"You're as bad as the vicar!" she commented acidly. "Always worrying about the pagans. Well, what is so dreadful about the pagans, I ask you? They didn't recognize our Savior, but then, that hadn't occurred yet. And it seemed to me they had a deal more excitement in those temples than we do at St. Catherine's of a Sunday!"
Francis opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. Finally, laughing, he said, "Charity, you heretic. Mind your tongue or the vicar will cut it out and have you burned at the stake. He's had enough difficulty swallowing all the Dionysian revelry you've got planned for the Midsummer fair."
She went back to her work, leaving him to chuckle over the vision of his sister, the church organist, roasting on the heretic's spit. But finally he rattled the letter to remind her of the question at hand. "So what about this pagan picnic? Would you like to go?"
Charity bent her head to hide her expression as she contemplated what sorts of things might transpire on a pagan picnic. Not much, she concluded, with the families present. Even pagans had some limits. And duty, as usual, reared its dissenting head. "I don't know as I can spare the time. The fair is only two weeks from Friday."
"You told the vicar yesterday you had it all under control. Of course, you've doubtlessly got the Christmas carol service under control, seeing as it's only six months away."
"Yes, well, I didn't want Mr. Langworth to bring up canceling again. If I should venture to complain that Mr. Greenaway's version of the Jonah story is a bit complicated or that the nails for the booths are too short, he will brighten up and say not to worry, he will just make an announcement next week before the sermon, and all my problems, and the Midsummer fair, will be gone."
Francis gave her a sharp, assessing took. "You aren't having any trouble, are you? If it's too much work, you need only ask for a bit of help. Mrs. Hering—"
"Is helping a great deal, for she's taking care of making all the prizes, and Mrs. Dalton is organizing the marketplace, and Crispin promised to build the booths. I've little to do, actually," she said more cheerfully. "Just the games and the banquet and the plays. I do wish I hadn't suggested that we have a preliminary go-round this Saturday. It will earn a bit of money, and the children will enjoy rehearsing the sporting events. And we will come out of it with someone to play St. George. But it's one more thing to plan this week, and I'd best get that done before I contemplate any picnics."
Francis put his hand out. "Give me a sheet of that paper. I'll make up a list of the games for Saturday and put an adult's name next to each to give lessons, and that will be that. The ladies will all bring pies and lemonade of their own accord, and the prospective St. Georges will bring their swords, and everyone will contrive to have fine time. There." He wrote one last name with a flourish and tossed the pencil down. "Now you have no excuse not to go to the picnic."
Charity took back his scrawled list and frowned thoughtfully at it. "Well, I've been over to Haver near every day to help Cammie, so this won't be very different, will it? And it is our duty to help poor Anna get out more into the fresh air."
"Our duty. To Lady Haver. Nothing to do with her brother."
Charity mistrusted her brother's grin, which, lacking only a trail of cream, resembled a cat's. "Anna is at last emerging from her cocoon. I was so pleased to see her at church yesterday. You were too, I noticed."
There, that got him back. Francis flushed and dropped his gaze back to the note. "Half eleven, Braden says. You will get plenty of time with him," he added with his version of a wicked leer. "Says he will be back from an overnight visit to his estate today. Significant, don't you think?"
"No," Charity answered crossly.
"He's probably walking through the place right now, noting all the dust and decay, imagining how comfortable and homey it could be if only you were there to supervise its operation. Crack the whip over the maids, refurnish the drawing room, match the linens."
For an instant Charity wondered if it were true. I should never have let him see me mopping that terrace, she thought bleakly. Now he must think me some sort of haut ton housekeeper. To her brother, however, she aimed a scornful look. "You're being absurd, Francis. We haven't met above four times, and he's never shown me any sort of particular attentions."
"Seeing you in that bedraggled sunbonnet and walking you home anyway isn't particular? And staying for tea even after he met Barry? I'd call that pretty particular. I'd call it downright gallant."
