by Sophia Nash
“Ah, Miss Kittridge, do not say a word. You will force me to behave disgracefully, and you would not like that.” He could see she was trying to smile with great effort. And suddenly, it didn’t matter. He felt a tear escape the far corner of his eye and he pulled her roughly in his arms, squeezing the breath from her, he feared.
“I daresay I have put clay all over your gown, Miss Kittridge,” he whispered into her ear as he continued to embrace her. “That is two gowns I owe you.”
He could feel her smile as he rested his cheek on hers. “That is quite all right, Lord Huntington, as I owe you at least one pair of boots from our recent escapade in the rain, and one coat made of the finest cloth,” she said, dusting off a place high on his shoulder. “We are even.”
“No, I owe you, Miss Kittridge. How I will repay you, I know not, but I always attend to my debts.”
She leaned back from him, a hint of tears still residing in her gray eyes. Her lashes were very long, he noticed. Nicholas leaned down without thinking, and brushed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you…” He looked deep into her eyes.
A knock sounded, forcing him to release her. Miss Kittridge hastily rearranged her gown and called out, “Yes?”
“There’s a gen’leman come to call, miss,” the maid said from the other side of the door. “I told him the doctor was with His Grace, but he insisted on waitin’.”
The door opened and a figure loomed large behind the maid. “Now see here, I told you, I am a relative of the family. Lady Charlotte would want to see me immediatement!” a deep baritone intoned behind the maid. He pushed past Doro, a quizzing glass firmly planted on his aristocratic face. His haughty countenance looked amused. Only the smallest trace of a French accent marred his perfect English. The gentleman looked the two of them over from a high tilt of his nose, assessing the situation. He looked back to the maid. “But I thought you said your mistress was in this—” he looked at the room again, “this atelier.”
“This be Miss Kittridge, sir,” Doro said, trying to imitate his puffed-up air. Clearly the maid did not take well to glorified French dandies.
Again the eyepiece was brought up to his face, making his eye look unnaturally large and quite amusing.
Nicholas’s exuberance had been doused with all the thoroughness of a bell in a chaotic schoolyard. He wanted to yell at the stranger to get the bloody hell out of the room. He needed to be alone with Miss Kittridge—to keep reading and to make sure this newfound ability would crystallize in his brain and not disappear, only to leave him frustrated and tortured all over again.
“I believe you were invited to wait for Miss Kittridge in the front sitting room, sir. I suggest you do not compromise your welcome.” He looked toward Miss Kittridge and tried to regain his composure. “I am sure the lady will join you there momentarily.”
The gentleman executed a slight bow and departed, mumbling something in French as the maid closed the door.
Miss Kittridge stared after them without saying a word. Nicholas came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders.
“Who is he? Are you acquainted with him?” Not waiting for her answer, he continued, “I will be happy to toss him out on his pompous derriere, if you would like,” he said with a cultured intonation of the Gallic word.
“You speak French?”
“A fair amount, and Spanish too, given the necessities of war.”
“Any other language, you fraud?”
“Fraud? I am most insulted, Miss Kittridge.”
“You call yourself an ignorant.”
“Ah, that. Yes. Well, to return to the original question, which I believe you are very skillfully attempting to avoid. The name of the gentleman in question?”
“He is a guest. Actually a distant—very distant relation who will be visiting us, probably for a very short period,” she said, looking up to him. “He is Viscount Gaston, to answer your question. We have been expecting him. But—”
“But what, Miss Kittridge?”
“But, I do not think he recognized me, nor do I think he was expecting us to be living in this—this fashion,” she said, indicating the room with her sweeping hand.
“In that case, you should count yourself lucky, for given the gentleman’s obvious lack of manners, perhaps a curtailed visit would be far preferable.” He dusted off the dried bits of clay on her shoulder. “Well, I shall leave you to your distinguished guest.” Nicholas looked toward the clay letters on the worktable. He hated to leave them behind.
She followed his gaze. “Lord Huntington, I shall wrap these for you once they are dry.” He kissed her hand without another word and left the room.
My God, he could read. No, he could possibly read, his more rational self insisted. He fought to hold hope at bay. He had hoped too many times in his life and failed. He must get inside that miraculous workroom again—alone with her as soon as possible. This first taste of comprehension had been like tiny sips of ambrosia to a man dying of thirst.
His mind raced, thinking about the dueling topics of where he could have fired the clay letters, the winsome Miss Kittridge, and the absurd visitor at the doctor’s cottage, as he walked down the hall.
Nicholas hoped the gentleman’s visit would indeed be short, perhaps a week’s duration would be most preferable. No, two days would be better, two hours best of all. But it was not to be, he decided, when he saw three large trunks blocking the door.
Chapter Nine
“Wisdom is better than wit, and in the long run
will certainly have the laugh on her side.”
—Letters of Jane Austen
CHARLOTTE changed her gown and hastened down to greet their distant cousin, all the while wishing that her brother or father would appear to relieve her of the task.
