The Lady of the Lakes

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “You are welcome to stay, of course,” Mrs. Nicholson was saying when Charlotte came back to the conversation. “It would keep the house from being left empty for the winter, and we shall return for Christmas.”

  “That is very kind of you,” Jane said, smiling at her aunt. “Though we are expected in Bracknell so we shan’t stay beyond a week or so.”

  Charlotte didn’t like that Jane was making a decision for both of them—perhaps Charlotte would like to stay in Carlisle—but then these were Jane’s relations. It’s not as though she could insist they remain, and she had no reason to be in this part of the country, especially with her upcoming move to Brighton. She paid more attention to her plate.

  After dinner, the family lingered in the drawing room. Jane performed on the piano while one cousin sang. Talk of shared friends and relations continued between the Nicholsons while Charlotte worked on her sewing. She had neglected this project while at Gilsland because her evenings had been filled with entertainments that surpassed the appeal of needle and thread. She had felt worn out by her exertions in Gilsland on more than one occasion, so this quiet evening was not unwelcome, but it did cause her to wonder what her life would be six months in the future. Would she have more evenings like this or more evenings like she’d had in Gilsland? Would she entertain or sit alone by a fire? Would Jane be there?

  The next day was filled with unpacking, a tour of the city of Carlisle—including Rose Castle, where Jane’s great-grandfather had lived when he was Bishop of Carlisle—and some shopping to replace gloves and stockings and things needed for the upcoming winter weather.

  While Jane and her aunt were shopping for ribbons, Charlotte entered the adjacent glover’s shop. She noticed a piece of tartan—perhaps fourteen inches square—tacked up on the wall behind the clerk. It made her think of Walter, though the pattern wasn’t the same as his. As she was finalizing the sale for her new gloves, she asked the man about the display.

  The man puffed his chest out. “That’s a MacArthur tartan, lassie,” he said with an accent even thicker than that of Mr. Scott and his companions.

  “You are of the MacArthur clan?” Charlotte asked. A year ago she would never have engaged a stranger in conversation, nor known anything about tartans.

  “Aye,” he said with a nod. “On my mother’s side, ye ken. She cut this piece from her own plaid when I saw her last, and I wanted it near me.”

  She asked why he was in Carlisle, and he told her of the invitation to run this shop, previously owned by his wife’s uncle. He missed Glasgow and had not been back for some time. “The tartan at least reminds me o’ who I am and where I come from.”

  Charlotte thought of her mother’s rosary, still tucked in her reticule as it had been for months. She could understand the nostalgia of wanting a physical reminder of one’s past. “It is lovely,” she said. “I hope you will be able to visit Glasgow soon.”

  “Och, aye, thank ye for the blessing.”

  That evening proceeded much as it had the evening before. Some friends of the Nicholsons rounded out their party to twelve, which gave Charlotte even more reason to focus on her stitches. At the end of the evening, Jane and Charlotte made their way to their upstairs rooms together.

  “Might we visit for a little while before bed?” Jane asked when they reached the door to Charlotte’s room.

  “Certainly,” Charlotte said, glad to feel the sense of friendship that had been missing the last few months. They entered Charlotte’s room, and she ushered Jane to a seat by the fire. She sat at her dressing table and began removing the pins from her hair. With no ladies maid, she did her own hair in simpler styles, but they always seemed to require more pins than she expected.

  Jane spoke of the fine day and the lovely pace of life in Carlisle while Charlotte’s thick hair slowly released down her back, bringing a welcome ache to her scalp.

  “What do you tink of staying in Carlisle, as Mrs. Nicholson suggested?” Charlotte asked when there was a lull in conversation.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jane said with a shrug. “It seems strange to stay in someone else’s house.”

  “Every place we stay belongs to someone else,” Charlotte reminded her. Within a few months, however, she would have her own apartment in Brighton that she could design and decorate as she pleased, though on a limited budget.

  “Yes, but the Bracknell cottage feels more like home. And we are so far north. You cannot imagine how cold it will become, Charlotte. It is nothing so mild as Bracknell.”

  “We could get thicker coats and stockings,” she said with a smile, trying to encourage Jane to at least consider the idea. It would be an adventure to winter somewhere new, and though Charlotte wasn’t a lover of cold weather, for a few months’ time she would not mind it. She loved the moorlands here. The wide-open spaces would make for lovely rides with Jolie. Even in the cold.

  “With what money, Charlotte?”

  Jane’s tone had changed abruptly, and Charlotte was taken off guard. She looked at Jane, who was frowning, her lips tightly pursed together.

  “Coats and stockings cost money,” Jane said.

  Charlotte clenched her jaw in irritation but refused to react. She ran her hand through her hair and kneaded her scalp with her fingers. When she spoke, she made sure to speak calmly. “Yes, I do know this, Jane, and I have set aside my allowance to afford some new winter clothes.”

  “For you, perhaps, but not for me.”

  Charlotte dropped her hands in her lap, sad and frustrated to have the conversation turn after such a pleasant evening. “Lord Downshire has seen about your needs, Jane.”

