As she took tiny stitches to make wrinkles in the snout, she remembered that she had been sewing the tail when she broke off her engagement. In such prosaic details was her short engagement told. They had become engaged during a rehearsal and unengaged over a cloth dragon. And, perhaps, they became friends again next to a painted whale.
"Miss Calder?"
Bess, the upstairs maid, was at the parlor door, holding up a crumpled sheet of paper. "I just went into straighten up Master Barry's room, and in the pocket of his breeches I found this paper. I thought it might be important, and as I was going home, I thought I'd leave it with you. He'll likely be searching high and low for it."
Bidding her an absent goodbye, Charity studied the page Barry had left behind. Here was the list of events of the Midsummer games, the names of participants, and after them a series of numbers: 2-3, 5-2, 3-1. She'd seen enough Racing Forms in her time to recognize this pattern and what it meant.
***
The Rose and Crown's dark taproom on a Saturday night wasn't really a place for ladies. The air was thick with cigar smoke, the tables were cluttered with tankards of ale, and the men at the bar turned and stared when she walked in. But Charity had crossed that threshold more than once in her youth to collect her father when he forgot to come home.
She located Barry at the table her father used to haunt. His chair was tipped back against the wide leaded window, but clattered down when she sat next to him. He and Jacob Hering were already a bit disguised, but blinked owlishly at her.
"Charity, this ain't really the place for you. Let me get you a drink." Barry raised his hand to call for another tankard of ale, and Jacob pushed his glass over to her, in case she'd like to share.
"No, thank you," she murmured, glancing around her. Only when the waiter came and left did she drag the paper out of her pocket and slam it down in front of her brother. In a low, angry whisper, she asked, "What's this, Barry? A racing form on the Midsummer games?"
Barry snatched it up with a guilty gasp. "Where did you find this?"
"In your breeches. Or rather Bess found it."
When Barry only shrugged, she gave way to exasperation, kicking him under the table. At least she thought she was kicking Barry, but Jacob jerked back, aggrieved. "Oi, Charity, leave me be, will you?"
"Tell me, Barry, or I'll tell Francis, and he'll cut off your allowance quicker than you can wink."
"Aw, Sis, don't be such a prude. So we're getting together a little flutter on Midsummer. I made six pounds off Hale's fencing last week just from keeping my ear to the ground and hearing he used to teach it."
"He taught fencing?" Jacob's face took on the same sulky look he wore after Charity turned down his half-hearted proposal. "You might have told me before he cut me to shreds in front of Molly."
"You might have told me that you were going to cut me out with Molly soon as my back was turned," Barry retorted, then glanced quickly at his sister.
But she cared naught about his adolescent passion for the future star of Drury Lane. "You can’t seriously expect to make book on the girls' egg carry and the six-and-under sack race
"Just a bit of sport—something new—the girls run truer to form than most of the nags at Newcastle." Barry smoothed the wrinkles from his form, sullen again. "I can't quit on it, Charity; I'm keeping the book. I've already taken bets and got seven of the lads to toddle down from Oxford next weekend."
"Seven?" Charity's heart sank. All planning to stay at Calder Grange, no doubt. But that was the least of her worries. "You've already started taking bets?"
"Yes. And you know what that means."
She rubbed at the headache on either side of her forehead. If Barry reneged on the bets now, he would be violating one of those strange rules that made up a gentleman's code of honor. Besides, if she knew her brother, he'd probably already spent some of the money.
Barry exchanged his sullen look for one more calculated to wring pity from his sister's heart. "You can't tell Francis. You know if he knew he'd expect me to do the honorable thing."
"I know he'd expect you not to get in such a coil in the first place. I suppose you're part of this, Jake?"
Jacob nodded. Crispin, too, then. And half of Trinity College, Oxford, no doubt. A dark suspicion stabbed her. "You weren't planning any—any interference with the results, were you?"
Both boys drew up scandalized at this as if it were inconceivable that someone who could bet on children's races might tamper with them, too. But neither of them was faking outrage, and a bit of dread seeped out of Charity.
