by Regina Darcy
As if aware of her thoughts, one of the men asked, “What shape are they looking for? Everyone in the village is going to be peering at every little mark and mole on every woman who looks to be the right age.”
The other man chuckled. “True enough. I’ve heard tell that it’s the shape of…”
“Amaryllis Belladonna! What are you doing here?”
Charlotte, startled, would have toppled from the stone wall. Lord Davenport took her arm to steady her.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “It seems I always have to beg your pardon, don’t I?”
“I must to be going,” she said, remembering her father crude words about Lord Davenport and his possibly lewd intentions.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked anxiously. “I saw you sitting on the wall and just wanted to come and bid you good day. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s not important. I have to go. I’m expected at home.”
“Why weren’t you at Walsingham Hall? I went looking for you but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“I had errands in the village. I need to return now.”
She walked away quickly, or as quickly as her worn boots would allow her. She did not want to endure more scorn from her parents. Nor did she wish to keep alive any foolish hopes that Lord Davenport could have any interest in her. He was kind, that was all. She had no hope of rising above her station. Somewhere in Battington, there was a child who had been cast off as unwanted and was now eagerly sought. Such a child was lucky. But that sort of luck was not for Charlotte. Her destiny was bleak and not even the moon could change that.
SIX
Charlotte was silent when she returned home and for the rest of the day. Her mother made use of her being at home and put her to work scrubbing the floors. Charlotte didn’t object; there was no point. That night at supper, her father was eager to share the story of the missing child that Lady Elizabeth had sent away when it was born.
‘They’re saying Lord Anthony is searching everywhere for the child. His heir and all. I fancy there’ll be a handsome reward for whoever finds the boy.”
“How will they find him after all these years?” Mrs Smith scoffed. “And what if his birthmark is on his rear?”
“How would he know?” guffawed Mr Smith. “It’s been nineteen years. How many times has he bared his behind?”
“You never know,” Mrs Smith sniggered. “There might be witnesses all over Battington who’ve seen the mark.”
“Likely the boy’s dead now, and every scoundrel in England is going to be trying to find a way to hoodwink his lordship with a false mark.”
Charlotte couldn’t recall whether the men she’d overheard talking about the missing heir had mentioned gender, but she could understand why they assumed it was a boy. Why would His Lordship make a fuss over a worthless girl? His son and heir, yes, but he wouldn’t be searching high and low all over the county for a daughter. She knew at first-hand what people thought of their female children. Would her parents have treated her differently if she’d been born a boy instead of a girl? Possibly if she’d been a boy she’d have been of greater use, and therefore more highly valued.
“You’re quiet tonight,” her father commented.
Charlotte nodded and said nothing.
“What’s the matter? Heartbroken because you didn’t see his handsome lordship today? Well, you’re back outside tomorrow but mind me girl, there will be no dallying with Davenport. You’ve work to do and you’ll do it. That’s what you’re here for. Do you hear?”
“I hear,” Charlotte replied expressionlessly.
She offered no sport for her parents’ mockery and when she had finished clearing up after the meal, neither of them objected that she headed to her bedroom. She lay awake in the darkness, wondering how she could continue to live this way. As she lay there, her emotions too numb for tears, she heard the rain begin to fall outside her open window. No lightning or thunder, just the soothing, steady pattern of rain emptying from the clouds above, nourishing the soil below. It was as if the sky was doing her crying for her.
Sighing, she got out of bed. The rain was coming in through the open window, soaking her dress—soaking her dress. Of course!
Charlotte smiled. The rain could do what she couldn’t, and wash her dress. She took the garment and held it out so that the water would drench her dress and wash the dirt and mud from the cloth. It wouldn’t be new, nor would it be a perfect laundering, but the dress would be the better for the impromptu cleaning. When the dress was wet through, she wrung the cloth and drained the excess water from it. Bringing the dress back inside, she lay it on the floor so that it would dry. There was little to look forward to in her life, but at least she would be a trifle cleaner than she’d been today.
Her dress was a little damp at the waist and neck the next morning when she put it on, and the garment was not without wrinkles, but the clumps of dirt and embedded grime were gone. It was shabby, but it was clean. Her mother looked at her with suspicious eyes as Charlotte followed her father out the door, but Charlotte’s face gave nothing away and finally her mother turned away. The dress was the same one she always wore; her boots were the same, except that her toes were visible where the soles had separated from the uppers. As she walked out the door, Charlotte was smiling to herself. Her father, walking in front of her as he always did, noticed nothing.
They headed for the Walsingham Hall grounds where Charlotte had been working the day when she had seen Lord Davenport on his horse. It seemed as if it was a long time ago and yet it had only been a day or two. Just two days, but in that time, something had changed within her. A spirit she could not identify, born out of a resistance to her father’s cruelty and her mother’s mockery, began to take hold of her. As they walked, Charlotte surreptitiously kicked off her boots, hiding them under a hedge where her father would not discover them. She would rather be barefooted than an object of derision, she decided.
