The Lady of the Lakes

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Lord Downshire explained he had a few weeks without parliamentary responsibility and gave her an update on some mutual friends, more his than hers, as well as on Lady Downshire and the children.

  Because Charlotte spent such little time in the same home with Lady Downshire, she didn’t know the children well. But she had tender feelings toward them and sympathy for what little time they had with their parents. In France, women did not leave their children to be raised by a servant. There might be governesses and nurses from time to time, but a mother kept her children around her as much as she could.

  No sooner had the prideful thought entered her mind than Charlotte was humbled by the fact that her own mother had not kept her children around her. She had chosen a lover over motherhood, and though her eventual regret had been sincere, it could not change what had already happened. Charlotte would be well to reserve her judgment of others when her own place was untidy.

  Jane served the tea, and Charlotte was grateful that her relationship with Lord Downshire had returned to a comfortable place. But as much as she would like to believe his coming was simply to see how she fared, their relationship was not so easy as that.

  Finally, he placed his cup on the tray and sat back in his chair. “I wonder if I might speak with Charlotte privately,” he asked, looking from Charlotte to Jane.

  “It is Jane’s uncle’s house,” Charlotte said, citing etiquette to cover her sudden nervousness. Surely this wasn’t about Mr. Roundy again, was it?

  “It is fine, Charlotte.” Jane replaced her cup and adjusted her spectacles on the bridge of her nose. “I wanted some cuttings from the garden anyway.”

  She stood and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “I didn’t mean to be ill-mannered,” Lord Downshire said with a smile likely meant to put Charlotte at ease.

  She simply took another sip of her tea, now cold, trying to hide her tension.

  “Well, you see, I made this visit in hopes that you and I could resume our discussion from December.”

  Her tension increased, and she carefully put down her teacup before meeting his eyes. “If dis is about Mr. Roundy, I can assure you dat—”

  “It is not about Mr. Roundy,” Lord Downshire said, shaking his head. “He is married and settled in Kent. This is about the other portion of our discussion—the part regarding your independence.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte hadn’t expected that.

  “I’ve had occasion to think of it and to speak with Lady Downshire, and we feel that perhaps I was hasty in dismissing the idea so quickly.”

  What he meant was that Lady Downshire felt he had been too hasty, but Charlotte wisely kept her mouth closed and her expression expectant.

  “I would like to revisit the idea. I suppose that first I should make certain you are still agreeable to establishing your independence.”

  “More den ever,” she said with confidence, eager to tell him of all she had learned. “Jane and I have been keeping a ledger here at Nesting Hollow, tracking expenses and working on a pretend account. I have learned a great deal about management, so much so dat I can see why you were once hesitant about my ability to manage on my own.”

  “I am glad to hear that you have been so attentive,” Lord Downshire said, looking as pleased as he sounded.

  He then explained his idea, which was to immediately turn over her remaining income for the year to Mr. Rawlins, his banker. Mr. Rawlins would help Charlotte manage the funds through the rest of the year with the expectation that, if she were still set on this course, she would enjoy further independence come January of 1797 by taking complete control for the next year. Mr. Rawlins would continue to oversee her management and report to Lord Downshire quarterly, but if all went well, Charlotte could be established and autonomous just after her twenty-eighth birthday, with adequate experience and assistance to ensure her success.

  “Are you agreeable to this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, daring a smile. “I am very agreeable to dis.”

  “I understand your stay here in Newbury will end come June. I hope you will return to the dower house at Easthampton Park so we might begin.”

  “Yes, dank you. I had hoped dat we could return. I was going to speak with you about it today.” Things had been so uncomfortable when she’d left London that they had not discussed her return to the Downshire property she’d called home for the last several years. It was a relief not to feel as though she were begging for it.

  Lord Downshire smiled. “I took the liberty of writing to John to make sure he was comfortable with the arrangement. I heard back just last week that he thinks it a fine idea, too.” He fished into his inside pocket. “He wrote to you as well. I’m sure you would prefer to read it in your own company.” He handed over the envelope.

  Charlotte stared at the familiar script with a pang in her heart. When would she see her brother next? It had been such a long time.

  Lord Downshire stood. “I need to be on my way. I’ve a jewelry box to pick up for Lady Downshire in Abingdon. We’ll celebrate our ten-year anniversary next month.”

  Charlotte nodded and also stood. “Oh, la, that is right. Congratulations. I’m sure she will love the gift.” Charlotte’s removal from Lord Downshire’s list of responsibilities would also be a gift to Lady Downshire. She put out her hand and Lord Downshire took it. She gave it a squeeze. “Dank you, milord, for everything. I will make you proud.”

  The edges of his eyes crinkled, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead. “You make me proud already, Charlotte. I’m only sorry that . . .” He paused, as though trying to find the right words. “I’m only sorry that I am not turning you over to a more secure future with a man who will love you and care for you the way you deserve.”

