But she cut that wish short. Charity was too sensible to hold to superstitions, but there was no use tempting fate by imagining the most glorious outcome of this nascent acquaintance. She decided to be happy if she only got to ask him about his painting and to watch the play of mood across his sun-gilded face.
The terrace flagstones were muddy from the recent rains, and the wrought-iron table and chairs were speckled with dirt and dead leaves. Charity wrinkled her nose and surrendered to necessity. She was soon equipped with an apron, a mop, a pail, and lots of soapy water. She set her sandals on the wall overlooking the garden, hitched up her skirt under the enveloping apron, and tied back her hair. If her gown and her coiffure survived this work, she deserved to win the heart of Lord Braden, she told herself. "Too soon," she scolded aloud, swishing the mop around the flagstones. "You'll hex your chances for certain."
It was a perfect day for cleaning a terrace, sunny with a hint of a breeze and the scent of jasmine teasing the piney fragrance of the soap. She made short work of the mud, and with a few minutes still lacking to eleven, she returned the apron and mop to the maid's closet. In the necessary room of the vacant housekeeper's office, she paused to straighten her dress and wash her hands. As she scrubbed the dirt off her nose, she made a face in the mirror and wasted a moment longing for hair as pale as a sunbeam and eyes blue like a peacock's feathers. She had the dreams of a girl like that, but the appearance and character of someone far more prosaic. Lacking a comb, she ran her fingers through her hair and tied the violet ribbon in a dashing bow just north of her ear. She hid the locket she always wore under her bodice, so that only the gold chain showed. Then, giving the prosaic girl in the mirror a forgiving smile, she ran off to set the picnic table.
The sun was warm on her bare arms as she smoothed down the white linen tablecloth. She placed the china plates—three, just in case—and the silverware, just the everyday tableware for an everyday sort of picnic. A handful of daisies in a tumbler served as an everyday sort of centerpiece. And if the slivered ham and melon were a bit elaborate for everyday, it was only because the usual picnic fare of cold chicken and corn pudding did not leave a lady at her best advantage.
"Oh, Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling," she sang softly as she made last-minute adjustments to the pretty display. "Oh, Charlie is my darling, the young chevalier."
"I knew you were too good to be true. Your secret vice is Jacobism."
That deep voice she had been listening for came from the open French doors. From the sunlit terrace, she could not discern more than a dark form there in the gloomy library. But she could call his image up so clearly, even after only one encounter: his lean figure; his austere face, all angles, with its paradoxically tender mouth; the burning dark eyes—Adonis's eyes, she realized now.
Then his reality emerged to join his image in her vision, only the reality was so much more intense. There was something indefinably exotic about his slender, graceful form, even in a casual gray riding coat and supplely fitted buckskins. And there was something foreign in his slanted brows and narrow straight nose, in the contrast between his blue-black hair and fair skin, for he tanned golden, not dark. He and Anna had an Italian mother, Charity recalled suddenly.
She heard Italy in his voice, too, now that she listened for it. Having studied Italian in school, Charity recognized that the usually crisp English consonants were a little blurred, the vowels more musical. She could almost hear him whispering silken endearments—mia cara, mi' amore . . .
She dropped her head to hide her blush and returned to her innocent table setting. The spoons were not precisely parallel to the knives; she rectified this as she puzzled over his greeting.
"Oh, you heard my song!" There was no reason now to blush, for she had always been told she had a pretty voice and had been lead contralto in the children's choir for six years. But she felt her cheeks burn anyway and hastened to explain. "The Bonnie Prince isn't the Charlie I meant. My younger brother is named Charlie, and I was singing it this morning to tease him. It drives him mad, as you might imagine. And Francis, too, for he's the very opposite of a Jacobite. He can't abide the Stuarts, says they were a cursed family that visited a curse on Britain."
"Infuriating two brothers with the same tune—quite an accomplishment, I'd say. Sir Francis has opinions about such subjects, does he? And I thought only agriculture kept his attention.