By particular, Charity had meant passionate stolen embraces under a moonlit sky, but she could hardly tell her brother that. There was no need, anyway, because Francis had his own ideas about courtship procedures. "Anyway, near as I can tell, a bachelor needs only two encounters with you to decide you are destined to serve tea in his drawing room for the rest of his life. Any day now, Braden's going to throw caution to the wind and beg for your hand. And I hope you accept this one, because for all he doesn't know a plow from a platypus, he'd make me a good brother-in-law."
Charity took a restorative drink of lemonade, obscurely depressed by this prediction. She didn't want Braden to behave like the rest of her suitors. For he was different, and he made her feel different, too. He was fascinating to look at and to listen to, with those hot Italian eyes and ever-so-slight Italian accent.
He was intrigued by her, too, she had reason to hope, but surely not just for her domestic skills! Surely he found her amusing, challenging. The ironical remarks that passed over most of her suitors made him laugh, and he wasn't a man free with his laughter. Besides, if she hadn't yet experienced his "particular attentions," she felt thrilled enough at his smile to imagine the excitement his kiss would arouse.
So when Francis suggested it was all of a piece with the other courtships, instinctively she rebelled. No, it was different. Braden was different. He was artistic, romantic, Mediterranean. He was extraordinary, and he could take her away from the ordinary.
"I expect we should accept the invitation, Francis." Charity piled her utensils neatly on her plate and rose, shaking the crumbs off her napkin. "A picnic expedition would be good for Anna. And it will do Charlie some good, too, to be out with other boys. At least Lawrence and Jeremy can help him scout for rocks on the hillside."
"No benefit to you, of course, in this picnic, is there?" As she walked back to the house, Francis's brotherly taunt followed. "That's our Charity, never thinks of herself—or never admits to it, anyway."
The Calder laundress had hung the altar linens up to dry earlier, and Charity folded them, still warm from the sun, away into a basket. Along the short walk to the church, she let questions play through her mind: Was Lord Braden's house in Sussex indeed in decrepit shape, and what did he plan to do about it, and would he request her help, and what form would that request take?
She hadn't enough information to answer any of those questions. So it was something of a relief to find a diversion ready for her as she approached the church, in the form of the vicar, pacing back and forth, his cassock sweeping the flower petals from the path.
Before she could climb the steps to the church hall, he pounced on her. He held up one of the notices the Ferris girls had distributed over the week's end, announcing the audition and games rehearsals to be held Saturday in front of the church. "What's this, Charity? More revelry? Isn't Midsummer enough for you?"
His cassocked form blocked the way, and Charity couldn't dodge around him. So she just smiled and shook her head in a deprecating way. "Oh, sir, it is nothing. Just a chance for the younger children to learn the games. You know, carrying an egg on a spoon across the green does not come easy to a six-year-old, and I thought they might do better with a bit of practice."
The vicar's usually benevolent expression was a glower now. "I saw the announcement you inserted in my notes at Matins yesterday. You thought I would read it out unawares during the sermon, didn't you? This audition. What is that? Are Drury Lane theater directors coming to make Hamlets and Portias of our parishioners?"
Charity hid a smile at his hea
vy attempt at sarcasm. "No, sir. It's for the mummer plays. You remember, Jonah and the Whale?" She meant to start rehearsing the children's play immediately, before the week's end, but she thought it best not to tell him that.
But Mr. Langworth was too sharp for her. Peering at the notice again, he observed with that labored irony, "What an unusual Jonah play you must be planning. For you are announcing a fencing contest. Why, I must read my Bible again, for I remember no swordplay by Jonah."
Charity feinted to the left, but the vicar saw and moved a bit to counteract her. She sighed and resigned herself to standing in the sun until he had had his say. Shifting the linen blanket to the other arm, she said, "Yes, sir, that too. We'll need a St. George, you recall, to slay the dragon. I thought that at the least we could use an earlier competition to earn a bit of funds to defray the cost of putting on the fair."
The vicar snorted. "That's all well and good, but encouraging swordplay among our young men is not a duty of the church!"
