by Sophia Nash
“I thank you for your observation, Miss Kittridge. I assure you that I will be capable of resuming whatever position Wellington’s coattails assign me. So far, I am sure there is nothing to do but attend every sort of military parade and social gaiety given in the Ambassador’s honor.” He smiled at his brother. “Actually, I do believe you would enjoy it.”
Lord Huntington turned to his stepmother. “It is time for a glass of something a bit more fortifying than this wine, is it not, Your Grace?”
The duchess jumped up from the table. With glacial cordiality she invited the ladies to withdraw to the salon. Lord Edwin looked very much as if he would like to follow them.
The ladies were reduced to fortifying themselves with coffee. Charlotte wished she could hear whatever the gentlemen were discussing behind the august doors of the former room, whose servants were no doubt longing to decamp the dining hall to tell their colleagues below stairs the story of how Lord Huntington had finally taken his brother to task.
Charlotte took the exquisite porcelain cup and saucer from the cold hands of the duchess and walked to the distant window alcove. She was exhausted by the events of the evening. But her hopes of a moment of tranquility evaporated with the appearance of Louisa Nichols before her.
“Was it not brilliant?” Miss Nichols asked, giggling.
“To what do you refer?”
“Why to the most excellent set down by Lord Huntington.”
Charlotte had no desire to hear this lady’s gossip, but did not know how to extricate herself.
“You know,” Miss Nichols continued, lowering her voice, “I was witness to this family’s machinations for many years. Each time I came on holiday, I watched as he was taunted by cruel remarks regarding his inability to learn. He never said a word to defend himself, although it was quite obvious how it tortured him. And Rosamunde was never allowed to defend him either. Lord Huntington forbade her after the duchess punished Rosamunde once for ‘interfering. — Louisa ran out of steam and recollected herself all at the same moment. She appeared discomfited to have revealed her private remembrances.
“What are you two talking about?” asked Lady Susan, her familiar tinkling laugh signaling her approach. “I must take part in your conversation. I cannot stand another moment with the old biddies. The dowager duchess is about to make my grandmother expire in a fit of the vapors.”
Louisa giggled. “I think I just heard the dowager infer that Lady Elitrope was a harridan looking to play the trollop!”
Lady Susan sniffed. “I cannot fathom why those two old ladies cannot act with more propriety. It is utterly Beyond the Pale. I would never act in such a fashion.”
“Oh, no, Susan. You would never flirt,” Louisa said.
“I take great offence, Louisa. You must explain yourself,” Lady Susan replied in a high-pitched voice.
“Why, I mean your behavior toward Viscount Gaston, of course. Do you think we are blind to your fawning ways?”
“He is quite magnificent, n’est-ce pas?” said Lady Susan in the worst French accent Charlotte had ever heard. “But you have all been entranced too.”
“I do believe you are going to have to practice your irregular verb conjugation and your accent before making your conquest,” replied Louisa.
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy? You seem to be always underfoot whenever we converse.”
“Just trying to help you follow the rules of chaperonage that your mother, with her merchant background, might not have taught you,” Louisa said, looking furious. “Besides, I thought you were here to snare Lord Edwin. Although the heir seems to have captured your fancy ever since he arrived.”
“How dare you!” Lady Susan did not look nearly as embarrassed as she should. “Honestly, this place is as boring as two sticks. Mayn’t I have a bit of fun before tying myself to a Man who Dislikes Frivolity? I am being forced to consider a life devoid of all gaiety in a future marriage to the heir.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed.
“The viscount is marvelous, is he not?” Lady Susan continued her ebullient quest to reveal all. “He has such bearing and presence and, of course, wit. Did you not notice the way his shoulders are molded by the cut of his coat, and the way he fills out his, well, his unmentionables?”
With that, Louisa Nichols almost spilled her coffee. But Lady Susan was not ready to relieve her conspiratorial role. She gathered her listeners and continued in a whisper. “I have it on the greatest authority that he is the sort of man who could make a lady want to experience the Obligations of a Wife.”
