He was startled to hear the name that had just appeared in his mind. "So I keep hearing."
"Don't you think she would make a very good wife for you?"
"Subtle, Anna, very subtle. But don't be so obscure. Stop hinting and say what you mean."
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Tristan. Which means, of course, that it's entirely appropriate for you." Anna preened a bit at getting this insult off, then added severely, "And this is no time for subtlety. Mrs. Hering told me her son was set to ask Charity for her hand any day now."
Tristan used his butter knife to slash a piece of toast into strips. "She won't have him. She's already turned him down."
"Perhaps she values persistence. And if he isn't successful, some other man will be. You're not the only one who recognizes her virtues."
Anna was so positive that he felt a moment's unease. "She does seem to receive offers every week or so. Turns 'em all down though. Oh, I wasn't supposed to tell you that."
"I know all about her offers. Sir Francis told me."
Anna blushed a bit as she spoke of Calder, and Tristan wondered if their conversation had gone beyond conspiracy. Then he dismissed it. She was still in mourning, after all, deeply so. Besides, a good man like Calder would never have a chance with her. He couldn't spin a pretty compliment to save his life. "What makes you think I'd be any more successful than the others?"
Anna dismissed this with a wave of her white hand. "Oh, Tristan, come now. Girls have always thought you handsome. Why, some of my school friends used to talk about stealing kisses from you—and you three years our junior!"
"I wish I'd known that then. They wouldn't have had to steal them."
"And you are an artist. Sir Francis said that's a source of fascination to Charity. Arid only think how capable she is. Think of how she will enjoy helping you with your work."
Tristan could just imagine Charity ordering his supplies, negotiating with dealers. He'd get the best commissions in the country did Charity make the deals. She would like that, too, he knew, remembering her honest appreciation of his work. "We've known each other scarcely a fortnight."
"Nonsense. Her virtues are immediately apparent. And, dearest, you do need a wife. You live such an aimless life."
"It's hardly aimless," he said stiffly. "My aim is to paint." She shook her head, and he knew she was right. That wasn't enough, not for a life.
Her voice was gentle but chiding. "You don't even have a posting address much of the year. And you haven't any ties that I know of, except to me, and we neither of us have done well at keeping those tight."
He covered her trembling hand with his own. As difficult as this last fortnight had been and as bitterly as he had resented the responsibility, Tristan knew he owed more to his family than an occasional letter or visit. "Agreed. But that doesn't require a wife."
"Oh, but it does in a way. You've got in the habit of avoiding connections, and a wife like Charity wouldn't let you do that. Oh, I know I'm no one to talk of the benefits of marriage—" She broke off, staring out the window at the newly neat garden. "But you know Charity would be a true helpmeet, and make you a home. You've never had one, so I suppose you think you don't need one. But only think how homey she could make Braden. Why, you'd be eager to come back from Italy every year then."
Tristan studied his sister's slender white hand, with its manicured nails and diamond ring. He wondered if siblings ever grew old enough to see each other as adults. He would ever see Anna as that delicate, passionate girl who always got her way, even when it was clear she had lost her way. And, to Anna, he would always be that restless, obsessive boy who spent too much time alone.
He would have dismissed everything she said, except that he suspected she was right. "This is not, I'll have you know, your idea. I thought of it long ago. And the other day, when I saw my house and couldn't, couldn't think of it as home, I thought of Charity and what she would do with it." Suddenly he said, "It means choosing England, you know."
Anna's brows drew together in a puzzled frown. She had never felt that tug-of-war he knew so well, between the rational pragmatic land of their father and the dangerously passionate land of their mother. But she replied sensibly enough. "Well, Tristan, must there be a choice? You will no doubt spend much of your time in Italy, nonetheless. But you'll know that your home will be safe under Charity's charge. I should think it would make life easier for you."
She withdrew from her pocket a small velvet pouch and, from that, a sapphire ring set with small diamonds. "It's Mother's betrothal ring. Before he died, Father asked me to keep it for you and not to release it until you found a girl of whom he would approve."
