by M C Beaton
As they sat around the Franklin stove in the family drawing room that evening, excitedly making plans to book a passage to England, Mr. Munroe wished he had written to Lord Charles suggesting Patricia should stay with them and perhaps marry a Bostonian. He had become very fond of his pretty guest. Lord Charles had sent him a letter as well, apologizing for having allowed his ward to stay so long.
Mr. Monroe contented himself with begging Patricia to visit Boston again, to consider his home hers, and Patricia blinked back tears from her eyes, black thoughts of revenge seeming out of place in the midst of this happy family.
She was furious at being ordered to go to London immediately on her return. She longed to see her home again, to see Burnham House. On the other hand, it appeared Lord Charles was to be in London, and where Lord Charles was, Patricia meant to be.
Patricia and Miss Sinclair set sail in the teeth of a savage winter gale, neither particularly noticing the heaving and bucketing of the ship which was prostrating the other passengers. Miss Sinclair was going home to her love. Patricia was returning for the reckoning.
From the captain to the cabin boy, the crew were all in love with Patricia by the time the ship docked at Bristol. Miss Sinclair was delighted with her charge. Such modesty of bearing, such complete unawareness of the attention and adoration she attracted! Lord Charles would be so proud of her, the “her” being Miss Sinclair.
“I have molded her to my image,” said Miss Sinclair, studying her face in the glass in her tiny cabin preparatory to going ashore and seeing, not really herself, but an older version of Patricia, set to take London by storm.
When they disembarked, the ship’s agent met them on the quay and told them he had rooms reserved for them at the best hotel in Bristol. Word would be sent immediately to Lord Charles that they had arrived in England.
Patricia and Miss Sinclair settled down to wait, going for sedate walks about the town, each wondering, for different reasons, what Lord Charles would say when he saw them.
But, at the end of the week, it was not Lord Charles who arrived to escort them to London, but a soberly-dressed gentleman who introduced himself as Lord Charles’s secretary, Mr. Johnson. And behind Mr. Johnson, twittering with excitement, came none other than Miss Simpkin.
Miss Simpkin immediately launched into a long speech about dear Lord Charles and how he had given her permission to travel to Bristol to meet her darling Patricia, and how he had graciously said that she might stay at his town house in London to witness Patricia’s debut.
Patricia was taken aback at the appearance of her old governess. Had Miss Simpkin always been so rouged and painted and gushing?
She supposed, after some reflection, that she had. But, nonetheless, Miss Simpkin’s appearance and manner came as a shock after what seemed a lifetime with the sober Bostonians and the correct instruction of Miss Sinclair.
Patricia found herself quite out of charity with Miss Simpkin as that lady prattled on about the sterling merits of Lord Charles. But she did not contradict her. Patricia meant to lay siege to Lord Charles’s flinty heart and was therefore determined to say no word of blame behind his back.
Only Margaret Munroe in Boston now knew of the depth of Patricia’s hatred for her guardian.
Miss Simpkin grew increasingly disappointed in Patricia on the journey to London. In vain did she point out, at posting houses on the way to London, all the various gentlemen who were struck by her former pupil’s beauty. Patricia only smiled vaguely and changed the subject.
At long last, after three days’ journey, the outskirts of London began to appear and the coach rumbled and rattled over the cobbles.
Mr. Johnson was a pleasant, sensible man and had passed the journey for Patricia by telling her tales of the newly-appointed Regent and the fury of the Whigs because the Prince had swung about and favored the Tories.
It was expected to be the most glittering Season London had seen in years. The fighting was still going on in Portugal. Mr. Johnson found it very shocking that some of the Whigs favored Napoleon and thought Britain would be better under his rule than that of their own government.
Miss Sinclair was barely aware of Mr. Johnson. She was wrapped in dreams of Lord Charles and what he would say when he saw her again.
“Is Lord Charles waiting for us?” she asked.
“He will not know exactly when we are due to arrive,” said Mr. Johnson. “But his servants will know where he is and will send word to him as soon as we appear.”