“Lady Susan!” Charlotte said in hushed horror.
“And… ?” Louisa’s curiosity was not to be disappointed. “There must be more.” The group gathered tighter together. Charlotte was swept along in the shock of it.
“And, my French maid told me all about it,” said Susan, whispering. “She said that the viscount performs in such an exemplary fashion in Matters of the Bedchamber, that it would be well worth taking him as an immediate lover after my marriage to Lord Huntington.”
“Lady Susan, I insist—” began Charlotte.
“Oh, hush,” Lady Susan said, ignoring Charlotte. “I just wish I could first experience the Pleasures of the Flesh by the viscount on my wedding night.”
Charlotte turned in time to see Louisa’s shocked expression.
“Actually, it is a difficult decision—trying to decide if becoming a duchess is worth tying myself to an ignorant sober-sides or settling for being a gay viscountess in all respects. If I decide on the former, you, dear Louisa, must promise to come to every house party I form. I daresay I will have to have at least one every fortnight if I hope to partake in a modicum of fun,” she said with a tinkling laugh.
“You will, of course, excuse me, Susan, for saying that not only is your proposal alarming, but it is an impossibility,” Louisa said with a satisfied smile. “I can assure you that Lord Huntington has no intention ever to marry anyone. Even a lady of many charms such as yours could not sway him from his decision made years ago. In short, he shall not have you.”
What?! Could Louisa’s words have an ounce of truth? He had promised not to marry any lady? Not just Charlotte? Not that it mattered. He had told his father that he would never choose her for a wife. He had promised his father. But for some perverse reason, she could at least take comfort in the idea that she would not have to witness his marriage to another.
“Oh, phooey, Louisa. You just want the title for yourself. No heir to a dukedom takes a vow such as the one you have described,” Lady Susan said.
“Perhaps you should consider more the idea of a marriage with the viscount. Surely he can provide your inflamed desires with an additional measure or two of persuasion to shake you from your original designs on the heir. If not, I am afraid you will have to be satisfied living vicariously through your maid.”
“Yes, well, it is too bad the younger brother could not switch places with the elder. At least I could be assured a steady stream of entertainments with that gentleman in his sire’s seat—although no one could possibly be as charming as your cousin, Miss Kittridge,” she said with a pitiful sigh.
Charlotte felt the cold anger that had been flowing through her veins move to the very tips of her fingers. She curled her hands in rage. If this was not the most embarrassing conversation she had ever heard, it was certainly the most absurd. If this was what young ladies discussed, she had her doubts as to whether she would continue to cultivate any friendships save Rosamunde’s. “Perhaps you could measure the three gentlemen’s physical attributes and ask for a formal examination of their formidable wits before choosing a life’s partner. But if expensive amusements are your primary concern, then I would go with Lord Edwin. He has far more to offer.”
She could tell by her expression that Lady Susan’s pea-sized brain could not discern if Charlotte’s words were said in jest or in seriousness. In her mind it was all Too Complicated.
Chapter Eleven
“One has
got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.”
—Pride and Prejudice
THE next morning, Nicholas exited the arched doorway of the abbey, forcing himself not to limp. His leg only cramped a little now as he walked down the stone stairs toward the stables.
He had just had a satisfying meeting with Owen Roberts, who had agreed to oversee the building of a large kiln for Miss Kittridge’s clay figures. He had also informed Owen of his decision to place it all—the brewery, the kiln, and the farmlands—in Owen’s capable hands. He was a man whose honesty and integrity could be counted on without question. Nicholas was at the point of wondering if there would be enough land to start a better flock of sheep when he heard a voice call out to him.
“May I have a word with you, my lord?” James Kittridge asked.
“Of course.” They walked into the stables, and Nicholas stopped in front of Phoenix’s stall to check the remarkable recovery of the horse. “I am going for a ride beyond the valley to look at progress on some land. Would you care to join me?” Nicholas knew full well that Kittridge would accept with alacrity the chance to try one of Wyndhurst’s superior hunters.