  Did she deserve it? Sometimes she wondered. “Do not be sorry,” she said, smiling over her own regret and wanting him to leave with optimistic feelings. “I shall tread the path the Lord has laid for me and be glad for the journey.”

  And if that path is meant to be trod alone, so be it.

  Fettercairn, Scotland

  April 1796

  Walter arrived at Fettercairn on Thursday in time for tea, which he enjoyed with Mina and her mother in an elaborate drawing room complete with velvet curtains and a matching pale blue latched rug. The three of them chatted amiably about his travel, after which Walter was shown to a guest room where he was expected to stay until dinner to sufficiently settle himself. He would much rather have spent the time walking outside with Mina, as she’d suggested at tea, but he would not argue with her mother, who’d reminded Mina of her harp practice not yet completed. Harp practice—what a fitting activity for the angel of his thoughts.

  Walter unpacked his travel bag, pulled out his well-loved copy of ballads by Percy, and moved the single chair to the window that overlooked the thick forests surrounding the estate. Fettercairn was lovely with forests for miles, craggy hills rising out of the green, and an estate house more extravagant than he had expected.

  His father’s concerns over Mina adjusting to the lifestyle of a barrister still haunted him, but he would not feed those thoughts with insecurity. He turned his attention to the ballads and let the words take his mind off Mina, who was so close it was difficult not to go after her.

  Dinner was an elaborate affair, and he made a mental note to thank his Aunt Jenny for teaching him the impeccable table manners of the English. He knew the right spoons, the order of the courses, and the topics and gestures to be avoided. Once or twice he thought Sir John was even impressed. He was determined to be on his best behavior so Mina’s father would not see him as a rustic.

  Walter expected that he and Sir John would take a glass of port—another English tradition—after dinner while the women awaited them in the drawing room, but instead they all removed together and passed the evening with several rather sedate rounds of whist. Twice Wa
lter hooted after laying down a winning hand, only to remember that he was not with his friends. Mina, though graceful and well-­mannered, seemed on edge, glancing often at her father as they played.

  When the evening concluded, Walter walked her to the stairs, but her bedchamber was in the opposite wing of the house, which required them to part company at the landing. Her parents were only a few steps behind so there was little chance for private conversation.

  Tomorrow, Walter decided, would be the time to reacquaint himself with Mina.

  An opportunity to be alone with Mina presented itself shortly after breakfast when he asked if she would show him the garden. She, in turn, asked her mother. Sir John was not with them.

  “Be mindful of wearing yourself out, dear,” Lady Stuart said.

  Walter put out his arm rather sharply, and Mina took it with a laugh at his formality. The sound moved over him like the blessed spring rain that turned the hills and crags a brilliant green, and he felt alive as he hadn’t in all the months since she’d left Edinburgh.

  As they walked, they spoke of friends, how they both had spent the months since they’d last met, and of Walter’s business in Aberdeen. He kept to himself the fact that he had built the trip around the hope of seeing her, and being in her company was just as he’d thought it would be—the parting of clouds revealing the beauty of the clear blue Highland sky.

  “You have never told me much about your father,” she said after a momentary lull in conversation.

  “Och, well, what would you like to know? He’s a Writer of the Signet, gave me my start in his office, and then encouraged me toward the bar. He’s a hardworking man, if not overly generous with his clients.”

  “Overly generous?” she repeated.

  Walter explained his father’s habit of not keeping record of hours or settling bills for a trade that was not evenly matched. “I tried to repair the practice when I worked with him, but he preferred his way.” Walter shrugged. “Eventually I stopped complaining. He is his own man after all, and there’s some pride to be taken in knowing the people you work with always get a good deal.”

  “Are you close with him, then?” Mina asked.

  Walter considered the question as well as why she might be asking it. “I’ve no interest in speaking ill of my father, but I wouldn’t say we’re all that close. It’s my mother I get on with best between the two. She nurtured my love of literature from a young age and is quick with encouragement and compliments. My father and I, well, we are often on different sides of an issue. He is strict in his religious ideals, bold in his opinions, and not much inclined toward the pleasure of literature. But he is a good man.” He cast a sidelong look her way. “May I ask why you’re interested?”

  She paused and looked toward the east, her forehead furrowed in consternation, which made her look troubled and older than her years. Walter moved around to face her and lifted his eyebrows expectantly. Once she looked his way, he wagged them up and down. She smiled, then shook her head.

  “Your father wrote to mine,” she said.

  Walter knew his expression reflected the surprise he felt at the confession. “I didn’t know they were acquainted.” Certainly his father had never given any indication of such a connection. The last time he had mentioned the Stuart family was the night he’d told Walter he was a fool to pursue Mina. They hadn’t spoken about the family since.

  “I don’t believe they are acquainted,” Mina said. She reached down and plucked a slender blade of grass, pulling it between her thumb and forefinger. She glanced up at him, looking guilty. “I read the letter your father sent. My father doesn’t know.”

  “What did the letter say?”