Patricia’s heart began to hammer as the carriage moved through the quiet streets and squares of London’s West End. Lord Charles lived in Cavendish Square on the north side of Oxford Street.
“Here we are at last,” said Mr. Johnson cheerfully. “Yes, my lord must be at home and entertaining guests. There are several carriages drawn up outside.”
Patricia drew out a steel pocket mirror and anxiously pushed a stray curl back into place. Miss Simpkin smiled at this evidence of returning vanity.
The house was tall and imposing, with a pillared entrance and a double front.
The groom ran up the steps and hammered on the knocker. A butler opened the door and then stood aside to let the ladies past.
“My lord is in the library,” he said. “Please wait one moment.”
Mr. Johnson murmured that he had urgent business to attend to and vanished through a doorway at the far end of the hall.
Patricia handed the butler her card, turned down at one corner to show she was presenting it in person.
The hall was floored with black and white tiles. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. The walls were painted Wedge-wood blue and a fire burned in the Adam fireplace. They were enclosed in the quiet well-ordered hush that only great wealth can provide.
The butler came back. “My lord presents his compliments to Miss Patterson and desires Miss Patterson and party to present themselves in the library.”
He turned and led the way without waiting to hear their reply. Obviously, no one ever refused an invitation from Lord Charles, thought Patricia.
The butler flung open the double doors of the library. “Miss Patricia Patterson,” he announced. Neither Miss Simpkin nor Miss Sinclair was to be honored with an announcement. Miss Sinclair felt uneasy. She was dressed in her smartest gown and mantle. She felt that she looked every inch the lady. Why had the butler immediately assumed she was an inferior? And so Miss Sinclair fretted, not knowing that the butler had already been told to expect Miss Patterson accompanied by two governesses.
There was a lady sitting on a sofa in front of the fire with an older lady sitting beside her. There was a couple on another sofa.
Lord Charles was standing in front of the fireplace.
He and his ward stared at each other in amazement.
Patricia saw not the black-browed tyrant of her hate-filled dreams, but a tall, elegant, handsome man with thick black hair and very green eyes. His chin was strong and square and his mouth was firm. He was wearing skin-tight stockinette breeches with Hessian boots and a bottle green coat.
Lord Charles saw a very beautiful young woman, the most beautiful he had ever seen, standing in the doorway surveying him coolly. She was wearing a cherry red cloak lined with chinchilla. Her strawberry blond curls peeped out from beneath a dashing black broad-brimmed hat trimmed with cherry red ribbons.
He walked forward and bent over Patricia’s hand. His lips only brushed her glove, but they seemed to burn through the fabric.
“Patricia,” he said in a wondering voice. Green eyes met brown eyes and there was a long silence in the room as the pair stood transfixed, Lord Charles still holding Patricia’s hand.
Lord Charles suddenly seemed to collect himself.
“Let me introduce you to my guests, Patricia,” he said. “Then I am sure you will wish to retire to your room and rest. Mr. and Mrs. George Lucas…” Mr. Lucas rose and bowed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “So this is Charles’s little ward,” he said. “Mrs. L
ucas…” Amy Lucas extended her hand and said, “How d’you do?” in a faint voice.
“And Mrs. Chalmers…” A plump, gray-haired lady looked at Patricia with cold, cold eyes. “Humph!” she said, extending two fingers for Patricia to shake.
Patricia smiled sweetly, grabbed the startled lady’s whole hand, and squeezed it in a painful grip.
“And last, but not least, Miss Chalmers… my fiancée.”
Behind Patricia, Miss Sinclair let out a sound which sounded like something between a gasp and a moan.
For one split second all expression was wiped from Patricia’s face as her mind first registered, “Married!” But then a mocking voice in her head said, “But not yet. Only engaged. Not yet!”
“My dear Miss Chalmers,” cried Patricia, sinking down onto the sofa in the space between Mary Chalmers and her mother. “What a delightful surprise. When was the engagement announced?”
“Just last week,” said Miss Chalmers.