“I’ll be working the garden right across the pathway,” Mr Smith told her when they reached their place of work. “So don’t think you’ll get away with anything because I’ll see you and I’ll take a stick to you. Do you understand me?”
Charlotte smiled, and made a mock curtsey. As she did so, her bare toes were exposed. Mr Smith’s face was suffused with the bright crimson of rage. “You worthless girl, what have you done with your boots?”
“My boots?” Charlotte looked down at her feet with every appearance of surprise. “Why, where on earth could they be? I had them on when I left this morning. The soles were coming apart; they must have fallen off. What will I do? I’m barefooted. Should I return home?”
“One of your tricks, eh?” Smith growled. “I’m having none of that. You’ll stay here and work. You don’t need your feet to pull weeds. You don’t need boots in summer.” He stamped away, clearly thwarted by Charlotte’s ploy but unable to find a way to retaliate in his customary fashion. Charlotte knelt on the ground and began to pull the weeds from the flower beds. It was tedious work, but the flowers were lovely and she enjoyed the soft texture of the petals and the sweet fragrance they emitted. She didn’t know it, but as she knelt, her skirts arrayed around her, her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her skirt, her thick brown hair tied back to expose her slim neck and dainty chin, she was beautiful. Her beauty transcended her worn clothing; it was a triumph of physical attributes, youth, and a natural breeding which defied the crass behaviour of her parents.
“Good morning, Belladonna,” said a familiar voice.
The unexpected sound of a man’s voice breaking into the quiet morning made her jump.
“I’m forever startling you,” Davenport sighed. “I must apologise again.”
She smiled at him. “No apology necessary,” she told him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“I’ll apologise anyway,” he decided. “For all current and future transgressions. It’s a much better way to start the day.”
“Apologising seems to
be a tiresome way to begin the day,” she disagreed, but with a smile that turned her lustrous dark eyes into beacons of light and merriment.
“Not if you forgive me,” he said promptly, sitting down on the ground beside her.
“You’ll get grass strains on your trousers,” she warned him.
“They’ll wash out,” he said carelessly.
“If someone washes them out,” she told him, her tone gentle but her meaning unmistakable.
His blue eyes showed remorse. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It seems as though I’ve done it again. I wasn’t thinking but you’re correct. Someone, yes someone surely must pay for my heedless behaviour. But if I stand,” he rose to his feet, “then I’m made to feel as if you’re beneath me.”
Charlotte tilted her head to look up at him. He was framed by the sunlight at his back, wreathing him in bright rays. “My father would agree with you,” she replied. “I’m lowborn, after all.” With those words, she turned around and walked towards the area where the horses were tethered. She did not get far before being accosted by her father.
“What are you doing, girl? I told you to work and here you are, idle like the lazy, good-for-nothing—” Mr Smith’s tirade came to a halt as he saw Lord Davenport emerge. “You, girl,” George directed his attention to his daughter. “Get back to work!”
“I must remind you, Smith, that you work for my family. If I choose to task your daughter with conversing with me, you must oblige me.” Lord Davenport, although young, carried the authority of his position well, and in control of the situation, he easily put George Smith in his place.
Mr Smith glowered, and his eyes threatened consequences to Charlotte. Subdued, he swallowed whatever he was about to say and bowed submissively.
“My deepest apologies your lordship, no offence was intended.”
Lord Davenport, continued to stare at Smith sternly.
Charlotte rose to her feet.
“His lordship has asked me to show him the Amaryllis Belladonna,” she said, managing with difficulty to keep a smile from breaking out on her face. “As he is highborn and I am lowborn, I must obey his wishes.”
SEVEN
Davenport strolled into the dining room whistling to a tune that he’d heard someone sing during the festival. He was surprised to see his father sitting at the head of the table, his leonine head and grey beard giving him the look of an aging but powerful monarch.
“There’s been talk about you,” his father said.
“Talk about me?” Davenport was puzzled. He thought his behaviour generally above reproach; unlike other young men of his age and social status, he didn’t gamble to excess, or drink to the point of drunkenness, and he didn’t trifle with women. He was no saint, but he prided himself on being a gentleman. “What on earth would anyone say? I haven’t even left the grounds all day.”
“So I hear. You were seen in the company of the daughter of one of the gardeners,” the Duke said grimly. “What on earth were you thinking? There’s only one reason for a boy your age to spend time with a girl of her breeding and I thought better of you.”
Davenport flushed. “Sir, you wrong me! I have never insulted Charlotte with advances. She is a virtuous girl and if the truth were born, she has more grace and breeding in her bearing than any of the ladies I’ve met in the drawing rooms of the upper classes. Charlotte is gentle and kind and she is much abused by her father, who is a brute.”
“The manner in which a gardener in my employ disciplines his daughter is none of my affair nor yours. You are the son of a Duke and I expect you to conduct yourself in a fashion which brings credit to your family name. You will not converse with this girl ever again. You will, instead, remember yourself and the class in which you were born. You are young, but not too young to begin thinking of your future as the next Duke of Walsingham Hall. We have been invited to a dinner party at Uptrue Hall which will be attended by a number of suitable young women. You will join your mother and I and you will find a young woman to whom you will pay court. I will not allow a son of mine, the next Duke, to fall into vice and prodigal behaviour with someone of the lower classes. By the end of summer, you will be engaged. Am I quite clear?”