  “But he won’t, come the new year.”

  “No,” Charlotte said. “He won’t see to either of our needs come the new year. Is that what’s bothering you? Have you decided if you will come to Brighton or look for another position?”

  “I cannot go to Brighton without an income of my own.” She took a breath and then continued. “I wonder if you should ask Lord Downshire to continue to keep me on another year so that I might help in the transition.”

  Charlotte felt sympathy for Jane’s situation, but this was not the course she would take. “I have been working toward this independence for a long time, Jane, and I will not ask for him to extend his assistance. I’m sorry.”

  Jane clenched her jaw. “You cannot get on without me, Charlotte. You will—”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, holding the woman’s eyes and feeling her irritation rise. “I can.”

  “You are a child,” Jane said.

  Charlotte sat up even straighter. “I am seven-and-twenty and destined to make my own way. Alone, if needs be.”

  Jane shook her head. “And make a fool of yourself like you did in Gilsland?”

  Charlotte stiffened, kept her mouth closed, and braced herself. When people meant to hurt someone else, they usually succeeded. Charlotte would rather get through Jane’s complaints than continue to be the silent recipient of the woman’s censure.

  “I know you enjoyed your role as Belle of the Ball, but those men had no real interest in you. They saw you only as a diversion, and if not for my presence you would very likely have found yourself compromised.”

  “I would not,” Charlotte said with tight words, offended for her sake as well as on behalf of Mr. Scott and his companions. “Those men were gentlemen, and they were my friends.”

  Jane sniffed. “You are so naive, Charlotte. You are too old and too . . . foreign to have truly befriended them. I fear very much for your safety around such men—men of the world who understand your place better than you do. If Lord Downshire knew of your behavior, he might reconsider his support of this plan.”

  Charlotte felt her nostrils flare. “Lord Downshire is glad to be rid of me, Jane, and I will ask you to leave this room before you say something we will both regret. I handled myself with propriety and mann
ers and will not listen to your insults.”

  Jane narrowed her eyes and then spun toward the door.

  Charlotte was alone with her reflection. Her dark, non-­English, hair hung over her shoulders, making her look young despite her age. She replayed her time with Mr. Scott and his friends. Had they genuinely enjoyed her company or had they only attended to her because they knew their time with her would be short? Then Mr. Scott’s face came to mind and the way he had looked when she’d told him not to come to Carlisle. He’d been surprised, but also hurt—which she hadn’t expected.

  Had she done the right thing in telling him not to come? Their connection was different than her connection with Mr. John Scott or Mr. Ferguson, and he seemed genuinely sad to see her go. However, the heartbreak he’d related to her that night in front of the fire had been sincere. His heart was not free to love someone else, and perhaps he did see her only as a diversion. But he was still a gentleman, and she was offended that Jane would so unjustly accuse him.

  “It does not matter,” she said, standing from the table and moving toward the bellpull where she could call a housemaid to help her out of her evening dress. She would not see Mr. Scott again, therefore she would not allow Jane’s accusations to tarnish her fond memories. As for Jane’s fear that Charlotte could not care for herself, such a comment only strengthened her determination to do exactly that.

  Charlotte arrayed her skirts to cover her feet while wriggling in the saddle to properly distribute her weight. She had heard that Marie Antoinette, the unfortunate queen of her youth, rode astride, as did Queen Elizabeth, whom—unlike the last queen of France—everyone revered.

  Charlotte wondered if once she was in charge of her own affairs she might do the same. Jane would never approve, but it seemed that Jane approved of very little these days. The argument from last night still sat heavy in Charlotte’s chest, and she hoped the morning ride would clear her mind. That she was not afraid of Jane’s disapproval or her own ability to care for herself was both exciting and terrifying. She did not want to be alone—she had never wanted that—yet if life were destined to keep her solitary, she found herself more and more willing to accept those terms.

  “Dank you,” she said to the groom who had helped her ready the horse.

  Although Charlotte and Jane had been in Carlisle for three days, this was her first morning ride, and she was excited to continue the routine she’d established over the last year. The wind in her hair had become as important as her morning tea with sugar.

  Charlotte turned Jolie to the road leading from the house toward the forests and lakes of the district. As she left the yard, she thought she caught a flash of movement on the tree line skirting the road ahead. She slowed and scanned the area but determined the movement must have been a bird or some other animal running for cover. She remained wary, however, and when she saw another shift of movement in the trees on the left side of the road, she pulled Jolie up hard, causing the horse to wheel about.

  “Hello,” she said sharply as she scanned the trees. “Who’s there?”

  She heard branches shift and then a man on horseback emerged from behind a pine tree. The fear left her as Charlotte narrowed her eyes at the familiar horse and even more familiar rider with golden hair and bright blue eyes.

  “Mr. Scott?” she said, disbelieving. “What are you doing here?”

  “I did not mean to startle you,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Only ride with you, if you’ll have me. I hoped to get further up the road where I had planned to wait for you, but you saddled faster than I expected.”