Barry must have sensed he was in the homestretch because he leaned forward and said coaxingly, "Think of it, Charity. Seven down from Oxford, all plump in the pocket. I'll see that they each buy something from the jumble booth and put money in the poor box, too."
"And they're sure to buy lots of ale," Jacob put in helpfully.
Charity was thinking feverishly, trying to come up with a solution to the coil her brother had handed her. He didn't even seem to understand how deep he had dug himself, making book on the Midsummer games. She couldn't call a halt to it, as she knew Barry and knew he would somehow see the only honorable route as continuing his scheme surreptitiously. All she could do was try to contain it.
"All right, Barry, you listen to me. I won't tell Francis, and I won't tell the vicar. But don't bring anyone else into this—this syndicate of yours. Half your proceeds go to the Tower Restoration Fund. And after the fair is over, I want you back in Oxford studying hard until the term is over. Is that understood?"
Barry's sigh was heavy and heartfelt. "Half my proceeds? Blast, Charity, you're brutal." One look at her face, however, and he conceded. "Oh, if I must. I should by rights get a portion of everything my friends spend, but I will forgo that if I must."
"You must."
As she left, she caught sight of David Greenaway in the nearest corner, slumped down over his tankard. The lamp on the table illuminated his face and the dark bruise over his jaw. Charity refused to feel guilty about that bruise, for he deserved it, just as Tristan said, thinking he could threaten her right there in the hall of the church that her family had supported for centuries.
He was glaring at her. She put up her chin and stared him down. Only when he finally looked away did she leave the taproom, hoping she would have nothing more to do with him.
When she met Francis in the lane leading to the Grange, Charity was glad the darkness hid her face. Francis had always been good at ferreting out guilty secrets. But he didn't even comment on the scent of ale and cigar smoke that clung to her. He agreed with her nervous observation about the coolness of the night and gave absent replies about the state of the Haver livestock and the conversation at the Haver dining table.
"Oh, yes, Anna—she asked if she could come along with you on your parish work Tuesday."
Charity stopped halfway up the front steps. "Whatever for?"
Francis gave her a shove to get her going again. "She says she wants to be more involved in the parish benevolence. You have an objection to that?"
She was taken aback at his sharp tone but wasn't about to annoy him by taking issue with it. "No, not at all. It's just—well, she's never taken an interest before. And she is still in mourning."
"How long does that last anyway, mourning?"
Charity was weary and wanted only to go to bed, so she pushed open the front door as she replied, "For pity's sake, Francis, we were in mourning for years and years. Surely you noticed how long it lasted."
Stiffly he said, "I don't know that it's the same, mourning brothers or a parent, and mourning a husband."
"A year in blacks. But I suppose etiquette wouldn't preclude her joining the Midsummer committee and making poor visits. I'm going to put tickets to the Midsummer fair into the poor baskets, remember, so I'll expect a couple pounds' contribution from you to make up for it."
"Whatever you say. By the bye, Braden said you've been helping him paint that backdrop for the children's p
lay."
She stopped with her hand on the banister. "So?"
Francis put out the lamps, except for one to help Barry negotiate the stairs when he found his way home. "So you seem to see more of him unengaged than you did when you were engaged. You have the oddest way of breaking off with a man, little sister."
Chapter Twenty
"I did warn you that some of the cottages are quite decrepit." Charity held out a restorative cup of tea to Anna. Even here in the pleasant Calder drawing room, Anna looked shaken by their visits to Haver tenants.
"I shouldn't have been so very surprised," Anna said faintly, sipping gratefully at her tea. "Truly, I am glad you took me on your rounds. I didn't know that Haver's people could be living in such dreadful—"
As the countess's words trailed off, Charity cursed her own ill-considered agreement to take Anna on the Tuesday afternoon sick visits. As soon as she saw that Anna had dressed in the finest muslin as if for a social call, Charity should have realized that city-bred Anna was only being polite in asking to go along. Now her lace fichu was wilted and spotted with soot, and her eyes had that haunted look Charity remembered from weeks ago.