“Miss Chalmers is only out of mourning,” smiled Lord Charles. “We had to wait until then before putting the announcement in the newspapers.”
“I am so sorry you have suffered a loss,” said Patricia. “Your…?”
“Father. He died almost five years ago.”
“Five…!” For a moment Lord Charles thought he saw a gleam of mockery in the pansy brown eyes that turned up to briefly meet his own. “You must have loved him very much,” added Patricia with such warm sympathy in her voice that Lord Charles was sure he must have been mistaken.
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Chalmers calmly. “I do not approve of persons who only observe one year of mourning. It has always struck me as indecent, and dear Lord Charles agrees with me.”
“He does? I mean, of course he does,” said Patricia sweetly. “But you still wear mourning,” she said, looking at Miss Chalmers’ gown of dull gray, edged with black.
“I do not believe in wasting money on new clothes when the clothes that one has are by no means worn out,” said Miss Chalmers.
“This is very romantic,” said Patricia. “What a wonderful homecoming. You must be the envy of every lady of the ton, Miss Chalmers, to have captured my so very dashing and handsome guardian.”
She turned and smiled at Lord Charles, a dazzling, bewitching smile, and Lord Charles smiled back, blinking a little as if blinded by the light.
The battle for Lord Charles’s heart had begun in earnest.
Five
There was a little silence when Patricia, Miss Simpkin, and Miss Sinclair finally left the room.
“What a dasher!” exclaimed George Lucas. “You will have no trouble at all in marrying her off. They’ll be beating a path to your door, old boy.”
“She is exquisite,” said his wife, still looking dazed. “Not only her beauty, but the elegance of her manners and dress.”
“I gather Miss Sinclair has done a magnificent job,” said Mary Chalmers. “I feel you are to be reproved, Lord Charles. You did not address one word to that estimable creature. She seemed to me to be a very superior sort of person.”
“You are right,” said Lord Charles ruefully. “I will speak to her later. I confess, I am still taken aback at the change in Patricia.”
“Too good-looking for her own good,” snorted Mrs. Chalmers. “Those sort of looks don’t last, mark my words. What a gel needs is an air of good breeding.” She pressed her daughter’s hand fondly.
Lord Charles looked down at Mrs. Chalmers with a certain amount of irritation. He wondered if he would ever be allowed to see Mary alone, even after they were wed. Mrs. Chalmers was always present, and he felt sure Mary would have married him long ago if her mother had not been intent on fostering this unnaturally prolonged mourning for a man long dead.
Lord Charles sometimes felt the strain of being obliged to conduct himself with decorum on all occasions.
The Lucases had accepted his engagement philosophically, Mrs. Lucas saying wryly that he was obviously determined to marry someone who would not cause him one day’s upset.
And Lord Charles, thinking of his sisters, craved peace and quiet in his home. It had been a stormy time, steering them clear of unsuitable men and fortune hunters. He remembered the scenes when Amy, the youngest, had declared herself to be passionately in love with the second footman. Lord Charles had been immensely relieved to find out that her declaration had come as much of a surprise to the second footman as it had to himself.
Now there was one last hurdle—Patricia. With any luck she would be engaged before the month was out. Then he could marry Mary Chalmers and retire to his estates in the country and sink into tranquil middle age, surrounded by his children.
A frown creased his brow. Children. Would Mary…? Could Mary…? When he had proposed to her, the one time Mrs. Chalmers had left them alone, and she had accepted him, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. The fact that he had felt absolutely no stirring of the senses had not surprised him at the time. He was engaged to a lady, and well-bred ladies did not excite passion. Now he felt a little stabbing pang of disappointment.
For the first time he began to wonder about his own behavior, and why he had patiently waited so long to claim the hand of a woman who appeared to enjoy her mourning state and who was reluctant to give it up.
The disloyalty of his thoughts shocked him almost as soon as they were formed.
There was no doubt about it—Miss Patricia Patterson was a disruptive influence.
The disruptive influence had taken off her bonnet upstairs and was looking with pleasure about the sunny room allocated to her. In Boston, she had shared a bedroom with Margaret. It was lovely to have a room of her own again.
