They took chairs in the drawing room and Bea ordered tea.
While they waited, Bea mused, “A whole trunk of gowns suitable for confinement. Perhaps I shall donate them to one of the lying-in hospitals.” She added sardonically, “In honor of Charlotte.”
“Beatrice . . .”
Tibbets entered with a tray, and when she had left again, Beatrice poured tea for the both of them. “I certainly hope she has not put in another appearance since the funeral, Charles.”
“No, she has not.”
“Thank goodness. I hate to think of her becoming a nuisance to you and Edmund, especially during your mourning period.”
“Charlotte is not a nuisance, Beatrice.” He hesitated, then turned to her, his face set. “What has your sister done to you to earn such bitter contempt?”
“I should think that obvious. She . . . she ruined my chances when she ruined herself.”
“Come, come, Bea, you despised her long before that.”
Beatrice shrugged her thin shoulders.
“One might almost assume you jealous of Charlotte.”
“Jealous? Hardly.”
“But of what?” Charles wondered aloud, as if he had not heard.
“You are, classically speaking, more beautiful. You held your father’s approval whereas Charlotte did not. William favored you, though that lad’s opinion is worth less than I’d imagined. What is it you begrudge her?”
Bea’s chin quivered.
“What did she have that you did not?”
Bea stared down at her hands, then lifted her gaze. “Your admiration.”
He took a deep breath. “Beatrice.” He sighed. “You have long held me in too high of a regard. And your sister in one too low.”
“I do not think my opinion unjust. She has never named a villain in her fall. Can we not surmise his low status? We know he could not be a gentleman.”
“Do we indeed? Did it never cross your mind that she might have another reason for withholding his name?”
“No.”
“Beatrice. I know you foster some idea of a future alliance between the two of us.”
She gasped. “I have never said—”
“Come, come. I tire of this game playing. You would have no objections to an alliance with me—is that not so?”
“I suppose, in theory, I would have no objections.”
“Well, I do. And you should as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“You despise Charlotte. But I admire her. You condemn the man responsible. But I am he.”
“What?”
“Yes, Beatrice. I am that man. And Charlotte did not reveal my part in her fall because I had already chosen to marry Katherine. Needed to marry Katherine to keep Fawnwell afloat.”
“You . . . and Charlotte . . .?” Bea sputtered.
“Yes. And I could never join myself with a woman who despises someone I hold so dear. Someone she should hold dear as well.” He sighed again and sat back. “Nor do I expect you will ever want to see me again now that you know.”
Tears filled Beatrice’s eyes. She squeezed them shut and the tears streamed down her pale cheeks. “Go,” she said miserably.
It was the first time in twenty years he had seen her cry.
When Charles made his exit from the drawing room a few moments later, the vicar was sitting on the bench in the entry hall.
“So it was you all along,” Gareth Lamb said flatly. “Yet you did nothing to help her.”
Charles paused, realizing all that Charlotte’s father had overheard. He took a deep breath, resigned. “Yes. I did nothing then.
You and I have that in common. But now I can. And I will.”
“Do not tell me you will marry my daughter in some foolhardy attempt to make restitution for past sins?”
Charles exhaled a dry puff of breath. “Is that not exactly what we are supposed to do—Reverend?”
When Charles returned with his young son to their London townhouse, he greeted the servants as politely as his exhaustion would allow and instructed the governess to put Edmund to bed straightaway. Weary from the journey and the encounters preceding it, Charles stepped toward the library, intending only to take a cursory look through the post to make sure nothing required his immediate attention before taking himself to bed. Passing by the sitting room doors, he was surprised to see his nephew William sprawled on the sofa, cravat askew and tumbler in hand. The young man did not bother to stand when Charles entered the room.
“William? I did not expect to find you here.”
“That sweet housemaid of yours let me in. Said I could wait for you.”
“I hope you’ve not been waiting long.”
William shrugged. “Two days.” He sipped from his glass.
“What do you want?”
“To help myself to your port, as you see. As well as a little holiday from the missus. I haven’t the luxury of two dwellings as you do.”
Charles bit back his annoyance. “I see.”
“And how fares Fawnwell? I suppose you saw Beatrice Lamb?”
“I did.”
“As cold and serious and delicious as always, I suppose?”
Charles sighed in frustration. “I do not understand you, William.
You had your chance with her and gave it up.”
“Yes. A pity. She is one of those rare women who is more attractive stern than smiling. Have you noticed that?”
Charles walked back to the doors and shut them carefully before turning again to face him. “Did you never have serious intentions toward Miss Lamb?” he demanded.
“Oh yes. I seriously intended to preempt your intentions.”
“What do you mean?”
“I should think that evident. You know I had always counted on being your heir—back when I still thought you had something to inherit, that is.” William reached for the bottle on the side table and refilled his glass. “I had believed you a confirmed bachelor, which was jolly good for me. But then I heard you were showing a great deal of interest in one of the vicar’s daughters.
Thus, I decided to deduce which of them it was and to win the lady—and keep the inheritance—for myself.” He raised his glass in mock toast.
