well-modulated, a voice that Charlotte did not recognize.

  None to speak of!” was Bodine’s quick comment, and there was general laughter.

  Outside the drawing-room door Charlotte’s young face had turned white as parchment. Her uncle had actually come north to bring her . . . this! She felt physically ill. Indeed she would have run away at that moment had not the fourth voice, which held an odd attraction, inquired curiously, "But what of the girl, Lord Pimmerston? After all, this is Russ’s niece we’re talking about, not some street wench. She ll be eager to wed a man of your stature, no doubt. But will she not contract the gallant s disease from you?”

  Charlotte cringed at his lordship s callous response. "Were not women put on this earth to do men’s bidding and assuage men s ills?” he rumbled. "Of what other use are they? The girl will serve my purpose well enough— after all, Russ here vouches for her, and she has a decent background. God s teeth, what’s keeping the wench?” "She will run away once she learns what you have planned for her,” predicted the fourth voice indifferently.

  Charlotte was indeed about to take flight when she heard Bodine’s voice—"Ah, we’ve taken care of that, haven’t we, Russ?”—followed by an unpleasant chuckle.

  Charlotte would have dashed back the way she had come and gone out the open front door, but as she whirled, she saw Livesay and the stableboy just now staggering in under the weight of her uncle’s chest and a large box. Coming in at that moment, they effectively blocked her way.

  "Ah, there you are, Mistress Charlotte!” Livesay’s carrying voice held a rising inflection. She saw that he had discarded the countryman’s smock he usually wore and was wearing the old-fashioned stained brown velvet coat— one of Uncle Russ’s castoffs—that he considered his badge of office. "Your uncle was asking where you were. ” He was looking at her somewhat accusingly. "And I told him you were out strolling somewhere.”

  Charlotte knew that Livesay was only trying by this method to warn her that he had not mentioned Tom, but her gratitude for that was outweighed by the fact that his voice had been loud and piercing enough to attract the attention of those in the drawing room, and she heard her uncle say, "Ah, here she is now, Pimmerston. You can view her at last.”

  Charlotte did not want the occupants of that room to know that she had overheard their conversation, so she flew down the great hall to Livesay with a breathless, "Is that box for me, Livesay?”

  "No, Mistress Charlotte.” Livesay blinked and trudged on past her.

  Charlotte whirled and so appeared to be just coming through the front door as her uncle stuck his bewigged head and ruddy face out into the hall.

  "Charlotte?” He looked startled at the change in her. His gaze raked her up and down and a pleased expression spread over his florid features. His chest, in his brown satin coat, expanded. "Come greet our guests.” He beckoned with a deep-cuffed arm.

  With her head held high, albeit a trifle pale, Charlotte brushed coldly past her uncle with only the barest of greetings to face the three men he had brought north with him.

  She would never quite forget the scene that greeted her there in the familiar drawing room of Aldershot Grange:

  Golden afternoon sunlight spilled into a room that must have been beautiful during her mothers girlhood but that had long since gone shabby with peeling yellow paint and moldering moss-green wall hangings. Three men were seated upon the faded olive-green velvet o
f the heavy Jacobean chairs arranged around the cold hearth, drinking ruby port wine. All three came to their feet at the entrance of a beautiful young girl.

  Over on her right she recognized the fustian-clad form of Arthur Bodine, not so well-dressed as the others and slightly bowlegged. He raked her with his hard brown eyes, pleased with the gown he had sent her, and his smiling gaze briefly met Charlotte s in a devouring sort of way. Charlotte could not restrain the look of loathing that crossed her face like a shadow, and Bodine's smile faded.

  The other two, she saw, were both dressed in the height of fashion.

  The thin and languid gentleman on her left could be none other than Lord Pimmerston. His pomaded bag wig was elegantly curled, enormously modish, and of an unlikely golden hue, and the large dark green satin bow at its back was matched by a similar bow at the front, just below his pointed chin. His sallow face was unhealthy-looking and he wore a black patch that seemed to emphasize the slight sneer his mouth habitually wore. The splendor of his apparel far overshadowed his countenance, for he was wearing a bottle-green satin coat with glinting gold buttons enameled in green marching down it from the neck to the hem of its stiffly flared skirt. The rest of the coat was entirely overpowered by wide pale green velvet cuffs of enormous dimensions that covered his elbows and indeed most of his arms as well, but allowed a rich spill of lace to fall over his wrists to highlight his bejeweled hands. A long ivory brocade waistcoat bore a similar march of slightly smaller buttons that matched those on the coat, and his trousers were of the same bottle-green satin as his coat. Like the others, he wore riding boots.

  His lordship had just been in the act of taking snuff, and as Charlotte entered, his nose was twitching. But twitching or not, to the fashion-conscious his was a daunting figure and he had risen to his feet and taken a mincing step forward, expecting to be instantly noticed and admired.

  Charlotte ignored him and addressed her sweeping curtsy entirely to the tall, more soberly dressed gentleman in the center. On her left, Lord Pimmerston looked affronted. He snapped his green-enameled gold snuffbox shut and assumed a pose that had cut a wide swath in London drawing rooms. When Charlotte still ignored him, his sneer deepened, while his small eyes peered out at her with grudging admiration of her beauty and discontent that she could be so lacking in grace as to overlook him.