"One unlike Mother, you mean."
Anna tried not to smile. But enough years had passed that the utter incompatibility of their parents was more amusing than appalling. She pressed the ring into his hand. "Well, one more like Mother couldn't be found. I do approve, and Father would, too. Charity can't help but make you happy. For she's so happy herself, and she is so generous with her happiness."
He regarded the ring soberly for a moment, waiting for the panic to rise. But he felt peaceful, even hopeful. It was the right time and the right decision, and Charity was without a doubt the right woman.
He closed his fist over the ring and put it away into his coat pocket. He looked up to his sister's dismay. "Anna," he said in exasperation, "I promise you I have no frogs in my pocket or molding peppermints. I'm a grown man. I won't lose the ring."
"Mind you don't pawn it either, as you did your ruby stickpin."
She rose with lofty grace, leaving him to wonder how it was she had learned of every unsavory act he had committed in his youth and why she felt it necessary to remind him of them.
Later, he came into the churchyard from the back, through the little cemetery. There were fresh flowers in front of the Calder family stones, simple blooms, daisies and hedgerows tied with a long blade of meadow grass. The bouquet was so evocative of Charity, he almost felt her beside him. He picked it up, tugged one errant daisy back into place, and tightened the grass tie.
Then he bent to trace the engraving on one of the smaller stones. Edward Calder, R.N., born 19 June 1798, killed in His Majesty's Service, 12 December 1816, aged 18.
Tristan crossed himself, then dropped the bouquet on the grave and went on to the church hall. Charity was in the habit, he knew, of checking his progress with the whale each evening. He determined to finish the stormy sea this morning and sketch in the fishing boat before the Saturday revelry rehearsal. The sooner he completed the figures in the foreground, the sooner he could demand that she help him finish the background. That would cheer her, if she needed cheering.
Chapter Eleven
By Saturday Lawrence and Jeremy had learned their event so well they undertook with Charlie the job of tutoring the other children in three-legged racing. Charity left them in Francis's charge—he got such enjoyment out of seeing the teams careen into each other—and crossed the green to the tables set up for lemonade and teacakes.
This was only a rehearsal of sorts for the Midsummer fair, but the villagers were enjoying it as if it were the real thing. At least a hundred people were wandering around the sunlit green, enjoying the respite from chores and the casual atmosphere that allowed countess to mingle with cowherd. Not that Anna was precisely mingling. Still in her blacks, Lady Haver sat like a mourning madonna next to Cammie, watching with only the hint of a smile as the children hobbled along the race course. But she did nod to the occasional well-wisher and even accepted a glass of lemonade from a little boy who had to be retrieved by his jealous mama.
As the sun grew warmer, the villagers gradually discarded their colorful shawls and jackets, their converse, like their clothing, becoming more casual after noon. Pockets jingling with small change, they roamed from table to table and green to churchyard. Near the little lily pond in the center, knots of boys and girls engaged in complicated group flirtations, and over by the statue erected to
General Wolfe, the elderly men ogled the ladies and talked about fishing. The children gathered in the center of the green, each group focused on some adult who solemnly demonstrated how to carry an egg on a spoon or hop thirty yards in a burlap sack.
As if to emphasize the link between village and church, Midsummer preparations had spilled across the road to the front lawn of the church. Mrs. Dalton had set a crate under the wall and stood there ordering women to run home and bring back donations to sell at the jumble booth. Charity had already emptied the Grange attics for Mrs. Dalton, but she felt guilty passing by empty-handed and made a mental note to go through the kitchen for more donations.
Mrs. Hering called her over to a table set up to block the way to the privies set in the little hollow beyond the church. Triumphantly she jingled a bowlful of silver and copper coins. "I'm not letting anyone past unless they buy a ticket to the fair!"
Charity praised this ingenious tactic and punctiliously purchased a ticket herself before she went on toward the church.