Charity looked up to his sardonic gaze and returned in sharp defense, "You are wrong. He may look like a mere farmer, but Francis took a First in history at Oxford." She was about to add that Lord Braden would do well to try to rely less on first impressions where people were concerned, but the hesitance in his dark eyes made her pause.
He was unsure of himself here in the country, that was all, unused to helpful and interfering neighbors, uncertain how much gratitude or irritation to feel. So he had retreated into that arrogant observer role so common to city folk, and to artists too, she supposed. If she didn't understand his reasons, and if his black hair didn't curl so wantonly over his forehead, she might take offense. As it was, she immediately went to work soothing over the discord.
"Though, of course, farming is his first love. He was up at the crack of dawn, plotting out his campaign to save Haver's harvest. He has always believed he could do better with the land than the Havertons have done. It's so seldom that one gets the opportunity to make good on such boasts." Her warmer tone worked, for Lord Braden smiled, genuinely this time.
"It's kind of you to pretend we are doing you a favor letting you work so hard. What a pretty table you have set."
"Careful. The flagstones aren't quite dry yet." Then Charity felt those flagstones wet under her own feet and drew in her breath. Her sandals were there on the wall, just beyond Lord Braden. At least she had put the mop and pail away before her host had arrived.
But he had caught her quick glance at the wall and followed it. When he saw the sandals he considered them thoughtfully, and even in her embarrassment Charity was fascinated. He had a wary face, his dark eyes shadowed by long lashes, his expression ever watchful. She supposed it was the artist in him that made him pause to study things so.
But his study now brought him right to the conclusion she had hoped would escape him. He transferred his gaze to her bare feet, just visible under the ruffled hem of her gown. "You washed the flagstones yourself, didn't you?"
Charity only shrugged and, slipping past him, retrieved her sandals. She sat on the wall and put them back on, taking great diligence to fasten the buckles so that she wouldn't have to face that delicious scowl.
"You shouldn't be doing such work yourself, Miss Calder. We don't use our guests as scullery maids." He was angry now, his dark eyes flashing, and Charity suppressed a sigh of pure delight. The Italian was there, surely, in his sudden passion, the fire burning in his eyes like the Mediterranean sun.
She rose, shuffling a little to adjust her sandals, joy blossoming in her heart. Oh, perhaps he was the one. She answered distractedly, "I don't mind in the least pitching in. There's nothing shameful in housework, after all—oh, I wish my mother could have heard me say that! I doubt she ever imagined all her lectures on the subject would ever take root!"
Lord Braden's anger had dissolved into consternation—almost as enjoyable, as it introduced the most intriguing frown between his dark brows. "You are surely not accustomed to doing your own housework there at the Grange?"
"We have a staff, of course, but I supervise them. I can hardly assign duties to a maid without knowing what it is she must do. Else how will I know what standard I can expect her to attain?"
Charity shrugged and began dusting the chairs off with her handkerchief. "At least if my fortunes turn sour, I shall be able to hire myself out as a scullery maid! Or as a cook!" Her laugh faded as she saw the puzzlement in his eyes. She shook out her handkerchief, observing, "I wouldn't feel right watching others work while I was idle."
He would consider her a drudge, the sort who liked
working better than waltzing. And she wasn't really that way at all. But she had never been good at self-defense. "I'll go entice Anna out of bed. Do you think she will be able to walk down the stairs?"
In the end, Anna had to be coaxed out of her room and Lord Braden had to carry her to the terrace. Though she was a tall woman, Anna had always been willowy, and she was lighter than ever now. Charity kept up a steady stream of chatter as they walked, but faltered when he carefully set his sister in a chair. In the black wrapper she insisted on wearing, Anna looked as pale and lovely as Ophelia, and just as distraught. She shrank back against her brother, whispering, "The sun is so bright."
From the picnic basket, Charity produced a dashing black bonnet with a high brim and dangling black ribbons. "I'm just out of blacks myself—my father died only Christmas last—so this is the latest crack in mourning fashion."
Lord Braden courteously stepped out of the way so she could kneel and place the bonnet on Anna's dark hair. She tied a big bow under Anna's chin then sat back on her heels to survey her work. "Oh, you look lovely. Your skin looks just like pearls, so deep and glowing. Now, would you like some lemonade? Some ham? Try the melon. I found it in Folkestone yesterday, shipped all the way from Morocco. Fit for a princess!"