“Why yes, my lord. I would be honored!”
After feeling Phoenix’s legs and looking into her eyes, Nicholas arranged for a second horse to be saddled. Once they were both mounted on feisty geldings, Nicholas proposed a good gallop before anything else and was met with a broad grin that nearly split the younger man’s face in two.
As they reached the valley’s roiling spring, and turned to follow it upstream at a more sedate pace, James Kittridge spoke. “First, I must apologize for the discussion last night,” he began. “I would never have continued that miserable subject of reading had I known of your, of your… “ He had turned beet-red, and Nicholas relieved him of his misery as they road side by side.
“There is no need to feel any embarrassment. I accepted my deficiencies long ago. While I might prefer to have them remain unknown to others, I have finally learned not to fear the unveiling of any truths.”
“I shall have to remember that as a seed for a future sermon,” he said.
Nicholas threw back his head and chuckled. “Sermon-making does not appear to be a task you will take up with any real zeal.”
Kittridge snorted. “You have the right of it. I think everyone is aware that I would prefer the military. In fact, I want to be just like you—a decorated officer in the 95th Rifleman. But I shall not disappoint my father.”
“You and I are alike in many ways…”
For a few moments, neither said another word. Nicholas was glad that Kittridge did not choose to pry the meaning of his words from him.
“You mentioned that you wanted to discuss something— was it just about last evening?” asked Nicholas. “No,” Kittridge said, and paused. “There was something more… It is about my sister.”
“Yes?”
“She is very kindhearted, and practical, and of course very intelligent…”
“I agree.” Nicholas wondered where this was all leading. “Well, sir, I would not want to see her hurt. She might appear very strong, but after all, she is a female, and has had her emotions toyed with in the past. And I, and of course my father, would not want to witness a reoccurrence.”
Nicholas stopped his horse, forcing young Kittridge to do the same. “Do I understand you? Is she in expectation of a proposal of marriage from me?”
Kittridge flinched. “No. It is rather that you might not know her as I do. And I feel I must warn you,” he said, before continuing in a rush. “She is quite delighted by your family’s gift of the dress. And, well, you see, I saw you both returning after the rain shower.”
Nicholas closed his eyes for a few moments and shook his head. “She said nothing to you on the occasion?”
“No,” he replied. “Well, actually she reprimanded me and told me to go to the devil… Well, not exactly in those words. But that was the gist of it.”
“While you do not know me well, I can assure you I have no intention of ruining your sister. She has been of immense help to me. I would not hurt her,” he said, then urged his horse forward again. He looked over his shoulder toward Miss Kittridge’s brother. “I would look no further than the viscount, if you desire a proposal of marriage. He seems to have captured more hearts than the post on St. Valentine’s Day. A veritable Romeo Shakespeare would approve of. Is he not here to woo her?”
“He seems to want to lead my sister to the altar ‘ere long, although my father is not altogether desirous of the match. But they have been long promised to each other—since childhood. And Charlotte—”
“And your sister desires the match?” Nicholas interrupted.
“If I could figure out the maneuverings of the female mind, I would not be talking to you now. I have never understood my sister—or any other female for that matter.”
“And why does your father seem to be disinclined to approve of the viscount?” “He considers the man to be frivolous in his pursuits. They would not suit. Although, I think a bit of gaiety in Charlotte’s life would do her a world of good. She has been deprived of far too much. She has not been exposed to the entertainments enjoyed by most young women. Instead she immersed herself in my father’s books, and helped to nurse the ill and infirm for the last decade. Perhaps, the viscount will have her after all, although why he wants her I cannot fathom. Her dowry is modest, to be sure.” Kittridge paused. “But it will not happen without my father’s blessing.”
“Why would your father reject his suit?” Nicholas asked, unsure of why he was persistent in the matter.
“Well, there is the matter of our heritage. As you might have noticed, my father suppresses as much as possible our French ancestry.”
