Charity Begins at Home

by Alicia Rasley

  It was only then that she noticed the blood that stained the lace of his cuff. Her breath halted, then started up again, easy and slow. She crossed to him, saying calmly, "Molly, give me that towel there. Lord Braden has been cut."

  And as she used Crispin's discarded sword to slice a bandage out of the towel and as she concentrated on binding up Lord Braden's slashed arm, she felt his somber gaze on her and told herself, This I know how to do. This at least I can give.

  Chapter Twelve

  With the highly tuned courtesy essential in a village, the crowd melted away. Barry and Buzzy and Pookie withdrew to a nearby table, still arguing over the scorebook and handing coins back and forth in some obscure banking ritual. Molly Ferris lingered to cast an accusatory look at Charity, but she left, too, when Barry called for her to come share a lemonade with him and Buzzy and Pookie.

  So Charity was left alone at the edge of the green, adjusting Tristan's bandage, her gaze focused on the cords the long muscles made in his arm. I should take the entry money to Mrs. Hering, she told herself, feeling the weight of the coins in her pocket against her leg. But she didn't move, except to tie a final knot in the bandage, her fingers brushing against the smooth skin of his wrist.

  "Look at me," he commanded, but she only shook her head, staring at the jaunty bow she had tied on his arm. He groaned, then laughed, and with his uninjured arm drew her against him. Against her cheek she felt the rough linen of his shirt, the warmth of his chest, the steady beat of his heart.

  "I don't know why your parents named you Charity. You are the least charitable girl I have ever known." His hand tangled in her hair, and she remembered that he still had her ribbon tucked away in his pocket. He whispered, "Will you come with me now, Charity?"

  She felt herself on the brink of disaster, and he was urging her over. She wanted to go with him; she wanted to go away from him—she didn't know what she wanted. She felt like Marie Antoinette on the way to the guillotine, except that the executioner was going to ask her if she preferred it quick or slow. This is precisely what you hoped for, she told herself, but she felt an ache in her chest that had more to do with fear than with fulfillment.

  It was all too fast, a whirlwind courtship at its whirlingest. For all their crackling conversations, for all their occasional moments of oneness, they had had no courtship. He had never sent her love letters or bunches of flowers; she had never melted into him during an improperly close waltz or felt his kiss even on her hand.

  She had no time to prepare for this, to unwrap her heart and examine her feelings one by one. She had never been the sort to make impulsive choices; and yet he expected her to know so soon what was best for her, for him, for them both.

  She looked up into his wary dark eyes, saw the shadow of sadness, the glint of laughter, and with the recklessness she had just learned from him, she agreed.

  He drew her across the road, down the shady lane toward the bridge that crossed the stream. They were hidden from view here, though she could not forget that the whole village must know where they were and what they were doing.

  The overarching oaks muted the noise and the light here—it was rather like a church, she thought. The stream rippled below, gentle now that the flood season was done; she stared down at a leaf floating along in the current. It got caught up in an eddy and swirled helplessly there for a moment before it was released back into the stream.

  Lord Braden leaned against the old stone wall and pulled her close to him. Everything paused while he studied her, and feeling challenged somehow, she lifted her chin and stared back. With laughter lighting his eyes then, he lowered his head to kiss her.

  This was not her first kiss. Boys had been stealing kisses since she was fifteen, seven of them at last count. That made her, she supposed as she twined her hands behind his neck, somewhat fast. But never had a kiss gone farther than her lips. She might be fast, but she was never loose.

  Lord Braden didn't appreciate this fine distinction, and suddenly neither did she. She opened her mouth to his searching and arched closer to his lean body. Her head fell back as he pressed his advantage, kissing the soft skin of her neck and caressing her back with his artistic hands. She was aflame where he touched her, burning where he kissed her, a fire kindling as he held her.