Viscount Gaston was as handsome as ever. He still possessed those dark, flashing eyes that matched his longish hair. And his arrogant posture always had exaggerated his already tall height. As she entered the front salon she noticed he was dressed in the height of London fashions from his polished, white-tasseled Hessians to the elegant beaver hat he bore in his hand. Charlotte’s eyes widened when she noticed the vibrant plum-colored waistcoat that topped the tightest pair of breeches she had ever seen. A very large bulge was clearly outlined. Charlotte knew enough of the male anatomy to wonder if it could possibly be real or stuffing. She stifled a giggle. Was this a new fashion in London? She knew gentlemen stuffed their stockings to give the appearance of a well-developed calf, but this was taking it too far.
“Is that really you, Charlotte? You have been rusticating from civilized society far too long, I see. No proper mademoiselle would dare to stare at a gentleman of the ton in that fashion, ma cherie,” he said, looking down his nose at her.
She gulped and tried to collect herself. “Cousin, I am happy to see you again. It has been an age.” She motioned to the blue settee and armchair next to it.
Charlotte chose the settee and faced the armchair he was sure to use. She was forced to change the direction of her knees when she found him sitting next to her on the settee.
“I asked the footman at the abbey to direct me to you, but I think he must have misunderstood. It will be a trial to move my trunks to the family’s actual great house. But,” he sighed, “that is for the servants to worry about, is it not, mon chou?”
“Alexandre, these are our living quarters.”
“What? This cannot be. The greatest physician in the court of Louis XVI has been reduced to living in a, a cottage with not a thought to keeping up appearances? Mon Dieu, your grandparents and mother would turn in their graves if they could see how you live,” he said, showing more feeling than his usual languid self.
“I am sorry you do not approve,” she said. “However, this is indeed where we reside. But I would not dare to suggest you stay in such unrefined quarters,” she continued, an idea forming in her head. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable staying at The Quill & Dove? It is quite charmin
g, and even boasts some of the finest suites of rooms in all of Wiltshire.”
Alexandre looked around the small room with distaste. “But, my dear cousin, I would not consider it. I have come to sample country life and to visit my dearest family in the world,” he said, removing his gloves and looking with distaste at the threadbare furnishings.
Ah, that explained it. He must be desperately short on funds to allow his polished perfection to be diminished by simple countrified living.
Doro arrived carrying a heavy tray of tea and scones with all the trimmings. She had a sour look on her face when Charlotte regarded her. Her bulky form was heaving a bit under the burden as she placed it before Charlotte.
“It be his fine lordship, here, who ordered the tea and goodies,” she said in a disgusted tone before flouncing away.
“What a charming idea,” Charlotte said in a deflated voice. Where was James, anyway? She poured the honey-colored liquid from the delicate teapot into the cup.
“But where is the tea strainer? This is intolerable,” he said.
“Doro must have neglected it. It is not often she is called on to prepare such a display,” Charlotte said, looking over the vast array of confections and even sliced cold ham with bread and butter. “You must forgive us. We live quite simply here.”
“This will not do,” he said, rising from his chair and looking for a bell cord.
“There is no cord, you must call out to her from the hall,” she said, then added, “It would help considerably if you tacked on the word ‘please’ to your request, Alexandre.”
“Impossible!” he muttered prior to performing the necessary requirements for requesting the aforementioned article.
Tea in hand, properly strained, with no less than three lumps of precious sugar added, he tasted it and finally formed a pleasant expression. He turned over the spoon on his saucer.
Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte noticed him examining the silversmith’s mark on the silverware.
“Harrumph,” he muttered, then caught her glance. “Ah, Charlotte, my dear. I find you looking very well. Very well, indeed in spite of your descent in the world. Rusticating has proved beneficial to your health. We shall see if it does the same for me,” he said, grimacing.
“It is pleasant to see you again. It has been a long time; almost two decades, I believe. I thought never to see you again, if the truth be known.” She could feel his slow perusal of her form as she concentrated on breaking off a corner of her scone.
“Charlotte, mon chou, how could you say such a thing? I adore you,” he said languidly, while examining his fingernails. “I could not survive without seeing my dearest cousin as often as possible. Ah, but I have always said that a man’s sensibilities run much deeper than a lady’s emotions, which the fairer sex allows to run too close to the surface.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
He looked quite pleased that she had agreed with him. “Of course I am right,” he said, assessing the paintings on the wall. Charlotte felt like a piece of merchandise in a store when his gaze returned to her. “Now, tell me, how is your family faring? Surely, you can do much better than this little… hut? I myself have a divine set of rooms off of St. James’s Street.”
“I cannot imagine what could have tempted you away from London, Alexandre, to visit us here. You could have saved yourself the trouble of a trip if you had visited us while we were in London.”
“I was determined to see you, cherie. I kept assuring myself we would run into one another at one of the many soirees and routes, but you never cared enough to come,” he said, with a practiced look of sadness in his expression.
It was lucky that many long years of waiting for his call had thoroughly erased any of her doubts concerning the true nature of his character. He was not to be trusted in any sense of the word, but he was an amusing charmer. There was no need to burst the illusion.