Sympathy made Charity solicitous, and she reached across the tea table to touch Anna's lovely white hand. "Will you stay for a true tea? The Midsummer committee will be meeting here to make sure all is on schedule for Friday evening."
"Oh, yes. I told Tristan to come by for me at four. He's in Dover now consulting with a banker and will be able to tell me how much money is available for refurbishing the cottages."
Charity was taken aback. She realized that Anna meant to make her home here now, but this was homebuilding with a vengeance. "It will cost a fortune. Some of the cottages haven't been redone since Kenny's grandfather's day. When they can, Francis and the squire send their hands to do some structural work, but that's only just kept them standing."
"It has been good of you and your brother to take up the duties that we Havers have neglected. But they are our duties, and we should be performing them." Anna lifted her chin, very much the grand lady again. "Lawrence must learn to be a better earl than his father or grandfather because, God willing, he will be earl longer. So I must set a good example. I will take over the visitations for our people."
This declaration, composed as it was of haughtiness and gratitude, silenced Charity. The good Lord knew Charity had often complained, if only to herself, about being overworked. But paradoxically, Anna's returning strength made Charity feel uncertain.
She stared blindly at her needle flying through her darning. If Anna could take over half the sick visits, just like that, then someone else could come and take the other half—the woman Francis eventually took to wife, for example. And then where would she be, if Lady Haver and a new Lady Calder continued poaching her duties?
Free. She would be free to do as she wanted to do, without worrying about the Christmas carol service and the leaky school roof. She could start a new life without regret for the old.
She had only a moment to wonder what sort of new life she could want without any purpose to it when Anna cleared her throat delicately. "Now, dear Charity, I must thank you again. Oh, for so much, but for one thing in particular. I was thinking of Kenny this morning—praying for his soul, actually." The blush only enhanced the purity of her ivory skin. "I went to the church and lit a candle—I know what you're thinking!"
Charity smoothed away the irony that had wrinkled her nose. "I was thinking how strong you are. You said his name and didn't cry."
"Liar. You were thinking that Kenny needs it, and a dozen other candles, too."
This was close enough that Charity wondered if she had lost her ability to hide her thoughts. "I never thought him bad. Only a little wild. But surely that was what made him so Kenny."
"Yes! You told me that first day that no one blamed me for loving him. Now I realize why that helped me so. I had been thinking what a fool I'd been. And I was a fool—oh, not to love him, but to let the love blind me. I was afraid if I let myself know him truly, I would stop loving him. We married so quickly, you know, in such a heat, just as my parents did. And when my parents got to know each other, they found they didn't suit each other at all. So I preferred to love blindly." She was pensive for a moment, touching one manicured nail to her teeth then jerking it away. "Now I see that I could have helped him more. His parents had indulged him so, and his friends, and no one had ever made him live up to a higher standard. I should have made it clear what I expected from a husband."
Charity was used to taking responsibility for the world, but she was surprised to recognize this in another. "It wasn't your fault, surely. Kenny should have known that a good husband—" She bit down on "respects his marriage vows" and swallowed hard.
"Oh, but I might have helped him grow up, if I'd told him what I expected of him. He must have thought that I didn't care enough to fight for my rights to him."
As Anna's voice faded, Charity heard an echo of her own persistent remorse. "Oh, Anna, please don't be thinking you could have prevented his death. It's such a relentless thought, and you'll never be rid of it, so just don't start. We all have regrets, and life just goes on."
Anna nodded thoughtfully, then fixed Charity with a significant gaze. "Yes, it's true. We a make mistakes."
"Not Francis." She didn't know why she said that, only that she wanted to divert Anna from discussing mistakes like betrothals and broken betrothals. It seemed to work, for Anna had tilted her head inquiringly. "My twin Neddy and I used to say that," Charity explained hastily, for her assertion sounded bombastic. "You know, Francis is always so good. He's a good farmer and a good student, and, you wouldn't credit it, but a good dancer. Why, he taught me to waltz. And what's best is that he doesn't really know. There's not an ounce of conceit in him. You can understand why Ned and I always wanted to poison him."