  “He thought we had an attachment to one another and stated that he didn’t support it and wouldn’t press for a match between us.”

  “Och,” Walter said, turning away in embarrassment and pushing a hand through his hair. The Scottish temper he tried so hard to repress—with success most of the time—nipped quickly at the edges of his thoughts. What right did his father have to say such things? Why was he so intent against this match if Walter and Mina were in accord?

  Mina continued, “Have you told him we are attached to one another, Walter?”

  Walter turned back to her. “Of course I haven’t told him.” He wished he could defend himself with more vigor, but he had never attempted to hide the impression that he and Mina had an agreement. She was the only woman he pursued, the only one he spoke of—and he spoke of her often. “He did ask me about my feelings, just before you left Edinburgh. I did not lie to him.”

  “What did you tell him?” Mina looked concerned, perhaps even offended. “Why would he think we were attached when we are not?”

  There were two questions to answer, but Walter focused on the second. “Are we not attached?”

  Her cheeks heated up, and she turned away, staring across the garden. “We have said many sweet things to one another, but we have not formed an attachment, Walter. I understood that we were keeping our level of . . . affectionate correspondence a secret.”

  A fall into an ice-cold loch could not have been less shocking for Walter than to hear such words from Mina. His frozen tongue could find no response.

  She looked flustered. “What I mean is, there is nothing official between us.”

  His mouth thawed enough to find some words. Painful, sharp, and acidic words. “And you do not wish there to be.”

  She turned back to him, her eyebrows high on her forehead. “That is not what I mean, only . . . the letter made it sound as though there were something official and there is not.”

  It felt official to me. Walter took a breath, trying to clear his mind so he could think. Standing still made him feel even more anxious, so he put his arm out once again. She regarded it a moment and then took it, falling into graceful step beside his limping ones. Her hand on his arm did not warm him as it had before. “I have told no one of any official attachment between us, Mina, but you know I have not hidden the feelings I have for you. Even so, I am embarrassed that my father would send such a letter. You said your father does not know you read it?”

  “He does not know I know of its existence,” Mina said. “That is the other part that has worried me. He’s made no mention of the letter, but he did not extend your invitation until after he received it. I don’t understand either of our fathers’ parts in this.”

  Walter paused, choosing his words carefully even while knowing he was seeking reassurance. “My father is convinced you would never be happy with the kind of life I could offer you as a barrister and that I’m a fool to think that you could. I explained you were not so shallow as to choose a future based only on temporal comfort.”

  Mina said nothing though he gave her ample time to counter his father’s poor opinion.

  “I hope that I did not err in such a defense.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Mina said, but her tone was flat. “Only, I don’t know what to think of all this.” She raised her free hand to her forehead as though gripped with a sudden headache. “My father has expressed the same worries, and if both of our fathers think that we are not capable of finding happiness with one another, well . . .”

  Walter stopped and turned her to face him. He took both her hands in his. “Don’t tell me that you’re doubting us too, Mina.”

  She looked at their joined hands, then lifted her loosome green eyes, the color of the sea, to meet his. Regret filled them. “I don’t know, Walter,” she whispered, crushing his heart with those simple, soft-spoken words. “I enjoy your company, I love receiving your letters, and I feel so blessed to have your romantic heart reaching for me. Only, will we go against both of our families? Will we truly act in opposition to their wishes?”

  “Yes,” Walter said with certainty. “If our hearts are yearning for one another, we will go against anything that might prevent our happines
s.”

  When she looked away again, he released one of her hands and lifted her chin. He met her eyes. “Do you love me, Mina?”

  She paused longer than he liked, but then nodded.

  He leaned forward and kissed her ever so lightly. She did not lean in for more, and instead ducked her head modestly. How unfair for her to have to consider such things. Why could her father, and his, apparently, not want her happiness as Walter did? “I love you as well, Mina, and those feelings are only strengthened by those who intend to stand in our way. We can respect our parents and still choose our own way. We deserve to be happy, and, in time, they will see how content we are. It is not as though your parents would lose you, and once they see how devoted I am to your care and comfort, they will respect your choice.”

  “I wish I had your confidence,” she said, shaking her head. “I am so confused.”

  “Don’t be confused,” he said, trying to shore up her determination.

  It would be very difficult to be a woman—an only daughter, in fact—and feel such responsibility to please your parents. Mina was young, naïve in the ways of the world. She must find it hard to believe that her parents could be wrong—but they were. Totally and completely wrong.

  “Believe in us and the love we share,” Walter whispered as he brought both of her hands to his lips. He kissed each knuckle of each hand and watched her expression soften. “Know that I am doing everything in my power to be in a position to make you my wife. I will take care of you, Mina, and cherish you all the days of my life. Even if we don’t have the full support of our families in the beginning, I truly believe their objections will be stilled when they see the happiness we share with one another. They don’t understand what we feel for one another. If they did, they would not act as they have.”

  She searched his eyes. “You are so certain.”