She glanced up to see Jeffrey threading his way toward her with a newly arrived visitor in tow.
"Charlotte, I don't believe you've met my old friend, Sir Richard Bainbridge," Jeffrey said, introducing the stout, ruddy-faced gentleman. "Sir Richard is a pillar of the county, one of our justices of the peace."
Sir Richard bowed. "How dVou do, m'dear. From Lancashire, are you? A bit different from Oxfordshire, eh?" He was brisk but cordial, although, unlike the other callers today, he apparently had no interest in Charlotte as the next Lady Sherborne. After his brief greeting, he turned back to Jeffrey. "Been wanting to see you, Sherborne. Just got back from the quarter session. Thought I should tell you that we've had to raise the poor rate." He shook his head. "Hated to do it, I can tell you. It's all because of this increasing unemployment since the end of the war. Can't let these people starve, of course."
"I hope, now that the justices have decided to raise the rates, that they also plan to pay a family of four more than
eight shillings a week/' said Charlotte clearly.
Sir Richard stared down at her. "Pay them more money? Certainly not, my dear. We'd be forced to raise the rates for our landowners even higher."
Charlotte rose slowly to face the baronet. "Sir Richard, do you realize it costs a shilling to buy one loaf of bread?"
Sir Richard's expression grew chilly. "That I do, better than you, Miss Kinley, I'll warrant. Some years back, the Speenhamland magistrates proposed to assist the unemployed out of the rates at an agreed minimum amounting to the price of three gallon loaves a week for each man and one and one-half loaves for a wife and each child. The formula has now spread to every county except Northumberland and has been most successful."
Charlotte had a sudden memory of Jessie Reeves's thin little face, tattered clothing, and bleeding bare foot, and erupted. "Successful for whom? Not the poor, I assure you. A family of four can't keep body and soul together on eight shillings a week. You might as well condemn them to slow starvation. Is this the way a great country like England treats its unfortunates? We ought to be ashamed of ourselves! You justices ought to be more ashamed than the rest of us!"
Her voice had risen, and the other people in the room fell silent, staring at her and Sir Richard. The justice, his eyes bulging from his head, opened and shut his mouth several times, rather like a fish out of water, but no sound emerged.
"Charlotte!" gasped Lady Sherborne.
His face masklike, Jeffrey said in a low voice, "Charlotte, perhaps this isn't the time . . ."
Charlotte looked around her at Jeffrey's guests, seeing the shocked faces, the avidly curious eyes. She pushed past Jeffrey and Sir Richard, and walked swiftly out of the room. In the great marble atrium-hallway, she paused uncertainly, and then, almost without thinking, she headed down the long, glass-enclosed corridor toward the conservatory, where she sank down on a bench beneath some trellised vines. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and placed her hands over her hot face.
Why, why, hadn't she guarded her unruly tongue? Of course something should be done to assist the poor and the unemployed, but Lady Sherborne's drawing room wasn't the place to broach the subject. The dowager's guests would soon be spreading the word that her son's future wife was not only a female of inferior social position, but was also a wild-eyed troublemaker with no manners who had publicly embarrassed a respected magistrate. The dowager would doubtless find it difficult to forgive an affront to a guest. And what would Jeffrey say or do about her outburst?
Charlotte lingered in the conservatory, unwilling to see anyone until she felt calmer. After a quarter of an hour, she heard footsteps in the corridor and rose, anticipating the arrival of one or more of the gardeners. Instead, she caught the sound of a familiar voice and abruptly sat down again behind the concealing screen of vines.
"Jeffrey, you're being ridiculous, and yes, rude, practically running away from your own mother," protested Lady Sherborne as she hurried into the conservatory after her son.
"I don't walk to talk about Charlotte, Mama."
"But that's being even more ridiculous. We must talk. My dear boy, after what happened today, surely you don't intend to go on with this mockery of a marriage to Charlotte? I've tried to hold my tongue about this dreadful mesalliance, but now —! Jeffrey, every feeling must be offended at the thought of that ill-mannered, forward young woman taking the place of our darling Cicely. It's bad enough that Charlotte's a nobody who doesn't know how to dress or act in polite society. Now she's insulted one of our oldest friends—in my own drawing room! Cicely, sweet, gentle, considerate Cicely, must be restless in her grave."