Anna laughed dutifully, but Charity could see she didn't really understand at all, possessing as she did only a younger brother whom she probably never desired to poison. "Sir Francis is indeed a modest man, considering his many fine qualities." The countess wound the cord of her reticule around her finger, and Charity realized they'd backed away from those tense subjects of Anna's husband and brother. Francis would doubtlessly be surprised to know he was at the center of two ladies' conversation.
"I'm surprised, in fact," Anna went on, "that some girl hasn't snapped him up long since."
As she couldn't ring for a real tea until the other ladies arrived, Charity had to damper her hunger with a few nibbles of a cream biscuit. She had somehow forgot to eat lunch. "Oh, we've been in mourning forever. And I don't think he believes he will attract much interest should he step into the marriage mart. He thinks he's nothing special, only a country baronet without any great fortune or looks."
"His looks are very creditable," Anna said in a tone of great objectivity, her fingers still winding and unwinding the reticule cord. "He is always so impeccable. Hardly a rustic."
Charity shrugged, for Francis's looks seemed no more inspiring than her own. "You are kind to say so. He will probably turn his mind to acquiring a bride after harvest, now that we are out of mourning." She frowned, imagining a new lady here in the house, and hardly noticed Anna's returning gloom.
Then the knocker sounded and the rest of the Midsummer committee arrived for tea. The other ladies greeted Anna warmly but with the respectful reserve due to the highest ranking noblewoman. Anna accepted it all graciously, even suggesting that they share luncheon with her on the morrow.
Charity recalled that she had planned three major summer projects upon her return from London: Overseeing the Midsummer fair, preparing Charlie for Eton, and coaxing Anna out of her self-imposed isolation. It looked as if, in another week, only Charlie would remain undone, and the summer had not yet officially begun.
At least she had a few minor Midsummer disasters to cope with over tea. Some children had got into Mrs. Dalton's crates of jumble booth donations—Charity gazed in
nocently into her cup, knowing her acting troupe was probably at fault—but she promised to have everything sorted again by Wednesday.
Her bosom heaving with outrage, Mrs. Williams reported on mercantile perfidy. Mr. Ashton, the baker, had abruptly raised the price on his destiny cakes, knowing that it was too late for the committee to order them elsewhere. So much for Christian benevolence, Charity thought, and decided this required an Old Testament sort of punishment. "Mrs. Hering, you are so good at this. Could you just somehow let Margo know that we won't be requiring her fortune-telling services if her husband doesn't return to the agreed price?"
Mrs. Hering, eyes gleaming, agreed to attack the baker at his most vulnerable point. "Margo does love to play off her airs, pretending she's got second sight. And Ashton's a fool for that woman. He'll do anything for her."
In a murmur of agreement, the meeting broke up. The ladies were lingering at the door, exchanging last-minute plans, when the vicar came walking up the drive. "Oh, Lord, we're in for it now," Mrs. Hering said irreverently. "He's got his Jehovah face on."
Indeed, the vicar was looking wrathful, and Charity knew a moment's unease. Had he heard about—when she thought of how many things he might have heard about and disapproved of, she felt a chill. I can manage it, whatever it is, she told herself, and greeted him with a cheerful smile.
But Mr. Langworth permitted himself only a nod and refused to come past the foyer. "I'm glad you are all here, ladies. I come only to say I've called a meeting of the parishioners tonight after evensong. I think this Midsummer nonsense has gone too far, much too far. And I think you will agree with me when you hear the most disturbing report I have just heard."
He fixed Charity with an angry, sorrowful look, and she felt faint. This was not the vicar's ordinary anti-pagan rant. He was deeply angry and deeply troubled. She closed the door behind them all and leaned weakly against it. It could only be Barry's gambling syndicate. Nothing else she had done would cause the vicar to call a special meeting.
Charity Begins at Home Page 23