Apparently Anna never suspected the motives of flatterers; those pearly cheeks were pinking now under the dramatic black bonnet. Thus did Kenny keep her in thrall, Charity thought cynically, taking the adjacent seat. She hoped she would be more skeptical, did anyone ever compare her skin to pearls. She looked up to meet the enigmatic gaze of Lord Braden and flushed. He was not so easily gulled as his sister. He knew that Charity's compliments were mere manipulation, if of the kindest sort.
Embarrassed as she was to be caught in such a trick, Charity was nonetheless excited. So few people saw below the surface of human converse to recognize underlying motives and methods. But Lord Braden's slight smile told her that he understood her cozening ways rather too well for comfort. No doubt an artist learned to read people in order to capture their essence with paint and canvas.
Charity felt a warm rush of gratification. So handsome, so talented, so observant—so intense. This was a man she could admire, a man she could respect. And, she thought as she gazed into his stormy dark eyes—Adonis's eyes—he was a man she could desire.
"Please join us." She gestured at the extra place. "I brought enough for all three of us."
That moment of communion vanished. He moved back a step, wariness replacing the amusement in his eyes. "I meant to get started on sorting out Haver's books this morning."
He thinks I've set my cap for him, Charity realized. For all that she had just decided to fall in love with him, Charity was insulted. She tilted up her chin and gave him a look utterly devoid of regret. "Just as well. I've so much gossip I can't imagine relating in mixed company."
Now amusement flickered in those speaking eyes of his. She was diverted for a moment, for she was learning to watch his eyes for the emotion that he masked with those chiseled features. But she regained her hauteur as he took a seat beside her and held out his plate. "Say on, then. Please pay me no mind, except to spear me a bit of that Moroccan melon of yours."
"As you wish." Charity forked a slice of melon and dropped it carelessly on his plate. 'Then, taking him entirely at his word, she turned to Anna. "Have you heard about the Abshire twins?" She did not even glance at Braden, although she was burningly aware of him. "Twenty-four-year-old identical twins. By identical, I mean identically tall, blond, handsome, and wealthy. They arrived in town in search of brides. Then they announced they would only accept a pair of twin sisters! Such despair you would not countenance. Priscilla Barrett and I thought we might pass ourselves off as twins."
"Who is Priscilla Barrett?" Braden broke in.
As if Anna had asked this, Charity favored her with a smile. "Oh, Priscilla looks nearly as much like me as Abshire One looks like Abshire Two. But she and I couldn't decide how we would divvy them up, or how we would keep them divvied after that. For they are very mischievous, and it would be just like them to switch off occasionally, just for variety!"
"Charity! What a thing to say!" Anna inclined her head in her brother's direction, but Charity ostentatiously paid this no mind. Even when Braden refilled her glass from the jar of lemonade, Charity kept her smile focused on her hostess and her gossip as scandalous as possible.
She ran through all the stories she could remember which had naught to do with straying husbands and fatal duels, and succeeded in diverting the countess. Lord Braden made no further attempt to intervene in the conversation. But she knew he was listening, for she heard his quiet chuckle whenever she said something particularly outrageous. She still hadn't forgiven him, but she was conscious of his gaze on her face, could feel its heat right there above her cheekbone. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she could see his hands. Slim and graceful as they toyed with utensils, here and there stained with paint, his hands fascinated her. They created the art she admired so much. She longed to see them at work, longed to touch them.
Anna spoke little, but finally she managed an inquiring smile. "But Charity dear, you haven't told me the least bit of gossip that included you!"
Charity gave into the spirit of mischief yet again, bringing her hand to her cheek in mock chagrin. "You've heard then? Oh, that's the last time I trust a tsar who promises not to kiss and tell!"
Anna gasped, then blushed and slapped Charity's hand lightly. "The tsar? Oh, Charity, you are horrid! And I recall you as ever the prettiest-behaved girl!"
"Blame it on Alexander then. I never said such things before I experienced his royal Russian charm."