"Cicely is gone, Mama."
"But I know you've never stopped loving her, never stopped thinking about her." The dowager's voice softened. "Arabella is so much like her, it sometimes takes my breath away. Jeffrey, have you ever thought you might marry Bella? She'd be so perfect in every way. Oh, I know you're worried about money, but Bella will have a very respectable portion, you know. And
it isn't as if you'd publicly announced your betrothal to Miss Kinley."
"That's enough, Mama." Jeffrey's tone was distant. "I've told you why I felt it necessary to marry Charlotte. The necessity still exists. Her manners, or lack of them, have nothing to do with the matter."
"But Jeffrey, how can I hold up my head—?"
"Mama, I said that's enough."
"Oh, very well. If you insist on being so stubborn. . . I'll go, then. But please, my dear, think about what I've said."
Instead of leaving with his mother, Jeffrey began slowly sauntering through the greenhouse, his head bent as if in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. Charlotte could just glimpse him through the screen of vines. As he approached her hiding place, she shrank back in a reflex action against the iron bench, causing it to scrape slightly on the stone floor.
"Is someone there?" Jeffrey called.
Charlotte rose and walked out to him, feeling a little like a child who has been hiding under her bed to escape the wrath of her nanny.
Jeffrey wheeled on her, his expression torn between annoyance and dismay. "Charlotte! Did you—?"
"Yes, I heard what Lady Sherborne said," she replied stonily. "I can't say your mother's opinion of me surprises me very much. I heard what you said, too. I apologize for my—how did you put it? — for my lack of manners."
Jeffrey looked harassed. "I didn't mean—Look, Mama was angry, embarrassed. Charlotte, what possessed you to bring up the subject of the Poor Laws with Sir Richard? I've never seen him so distressed. He felt you were personally attacking him."
Charlotte's blood began to boil again. "Distressed? I'm the one who's distressed!" She launched into a description of her encounter with Jessie Reeves, finishing angrily with, "And it makes no difference how little the county chooses to pay Jessie's father. You should have made some provision for the man when he lost a leg in your employ. But no, I'm forgetting. Your
bailiff manages your property, doesn't he? You're too busy to pay attention to details. You may spend some time at Cor-tona, Jeffrey, but you're no better than an absentee landlord!"
With a toss of her head, she stalked past him. He put out his hand to catch her arm as she went by. "Charlotte, is that what you really think of me?"
Panicking at the electric thrill that went through her at his touch, she tried to wrench her arm away. "Oh, God, more talk? Haven't we had enough talk today?"
His lips tightened. With a sudden swift movement, he pulled her against him, grinding his lips against hers in a savage kiss that went on and on until Charlotte felt as if she were sinking into a delirious abyss of delight from which she never wished to return. At last he released her. "Perhaps that's our problem. We talk too much," he said evenly and swung around on his heel to leave her.
As Sarah was leaving the bedchamber the next afternoon with a luncheon tray that her mistress had barely touched, Charlotte was tempted to call the abigail back to say to her, "Bring out the portmanteaux, Sara
h, and pack my clothes. We're leaving." But she didn't say the words, and Sarah left the room.
Charlotte walked to the windows overlooking the park. Through the leafless trees she could glimpse the dome of the little classic folly. Her heart contracted as she remembered the handful of magic moments she'd spent there with Jeffrey, feeding the deer. Could it be a mere few days ago that she'd believed there was some small chance she and Jeffrey could become friends, if not lovers?
But that had always been an empty dream, she could see now. Yesterday in the conservatory, while Jeffrey had refused his mother's plea to cry off from his engagement, he hadn't denied his attachment to Cicely's memory, and he certainly hadn't defended Charlotte's conduct toward Sir Richard. No, Jeffrey was closing his eyes to Charlotte's flaws, social unsuit-ability, and lack of appeal to him. He was going through with
his marriage because he was determined to save Cortona from financial ruin. And it was no use thinking about that kiss. It hadn't meant anything, except that Jeffrey had taken out his anger and frustration in a physical way.
