Walter turned his chair so that he could not see the clock on the wall above the small stove. Although the words he bled onto the paper were not finely crafted things, there was a vibrancy and depth about them that helped center his mind and remind him how much he loved the process of literary creation. He jotted down ideas about a story centered around a well similar to the one in Gilsland, where people of all kinds would come to visit, and another idea of a woman and a lake and a fine harp that could charm even the hardest of men.
He had not expected inspiration from this trip to Cumbria, but it seemed inspiration had found him. How freeing it was to make such discoveries. It had been so long.
Finally, after hours of being immersed in his writing for the first time in months, there was a knock on the door of his room. He broke out of his muse and hurried to answer it.
A young man held not one but two letters out to him. His other hand was already out, palm up, as he waited for payment.
Walter retrieved a groat from his coat pocket and shut the door after the boy scampered off. Returning to his chair, Walter held one letter in each hand. One was from Miss Carpenter, and his eyes lingered on her fine hand. The other letter was from Mrs. Nicholson of Nicholson Manor, the lady of the house where Miss Carpenter was staying. Walter’s eyes jumped between both missives as he tried to decide which to open first. Finally, he chose Mrs. Nicholson’s for reasons he could not exactly define.
Dear Mr. Scott,
You are invited to dine with us this evening at Nicholson Manor as a way for my family, and Charlotte, of course, to become better acquainted with you. Please respond if you can join us. We dine at five o’clock.
Sincerely,
Mrs. M Nicholson
Walter’s excitement grew, and he dropped the letter and picked up Miss Carpenter’s. Mrs. Nicholson’s invitation must be a reflection of Miss Carpenter’s acceptance. Anticipation made him clumsy and he dropped the letter. Twice.
Finally, he broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Dear Mr. Scott,
I thank you for your letter and I accept your terms. Mrs. Nicholson has advised me to allow you to kiss me as soon as possible. I have considered such a bold recommendation and determined that I would need such an intimacy to properly evaluate our compatibility. I thought it expedient to inform you that I would welcome such attention, though I shall not hold you to the obligation if you object. I believe she has asked you to dinner this evening and hope you will accept.
Yours truly,
Charlotte
Walter laughed in delight at Miss Carpenter’s boldness. At the same time, he could not ignore the anxiety he felt at her invitation to kiss her. And what of this approval of Mrs. Nicholson, a woman he had never met? The unexpected turn was enough to set any man unsteady on his feet, and yet, what an opportunity!
He had known Mina four years before he had exchanged a kiss with her, believing it would be the first of an infinite amount. Now a woman he barely knew had asked him to kiss her as soon as possible. He would not let his pride get in the way of his expediency.
He looked at the clock he had turned his back on earlier. It was after two o’clock. He had a few hours to get ready for dinner and . . . whatever might follow.
Walter arrived at Nicholson Manor at ten minutes to five after having taken special care with his coat and neck cloth so as to make a good presentation. He would always regret the roundness of his face, and the assumed youth because of it, but at least he did not need to shave twice a day as some men did. In fact he could likely dispose of shaving every morning except it would be humiliating to admit should anyone ever ask after his habits.
Focus, Walter, he told himself. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
A liveried butler answered and showed him into a fine drawing room. Six sets of eyes looked his direction, but it was Miss Carpenter’s chocolate depths that captured him. She rose from her place on the settee where she had been sitting beside an older woman Walter assumed to be Mrs. Nicholson.
Miss Carpenter smiled but did not move toward him.
“Welcome, Mr. Scott.” Mrs. Nicholson put out her hand in a way that invited him to pay his respects.
Though unused to such formality, Walter crossed the room to the lady of the house, aware of everyone watching his awkward gait. He bowed over the woman’s hand.
“I am Madeline Nicholson and am glad to have you join us.”
“I am grateful for the invitation,” Walter said, hoping he appeared more self-assured than he felt.
Mrs. Nicholson introduced her three children in turn, concluding with, “And Miss Jane Nicholson. I believe you are already acquainted.”
“Yes, I am glad to see you again, Miss Nicholson.”
Miss Nicholson gave him a tight smile.
“Now, Mr. Scott,” Mrs. Nicholson said, drawing his attention back to her. She had a forward manner, but did not seem judgmental. “I understand you are from Edinburgh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I have visited that city and found it rather enchanting. Have you ever attended the theater there?”
Walter smiled at finding so easy a connection so quickly. “A great deal, ma’am.”
“At the Theater Royal in Edinburgh?”
“It is the finest theater in the city,” Walter said. “Shakespeare Square is not far from my family’s home in New Town.”
“I saw The Country Girl when I was there, and I found the theater very well-appointed—much different than I was told to expect.”
“Might I be so presumptuous to assume that you had been warned that you would find a rustic hamlet without manners or talents for the stage?”
She smiled. “You could assume as much.”