“Of all the presumptuous—”
“Yes, yes.” He waved away Charles’ censor with a casual flip of his free hand. “And I deduced it was young Charlotte you admired within ten minutes of stepping foot inside the vicarage.”
Charles stared at him, silent anger building in his chest.
“You did plan to marry Charlotte Lamb, did you not?” William asked.
Charles made no answer.
“While I found Charlotte charming, with her lovely smile and generous . . . nature, I admit it was Beatrice I preferred. So prim. So tightly wound I was sure every moment she must come unsprung.”
He sighed wistfully. “How I miss those afternoons in Doddington, listening to beautiful Bea play. But of course, all that was before Fawnwell burned and I came to realize the dire straights you were in. Still, I must admit your marriage to Lady Katherine took us all by surprise. One of the Miss Lambs was especially devastated, as I am sure you know.”
Charles clenched his fists at his sides.
“And after that I had no choice but to change course and begin pursuing a wealthy wife.”
“But you still called on Bea after that, letting the poor girl think—”
“I deluded myself, hoping Lady Katherine might not be spring chicken enough to lay the golden egg. I was wrong—drunk on wishful thinking, I suppose.”
“You’re drunk now.”
“Quite tolerably, yes. It’s the only time I am this honest.”
“So, when our son . . . when Edmund was born, you had no use for Bea anymore.”
“Precisely. And regret it though I did, I would regret more being poor.” He sighed theatrically. “Marrying the dreadfully cheerful Amanda Litchfield with her five hundred a year is a burden I must bear up under somehow. You k
now all about marrying for money, do you not, Uncle?”
On a lovely summer day, Charlotte and Anne were sitting on a blanket in the small garden behind the London townhouse when Dr. Taylor came upon them.
“There you are,” he said.
“We are having a picnic, as you can see,” Charlotte explained.
A basket and Anne’s miniature tea set were spread out neatly on the blanket.
“A picnic in the garden. How lovely. Might I join you?”
“Of course, Papa,” Anne said. “But I shall have to fetch another cup. Constance is using the pink one, and Missy and I the other two.”
“I do not believe Constance and I have been introduced,” Daniel said, nodding toward the porcelain doll seated before the pink cup and saucer.
“Of course you have, Papa.” The three-and-a-half-year-old sounded mildly peevish. “You see her every night when you tuck me in.”
“Forgive me. My mistake.”
Anne jumped to her feet. “I shan’t be long. But do not blame me if the tea is cold, Papa. You did not tell me you would be joining us today.”
“Do not hurry on my account, sweetheart. I am quite fond of cold tea.” He sat down on the blanket and folded his long legs, knocking over the tiny sugar bowl as he did.
Charlotte righted it again and confided quietly, “The sugar is make-believe but the tea is quite real.”
He grinned. “Then I shall endeavor to be more careful.” He looked about him. “Such a small bit of earth we have here. Barely worth calling a garden.”
“How fortunate, then, to have such a large plot at your disposal at the Manor.”
“Yes.” he said distractedly, then cleared his throat. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve had a letter from our old friend, Dr. Webb.”
“Dr. Webb? It is good news, I hope?”
“Yes, rather. He has decided to retire—plans to move north to be nearer his grown son and grandchildren.” He plucked a forget-me-not from the grass and twirled the stem in his fingers. “He has offered me his practice. His home in Doddington, his offices, all for a very reasonable sum.”
She stared at him, but he kept his gaze on the weed in his hand.
“But—that would mean giving up your practice here and your work at the Manor.”
“The Manor Home is my father’s life’s work. Not mine. I merely stepped in while he was unable. I can leave it in his hands now. He and Thomas can manage the place—and Preston—quite nicely without me.”
“Have you told him yet—your father?”
“No, not yet. I wanted to speak with you first.”
She was not prepared to ask why. “You would really leave London?”
“Yes. I tire of city life. And, in truth, there are too many memories here—in this house and at the Manor both—and not all of them pleasant. I quite enjoyed my time in Kent. It is so peaceful and lovely there on the north downs. So much open land. So much green.” He lifted his face and smiled at her. “And, as you may recall, I was quite fond of its residents as well.”
She smiled briefly in return, but felt a surge of fear rising within her. Were Dr. Taylor and his daughter leaving her behind? Or was he assuming she would return to Doddington with them?
“Your father will not be pleased at my return. But should I allow the opinion of one man to keep me from something which, I believe, will bring much happiness?”
She assumed it a rhetorical question, but then saw he was studying her, waiting for her response. Waiting for her to answer the same question of herself.
“Charlotte?”
She studied her hands, tightly clutched in her lap.
“Charlotte. I will not take you back to Doddington as Anne’s governess.”
She looked up at him, oddly relieved. She had inwardly cringed at the thought of returning to her home village as a servant. Of facing the disdain of her former acquaintance—especially her father and sister. Though at least governess was one of the more respectable positions of service. No, easier to remain in anonymity in London. Perhaps with Sally and Thomas, or Sally’s sister.