David Greenaway sat alone, as usual, resting against the church's oldest oak tree. On his knee was a book she knew must be of verse. Charity wondered why he would come to a village activity only to sit by himself and read. She thought it was sad to see him so lonely and started to go over and greet him. But guiltily she stopped halfway and turned back. She had warned him last week that she had made some changes to his Jonah script, and he had only smiled and said he trusted her editorial judgment. But now he would be sure to ask to see it, and she would have to confess just how much revision she had done. Better to wait until the children were better rehearsed so that she could show him how well it had turned out, changes and all.
The vicar was standing on the church steps, gazing out at the party before him. Most people would have seen a harmless village gathering, but from his expression Charity knew Mr. Langworth was on the lookout for pagan activities. It was only a matter of time before he found them, with all these young people gathered together.
Inspired, she said, "Oh, Mr. Langworth, don't you think this might be a good time to hear confessions? Half the parish is here now. Why, there is Arnie Potter!" Ruthlessly she grabbed the arm of a lad on his way back from the conveniences. "Arnie, you meant to make your confession, didn't you?"
It was an inspired choice, for fourteen-year-old boys always had something to feel guilty about. Arnie flushed a deep purple and ducked his head, and she wondered what sin he thought she had caught him at. "Yes, miss, I guess I did."
Shoulders slumping, he followed the vicar into the church, and Charity knew a moment's twinge. Well, she told herself, confession was always good for the soul.
She returned to the village green, letting the flirtatious breeze tease the ribbon from her hair and the faint worries from her mind. This Midsummer rehearsal would go perfectly well as long as the vicar remained inside the church (she'd have to find a few of Arnie's more conscience-stricken friends and send them along after him) and sufficient swordsmen signed up for the fencing competition.
One swordsman in particular drew her gaze. Lord Braden was standing on the steps to the church hall, testing his sword against the wall. In his linen shirt and buckskins, he was young and graceful, and she had some poignant sense of what sort of boy this man must have been.
The sight of him, slender and strong like his blade, made her heart race, and it took a great effort of will to turn from him to look for other competitors. There was Crispin, of course, in the midst of a group of girls, showing off his silver sword. And his cousin Jacob Hering, pouring something from a flask into his lemonade.
And her brother Barry next to him—
Barry! What was he doing here? With a quick glance to make sure their elder brother was occupied, Charity ran lightly across the green. She had only time for a quick nod to Jacob before she grabbed Barry's arm and dragged him out of sight behind the great oak tree.
As soon as they were hidden, Barry squirmed out .of her grasp. Sullenly rubbing his arm, he said, "What's so blasted—"
"Barry, what are you doing here? Francis just got a letter from your beadle saying you'd been piking your tutorials, and here you are!"
"I'm here quite legally, I'll have you know."
He drew himself up proudly, and she noticed for the first time that he was a head taller than she. She was still his elder sister, however, and knew all too well his stunts. "What lie did you tell this time?"
His grin dashed all his former dignity away. "I said you had the measles and you needed me to come pick up Charlie and take him to stay with Aunt Grace."
"You might have given me a more mature disease, at least." It was a ten-hour drive from Oxford, and she had a fair suspicion what had brought him home. Who, that is. A particular blonde who. "Why are you back again so soon?"
His gaze slid away to focus on the church tower. Even with that holy sight in his view, he was able to lie as boldly to her as to his tutor. "Thought I'd help you earn a bit for the restoration of the tower. You know, try out for St. George. I got my entry fee."
He dragged a coin out of his breeches pocket and held it up as if it alone could make up for all his sins. Charity shook her head, sighing. "You don't think you'll actually win, do you? Just because Molly is set to be the princess? That won't make up for your lack of skill with a sword!"
"You don't know that."
Barry set his chin stubbornly, looking for a moment enough like Ned that she knew there was no use arguing with him. "Well, do try to stay out of harm's way, at least. And that includes out of the way of Francis!"