  But finally good sense edged back into her consciousness, and reluctantly she complied with a lifetime's strictures. "You must let me go, Lord Braden." She punctuated her less-than-forceful protest with a hand's gentle pressure on his chest, and slowly he loosened his embrace.

  "I think it's proper to call me by name when I kiss you, Charity."

  She had longed to say his name, had whispered it to herself a thousand times. "Tristan." It was a beautiful and sad name. It will be all right, she thought. This is Tristan holding me.

  But then he dropped his hands from her waist, leaving her bereft. "You might also open your eyes and look at me while I propose."

  She opened her eyes to meet his, but held her breath, for the first time in her life completely unsure of herself. She felt lost in love, cheated of love, fascinated, frightened. She dropped her gaze to the weedy ground, trying to corral her emotions. But they kept squirming out of her frame.

  "You're not attending, Charity."

  She looked up, startled, and found that he was no longer smiling. In fact, he looked wary again. "You're not so distracted because you're wording a polite refusal, are you? You should be practiced enough to rattle one off without thought."

  She shook her head, more in confusion than in denial. This was the oddest proposal she had ever received, worse even than Sir Ralph. At least Ralph had got around to asking her eventually. But she supposed her own behavior was not beyond reproach, for she was standing there, biting her lips and clenching her fists for all the world as if he were going to cane her instead of offering her his name and his home.

  "There's no turning back, is there? Ah, Charity, be charitable with me, won't you? I do want to marry you. Will you be my wife?"

  She closed her eyes, waiting for the happiness, the something to fill her. Then she opened them again to his intense regard. He looked almost sad as if he were anticipating her refusal. When she could not speak, he added ruefully, "You know, until this very moment, I did not realize how much I want you to say yes. I need you in my life, I think."

  Finally she found her voice. "But you have known me for such a short time."

  "I know. But your virtues are so apparent. And I do know my own mind." He smiled, reaching out to stroke her cheek. "I should have waited, I know. But with you receiving offers every week or so, I couldn't be sure you'd still be available." That brief smile never reached his eyes. "Come, girl, put me out of my misery."

  She listened again to his words, "I need you in my life," and decided that they were more convincing than she had thought at first, and she looked at his sensitive mouth and remembered his kiss, which had all the passion his declaration had lacked. She touched the bandage on his arm, so neatly binding the wound he had earned for her. He needed her; she thought that might be true.

  She had had no practice at accepting, and somehow throwing her arms about him and shouting "Yes!" seemed inappropriate. Very softly, still studying the bandage, she said, "Thank you. I hope I will be a good wife to you."

  He was more surprised than gratified, and she glanced up at him, wondering if he had really imagined that she would refuse. "You will be an excellent wife, I know that." Then he drew her close again and brushed her lips with his.

  Charity, she scolded herself, a very handsome man, an artist no less, and one who thrills you to your toes, has just asked you to be his wife. Show a little enthusiasm.

  So she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his beautiful brooding mouth, knowing that as long as he held her the doubts would remain in abeyance. Eventually, of course, he released her. Even though they were sheltered from view, there were limits to what a couple could do in broad daylight with a churchyard full of neighbors avidly waiting their retu
rn.

  "Out of respect for my brother-in-law, not that he deserves any, I suppose we had best wait a few months." His eyes lightened with laughter as he traced her lips with a callused thumb. "You mustn't try so hard to make that impossible for me."

  She wasn't sure what he meant but nodded as if she did. Then she, who had never been at a loss for words, didn't know what to say. Fortunately Tristan had left his reserve behind. Triumphantly he pulled something from his pocket.

  "I almost forgot your ring. I thought if I weren't enough to sway you, I could always try diamonds. But you are probably too sensible to be swayed by a mere bauble."

  The mere bauble was exquisite, a sapphire surrounded by diamonds, quiet and elegant and out of place on her hand. She resolved immediately to let her nails grow longer, even if they interfered with her gardening. Such a ring deserved a better presentation. "It's lovely." She held out her hand to admire it. "I can't wait to show it to Anna."