"The foils will have buttons on them, of course, so no one will be hurt." Charity added innocently, "If you would prefer a pugilistic contest, I will devise a boxing ring."
"Pugilism? Certainly not! I vow—"
Fortunately, before the vicar could make his vow, he was interrupted. He looked over Charity's shoulder and called, "Why, Lord Braden, what brings you here?"
"I am here to start the Jonah painting."
Trying to appear nonchalant, Charity turned slowly. Lord Braden was striding up the walk, the afternoon sun outlining his slim form and blazing a halo around his black hair. A satchel was slung over his shoulder, a length of canvas rolled up under his arm. He must have returned from Sussex and decided to use the afternoon light on her project rather than his own.
From a dedicated artist, this was a gesture so generous she knew it to have some higher significance, and Charity felt a swelling in her chest that almost cut off her breath. What was this emotion that seized her whenever she saw him? It was thrilling, this feeling, airy, fluttery, but somehow disorienting. She was not used to this. Usually she could marshal her emotions like little soldiers to do her bidding. Now she could hardly control her own breathing.
But that part of herself that was always observing noted that the vicar was struck silent by Lord Braden's announced intention. Aha, Charity thought, Mr. Langworth faces a collision of principle and interest! He would like to proclaim against paganism but does not want to offend the parish's richest family.
She knew principle had lost out when the vicar stepped to the side, letting both Charity and Lord Braden enter the church hall. He trailed in behind them, watching suspiciously as the artist unloaded his supplies onto a makeshift table contrived from a board set across two sawhorses. "You are to paint something for this play?"
"The backdrop." Lord Braden cast a swift glance at Charity, and as if that was enough to realize her need for support, he added casually, "The work for this Midsummer fair has been good for my sister. You would be amazed at how very hard she is working on those rag dolls. I was hoping that if the entire family became involved, she would find even more to occupy her during these difficult days."
"Well, if Lady Haver is comforted by her church work—well, God loves to keep us busy, he does. Painting the backdrop, are you?" The vicar couldn't entirely give up his sternness, even for a lord. "I hope you mean this backdrop to be appropriate for a Christian occasion."
Charity could hear the undertone of laughter in Lord Braden's voice as he answered, "Yes, yes, my art is always appropriate."
The vicar apparently decided to disregard the ambiguity of that answer and turned to Charity. "I am glad to hear you enlisted Mr. Greenaway also. He told me that his script is true to its Biblical origins. He made several copies and means to let me have one."
Charity swallowed back a sigh. How like the schoolmaster to make copies of his magnum opus. Now she would never be able to burn the original and claim her own version was a faithful replication. But at least the vicar was accepting the fair and the plays as inevitable. With restored good humor, she smiled at Lord Braden, her savior, hoping he might soften the vicar to the activity at week's end, too. To give him an opening, she asked, "Do you think your nephews would like to learn how to play the Midsummer games? We are having instruction from veteran sportsmen on Saturday. The entire village will turn out, I think!"
"They saw the notice this morning, and bedeviled Mrs. Cameron until she agreed to bring them. I think if you add your invitation, Anna might come, too." He glanced at the vicar, his voice entirely serious now. "Coming to Matins yesterday was a great step for her. I think Saturday, if she has motivation enough, she will come and even enjoy herself, and then perhaps she will realize that she has friends here." Awkwardly he added, "I know the Havers have never taken much part in the parish, and I am grateful that the parishioners nonetheless have been so welcoming."
The vicar couldn't be blamed for beaming at this, and Charity, too, was warmed by the thought of lost lambs gathered back into the parish flock. You see, she wanted to tell the vicar, this is why we have fairs and festivals; this keeps the church in the center of our village and makes faith a joyful thing. But she knew better than to hammer home the point; she held her tongue and let Mr. Langworth declare that he would call upon the countess in the morning.
Arranging his brushes on the board, Lord Braden murmured that she would like that. "On Saturday, I might even be drawn into the games. That fencing exhibition, might a visitor join in?"
