by Ella Carey
She did not allow herself to bristle at the fact that her mother-in-law had referred to her in the third person. She had noticed Helena doing so since the engagement—it was as if she were a thing, something to be shuffled about, and she sensed Charlie’s irritation at his mother’s rudeness toward her. Now he caught her eye and raised his brow.
“I can take you to the fair, Louisa,” he said, addressing her directly. “I’ll introduce you to people. It’s always a fun day.”
Helena sat up a little taller in her seat and coughed.
“Splendid idea,” Lord Aubrey said. He appeared to be oblivious to the subtle politics that were playing themselves out at the table. “You need to show Louisa how things are done.”
“I think you are capable of making your own decisions,” Charlie said, looking straight at her.
Louisa laid her fork on her plate. “You have a beautiful apartment in Paris.”
“The third duchess decorated it,” Lord Aubrey said. “She was madly creative—needed some sort of outlet, apparently.”
“Every woman is entitled to an outlet,” Louisa said. And smiled.
There was a silence.
“They are.” Charlie’s words hung in the air.
“Women need to keep themselves amused in some manner,” Lord Aubrey muttered. “And why not by decorating and opening fairs.”
“Louisa will become familiar with the routines of Ashworth soon enough,” the duchess added. She raised her white napkin to her still-beautiful lips.
“I’m sure you can make your own decisions, Louisa,” Charlie repeated.
Helena diverted the conversation toward the flower-arranging competition at the fair.
Once they had finished their meal—an elaborate affair of pheasant and heavy caramel puddings—the duchess finally addressed Louisa directly. Louisa couldn’t help but catch Charlie’s twinkling eye. “Louisa, your duties will be of a philanthropic nature. Everything else is taken care of on the estate.”
Louisa sensed Charlie bristling. But she also felt that he had decided to bide his time with his parents. And suddenly, she knew that she and Charlie were stronger as a team than either of them was alone.
Once dinner was done, Louisa excused herself. She was exhausted.
She would return for round two in the morning.
Louisa dressed in a white shirt and camel-colored skirt for the fair.
The duchess wore white muslin and lace.
“We wear white for the fair, and take parasols. You must follow protocol where these things are concerned.” The duchess did not go as far as to say that Louisa must look like one of them—her tone implied it well enough.
But Louisa was used to looking the part, used to looking as if she fit in, while feeling utterly different. She had made an art form of it when living with her mother.
It was just that she had hoped that she would not have to do such a thing here at Ashworth.
A half hour later, dressed in the white ensemble that her mother-in-law had insisted upon, she decided she would choose her battles with care when it came to Helena.
Louisa stood with the older woman on the driveway and frowned at the carriage in front of her. “Surely we can walk to the fair, Ma’am?”
The duchess raised her beautiful chin and looked down at Louisa. And it was at that moment that Louisa saw what she had feared was the truth. There was nothing in the older woman’s eyes that spoke of kindness. And she knew, right then, that she was dealing with coldness to the core. But how had Helena come to be this way? Had she, too, been a bride with high expectations who had been shuffled aside by the machinations of Ashworth?
Louisa shuddered and looked out at the picture-perfect park. The weather was perfect, and the entire situation, like so many marriages, could seem to be perfect—if one didn’t tap at the shell with any force at all.
Helena made a business of adjusting her hat.
Louisa curbed her response. Were she to displease her mother-in-law entirely, she would only make things worse. Far worse, she suspected. Because she had come to think that Helena, like so many married women of her class, was simply part of an institution. Her marriage was who she was. She had lost any sense of individuality that she may have ever had. The woman was a warning of what she, Louisa, must not allow herself to become, but it was hard not to feel some empathy for the older woman.
The ride in the carriage was strained at first. Louisa was determined to carry on a conversation, and she began to receive something of a response once they approached the village green.
Charlie was at the door to the carriage as soon as they arrived at the fair, and he opened it before the footman could alight from his post. The morning air suited Charlie’s complexion. Louisa felt herself break into a smile at the sight of him, and his own boyish smile lit up his handsome features.
The duchess was gathered up by a group of friends.
Charlie’s mood was so different from when they had walked in the forest that Louisa had to adjust herself and adapt to it. When he took Louisa’s arm, even his step was light. He greeted nearly everyone they passed with a smile and a pat on the back. Every now and then, he stopped to introduce Louisa to people and had a chat, taking care to say hello to children as well as adults.
He seemed to know everybody. Of course he did, he looked after all the tenant farms. But his manner was far more country squire than lord of the manor. There was nothing pretentious about him at all.
“Come and play quoits,” he said after a while. He had a playful look upon his face.
“Very well,” Louisa laughed.
They stopped at a wooden skittle stall. Then they watched while a group of villagers threw quoits and cheered each other on. Charlie became involved in their game, and when it was finished, he handed Louisa a set.
“Ready, Louisa?” he asked, the challenge clear in his eyes.
“I am.”
