The Lady of the Lakes

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “I mean that if my heart chooses you, and you choose me, we will find a life that is comfortable for both of us.”

  “Even if that life were not Scotland?”

  The idea made his heart ache. “Scotland will always be a part of me, no matter where else in the world I might go, but I won’t stay in Scotland at your expense.”

  She held his eyes as if evaluating whether or not she could trust his answer, and he put every energy of thought into communicating to her how much he meant what he said. He could not imagine a life outside of Scotland, nor could he fully imagine right now loving this woman enough to accept a life away from his homeland, but he knew he would choose a happy marriage and a loving family over Scotland if he must.

  She looked away, and they walked again in silence. The path looped around, leading them back toward the house. The light from within showed the Nicholson family in the drawing room.

  “I feel I must admit something to you, Charlotte.”

  She lifted her eyebrows and glanced his direction.

  “I do not plan to kiss you tonight.”

  Her eyes went wide with surprise, and her cheeks turned pink.

  He inclined his head toward the house. “They are expecting it. And the expectation is making me so nervous that I am sure I would bungle it completely if I determined to follow through. I hope you are not angry.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I am not angry.”

  “I want there to be nothing unnatural when I act upon your request. I would very much like the moment to be right for us, not them.” He nodded toward the house again.

  “In light of our agreement, dat seems a very wise course. After all, they are not the ones evaluating a partner in marriage.”

  “Exactly. They have no vote in this.”

  She nodded.

  “But I will kiss you as soon as it feels right.” He dipped his chin and gave her a teasing look. “Then we can present such intimacy as evidence for or against each other as we continue our consideration of a match.”

  “Very well, Walter,” she said, still laughing. “I am in full agreement with your terms.” She looked at the windows again and feigned a frown. “Mrs. Nicholson will be so disappointed.”

  For the first few days of their arrangement, Walter and Charlotte met for a morning ride and spent hours following trails through the lake country. Walter taught her some Scottish history, about which she knew very little, and she talked about her education, first in France and then in England.

  They determined that she did not share his deep love of literature and he did not share her talent or patience for drawing, but on other counts such as humor, ambition, theology, and enjoyment of nature, they were very well matched. The conversations remained light, though Walter felt sure they would move toward heavier subjects in time; he was encouraged that their accord only seemed to grow. The relief of not feeling the need to impress her, but instead simply be himself without pretense, was invigorating.

  In the evenings, Walter joined Charlotte and the Nicholsons for dinner. The evenings were enjoyable, but Charlotte often retreated to her “guest” persona, and Walter would end up engaging more with the Nicholsons instead. He felt that the interaction between Charlotte and himself was stifled, which was not what he wanted. Never far from his mind was the kiss invitation he had not yet acted upon. The moment never seemed right, and the pressure of Mrs. Nicholson’s attentiveness did not help.

  On the fourth day, they went riding as usual, enjoying the cool morning. Walter appreciated the pinkness that rose in Charlotte’s cheeks. As they rounded the bend that led to the Nicholson Manor—when Charlotte would usually invite him to dinner later that day—Walter spoke first.

  “There is a theater in town,” he said quickly, though her mouth was already open to issue the expected invitation. “And they are performing Romeo and Juliet tonight. Would you care to attend?”

  Taken off guard, Charlotte paused and blinked. Then she closed her mouth and nodded. “I would love to attend the theater with you.”

  Walter smiled. “I shall come for you at seven.”

  “You don’t want to come to dinner beforehand?”

  Walter scrunched his nose. “Will I offend them if I don’t?” He brought Lenore to a stop; Charlotte reined in Jolie.

  “Perhaps,” Charlotte said with a shrug and a smile. “But you won’t offend me.”

  “Then I would just as soon take dinner at the pub next to my hotel. I’m not used to eating such elaborate meals every night.” He patted his stomach. “I’m craving meat, cabbage, and a good bitter ale.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I will not tell Mrs. Nicholson that you are choosing such rustic fare over her dinner table, but is it too bold for me to invite myself to join you?”

  Walter raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “If I am to be a Scotsman’s wife—and I am making no promise yet—I should understand the man’s tastes, no?”

  Walter laughed. “Oh, how I adore your boldness, Charlotte.” He reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it. If they had not been on horseback, he would kiss her right now—the moment felt so right. But he couldn’t reach her without risking a fall from the saddle for one or both of them and that would most certainly ruin the hopes he had for such intimacy. Poetry was not written about first kisses that ended in the dirt. Instead he raised her hand to his lips, holding her eyes and enjoying the way her smile deepened. He kissed her hand through her glove, which was also not ideal, then lowered it, though he did not let go.

  “Shall I come for you at six, then?”

  She nodded, giving his hand a squeeze. “I shall be eager to see you.”

  “As will I to see you.”

  He arrived on foot at the Nicholsons at a quarter before six o’clock, glad to see that only Charlotte waited for him in the entry. She wore a dark blue dress with a charcoal-colored wool cape and matching hat. Walter appreciated the sensibility of her dress. It was nearly a quarter-mile walk to the pub, and that she would forgo fashion for warmth was a sign of good sense. He could never marry a woman who did not show good sense.

