Page eighty-four contained nothing raw at all, except a description of the camel meat Lady Hester once encountered at dinner. Charity went back to page three and paid no more attention to her brother's teasing.
Her other brothers catapulted in, Charlie carrying a specimen box, Barry fresh and fragrant from a dawn fishing trip. He sent the footman Phipps off with his string of trout and turned to his sister. "What a great Midsummer Eve! Never got to bed because I heard those fish a-calling. You been making more trouble, Sis?" Barry asked this quite as innocently as if he had not been at the center of it. "Crispin told me to tell you he won't be marrying you no matter what. Said that dunking in the brook was the last straw."
"I've told him that for years," she said crossly. "Barry, do wash your hands. You've got bits of worm up to your wrists."
Barry looked with surprise at his hands and took himself off toward the kitchen. "Well, Cris said he wouldn't have you if you begged him on bended knee," he called back through the swinging door. "But then he said you might as well give it a try."
Charlie cleared his throat for attention, then he shoved the specimen box across the table. "Felicitations, Sister."
Touched, Charity opened the lid and took out a magnificent quartz, broken in half to show the hexagonal crystals flashing red and blue. "Oh, Charlie, this is your prize! I can't deprive your collection of this!"
"I knew you'd say that." He took back the box, shook out a little square of cardboard, and handed it to her.
She read aloud, "On permanent loan to the Calder Collection from Miss Charity Calder." Her voice trembled a bit, but her countenance remained admirably straight. "Do you mean my name will appear in your collection? Why, we could call this the 'Charity crystal!'"
Her brother drew back a bit, "The 'Calder quartz' will do. We don't want to confuse the viewers. It will be the centerpiece of the collection, on black velvet with the card underneath. I intend to convert one of the plowsheds into my museum."
Francis was explaining why this was unfeasible when Barry returned and realized the import of the gifts at his sister's place. "Dash it, Charity, why didn't you write to remind me? I would have brought you something, a Trinity scarf perhaps."
"It's enough that you're sharing the day with me."
"You're right, that's plenty enough. Pass me the marmalade, won't you? My birthday is next month, which gives you ample time to plan. I'll be back from my walking tour of Wales.
"Your walking tour of Welsh pubs," Charlie muttered, holding out his hand. "You'd best give me the Calder quartz back, Charity. You wouldn't want to drop it."
"Certainly not when it's put me on the brink of geological fame." She gently transferred the crystal back to its donor and rose. There were a wealth of chores to attend to before she gathered her courage and offered Tristan her heart. After lunch, she decided; that would give him time to rest up and her time to steel her nerve. "Well, the laundry has no regard for my new consequence. We're washing all the sheer drapes today."
Charlie and Francis exchanged alarmed looks, and Charity exclaimed, "I promise I won't ask any of you to take them down. Phipps will help us without a single complaint."
"That is what servants are for." Barry nodded his thanks to the footman and began sawing the head off his steaming trout. "To do the tasks we can't abide. Where's the cat?"
"Don't toss that fishhead on the carpet, for goodness' sake." Charity grabbed a plate from the sideboard and interposed it under Barry's offering.
"Trinity College never countenanced such barbaric manners in my day," Francis muttered. "You'd think he'd spent the last term in an alehouse." With a significant look at the laughing Charlie, he added, "You may help the maids boil as many sheers as you like, Charity, but be properly dressed for tea at two. You must divert Mrs. Hering when I go to purchase that pasture from the squire."
"Francis, really, I have better things to do." But he was already out the door. So much for my birthday, she thought as she followed him out. But Mrs. Hering was indeed a far tougher negotiator than the squire, who would, out of her presence, likely trade the pasture for a good hunter. And they could have a good coze, discussing all the events of the fair. Well, not all of them. Just the ones before midnight.
And if she waited until four, she wouldn't disturb Tristan's painting time, she told herself, secretly relieved to have the moment of truth postponed.