Anna gave way finally to laughter, a weak series of chuckles that barely shook her frail shoulders. But Charity knew from the rusty sound that the countess had not used this reflex for months now. And so she redoubled her attempts to amuse, making risqué plays on the word Russian that had Anna helpless with giggles.
She had almost forgot Lord Braden, as much as she could forget a man whose image had haunted her dreams all night long. But as she leaned over to pour a glass of lemonade to soothe Anna's laugh-roughened throat, Charity saw his face, so vivid, so austere under the dark curls. As he witnessed his sister's amusement, his eyes were stormy now with some anger Charity couldn't comprehend.
But she felt rebuked again. Perhaps she had gone too far beyond the acceptable with her last sallies, however successful they were with Anna. So she only handed the countess her lemonade and bade her drink, then concentrated on buttering her a slice of rye bread. But her silence reminded Anna of her original inquiry. "Come, Charity, tell me," she said, her breath coming in little gasps of laughter, "wasn't there any man short of royalty who paid you special attention?"
Charity felt Braden's gaze on her again and murmured something negative. Anna, not entirely lost to nuance, did not press the issue, doubtlessly believing Charity to have been an utter failure in London.
But to her surprise, Braden took up the question even more bluntly. "No suitor then? Not even one?"
This stung like a slap; for the first time in a half-hour, she faced that dark gaze levelly. "None I care to name. I am not like the tsar, you see. I see no sense in boasting of my conquests."
"Oh, I knew you had conquests! And you did promise yesterday to tell me of them!" Anna cried. Then she dismissed her brother with an imperious gesture. "Tristan, dear, you must leave. She won't say a word when you're about."
"I beg leave to doubt that," Braden observed coolly, "as she's favored me with three months' worth of scandal in thirty minutes. Miss Calder, do not shy off now. Or do you gossip only about other people?"
Hurt, trapped, Charity could only bite her lower lip and then, addressing Anna, said quietly, "No one I thought to marry, obviously. Terence Wetherby. His father the general liked me, and Terence, I think, wanted to incur his approval. Which he's never had, poor boy. And Bessemer," she concluded in a rush.
"Bessemer?" Anna
's echo plainly expressed her incredulity. "Surely you don't mean Sir Ralph."
"He has three little sisters, you see." Charity tilted her head wryly, more in control now. "I gather he's fond of them in his way but has no idea how to go about rearing them. Why he thought I would, I can't imagine. Now if he had three little brothers, I might be tempted, for that is my field of expertise."
Anna shook her head in wonder. She might have married for love (however foolish that seemed now), but her subtle disapproval indicated that a girl like Charity should not be so choosy. Braden, however, would not let the matter rest. "Only the two?"
Charity refused to dignify his taunting with the truth. She had no need to boast, after all, for there was nothing very much to boast about. "I am so sorry to disappoint you, Lord Braden. Anna, dear, thank you for your company and your garden." She scraped their bread remains into a bowl then carried it to the wall and tossed the crusts into the weedy tulip bed for the birds. Returning to the table, she briskly stacked plates into her basket.
After a stunned moment, Braden must have realized that he had no maid to call to clear away, and rose to help. He gathered the silverware into a linen napkin and wrapped it up safely. Anna only sat there musing over Charity's foolishness. Finally she looked up. "Oh, dear, you aren't leaving, are you? I would so love to hear if Sir Ralph went down on one knee and vowed to slay dragons for you."
"Of course not! He saves such dramatics for more intriguing propositions! Arid I must go. I've lumber to order, and then I'm to start planning the children's play. We're doing Jonah and the Whale—do say Lawrence and Jeremy can help with the rehearsals. They might even get parts as Jonah's disloyal shipmates. And, Anna, you must help also. Mrs. Hering expects sixty rag dolls for booth prizes, and I shall never have time!" Before Anna could protest that she couldn't, she just couldn't, Charity turned to Lord Braden, letting the slightest hint of malice enter her merry voice. "And your brother can paint the set for my play! A backdrop of the sea, with a great whale rampant!"
Charity Begins at Home Page 7