Barry put on his sweetest smile. "Tell him you sent for me, won't you? To—ummm, help you out with counting the receipts or putting the tables away or something?"
Charity shrugged, refusing to commit but knowing that, as usual, she would probably protect her younger brother. "If you intend for him to believe you, then you must help out in truth. You may take the names of the men who will be taking part in the fencing competition and then arrange pairs for the bouts. No escaping to the Rose and Crown till your own bout is called."
Barry was more agreeable to this than she expected, even pulling a little notebook out of his pocket to use as a scoresheet. "I'm all prepared," he said. "And Charity?"
He pointed to a couple of young men lounging about the distant lemonade stand. "Buzzy and Pookie came back with me. You know, my friends. They'll be staying the night."
Charity groaned, imagining the sort of conversation Buzzy and Pookie would bring to the dinner table. "To help me through my bout with the measles, no doubt. Well, you run home at some point and tell Mrs. Piper to make up a couple rooms for them. But first—" she called out as he started toward his friends, "make up that list of competitors. And if you get hurt playing with a sword, you've only yourself to blame."
Charity went off to check on a few of the less violent events. Francis had left the three-legged teams to see his favorite event, the boiled-egg spin. He had already set up the long rimmed table for a demonstration match with Malachi Morgan, the defending champion.
Charity was drawn there not so much because her brother was a participant as because Lord Braden was a spectator. He held his sheathed sword negligently in one hand and with the other kept tight hold of Jeremy. Lawrence, clinging to his mother's hand, drew her closer to the table where Francis was explaining the game. Charity smiled, imagining what Anna would think of this scholarly disquisition on the ancient origins of the boiled-egg spin.
Malachi, it was clear, did not regard this as any sort of demonstration. The medal he had won in this event a year earlier dangled from his chest as he divided the stock of eggs into two piles, one for the champion and one for the challenger. His jaw was clenched tightly as he worked, and Charity recalled what the Ferris girls had said about his competitiveness. He had decided not to enter the fencing competition, as he probably guessed he would have little chance of winning.
The demonstration had already drawn a crowd due to Francis's skill as a lecturer
. Squire Hering was there, laughing at an old joke Francis made about the foolishness of Sussexmen, the usual butt of Kent jokes. Lord Braden must not yet think himself a Susssexman, for all that he owned property there, for he was laughing along, too, instead of defending his county.
Charity drew close by his side, almost reaching out to touch him to make her presence known. But she didn't have to after all. He turned, the laughter still warm in his eyes. When he saw her the laughter changed to something else, something that made her catch her breath and wish that they were alone again. Next time, she promised herself, she wouldn't let the past seize her as it had there in his studio. She would think of the future, whatever that might be.
She was tantalizingly aware of him beside her. Her lilac cotton dress, donned for maneuverability rather than fashion, seemed insubstantial suddenly. She could feel through it the warmth of his arm so near her own.
Then Barry appeared at her elbow, full of questions about the relative skills of the fencers. She could only shrug and say what they both knew, that Crispin was the most accomplished fencer in Calder, and barring unforeseen circumstances, would likely win.
She had let her gaze stray again to Lord Braden's expressive face, and when she mentioned Crispin as the odds-on favorite, she noticed how his jaw tightened, quite like Malachi's, as if this inflamed his competitive spirit. “Young Hering is the best of the lot?" His voice was casual, but Charity could see the resolution forming even as he spoke. He meant to beat Crispin.
Barry pulled out his notebook and pencil. "He usually wins this sort of thing. Why? Do you think you can give him a match?"
Lord Braden only shrugged, but Lawrence heard and piped up loyally, "Course we can. My uncle used to teach fencing."
His uncle shook his head, out of negation or modesty Charity hadn't a chance to determine, because Barry had already torn away from their small group. She saw him huddling with his friends Buzzy and Pookie, and she turned with an apologetic smile to Lord Braden. "He's got two friends down—"
Charity Begins at Home Page 14