She threw her first round, doing rather well, settling four woven quoits onto the wooden poles. Charlie got five. After three rounds, they were evenly matched. He was in fine spirits at the coconut stall, then marched across to play roller balls, with Louisa rolling more balls into higher-scoring arches than Charlie.
“I think we are in need of tea,” he announced after that. “I am quite happy to concede that you are a fine shot at the fair, Louisa, but I want to talk to you now.” His tone had changed a little, but his voice was gentle.
He chose a table near the cricket scoreboard, under which countless county matches had no doubt been played on other, summery days. When the tea arrived in a delicate china pot, served by Jess, she seemed delighted to see them both.
“It is lovely to see you again, Louisa,” she said, holding out a slim hand. She served them with a plate of scones and delicate watercress sandwiches.
“I have enjoyed a lively morning,” Louisa said, taking the pot and pouring for herself and Charlie. “If you weren’t working, I would love you to join us. It is good to see you again, Jess.”
“Most generous of you, but I will be in terrible trouble with the duchess if I break the order of things,” Jess said to Louisa, catching her eye.
The sense that she had found a kindred spirit in the older woman strengthened, and Louisa found herself wondering if Jess might be sympathetic to improving women’s lot.
“Tell me something, Charlie,” Louisa said, once Jess had gone to help at another table. A villager started a round of running races for the local children—girls scooted along the grass with the boys, hair flying, pinafores flapping as they ran. “Does Henry spend nearly all of his time in Paris?”
“He does,” Charlie said, his voice sounding intimate now, as if they were not in a field full of people at all, but alone in a quiet room.
“I should like to go to London myself,” Louisa said, still staring at the children. Another race had started. A small crowd watched.
“The London house is in Knightsbridge. I go there often myself for meetings in relation to the estates.
”
“I contacted Emmeline Pankhurst,” she confided, all of a sudden.
“Good.” His tone was low.
“I would like to go to one of her meetings in Russell Square.”
“You need to do that,” he said. His hand lay on the tablecloth, and she found herself looking at it.
And at that moment, Charlie did something she had not expected. For one tiny second, he flicked his own hand over and lay it on top of hers.
Louisa started, took in a sharp breath. As quickly as he had laid it there, Charlie drew his hand away, and Louisa turned back to the race. One of the girls slowed, right at the end, her eyes looking to the side, to the boy who ran slightly behind her. She let the boy win.
Louisa sensed Charlie noticing it too. She saw the slight shake of his head.
“Shall we enjoy the fair a little while longer, and then make arrangements to contact Mrs. Pankhurst and go up to London?” he said after a while, his eyes still on the oval.
“Yes.” Louisa smiled. “I would like that very much.”
Two mornings later, Louisa sat next to Charlie in one of the family carriages for the journey to London. The previous day had flown. She couldn’t stand being idle, so she had ridden out with Charlie while he worked. He had her horse ready for her early in the morning, and the day had passed in bliss. He had introduced her to the estate manager, explained the fields’ systems to her, and shown her how the working farms were run. Clearly, he was willing and strong enough to work around his mother. And this gave Louisa a monumental sense of hope.
They had lunched at the estate manager’s house, on cheese and thick slices of bread, and the two men had included her in all aspects of their conversation. Louisa felt that she was enjoying herself more than she had since Samuel had left, and that she had the same sense that she did when she was with him, of easy companionship and mutual respect.
It was exactly what she missed and exactly what she desired.
She felt drawn to Charlie. On a certain level she understood why—he was good, kind, and as interested in her as she was in him—but she had never had the feelings that were beginning to surface for any man before, so why did they have to be for the one man she could never have?
She had, of course, felt drawn to Henry before the wedding. But her feelings for Charlie were quite different, no matter how hard she tried to fight them. Louisa realized that in some ways, she had seen Henry as something of a novelty—he was a diversion from the other, earnest young men. The fact that he was entertaining had amused her. The fact that he had seemed unique in his outlook had drawn her in. But now, she knew that one thing had been missing in her relationship with Henry.
And that one thing gave vitality to her relationship with Charlie. That one thing made things exciting every single time she was with him. Passion. She had never felt it before. Now, she was certain that she was in love with Charlie. But she was also certain it was hopeless. She was married to Henry. There was nothing she could do.
Louisa gazed out the carriage window at the glorious Hampshire countryside, swathed in golden autumn leaves, replete with green fields and villages that looked as if they had not changed in centuries. The idea of outward perfection had started to bother her again. If only life could be simple, but it seemed it never was.
“Was he always so . . . taciturn about his role at the estate?” The conversation had reverted to Henry. A new charge had come into the confines of the carriage. An intensity, a synchronicity that only grew every time she was with Charlie.
Charlie’s voice came, but Louisa didn’t look at him. It was enough to listen. If she caught his eye she knew exactly what she would see mirrored back. “Henry’s skills are not regular, are not what you would call manly, or traditional,” he said.
“Was he an accomplished child?” Louisa asked. The carriage slowed as they entered a narrow lane. They passed a small church. The gravestones beside it were lopsided, ancient—beautiful in a strange sort of way. Louisa was reminded of the old churchyard near Jess’s house. She averted her eyes to the road.