  The thought prompted a quiver in his belly. Would he marry her? He was as yet undecided, but terribly encouraged, which made him nervous. His plan had sprung from the idea of not wanting to invest himself too deeply into another relationship if they were not a good match, but spending so much time with her was increasing his emotional investment by spades. He pushed off the thoughts and tried to focus on enjoying this evening—just this evening. He must not allow his mind—or heart—to run ahead.

  They walked arm in arm to the pub. The evening was comfortably cool, and the warmth of her body mingled with his own. He had no complaints.

  “Have you attended the theater much?” Walter asked.

  “As often as I can, but not nearly as much as I would like,” Charlotte said. “Lord Downshire takes me whenever I am in London.”

  Her answer surprised him. “You enjoy the theater beyond the sociality of it, then?”

  “Indeed,” Charlotte said. “The sociality can be hanged for all I care—although I do like to see what the women are wearing. In London, I feel I am a guest, much as I am at the Nicholsons.” She waved toward the manor behind them. “So the social aspects are not much draw for me. I am there to be captivated by the story, and I always am.”

  Walter put a hand to his chest. “Speak the speech, I pray you,” he quoted reverently.

  “Oh, do not fall to your raptures,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes with great, humored exaggeration. “I beg of you to leave Shakespeare on the stage where it belongs.”

  Walter stopped. “You knew I was quoting Shakespeare?”

  “If you were hoping to be vague, choose something other than Hamlet.” She shook her head. “I adore Shakespeare.” She tugged at his arm to get him walking again, but it was diffi
cult for him to pull his gaze away from her.

  “I had so feared that since you did not pursue literature with much fervor you might be equally mild about the stage.” His heart sang to know she shared his passion, but he wisely did not say as much out loud.

  “Not at all,” Charlotte said, as though surprised by his assumption. “Watching a story play out through movement and song and set is very different than sitting and reading it.”

  “For me, a good book and a good play are very similar,” Walter said. “The words on the page play in my head like a production.”

  “Do they really?” Charlotte asked, surprised again. “Then it is no wonder you love to read so much. My brain does not work as yours, but I do love the theater.”

  “You must tell me what performances you have seen and which were your favorites.”

  The resulting conversation managed to completely fill the time it took to arrive at the pub. It was blessedly warm inside, with a fine fire blazing in the hearth and the smell of roast beef and pipe smoke in the air. The only other women in the establishment were the barmaids, but a quick glance at Charlotte showed that she was not uncomfortable being in the minority.

  Walter led her to a table set against the wall, but near enough the fire to benefit from its warmth, and assisted in removing her cape, which he hung, along with his coat, on the peg beside his chair. Once seated, Charlotte looked around the humble room with its variety of patrons with a curious expression.

  “You have never been in a pub before, have you?”

  “When would I have ever had the chance?”

  “Are you terribly put off?”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to answer just as the barmaid arrived at their table. She wore a brown skirt and cream-colored blouse that left her ample bosom on display—more than the typical woman would ever expose, let alone a gentlewoman. Walter was careful to avert his eyes, but had to pinch his lips together to keep from laughing when Charlotte first noticed.

  Her cheeks turned pink, and she immediately met Walter’s eyes, but must have noticed his repressed mirth because she looked to the wall instead.

  “What ya have?” the woman asked.

  “Bangers and mash for me,” Walter said. “And a pint of your best stout.”

  “Verra good,” the woman said, then turned to Charlotte, who was still looking at the wall.

  “Uh, I shall have the same.”

  “Even the stout?” the barmaid asked.

  Charlotte mustered her courage and met the woman’s eye. “Even the stout, dank you.”

  The woman shrugged and turned from the table.

  “Have you ever had a good stout ale?” Walter asked.

  “I’ve had ale,” Charlotte said, almost defensively.

  “A gentleman’s ale is not a stout.”

  She leveled him with a glance. “I shall have the stout, dank you very much.”

  Walter laughed and shook his head. They resumed their talk of the theater, and Walter grew more and more excited by the minute as Charlotte’s enthusiasm shone through. She had never seen Romeo and Juliet on the stage—which he found shocking—but then he had never seen Don Pedro, which Charlotte adored. Walter admitted to seeing many plays twice in Edinburgh and the teasing he received from his friends because of it.

  “I would see a play twice,” Charlotte said with a nod, “if I liked it the first time.”

  Walter grinned. “Would you?”

  “Of course. I have often thought how lovely it would be to see a performance a second time so as to compare it to the first performance. I imagine every performance is a bit different than the others.”

  “Well, if we enjoy tonight’s performance, perhaps we should attend again,” Walter said, as thrilled as he could possibly be to hear her thoughts.

  Charlotte smiled. “Perhaps we should.”

  The dinner was exactly what Walter had hoped it would be, familiar and filling. Charlotte did not eat all of her sausages, but she finished the potatoes, and although she cringed through the first few swallows of ale, by the time she finished she proclaimed it “not entirely horrible.”