“I daresay they are thousands of French emigres in England today. What does he fear? The guillotine has long been sheathed.”
The young man’s face had become white and drawn, Nicholas discovered when he turned around to see why his comment had met with no response. He stopped his horse again and caught at Kittridge’s reins as he drew beside him “It is my turn to apologize. Did you know many who died?”
“Yes,” he said. “My mother and grandparents, during Thermidor.”
“They were declared ‘enemies of the people’?”
“Yes. It was their wealth and titles that killed them,” he said. Then added, “My sister witnessed the worst of it.” Nicholas knew enough to keep silent. “I was with my father in Paris. We shared a small town house with my cousin and his mother’s family, who were prudent enough to hide their wealth. My maternal grandparents were proud and defiant and refused to heed their warnings. They remained on their estate, and Charlotte refused to be parted from our mother. Her governess managed to rescue Charlotte, who was just seven years old then. She dressed her in rags, and hid in the woods until it was safe enough to walk to Paris under the cloak of darkness.” Kittridge refocused his eyes and looked toward Nicholas. “Do you wish to hear the rest? I must warn you it is ghastly.”
“Tell me.”
The faraway look in his expression returned. “My mother, her sister, and my grandparents were taken before the tribunal and sent to Les Cannes prison. They watched their friends led away by the cartful each morning. Soon it was their own turn. Charlotte only ever spoke of it once to me. She had slipped away from the town house to catch a glimpse of our mother when Charlotte had overheard they were to be guillotined that day. She managed to touch our mother’s hand before the crowd swelled and broke them apart. She tried to crawl out but was unable to press through. Charlotte did not see our mother guillotined, but she heard the sound of the blade drop and the cheers of the crowd.”
James stopped, and tried to collect himself. “When we lived in London, my sister would not enter any crowded place. And she refused to be out of my father’s or my sight. My father or I had to stay with her every moment—even while she slept. She has a great fear of being left alone in the world.”
> Nicholas felt sick to his stomach.
“I am not surprised,” Nicholas replied. “I do not know what to say, except that I am very sorry. At least I was a grown man of seventeen when I first witnessed the gruesome realities of a battlefield. I cannot imagine how a seven-year-old little girl felt upon hearing the guillotine and a crowd cheer at her mother’s death.”
“Well, it explains why my father refuses to acknowledge any ties to the aristocracy. Indeed, I was surprised that he allowed my flamboyantly aristocratic cousin to visit us. But, I suspect it was only because Alexandre’s family supported us during those sinister days of the Terror.”
“Who were your grandparents?”
“Le Marquis and Marchioness de la Palladin. But I pray you do not tell my father what I have confided to you. I have told you this so you will understand why I do not want my sister to ever have to suffer again. She has experienced enough pain for one lifetime.”
“I assure you I would never hurt your sister. I owe her more than is comfortable for a man to owe a lady.”
“That is all I can ask,” Kittridge replied.
As the two gentlemen toured the lands the grandfather had deeded to him, Nicholas kept the conversation on topics limited to battlefield facts, to please Kittridge, and farming, to please himself. The young man approved of Nicholas’s ideas for the use of the vast acres, but preferred arguing over the merits of the Brown Bess over the French musket. And all Nicholas could think of, in the corners of his mind, was how soon the viscount would convince Dr. Kittridge and charm the doctor’s daughter to the altar.
It had been a frightful morning for Charlotte. First Alexandre had so insulted Doro that the poor woman had left, swearing never to return until “his French viscount’s arse” was gone from the valley. Then her father had not returned from a middle-of-the-night visit to a neighboring tenant farmer too ill to be moved.
Her brother had been of no help as usual. After returning from a ride with Lord Huntington yesterday, James had lectured her all afternoon, yet again, about that gentleman’s plans to return to his regiment. Early this morning Charlotte had forced him out of the cottage in the direction of the abbey to get a report on the duke’s condition.