  Panic subsided, Charlotte felt a warmth spread through her chest though she maintained her distance. “I believe I told you not to come to Carlisle.” She kept her tone light rather than accusatory, but she still felt cautious about his unexpected, and uninvited, appearance.

  He pulled his horse around so he could face her directly. “You did tell me not to come,” he acknowledged. “But, then, the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to come to Carlisle despite your protests.”

  “Why?” she asked, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

  He smiled widely, showing his perfect white teeth and making his blue eyes sparkle. “To see you,” he said. “If you’ll have me.”

  She rolled her eyes dramatically but felt sure he could tell she was pleased. “Very well.” She sighed as though put out with his ardor. She spurred Jolie forward, leaving Mr. Scott to turn his horse and catch up with her. Once their horses walked side by side, she glanced at him again. “Where are your friends?”

  “They went on to Windermere,” Mr. Scott said. “I shall join them if you cast me off.”

  Charlotte laughed and faced him as fully as her sidesaddle allowed. “You are very bold, Mr. Scott.”

  He reined in, and without his asking her, she did as well, their horses coming to a stop in the middle of the road. Once he held her attention, she could scarcely look away from him, so powerful was his attention. She smiled expectantly, curious as to what he would say next.

  “Miss Carpenter,” he said, sounding nervous though she sensed he was attempting to hide it. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Her smile fell.

  “Nothing illicit,” he added quickly. “Just the opposite, in fact.”

  She pulled her eyebrows together, unable to discard the tension. She said nothing.

  “I enjoy your company very much, Miss Carpenter,” Mr. Scott said, lifting his chin as though to bolster his confidence. “And I would like to extend my time within it. I know you do not believe in romantic notions, but I do, and I canna pretend not to feel a . . . a connection between us that I would like to explore in a practical way.”

  “I never said I did not believe in romantic notions, Mr. Scott,” Charlotte clarified, but her stomach was full of butterflies, bringing on sensations she had not felt since she had been a very young woman. “I am simply not ruled by them.”

  “As you believe I am?”

  Charlotte chose her words carefully, wanting to be truthful, yet kind and fair. “I do not think you are ruled by such notions, but I tink you enjoy entertaining romantic ideals very much.”

  He smiled widely again. “That is absolutely true, but I am open to the possibility that romance alone is a shallow grave to dig for one’s self.”

  She laughed. “And you would like to dig a deeper grave? Your metaphors are rather macabre.”

  “Aye, perhaps you are right.” He paused and squinted one eye as though deep in thought. “Perhaps a better analogy is that I am open to the possibility that romance alone is not a strong enough beam to support an entire house.”

  “Dat one is better.”

  “Thank you, which brings me back to my proposition . . . or proposal.”

  “Proposal!” Charlotte exclaimed. “Of marriage?”

  “Nay, nay, nay,” Mr. Scott said, shaking his head at his own foibles. He took a deep breath. “You can be a very difficult woman to talk with, do you know that?”

  “C’est probablement vrai,” she said—that is probably true. “But you are the one who has come from Gilsland to talk to me.” She placed her hands on the reins. “What is your proposal, then?”

  “I am expected at court in Jedburgh starting on October first. I would like to spend every minute possible between then and now in your company.”

  She was unable to suppress the look of surprise on her face that made him smile even wider. He had such a striking smile. How had she not noticed that before?

  When he seemed to realize she was speechless, he continued. “That gives us fifteen days to learn one another’s history and explore one another’s natures and expectations in life. At the end of those fifteen days, we should be able to determine if we think that we could make a suitable match despite my romantic nature and your practical one.”

  Charlotte’s heart was racing and yet her
stomach had calmed. He wanted to spend time with her, hours and hours. He wanted to know her as a person. Did he mean it? Could she trust him? She was so close to gaining her independence—was this a worthwhile consideration? “I fear you have lost your mind, Mr. Scott.”

  “I have not lost my mind,” he said, shaking his head. “I have, however, chosen to use my mind to make a choice. If either of us feels that we canna find happiness together, then we will part ways with, as you said, happy memories. If, on the other hand, we find that we are well-suited, I would like to know from the start that you are willing to pursue matrimony. At the end of our time together, we shall both write a letter to the other, expressing our feelings on the subject. If either of us is against it, our time together will be complete, and we will only have lost fifteen days.”

  “Not five years?” she asked. It had to be acknowledged that his reasons for this approach were directly related to the years he had lost in loving a woman who did not choose him.

  After a moment he nodded.

  “Are you quite certain your heart has room for such an undertaking, Mr. Scott? This woman you loved has wounded you deeply, and you have carried the pain with you a very long time.” He held her eyes and did not cut her off, so she continued. “I told you not to come to Carlisle because I feared I would always suffer in comparison to the woman you lost. Despite the boldness of your presentation here, I cannot help but wonder if you are truly free enough to love again in the way you are proposing. I have no interest in taking second place in any man’s affections.”

  “I understand your hesitation,” he said, with appropriate gravitas. “However, I dinna come here lightly. I feel something in your company I dinna expect to feel again, Miss Carpenter, but I am also unsure if I am capable of loving another—I hope my honesty does not offend you.”