  "Oh, she's seen it any number of times. It was our mother's. In fact, Anna guarded it. She insisted on approving my choice of bride."

  "That was kind of her." The ring had been his mother's. That was rather romantic, after all.

  "You'd best put it away for the moment. I probably ought to speak to your brother." He added with a laugh, "You might just slip him the word that I am acceptable, or he could refuse me just out of habit."

  Reluctantly Charity pulled the ring off. She tied it up in her handkerchief and tucked it into her puffed sleeve. Checking with her fingers to make sure it was safe, she said, "Oh, I'm certain Francis will take your word for it. It's not as if everyone hasn't guessed what we have been doing out here. If I had refused you, my reputation would be in shreds."

  "Neat trick, wasn't it? I wonder no one else thought of it." He pulled her into his arms again, resting his cheek on her hair.

  She felt safer like this, more sure. "Kiss me again."

  Tristan was taken aback by her bold whisper; she could tell by the stillness of his body against hers. But then he complied, his hand cupping the back of her head, his mouth tender and hard over hers. Her eyes drifted shut and she let the sweet tide of passion carry away her doubts.

  There in the filtered afternoon light, sitting on the old stone bridge where three centuries of lovers had kissed, Charity told herself that it would be lovely to have him forever, to kiss him this way, with the warm hush all around and no one left in the world but the two of them. She could live forever in his arms.

  But then, slowly, reluctantly, his hand slipped down through her hair, and his lips left hers, and she was alone in the whirlpool. The dizziness had to subside before she could open her eyes. He picked up the fist that lay in her lap and brought it to his lips, nibbling a bit on her knuckle until she smiled unwillingly. Then he smiled back—a happy smile, one full of promise and peace.

  "Charity." Her name was slurred again in that sweet Italian way, and she shivered. "You mustn't tempt me down such dangerous paths."

  "But I want—" She couldn't finish, except to herself. But I want the danger. I want to tempt you and tempt myself; just for once I want to give into temptation.

  He picked up where she had left off. "I want to do this right, you see. I've never done anything the correct way in my life, but this is so important to me I must fall back on the tried and true."

  She didn't understand, but he was rubbing her knuckles against his rough cheek, and the sensation was so unexpectedly pleasant that she didn't have the will to ask for elaboration. He dropped a gentle kiss on the knuckle she had scraped assembling a booth, then he rose and pulled her to her feet. "These pagan rituals, even in rehearsals, are stimulating. But I'm sure you've been up since dawn, and we'd best get on with the business so you can get home and rest."

  His tone brooked no argument, and Charity meekly took his arm. She decided it was nice to have someone concerned about her health, though she hadn't been ill since she was a child. And if the final kiss at her door was chaste, her dreams that night were not, so she could not explain why she woke the next morning full of dread.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After church on Sunday, every congratulation added to her confusion. She smiled and showed off her ring and agreed that Lord Braden was the handsomest man in England and she the luckiest woman alive. And she blushed whenever someone added that Braden was the luckiest man alive or that the village would be lost without her but she shouldn't pay that any mind. She kept the smile in place when Tristan stood beside her to accept another round of well-wishings and as the two families returned to the Grange for lunch. By then, even her eyes ached with the effort of being cheerful.

  Lunch was an informal affair, taken picnic-style out in the courtyard, and quickly broken up. The boys scattered to hunt rocks, as the Havertons had been enlisted into Charlie's obsessive quest. Francis took Anna off to see the secret walled garden first cultivated in the sixteenth century. And Charity, left alone on a wooden bench with her betrothed, found her tension only increased.

  He, at least, seemed relaxed, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back in his seat. "This is such a comfortable house. A real home, not just a place to live. I know it's your doing, and I know you'll make our home just as warm."

  "I'll try," she said, but the words stuck in her throat. She thought of Braden Hall, that perfect Palladian house, and imagined mussing it up a bit. Infusing a little enthusiasm in her voice, she repeated, "I'll try. I—I'm sure it's a beautiful place and only needs a family living there to make it a home."