At two she stood waiting in the entry hall, arrayed in a gown of shadow-striped silver muslin sure to distract the fashion-conscious Mrs. Hering. Instead of Francis, however, the opening door revealed a groom with a note. The tea was off, the squire having been called away, and Charity was free to boil her sheers.
I'll just surprise Tristan in his studio, she decided, and put on her bonnet. Perhaps that won't put him in a loving mood, she thought, and took her bonnet off. Her dilemma was resolved when Charlie burst in, disheveled and breathless from his long run.
"Charity, come quickly! Haver— it's all ahoo— the countess is crying— I told Jem, he's bringing the gig. Hurry!"
As Charity expected, agitated noises greeted her as she approached the Haver drawing room. But as she sailed across the threshold, ready to reorder the chaos, she stopped short. There was a party in progress, spilling out onto the terrace, complete with pink and white bunting and crystal punch bowl, no doubt the most unusual assembly Haver had ever hosted.
Charlie, laughing when he had previously been anxious, tugged her into the crowd toward the people who had come to help her celebrate her day. Uncomprehending, she held out her hand to the squire and Mr. Langworth, offered her cheek to Mrs. Hering and Cammie and Anna, bent to hug the Haverton boys, shook her head at her secretive brothers. So many friends were there: a few tenants in their Sunday best, Mr. Perry playing sentimental ballads on his fiddle, all three Ferris girls in their crisp maid uniforms, Crispin chatting up the always amenable Polly— what would his parents think if Crispin took her as a substitute for Charity?
Aunt Grace bustled up with her fragrant cushioned embrace and her horrified whisper, "Is it true? You aren't marrying that lord?"
"I think so, Aunt," she said absently, her gaze drawn mesmerically to Tristan standing on the edge of the party, laughter lighting his eyes.
"You think you aren't, or you think you are? Really, Charity, now that you are of age, you must team to be more precise— and less precipitate."
Borne away by the Haverton boys, Charity could not respond to this. Lawrence sat her down in a chair by the window, and, clambering up on the sill behind her, he put his hands around her neck. She flinched then felt the cool of metal against her throat and heard the snap of a clasp. "I got your necklace fixed. I paid for it myself. You didn't lose the locket, did you?" he said, climbing down.
"No, dearest, it's in my jewel box."
"This is for the jewel box, too." Jeremy elbowed his brother out of the way and handed her a little red clay heart. "It's a pin. I made it. It says 'Love' on the back. L-O-V-E."
"It's lovely, Jeremy, thank you." She pinned it to her bodice and turned to accept felicitations and a heavy volume from Cammie.
"It's a guidebook to the Vatican, with engravings of the Sistine Chapel. Very improving. I wish I might see it. Perhaps when Charlie builds a stone bridge to the Continent."
Always she was aware of Tristan, of the warmth of his gaze, the tension of his slim form. Polly blocked her view, however, twirling a gaily printed sunshade. "I hear the Mediterranean sun is bright," she said significantly, closing the parasol and handing it over.
Charity thanked her, musing that if the entire county thinks she was going to Italy, it must be true. She raised her gaze to meet Tristan's, just as Lawrence announced, "My uncle has a present, too. I'll show it to you."
"No, I'll show it to her myself." Tristan crossed to take her hand and pull her to her feet. To Lawrence, he said, "You'd best apply yourself to cozening your future steppapa. He's not so indulgent as I."
"But he has guns. He's going to teac
h me how to shoot."
"Not till I'm a league away, I hope. Come, Charity, let me show you your gift."
Even away from the curious crowd, Charity could not bring herself to speak her heart. Just as well; Tristan apparently had other plans for her. He pulled her into his studio, and she looked about, enjoying the careful chaos. She didn't even feel the need to tidy up. Still— "Tristan, should you leave your brushes to dry on that dusty shelf?"
He grabbed the dustrag from her hand before she could apply it. "My brushes will be fine. Now come here and see. I didn't have time to frame it. In fact, it isn't even dry. I was up till dawn finishing it. But that was all right," he assured her with a grin. "I couldn't sleep anyway."