  Walter praised her adventurous nature rather profusely, and she good-naturedly rolled her eyes again. She really had little appreciation for melodrama, off stage at least. Interesting.

  The theater was small—seating perhaps only sixty people on wooden benches—and Walter became anxious about how the small venue would compare with Charlotte’s prior experience at the elaborate theaters of London.

  Charlotte shrugged off his concerns. “It is cozy and unpretentious,” she said as they moved toward the center row. “I like it fine, though I may be missing the chair-back by the end.”

  Walter laughed and soon enough the somewhat flimsy curtain lifted.

  The talent was not what he was used to, but there was no denying the actors were passionate about their roles. Though he was critical at first, the further into the story the performance went, the more captivated Walter became, to the degree that he nearly forgot Charlotte was beside him until he heard her sniffle when Mercutio died. He turned to her, surprised she would be so affected. She refused to look at him, so he withdrew his handkerchief and handed it to her without saying a word. She took it just as silently and dabbed at her eyes, not taking her gaze from the stage.

  When the curtain fell, both of them were on their feet immediately, clapping loudly for the cast. The rest of the audience joined in the ovation. The curtain raised for an encore performance of a scene from act two, then fell to yet more applause.

  When patrons began making their way toward the exit, Walter and Charlotte fell in step behind them. Walter put his hand on Charlotte’s back so they would not lose one another but felt an unexpected sense of intimacy in the rather ordinary gesture. He thought of the vulnerabilities she had shared with him, the cautious way in which she interacted with the world, and felt the desire to free her of such restraints. Might he be the man to give her peace about herself and her place in the world?

  In the foyer, they stepped out of the crowd so they could put on their outer clothing, and though he’d have liked to extend the intimacy he’d felt, the evening had been nothing short of perfect. Charlotte had showed herself willing to experience new things, had not faulted the play for its humble aspect, and seemed to have enjoyed the performance as much as he had.

  “I shall get us a carriage.” It was late and colder than it had been when they had left the Nicholsons. She nodded her thanks while pulling on her gloves.

  Walter stepped outside and found a coach, but was disappointed to find that it carried other occupants. He had hoped for a private drive for Charlotte and himself—the perfect backdrop for the kiss he planned to execute tonight—but he quickly learned that the only way he could get a private coach was to hire the whole of it. The price was beyond his means, and so he had little choice. He did not explain all the details to Charlotte, and she did not seem to mind that they would have to share.

  As they waited to step inside, however, she asked, “If you come to the manor with me, you shall have to then be delivered back here, no? Is your hotel nearby?”

  Walter nodded. “It is. But I don’t mind the journey.”

  She gave him a rueful smile and took his hand. “I shall take the carriage to the manor alone, and spare you the time and expense.”

  “I can afford the ride, Charlotte,” Walter said, mildly offended.

  “Did I say that you could not?” she responded, raising her eyebrows. She had rather perfect eyebrows, really. “Only that it is a waste of your coin.” She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “It is not as though we shall have it to ourselves anyway. Buy us another night’s attendance to this play instead.”

  What she said made sense. To pay for the chance to not be able to converse with her privately, nor have a private moment with her at any point, did not
seem a good investment. Another night like this one, however, seemed a very good use of his limited funds.

  “Very well,” he said.

  She gave his hand a squeeze and then stepped into the carriage. The door shut, and he watched until it disappeared.

  Had it only been a week ago that he had watched her carriage disappear from Gilsland? And now they had spent the entire evening in only each other’s company. It was not difficult to imagine endless days and nights just like this in their future, and he smiled at the thought, his nervousness vanishing. With the carriage gone, he turned toward his hotel with an extra bounce to his limping steps.

  “I would not wish any companion in the world but you,” he said under his breath, quoting yet another Shakespeare play. “Not by half.”

  During their ride the next morning, Walter suggested they join the Nicholsons for dinner that evening. Charlotte was glad for the consideration. Mrs. Nicholson had not complained at their having gone out the night before, but she had extended an invitation for tonight. Charlotte did not want refuse their company two nights in a row.

  The day was warm, encouraging both Walter and herself to extend their ride until nearly noon. He kissed her hand again at parting—perhaps letting his lips linger on her skin a bit longer than usual, prolonging the simple intimacy. Walter returned to the manor in time for dinner at five o’clock and, in light of the mild evening, he invited Charlotte to walk the garden with him. The fall weather had not stayed as cold as it had been when they were in Gilsland, and she hoped the warmth would stay through the end of the month.

  Charlotte was eager to accept his invitation and wondered if he might finally kiss her. It was six days into their arrangement, after all, and she was beginning to feel anxious about the delay. Did he not want to kiss her? Was she alone in feeling the stirrings of emotion when they were together? There were moments when she was ready to kiss him herself, but then those moments never were quite right.

  And she wanted him to come to her. She wanted to feel his wanting of her, though she would never admit as much to anyone.