"Oh, my lord, you are not a visitor," Mr. Langworth said. "You are one of us, surely, no matter where your home might be."
Charity sensed Lord Braden's slight withdrawal as he held up a brush to study it and then tugged a few stray beaver hairs from the tuft. He's not sure he wants to be one of us, she realized. He is too used to being alone. To cover the awkward silence, she asked, "Do you fence, then, Lord Braden?"
He glanced up with a grin. "A bit. I would be better for some practice, I think. But I hope to get that Saturday."
The vicar, recognizing his defeat, folded up the notice of Saturday's revelry and stuck it in his cassock pocket. "Doubtlessly I will see you then, for I—" he shot a warning glance at Charity, "I will be overseeing the activities. We wouldn't want them to get out of bounds."
He departed to prepare for evensong, and Charity found herself alone with Lord Braden. Even as she told him of her family's acceptance of his kind invitation to luncheon on the morrow, she realized how free social relations were in the village. In London, she would never have been left indoors, unchaperoned, with a bachelor. But the vicar was hardly one to neglect the proprieties. He knew Lord Braden was unlikely to try to ruin her right here in the church hall, with the graves of her ancestors visible through the windows and church ladies wandering in and out at will. Still, as she busied herself putting away the linens in the cupboard, she glanced back over her shoulder at him, waiting for him to approach her with lascivious intent.
But he was kneeling down, rolling out the canvas in the middle of the floor. "This will be the center panel. Can you help me?"
Less relieved than she ought to be by his restraint, Charity joined him, tugging her skirt up and kneeling across from him to tug the huge canvas straight. He had already begun work, she saw with appreciation. With quick flowing lines he had sketched the outlines of the whale, a formidable bulk almost five feet across, its great mouth open in a fierce grin. "Where will the boat go?"
"Half here." He was stripping off his blue coat and yanked one arm out of the sleeve then pointed to the corner of the canvas. "And half on the right panel. The whale's tail will take up most of the left panel. That way the image will flow from one panel to the other, you see. Continuity is essential for a successful triptych. So are frames," he added. "We'll have to build two more."
"Oh, I'll get Crispin to do it when he comes by this evening."
She was surprised when he frowned at her careless words. "I can't wait for this evening," he said, a hin
t of hauteur entering his voice. The temperamental artist, she thought. "I cannot begin painting until the canvas is stretched on the frame. And I mean to begin painting this afternoon."
So it was that Charity found herself once more pounding nails as a young man held the frame in place. She was no stranger to carpentry, having built treehouses with Ned and display boxes for Charlie's rocks. And with Crispin she had worried not at all about smashing him with her hammer, no matter how he cringed and complained.
But she felt more dangerous this time. When Lord Braden held the frame, his long slender fingers only inches from her hammer, she had to bite her lip to keep the tremble from her hands and the hammer aimed true.
If Lord Braden worried that his talented hands were destined for destruction, he gave no sign of it. But she relaxed only when she could set down her hammer, tilt the two new frames next to the one she and Crispin built, and survey the start of the triptych. "It will be very large, won't it?"
"All the children should be able to fit in front of it. That way it will frame the action, in the Renaissance fashion."
"The Renaissance fashion?"
It took a bit of coaxing, but Lord Braden explained the term as he went to his makeshift table and began mixing the gray paint for the whale. With the same slight diffidence he answered her other questions: what special qualities triptychs had, and whether Hieronymus Bosch was as mad as his great triptych made him seem, and a half-dozen more, until she felt as if she had been privileged to attend the Royal Academy School herself.
She halted her inquiries when he took his palette and brushes to the triptych. "Here," he said, holding out a wide brush dowsed in gray-blue, "just swab that on that first canvas. Just the top half." When she hesitated, holding the brush up to keep the paint from dripping on the dropcloths, he added, "Go on, Miss Calder. You won't hurt it. The first thing I learned at art school was how to paint over mistakes."
Charity Begins at Home Page 11