Sighing, Charlotte turned away from the window. Her eye fell on the dress hanging from the door of the wardrobe. The gown, which had belonged to Lady Sherborne and had been altered by a seamstress in Banbury, had arrived yesterday. It was made of crepe lisse in a delicate shade of pale violet, trimmed with flounces of lace and knots of satin ribbon in a slightly darker shade. What was more, it was immensely becoming. Charlotte would wear the gown tonight at the Christmas Eve ball, when her engagement was to be announced, unless . . .She clenched her hands tightly together, admitting to herself that she didn't have the courage to cut her losses, to tell Jeffrey flatly that they wouldn't suit, and leave Cortona before the ball. No matter what he felt, or didn't feel, for her, she still wanted him.
A knock sounded at the door. Charlotte hunched her shoulders impatiently. She hadn't gone down to dinner last night, pleading a headache, and she'd had breakfast and lunch in her bedchamber, because she hadn't wanted to see anyone after the embarrassing scene yesterday with Sir Richard in the drawing room. Which was ridiculous, of course. She couldn't remain in her bedchamber like a wounded lioness in her lair. She called, "Come in."
Jeffrey entered the room. "I was sorry to hear you had the headache. Are you feeling better?" His tone was polite and impersonal. He certainly showed no disposition to kiss her! But obviously he'd made up his mind to ignore their quarrel of last night.
"The headache's gone, thank you."
He handed her a worn velvet-covered box. "I thought you might like to wear these tonight. They belonged to my godmother."
Charlotte opened the box, which contained a necklace of amethysts and pearls.
"Mama told me you were going into colors tonight," Jeffrey
continued, glancing at the ball gown hanging on the wardrobe. "I think the amethysts will go well with your dress."
"The necklace complements the gown perfectly. I promise to take very good care of it."
"No, no, the necklace is a gift, not a loan," Jeffrey said quickly. "My godmother wanted my future wife to have it."
"Did you — " Charlotte choked back the words. She'd been about to ask, "Did you also give the necklace to Cicely?" That would not only have given away her feelings for him, it would have marked her as a jealous shrew. "Thank you," she said, ignoring his faintly puzzled expression.
The abigail, Sarah, rushed into the bedchamber. She paused, looking confused, when she saw Jeffrey. "Excuse me, my lord. I didn't know you was here."
"No need to apologize. I was just leaving." Jeffrey turned to Charlotte, bowing. "Until tonight, then."
When the door had closed behind him, Charlotte asked, "What is it, Sarah?"
"Well, ma'am, that little girl, Jessie Reeves, she's here. Says ye told her to ask for me if she wanted to send ye a message. She's in quite a state, she is. Looks worrited to death. Will you see her?"
"Oh, dear, what — ? Yes, of course. Where is she, in the kitchens?"
"No'm." Sarah coughed. "I thought as how ye mightn't like his lordship's servants to know about the child, so I whisked her out of the kitchens and brung her up here by the servants' staircase. I'll jist go fetch her."
Entering the bedchamber behind Sarah, Jessie Reeves seemed to forget her cares for a moment as she gazed in awe around the large, well-appointed room. The child wore the same thin dress and tattered shawl in which Charlotte had first seen her, but there was one change. Jessie was wearing a pair of shoes, purchased, most probably, with some of the coins Charlotte had given Mrs. Reeves. Jessie was also limping badly.
Charlotte exclaimed, "My dear, surely you didn't walk all the way from the village on that injured foot?"
"Not all the way. I sneaked over the estate wall and took a short cut across the park." An expression of desperation settled over the girl's face. "Sorry I am ter bother ye, Miss Kinley, but ye did say that ye'd help us."
"I certainly will if I can. What's the matter? Have the gamekeepers been threatening you?"
"No. No. It's me mum. The baby's coming. I mean, it's trying to come. Mrs. Bass—that's our neighbor in the village, she's helped with many a lying-in—Mrs. Bass says mum's babe is turned the wrong ways, like, and it can't get born by itself. Mrs. Bass says we needs a doctor real bad. And the nearest doctor's in Banbury."