“I worry about the state of your heart. Were you not just now dabbling with the heir to the Duke of Cavendish? But, I must warn you, cherie, even a girl such as yourself, who is beyond question, with every virtue intact, should take care to obey the strictures of society. It would not do to be caught unchaperoned with his lordship.” Then he smiled and arched one eyebrow, “Unless, of course, you have a plan to secure him.”
He held up his hand when she was about to burst into a denial. “No, no, I see that is not your style. But, you know that your happiness is my only motivation. I would, of course, release you from any sort of understanding we have.”
Charlotte could not hold back any longer. “Understanding? I thought it was quite clear that the ‘understanding’ you refer to became a misunderstanding when my family’s fortune was reduced to ash and worse,” she said with some emotion. “Although it was my ‘understanding’ that your branch of the family fared better— which made a connection with the now less fortunate side, id est, ME less attractive.”
“Charlotte, Charlotte, my dearest, please no Latin, it gives me the headache. You are in a royal tizzy—over nothing, I assure you. I had intended to apologize. Ah, here I shall get down on one knee, if I must,” he said, sliding off the settee in as elegant a fashion as his tight clothes would allow. “I see I must beg absolution from my sweet cousin, for I cannot live another day knowing you do not care for me as I have always cherished you,” he said with perfect, languid aristocratic charm. His request had been performed quite expertly, except for the moment he reached beyond her to help himself to another scone.
Charlotte laughed.
“Oh, my Charlotte, you are quite delightful when you smile,” he said in amazement. “You look very much like your mother, in fact. I must convince you to smile more often. It will become my mission in life,” he said, licking the crumbs off his fingers.
The squeak of the door announced a newcomer. James, in all his newly made religious finery, entered. The picture he presented made Charlotte want to burst into laughter. James looked uncomfortable and embarrassed in unrelieved black.
“What in heavens are you doing pawing at my sister?” James said in shocked tones. “Oh…is that you, Alexandre? I didn’t recognize you.”
“Bonjour, James.” Alexandre rose to his feet and bowed. “And I would have not recognized you dressed like a… shall we say, a puffin?” It was the worst possible insult. Everyone knew James was irritated enough by the role forced on him by his father. “You shall be required to perform penance if you continue to insult a man of the cloth, Cousin,” said James with a scowl. “At least I don’t look like a damned peacock!” he concluded, while eyeing the Frenchman’s waistcoat.
“A fine welcome I am receiving,” he said, taking a minute snuffbox from his pocket. He leaned his head back and breathed in a generous pinch before offering the enameled box to James, who shook his head with repressed desire in his face. “Perhaps you and your sister would prefer I not stay?” He waited a moment as if expecting a flood of denials. “Ah, but I cannot deprive your dear father of a visit. He wrote in such a kind manner of his great desire to reclaim our past familial ties.”
James snorted.
“Where is the good doctor?” Alexandre asked.
“Attending the duke. His Grace is in very ill health,” responded Charlotte.
“I must go there then to receive my welcome.”
“No, Alexandre, I beg of you to wait here for my father. It would not do to intrude on the sickroom of the duke at present,” Charlotte said.
He smiled, exposing his wonderful bright smile. “You are of course correct, ma cherie. I am a patient man, and we have so much cousinly news to discuss between us.”
Charlotte sighed and looked toward James, who rolled his eyes. It was going to be as difficult as she had imagined. But, she thought with relief, her heart was fully mended. She had worried that his visit would provoke a painful reoccurrence of the sad days in London when Alexandre had refused to call on her, destroying her last shred of hope for a husband. Oh, he was charming and everything handsom
e and elegant to be sure, but his wit could not overcome his deficit in character. The veil had been removed from her eyes. And she was grateful.
A fortnight passed, and as Nicholas toured the activity in the far corner of his property, he realized he had been correct in his guess. That poppycock of a Frenchman had shown every intention of settling in till Michaelmas, if not longer. It was not surprising the alacrity with which Viscount Gaston had inveigled himself into his family’s inner circle. The man was as cunning as a snake charmer, his features handsome enough to deflect questions about his actual station in life.
Within three days of his arrival, he had become a great favorite with all the ladies at Wyndhurst. At least he did provide welcome relief to Nicholas by distracting the females of the household, his stepmother and Lady Susan being the prime examples, from focusing their efforts on filling Nicholas’s hours with frivolity and idleness.
Oh, the viscount was very accomplished in those arts. To be fair, the man had filled the abbey’s walls with more laughter than there had been for a very long time, given his father’s illness. Nicholas should be grateful. But he did not like the way the frog looked at the abbey’s inhabitants, or rather, the way he looked at a particular resident of the cottage beyond the downs. And the man had had the audacity to embarrass the doctor by revealing Charlotte and her brother’s French ancestry— something Nicholas knew the distinguished doctor had taken great pains to hide.
As he rode past, Nicholas acknowledged the shy nods and grins of the group of men he had hired to dig the brewery’s ponds. The pits were growing bigger every day. Soon they would be able to unleash the spring water held at bay by the strong dam the men had also built.