Or she could return to Crawley, as she had once thought she might do.
“You will find another governess, once you are settled in Kent?”
“Yes. I will.”
“I understand.”
“No, I do not think you do. I would not take you back to Doddington as a governess. But I would take you there—as my wife.”
She stared at him, saw the grim determination on his face, and her heart pounded dully, a dozen different emotions flooding her mind.
“Here it is!” Anne sang, running back to them and plopping back down. “Now I shall pour you some tea.”
As she did so, Charlotte felt Daniel’s intense gaze on her profile.
“Will you, Charlotte?”
She looked up sharply from her thoughts. “Hmm?”
“Yes, Missy, will you have more tea?”
“Thank you.”
As Anne refilled her cup, Charlotte glanced at Daniel, tilting her head in his daughter’s direction, silently indicating that their conversation would have to wait.
That evening, after Charlotte had gotten Anne into her nightclothes and her teeth cleaned, Daniel came in as usual to tuck in his daughter and hear her prayers.
Charlotte silently hung the girl’s dress in the wardrobe and gathered up her soiled stockings. As she did, she heard, without meaning to, Anne’s sweet prayer:
“Thank you for Papa and Grandfather and Missy. And Constance too. Tell Mother not to be sad because we are all happy together. Amen.”
His arm around his daughter’s shoulders, Daniel looked at Charlotte over Anne’s little bowed head. “Amen,” he echoed, his gaze still holding hers.
After breakfast the next morning, Charlotte glanced at the mantel clock and saw it was nearly nine o’clock. Daniel sat at the head of the table still, nursing his third cup of coffee and rustling distractedly with the newspaper.
“May I be excused to go play, please?” Anne asked.
“Yes, you may,” Charlotte answered and watched her skip from the room. She finished her tea, then looked at Daniel again. “Are you not seeing patients today?”
“Not as yet. I am certain I should not be able to concentrate in any case.” He put down the paper. “I am still waiting for your answer.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “I—”
“Tell me you have not forgotten the question.” He attempted a smile.
“No,” she laughed weakly. “I have thought of little else since.”
“And?”
“And, I think—”
A loud knock sounded on the door.
Charlotte rose to her feet. “I will answer that.”
“There is no need for you—”
“Marie has the day off.”
He sighed and rose. “Very well. But we shall discuss this tonight.”
Charlotte went down and opened the door, expecting to find a messenger or delivery of some sort. She froze—except to quickly close her mouth, which had fallen open. Mr. Harris stood there, elegantly dressed as usual, but his eyes, which she remembered nearly always dancing with merry teasing, looked frightfully serious. He removed his hat and smiled at her, but his smile was brief and did not cheer his expression.
“Miss Lamb.”
“Mr. Harris.” She stood looking at him dumbly, and then the realization struck her that he wasn’t there to see her at all and she felt mortified at her own presumption. “You are here to see Dr. Taylor?”
He shook his head. “No, Charlotte, I am here to see you.”
She put her hand to her chest. “Is something wrong with Edmund?”
“No. He is fine—missing his mother, of course.”
Charlotte swallowed. “Of course.”
“Forgive me. I am handling this very ill.”
“Do come in.”
He fo
llowed her up the stairs to the sitting room. “Please, sit down.”
“Thank you.”
She sat in the chair opposite him. He crossed one leg over the other, then uncrossed his legs and spread his feet on the carpet before him, resting his elbows on his knees and playing with his hat. “I had every intention of merely paying a social call to begin. But . . .”
Sitting back, he ran his hand through his hair. “But, seeing you now, I cannot pretend to a casual call.”
“Mr. Harris, you are frightening me. Are you certain Edmund is all right?”
“Well, fine in health and spirits. But it’s no good. He needs . . . he needs a woman’s influence.”
“He has a governess. I met her once. She seemed quite capable.”
“You know that isn’t what I mean.”
Did she? He could not mean—Her mouth felt instantly dry.
“Mr. Harris. I am not sure my presence in your home would be in Edmund’s best interest. I fear word about me has circulated, rumors at least. Many of your acquaintance do not hold me in the same esteem they once did.”
“You do not suppose my esteem has been affected by all this.
How could it be?”
She lowered her head. “No, but it might not reflect well on Edmund. Nor you.”
“So be it. I refuse to be driven by the opinions of others any longer. You have no idea how often I have thought of you, grieved for you. Forced to work in a post beneath your station. Torn away from your family and friends—your child, worst of all. What a burden it has been, knowing it was all my doing. Do you think you might ever find it in your heart to forgive me?”
Charlotte answered quietly, “I have forgiven you. Long ago.”
“Then, this is my chance—do you not see? At last I am able to right my wrongs as best as I can.”
“You need not feel obligated. I have a comfortable place here.”
“Charlotte, this is not about obligation.”
She rose quickly, clutching her hands and walking away from him. She was trembling with nerves, afraid to presume. To hope.
“Are you asking me to be Edmund’s governess?”
She heard him bolt from his chair behind her. “Blast the governess, Charlotte. Edmund has that. He needs . . .”
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