  "A family." He tilted his head to the side as if tasting the word and finding it sweet. "Children. Well, that will mar the perfection a bit. I can't wait to see little muddy footprints tracked into that marble hall. And an old sheepdog asleep across the staircase. That will be the finishing touch for the entry hall."

  It was a pleasant thought, their children, a favorite dog, their home. But Charity felt a gnawing of discontent even as she castigated herself for a fool. She just wondered—oh, if that was the limit of his vision of the future, and, if it was, if he knew her very well at all.

  Tristan was still looking ahead and west, toward Sussex. "Next time I go to Italy, I shall bring back some flowering trees, as you suggested, to break up the symmetry of that front facade."

  This last brought Charity out of her own unproductive thoughts. "Next time? Do you plan to go soon?"

  He glanced back at her with a reassuring smile. "Oh, not until we're settled in together. The winter, perhaps. That's a good time, for you'll be so busy you won't notice I'm gone." He reached out and took her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. "I used to regret coming back to England because there was so little here for me. Now I can look forward to coming home to you."

  Charity slipped her hand from his and folded up each linen napkin into a neat square. She felt his approval warm on her cheek. He sounded so happy, contemplating his future—our future, she reminded herself. And isn't that what I want, to make him happy? Isn't that what I've always wanted, to make people happy? Abruptly she rose and smoothed her skirt. "Let's go make sure the boys aren't getting into mischief. Of course, they are, but it is always instructive to see what sort of trouble they've created."

  Never before had Charity had trouble conversing, especially with Tristan, who inspired her with his rare interests and wide experience. But today, when they were newly allied, there was so much she couldn't say, so much that seemed inappropriate to ask her betrothed. She found that every bright comment had to be assembled ahead of time, tested mentally, and only if found safe sent forth.

  Tristan suffered from no such awkwardness, talking easily as they walked, holding her hand in his warm grip as if long used to such familiarity. And she relaxed a little when his fingers twined intimately with hers and his smile lightened his dark eyes. Perhaps it would be all right—no, not all right. Perhaps it would be wonderful as she had always hoped.

  To distract them both, she told him that the vicar had actually been pleased
to hear that Tristan would be St. George. "For some reason he thinks having a peer in the role will make it more English and Christian." When he made a face, she asked, "You aren't thinking of abdicating, are you? That was the whole aim of the contest, you know, to choose a St. George."

  "Oh, was that the aim? I thought I was aiming at something else entirely." He took her hand and straightened the diamond-and-sapphire ring that bound them in promise. "But if you want me to play St. George, I suppose I must. I hope the dragon isn't as fierce as your former flame."

  "The dragon is made of cloth and plaster of Paris, and Crispin was never my flame," she said, but the slight edge of jealousy in his voice made her smile. She let him keep her hand as they walked between the rows of cabbages in the kitchen garden. "Did you really teach fencing?"

  "One of my many attempts to pay for art lessons, but fencing teachers, unfortunately, earn less than drawing masters." He gave her a sidelong glance. "I almost regret no longer being poor. You would be the most helpful helpmeet for a starving artist." He gestured round them to the neat rows of plants, the lacy green carrot tops, the purple frills of cabbage. "Look at this garden—I couldn't starve if I wished to."

  He must have led such an odd life, not to know that every manor house—every house—had its own kitchen garden. But then, that was why he needed her, to make him the home he never had.

  He would never guess, she thought, that she rather envied his impoverished past. Charity had never been less than comfortable in her circumstances, though she had certainly observed and even tried to alleviate poverty around her. But the poverty he survived was of a different order. It was romantic, this talk of starving for art. She wanted to ask more about that past of his, when he was an art student and a fencing teacher, which she imagined as a time of desperation and determination. But probably Tristan never thought of his past as exotic, just as Charity found nothing very interesting about her own life.