He shook his head with exaggerated regret. “Och, well then, you have discovered firsthand one of the great secrets of Scotland—we work hard to spread such tales in hopes of keeping the wonders of our country to ourselves.”
Mrs. Nicholson raised her eyebrows, but her eyes danced at his willingness to banter. “You do not want visitors?”
“Oh, nay, we love visitors,” Walter said quickly. “But it is such fun to see the surprise on their faces when they walk our cobbled streets and partake of the culture they did not believe existed.”
“Indeed,” she said, a smile on her lips. She sat back against the settee. “You make me want to visit again. It has been nearly ten years since last I was there.”
“You would find the city rather unchanged, save for a few more buildings. The Clandestine Marriage is set to open at the theater in November. Should you choose to visit, I hope you would allow me to serve as your escort.”
Her smile grew even wider. The butler came to the doorway and announced that dinner was served. Mrs. Nicholson’s son, Calvin, came forward to claim her but not before she patted Walter’s arm and gave him an encouraging grin, easing his mind more than any other gesture possibly could. Though her blessing might not count for much to some people—seeing as she was no relation to Miss Carpenter—he was very glad to have her encouragement.
Walter put his arm out for Miss Carpenter, who took it, wrapping her fingers all the way around his elbow in a more intimate hold than she had taken on past occasions.
“It seems you are wooing every woman in the room,” Miss Carpenter said.
“I do not regret entreating Mrs. Nicholson’s support,” he said, glancing at Miss Carpenter. Her olive skin was lovely against the cream color of her evening dress, and the tiny pearls woven into her dark curls gleamed in the candlelight. “But there is only one woman in the room I have interest in wooing.”
She looked at him, then shook her head. “You are a very strange man.”
Walter laughed in response.
Dinner was traditional English fare. Walter missed the more robust menu of his homeland, but had no complaint wi
th the quality of the food served, nor the company around the table. Calvin Nicholson had recently returned from Oxford, and they had a great deal to discuss regarding literature and history. Mrs. Nicholson peppered Walter with questions about his family that he felt were as much for Miss Carpenter’s benefit as for her own. Even Miss Jane Nicholson engaged him when he shared his belief that an individual needed to take the lead for his or her own education.
“But one must have teachers,” Miss Nicholson insisted. “Otherwise there is no way of knowing if you have been exposed to the fullness of any subject.”
“Assuming the teacher is fully informed,” he said as gently as possible. He knew Miss Nicholson was a former teacher, and he had no desire to offend her. He was unskilled, however, in keeping his opinions to himself. “And I do believe that most teachers are very well informed, but surely you agree that for any student to truly understand a topic they must have enough personal interest to pursue it beyond what any teacher has the time and ability to present.”
Miss Nicholson considered that while every ear was tuned to him, boosting his determination to share his thoughts. He was a barrister by trade, after all, and well trained in the process of making a presentation. “As it is the responsibility of the teacher to present a great many things for that very fullness of education you pointed out, Miss Nicholson, it must be the responsibility of the student to find those aspects that interest him or her the most and pursue his or her own greater understanding.”
“Well, I can see the wisdom of individual pursuit,” Miss Nicholson finally agreed. “But one must have a teacher to introduce him to the topics that might spur such interest in the first place.”
Walter considered continued argument—too many teachers chose the occupation by default and, in Walter’s opinion, did more harm than good—but a quick glance at Miss Carpenter, who shook her head slightly, convinced him to let it rest. “Then we agree,” he said simply and easily.
“Yes,” Miss Nicholson said, her confidence restored.
“And what do you think about this so-called quasi war between France and America?” Calvin asked, graciously turning the conversation from potentially muddy waters. “I find it quite ridiculous and don’t know why anyone in England is even bothering to wag their tongues about it.”
Conversation flowed throughout the meal, but Walter noticed that Miss Carpenter did not participate much. She answered a question if it were directed to her, but she did not insert her own opinions. The women removed to the drawing room, leaving Walter and Mr. Nicholson to their port. They lingered only long enough to discuss the upcoming parliament session in more detail before returning to the ladies.
Walter was glad to play some cards, but Miss Carpenter chose to sew rather than join the table, though she stayed near enough to participate in conversation when directed to her. Walter attempted various ways of keeping her engaged, but she retreated quickly each time. Finally, Mrs. Nicholson encouraged Miss Carpenter to show Walter the rose garden before the hour became too late.
Miss Carpenter agreed as though she were only following the woman’s suggestion, remaining reserved to the degree that Walter found himself nervous. She had not been so demure in Gilsland, and he wondered if she did not enjoy his company as much as he had hoped. He had not forgotten her request that he kiss her, and wondered if this opportunity to be alone together could accomplish that, but then the expectation made him more nervous. He wanted her to know that he would kiss her because he wanted to, not because she’d asked it of him. And he did want to kiss her. Very much. Only how to go about it without awkwardness?