Davenport stared at his father. The Duke was a firm man, perhaps a rigid one, but he had never before exhibited such tyrannical behaviour. He wondered if this was what Charlotte had to deal with, on a more physical level, every day of her life.
“I had hoped to marry for love,” he said finally.
“Love!” The Duke showed his contempt. “People of our class do not marry for love. We marry for our name, our lands, our heritage. We marry to preserve our way of life. If we do not maintain our standards, all of England will suffer the consequences. There will be chaos.”
“People of our class have turned a blind eye to the very chaos that you speak of,” Davenport protested. “Maintaining our way of life means oppressing people like Charlotte because we allow men like her father to treat her basely!”
“You speak of things you know nothing about!”
The Duke got to his feet, an imposing figure in his elegant clothes, perfectly arranged cravat, and regal bearing. “I’ve told your valet to put out your evening clothes. Go upstairs and make yourself ready for tonight. I look forward to meeting the young woman who will bear the next heir to Walsingham Hall.”
It would never occur to Davenport to disobey his father. He was an obedient son in all ways, eager to please his parents. But his feelings for Charlotte, which had started out of appreciation for her company, were turning into something deeper. He was well aware of the differences in their social stations but Charlotte was unlike any other female of his acquaintance. He admired her fortitude; her life was a hard one, but she faced her trials with courage. She was knowledgeable about all the plants on Walsingham Hall; far from the licentiousness implied by his father, the time he had spent with Charlotte that day had been on the grounds, strolling from flower-bed to shrubbery to the maze, where she had been able to identify every plant. He had told her more about the legendary Duke who had been something of an amateur botanist, caring for his land so deeply that he had personally directed the planting, giving the estate grounds their present unique character. Charlotte had been impressed that someone as aristocratic as a duke could be so fascinated by plants that he would devote so much of his life to nurturing them.
There was no conversation in the ducal carriage as they rode to Uptrue Hall. The Duchess looked worriedly from her husband to her son. Davenport wondered what his father had told her, or whether he had bothered to tell her anything at all. This was the kind of marriage that the Duke expected his son to make, a marriage for the sake of an heir, the binding of two noble houses and two ancient names to continue the illustrious line. Davenport wanted more. What he wanted, he realised, with her torn dress and her bare feet, was the lovely, spirited Charlotte, who spoke to his soul.
His father would never understand such a sentiment. Davenport realised for the first time how much his father was shackled by the conventions of his time and his class. For the Duke, the wealthy and wellborn kept to themselves, and there was no mingling between the classes. Certainly nothing intimate would be shared between an aristocrat and a commoner.
The Duke would be appalled by the mere suggestion of such a thing. Tonight, he expected his son to attend a social event, peruse the assembly of eligible young women as if he were choosing from the titles of his father’s library, and begin the selection process that would lead to a future duchess for Walsingham Hall. He was to make his choice based on the woman’s surname, her title, her parentage, her family’s lands, the dowry she would bring to her nuptials, and her abilities to dance, conduct witty repartee, and flirt with innocence rather than intent. She must be blameless, with no whisper of scandal attaching itself to her reputation. She must be wealthy, but also beautiful if at all possible; her family must be above scandal as well. The rules of social engagement were not written anywhere, but everyone who be
longed to the upper classes knew them implicitly, and who either obeyed them or suffered the consequences.
Unless, Davenport thought cynically, the family was so powerful, so rich, and so above convention that its members could misbehave with impunity. There were social faux pas which could not be tolerated, of course, and young women before their marriages were expected to be pure and innocent, but as long as its members behaved discreetly after marriage, social convention accepted the double standard which enforced its rules. But if Davenport married a woman beneath his social station, he would be guilty of a social gaffe worse than adultery, gambling debts, or a duel. The boundaries were fiercely guarded. To the Duke, his son’s interest in a gardener’s daughter was a reminder that the boundaries must be guarded at all costs, even if that meant his son’s unhappiness.
EIGHT
Davenport stood in the grand hall of Uptrue Hall, an elegant estate strikingly similar to his own. The walls were lined with the painted portraits of the family’s ancestral heritage: the lords and ladies who had fought with the Duke of Battington, and sided with the Tudors; who’d supported Charles I and then, when he was beheaded, shifted their loyalty to his son through the years of exile. Davenport supposed that the history of England could be recited by the inhabitants of the hall, their frames capturing them forever as a tribute to their class and station.
Why did he feel so out of place? These were his kind of people, his father would have said. Indeed, had often said. Why did his thoughts continually return to the image of a lovely girl with a faded dress and worn-out boots whose smile was richer than an inheritance of jewels and titles and ermine? What was it about Charlotte that had captivated him? Why had she stayed in his mind since childhood when she’d been an earnest little girl with a knowledge of plants? Belladonna. He found himself smiling.