Charlotte responded to the pleading in the child's eyes. "You want me to go to Banbury for the doctor. Of course I will, child. Sarah, order the carriage."
The abigail glanced at Jessie with misgiving. "Begging yer pardon, ma'am, it might be better if ye and Jessie was to go direct to the stables by way o' the servants' staircase."
"Heavens, yes, that would be better," Charlotte exclaimed as she hurriedly put on a pelisse and jammed a bonnet on her head. She had a mental image of Lady Sherborne's face if the dowager were to see her climbing into a carriage with a ragged village child in front of the magnificent entrance of Cortona.
A faint cry sounded from beyond the closed door of the bedchamber. Jessie scrambled to her feet from her huddled position on the floor next to Charlotte's chair and stood staring at the door. The child, unstrung with worry about her mother, had begged Charlotte to remain even after the doctor's arrival, and Charlotte had felt unable to refuse the request. Jessie's father straightened tensely in his chair, disturbing the toddler clinging to his remaining leg. The cry was repeated, stronger this time.
The slow moments ticked by. Finally the doctor appeared in the doorway of the bedchamber, smiling as he pulled down his shirtsleeves. "You have another son, Mr. Reeves. A Christmas baby, no less!"
"My wife?" said the crippled farm laborer.
"Very tired, but I've no doubt she'll be fine."
"Oh, Miss Kinley," Jessie breathed, "Mum's going ter be all right." Her face shining with joy, the child dashed into the bedchamber to be with her mother.
"Actually, ma'am, it's your doing, as much as my medical skill," said the doctor in confidential tones to Charlotte. "If you hadn't fetched me, I doubt very much that either Mrs. Reeves or the child would have survived. It was a very difficult birth. I'm only sorry you had such a long wait for me at my surgery. As I explained to you, I was at a farm some ten miles outside Banbury in attendance on another confinement. I'll confess to you, if I'd been delayed even slightly longer, I don't think I could have come in time to save either Mrs. Reeves or her baby."
Charlotte reached into her reticule. She pressed several bank notes into the doctor's hand. "Let's be thankful you were in time. Thank you for coming, Doctor."
The doctor glanced at the denominations of the notes and beamed. "A pleasure, ma'am."
Charlotte walked over to Jessie's father. "Congratulations, Mr. Reeves. If I can help in any way, please call on me."
"God bless you, ma'am. We'll never forget this."
"That's all right. Goodbye, Mr. Reeves. Say goodbye to Jessie."
Charlotte stepped out of the cottage and paused abruptly as she realized with sudden dismay that nig
ht had fallen. She'd lost all track of time since Jessie had come to Cortona to ask for help. It must be very late. It was full dark. Already the guests must be gathering at Cortona for the Christmas celebration that would culminate in the announcement of her betrothal. By the time she reached Cortona and dressed for the ball, it would be half over. The dowager would probably never forgive her. Jeffrey? Perhaps this latest example of Charlotte's social ineptitude would convince him, finally, that she'd never make him a proper wife. Well, she couldn't change anything that had happened, she reflected with a dragging sense of weariness and dejection. Nor would she have wanted to. She'd
helped to save two lives.
She walked slowly out to her waiting carriage, where her coachman was pacing back and forth in the dim light of the side lamps. She noticed that the horses were draped in blankets and hoped that neither the driver nor the team had become too chilled during their long wait.
As she approached, the coachman hurried to open the door of the carriage and let down the steps. At the same time, a curricle and pair rounded a curve into the village street and was reined to an abrupt halt beside the carriage. The driver jumped down, tossing his reins to his diminutive tiger.
"My God, Charlotte, are you all right?"
"Jeffrey!" Charlotte gasped. As he came nearer, she could see he was wearing full evening dress beneath his caped driving coat. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you, naturally," he snapped. "When I finished dressing tonight, I came to your bedchamber to escort you downstairs. You weren't there, and your abigail—what's her name? Sarah?—clamped her mouth shut like a damned Sphinx and refused to tell me where you were."
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