As chambermaids unpacked her trunks, she sat down by the window and looked out on London.
Lord Charles was an attractive man, and it would not be easy to entrap him. The challenge made Patricia tingle with excitement. She had never really put her charms to the test. The first thing she would have to do would be to see if she could make him jealous.
The need to confide in someone was great. She crossed to an escritoire in the corner and pulled forward a clean sheet of paper, dipped the pen in the inkwell, and began to write.
“Dear Margaret…”
After Miss Chalmers and her mother and the Lucases had left, Lord Charles sent for Miss Sinclair.
She arrived, looking tired and depressed. His engagement had been a sad blow to her dreams.
“Sit down, Miss Sinclair,” said Lord Charles in a kind voice. “I shall not keep you long. You must be fatigued after your long journey.”
“No, not at all,” she said, looking at him longingly. “Mr. Johnson was all that is kind and looked after our every comfort.”
“He is a good man and an excellent secretary. I wish to compliment you on the change in Patricia. You have done your work well, Miss Sinclair. I am grateful to you. I do not think it will be long before she is married, and then your duties will cease. To show you how grateful I am, I wish to give you a sum of money and to arrange a pension for you so that you may be a lady of independent means, and ensure that you will not be obliged to seek another position unless you so wish.”
“You are very kind,” said Miss Sinclair with very real gratitude. “But it is only to be expected. You are so fine, so noble—”
“Enough, Miss Sinclair. Spare my blushes. Mr. Johnson will settle all the details. You may go. Patricia will no doubt receive many invitations. I would be obliged if you would act as chaperone.”
“Gladly, my lord.”
“Then that will be all, Miss Sinclair.”
He smiled at her again and hope sprang anew in Miss Sinclair’s bosom.
“My lord, accept my congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.”
“Thank you.”
“Miss Chalmers appears an estimable lady, and yet she is undoubtedly fortunate.”
There was something in the yearning warmth of Miss Sinclair’s voice that set alarm bells ringing in his lordship’s head.
He looked at her fully for the first time. Her eyes were glowing and her cheeks were stained with pink. Her bosom was heaving and her lips trembled.
“I consider myself a lucky man,” said Lord Charles evenly. “Miss Chalmers is everything I desire in a wife. I trust she, too, can count on your loyalty and devotion.”
Lost hope erased the color and glow from Miss Sinclair’s face as if a sponge had been wiped across it.
“Of course, my lord.”
He looked at her calmly, politely, waiting for her to leave.
Miss Sinclair trailed from the room.
The door closed behind her, softly.
“Oh, dear,” said Lord Charles Gaunt.
Patricia was disappointed to find she was not to see Lord Charles for the rest of that day. He had gone to the opera with Miss Chalmers and her mother.
On the following day, by the time she made her way downstairs, it was to find he had gone riding in the Park. He did not return until six that evening, when he smiled at her in a vague way and said he was going to his club.
“I thought I was to make my come-out, my lord,” said Patricia tartly. “Not my stay-in.”
“I am taking you to the ball tomorrow,” he said, pulling on his gloves. “Did I not tell you?”
“No, I had begun to think you had forgotten me.” How large and dark her eyes looked, and how wistful.
“On the contrary, I have been as busy as any matchmaking mama on your behalf. We have many invitations. They are all addressed to me, but include you. Ask Mr. Johnson to let you see them. If there are any you do not wish to attend, please let him know.”
“Oh, I wish to attend them all,” said Patricia. “I shall dance and dance.” She pirouetted about the hall, her skirts flying, the very picture of youth and grace.
He tried to think of her as little more than a child, but found his eyes straying to the trimness of her ankles revealed by the swaying of her skirt.
“Good evening,” he said gruffly, almost harshly.
Patricia watched him as he strode away, a little smile curling her lips. Then she turned and ran up the stairs to look out her most dazzling ballgown, one she had made herself but had not dared wear in Boston for fear of being damned as “aristocratic.”