“If he had been allowed to develop his interests, he could have been accomplished,” Charlie said.
“That’s what I suspected.”
“He was good at the sorts of things that my mother felt were useless—drawing, music, writing poetry. He used to write plays, until he was found out.”
“Such a shame,” Louisa said.
“He was sent away to school. He suffered there, as so many do. You see, there’s no getting away from it here. There’s no getting away from your birth.”
The carriage went over a bridge. The sound of its wheels clattered on the wooden surface.
“He’s not developing his talents now, though; he has squashed them in a different manner himself,” Charlie went on, his voice quiet, intimate. “Montmartre is full of comedy, of burlesque, but this comedy has its roots in anger, anger at the status quo. It laughs at it. And that is all Henry is doing. He is, in the end, angry.”
“He is angry,” Louisa said. She sat up a little. Charlie was right. Montmartre relied on satire. Its weapon was, in fact, wit. The courtesan was a mockery of a lady. Montmartre was a frame of mind; it was antiestablishment, and there was nothing wrong with that. But it was its approach that bothered Louisa—performances in Montmartre were full of irreverence. And this had somehow become a magnet for crime, pimp-making, and prostitution. It seemed that once again, it was women who were losing out.
“But the point is, Henry’s not doing anything productive with his feelings. He is angry, and he is wasting his life. He has not stood up for himself here at home. He avoids everything. He runs away, to his own great detriment,” Charlie said.
Louisa was silent for a moment. Charlie was right. But one question bothered her. One question had to be asked. She looked out the window when she spoke. “And you?” she said. “Are you leading a fulfilling life?”
There was a silence.
“Yes, for now. Henry and I have come to some sort of arrangement. Unspoken, but it works for us both. I have a wonderful life running the estate.” He sounded intimately close now. “By rights, I should go into the church, or to India, as the second-born son. But at the moment I’m in exactly the right place, even though it’s conventionally wrong.”
And then he turned to her. “And I think you might be in exactly the same position.”
She turned then, and looked at him. And he held her gaze for a while. The carriage rolled on toward London, its wheels keeping a steady beat below.
Charlie seemed to come to life in a different way in the city. He was full of surprises, and fun, and Louisa found she had never laughed so much in her life. On their third evening, she wanted to catch up with some people whom she had befriended while doing the season in London. He organized for them to go out for dinner together to a smart restaurant in Mayfair.
The table was full of easy conversation and laughter. After dinner, there was dancing at a club. Louisa found herself, naturally, in Charlie’s arms. Everyone accepted that she would be here with her brother-in-law. Everyone knew that Henry Duval spent his time in Paris. But as the orchestra played Strauss and they danced around the room, utterly in sync with each other, Louisa became even more aware of one thing. She wished she had met Charlie first.
Dancing was not helping. When she looked up, somehow irresistibly drawn to doing so, her eyes met his, and she saw exactly what she feared and hoped to see in his eyes. He did not have to say anything at all. When he drew her in a little closer, she rested her head on his shoulder.
As they walked up the stairs to the London house afterward, a footman held the door open for them both, but as they went to their bedrooms, Louisa was hit with the unthinkable. Charlie would have to get married. Charlie would fall in love with someone else.
The footman, having inquired if there was anything they wanted, disappeared, and they were alone, quite alone, and it was late. Charlie stood across the hall from her, once they were at the top of
the stairs. The expression in his eyes could not have been more naked.
“I should go to sleep,” she whispered.
He took a step toward her, then stopped.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice more intimate than she had thought possible in the world that she had lived in, so far.
“Sleep,” she lied. “But I will dream.” She added this, and looked down at the floor.
He leaned forward, ran a hand over her hair. And then he held her for a moment, dropped a kiss on the top of her head.
She took one last look at his eyes, which she knew that she would be able to read for the rest of her life, and moved away from him, avoiding that last look that would end one thing and start everything else that they both knew was impossible. She went alone to her room.
Louisa could contain neither her excitement nor her trepidation as she travelled in the Duvals’ London carriage toward Mrs. Pankhurst’s apartment in Bloomsbury the following morning. She tried to focus outwardly, taking in the goings-on outside the window of her carriage as a distraction from her own agitated thoughts. But Louisa couldn’t help but contrast the streets of Bloomsbury with those of Montmartre, and she couldn’t begin to contain her sense of excitement about what she saw in this delightfully bohemian part of London. A sense of avant-gardism was in the air, and the stylish women who walked on these sidewalks clearly cultivated artistic awareness in their dress.
Once the carriage entered Russell Square, Louisa’s nervousness only increased at the sight of the well-established gardens that were overlooked by rows of handsome terrace houses. The driver pulled up at number eight.
It was difficult not to feel intimidated as he held the door open. Louisa found herself suddenly worried that Mrs. Pankhurst might know a little of Henry, that she might think Louisa’s choice of a husband was ridiculous. After all, Louisa’s governess had also impressed upon her that Mrs. Pankhurst had been a woman who, it seemed, would only give herself to an important man.