It was cool out, as the sun was down and it was mid-September. Miss Carpenter pulled her shawl tighter across her shoulders once they stepped over the threshold.
“Would you like to fetch a coat?” Walter asked.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I will get used to the chill soon enough.” She did move closer to him, taking his arm, and he did not object.
The rose garden was well lit from the large drawing room windows that faced it, and they crossed the gravel road that separated the garden from the house in silence.
“Are you all right, Miss Carpenter?”
“Of course I am all right,” she said, squeezing his arm. Already she was more animated than she had been when they were with the others. “It was a nice evening, and I enjoyed learning about your family.”
“You have been very quiet.”
“Have I?”
He glanced at her as they walked beneath an arbor. “You did not notice a difference in your usual humor?”
She seemed to consider this. “I am a guest here,” she finally said. “And I well know how to act like a guest.”
“In that you do not assert yourself,” Walter concluded.
“I don’t want to offend my hosts.”
Walter felt sure she was not talking only of the Nicholsons. “I canna imagine you offending anyone, Miss Carpenter.”
“Please, call me Charlotte.”
“Very well, I canna imagine you offending anyone, Charlotte.”
She smiled—perhaps to hear her name on his lips?
“And you must now call me Walter, of course.”
She nodded, but did not say his name. Making him wait. They took a few more silent steps, the light fading as they walked farther from the house.
“You were not a guest in Gilsland,” Walter finally said, offering a conclusion for their discussion. “I can now assume that is why you were not as quiet then as you were tonight.”
She nodded, then looked to the side, as though fascinated by the roses flanking the path. He sensed, however, that she was trying to hide her own nervousness. “I wonder which persona you prefer, Mr.—I mean, Walter.”
Ah, his name on her tongue was like sweet wine. Her accent softened the W, and the entire word took on a lyrical quality. She had not asked a trite question, and his answer would either validate her true personality or inform her of his expectation that she play a role for his sake.
“Gilsland,” he said.
She turned to him, looking surprised, but pleased. “You prefer a woman who fills her own plate and teases a man about his limp?”
This was twice now she had teased him about his limp, and while he did not love the notice, he could see the comfort of her willingness not to ignore his deficiency. “I prefer a woman who counts herself important enough to be part of a conversation.”
Her cheeks turned pink, and she looked forward.
He stopped, turning her to face him. “I did not mean to embarrass you,” he said, looking at her until she met his eyes. “I have had the luxury of being accepted as the man I am in every arena I have entered. I haven’t had the burden, as you have, of needing to meet the expectations of others in order to maintain my place.”
An unexpected vulnerability entered her expression—different from the bold woman in Gilsland and the formal woman of Carlisle. She suddenly looked young and a bit frightened. It was not hard to imagine her as a child in a stranger’s home, afraid to misstep or misbehave.
He raised a hand to her face, instantly warmed when his skin touched hers. A delicious quickening filled his chest. Except for necessary matters of manner and assistance, he had never touched her before. To react so easily to this intimacy strengthened his hopes of their connection, yet he must temper his passion and not let it overwhelm him. That he felt it enough to be overwhelmed, however, was a fortunate discovery.
“How difficult it must have been for you, coming here,” he whispered.
Tears entered her eyes, but she blinked them away and lowered her eyes.
Walter withdrew his hand, afraid he had made her uncomfortable. “I hope you will always feel comfortable around me and that you will allow me to see the real Charlotte—your true self—rather than the version you are used to showing.”
She lifted
her face, her expression returned to confidence. “You make it very easy to be the woman I truly am, Walter. Too easy, I fear.”
Walter lifted his eyebrows. “Too easy?”
She put her arm back through Walter’s and moved them forward to walk once more. He suspected she did not want to look at him directly as she talked about things that made her feel vulnerable. “What if you don’t like me?” she said after a few steps.
“What if you don’t like me?” Walter countered. “That is the very point of our experiment, to see if we find accord with one another enough to continue. Neither of us wants to be with someone not fully invested, and even if one of us is hurt, we can already see the wisdom of mutual affection.” Such pretty, practical words, and yet his awareness of her was increasing. Her rejection would hurt him. It seemed that, regardless of his goals, he was apparently not a man who could keep his heart from becoming engaged.
“And if we continue past these fifteen days?” Charlotte said. “We’ll go to Scotland?”
Walter heard the hesitation in her voice and wished he could be more accommodating of her comfort than circumstance allowed. “My work is there.”
She nodded. “I know. Your family is there too.”
“Yes,” Walter said.
“They will not approve of me,” Charlotte said, shaking her head. “You must know dis.”
He was silent, reliving the discussion he’d had with John and Adam. Only the night sounds and crunch of gravel accompanied them for a time. “I would not take you into a lion’s den, Charlotte.”
She looked at him, and he put his hand over hers that was at his elbow. They stopped walking.
“What do you mean by dat?” she asked in a whisper that seemed to carry on the breeze.
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