Her color rising, she approached the easel he indicated. The canvas, about two by three feet, was covered with a baize cloth, and with a flourish he pulled it off.
She felt his arm tense under her hand and reassured him. "A painting is the best gift you could give me." It was that study in brown, she realized, almost disappointed. The canvas glowed with that most prosaic color. And perhaps the subject was unimportant, as Tristan said, but this was very odd. Two girls kissing?
"It's me," she whispered ungrammatically. "I don't remember—"
"Don't you?" Tristan's voice was urgent, his hand stealing around her waist. "How could you forget? I couldn't. See the dirt the boys tracked in? And the broken vase? And you were wearing a brown riding habit."
"But the mirror?" Memory glimmered. So much had changed since then: Haver Hall had been in mourning, the entrance hall shabby, the boys so wild, Anna sunk in melancholy. But she'd just come from London where everyone had liked her so well, and she'd been so pleased with herself she gave into a silly impulse and kissed her image in the smudged mirror. "You were watching, you— you voyeur!"
"Artists are all voyeurs. We're given lessons in lurking and creeping about unnoticed. Do you remember now?"
"You must have thought me very vain."
"Well," he confessed with a laugh, "I thought you very odd. But charming. In a vain way."
She did look charming, that doubled girl in the painting, her dark eyes alight with laughter, her pretty mouth curved in a kiss. Gamine, engaging— and very vain.
His left hand stole around her waist and clasped the other, pulling her close against him. She turned in his arms to look at him. "You aren't going to call it A Study in Brown, are you?"
"I expect you like The Kiss better."
He brushed her mouth with his own, and she drew away, breathless, to admit, "I do like kisses better than studies."
"You might take up studying kisses." And he kissed her again, lingering this time to give her lips a thorough study. But then he raised his head. "I forgot. I must explain the painting. You are distracting me from my script."
"Your script?"
"You are not the only playwright here, my darling. None of this romance comes naturally to me. So I wrote out my script last night. I had a most productive night, though frustrating."
"You truly wrote a script?"
"One for your brothers, too. The painting . . . the painting . . ." He turned her to face the canvas. "Ah, yes. When I first caught sight of you, you were bestowing a kiss on that charming girl in the mirror. I was captivated but confused. Such a very unusual thing to do in someone else's home. But— no, don't explain, for I think I know better than you why you did it."
He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, so she could feel the rise and fall of his hard chest. "It was because you loved yourself. No, it's not conceit. It only makes sense, after all. You are lovable. But not for the reasons you think— not because you are so kind and sweet and helpful and clever. It's because you love life so well, so you must love yourself, because there is so much life in you. And you teach us all to love life, too."
Her heart was so full it came up to her throat, and she could speak only in a whisper. "But why did you paint this?"
"I tried to paint other things. I tried to finish my other paintings and couldn't. So I thought I'd paint you. I tried to paint you nude, as Athena, but I would have had to rely on imagination— this was before last night— next time I will paint you blushing, for you do it so well, Charity. Where was I? Oh, the kiss. Well, finally I gave into the vision. I knew it would be considered mawkish by the critics, even if I did call it a study in brown and even if the double image is so precise— next to impossible to achieve, I assure you. The composition is fascinating, don't you think? But the subject— pure sentimentality. Old Crome could have painted it."
"No, he couldn't."
"No, he couldn't. Because it was my vision. Charity, don't you see, it was the first glimpse I ever had of you, and I couldn't escape it. It was so evocative of all I admire of you."
"I understand now." He had memorized her.
"No, you don't. You can't. I haven't got to the part of the script where you understand. Then you throw your arms about me, you see. Not yet!" He held her off with a firm hand. "You told me once that you wanted me to fall in love with you at first sight."
"And you told me it was impossible."
"It wasn't impossible after all. That's why I couldn't paint anything else, because that is the vision I fell in love with weeks ago. I just didn't recognize it, never having fallen in love at first sight before."
The admission she had awaited all her life was as fulfilling as she had hoped. She slid her hands up his sinewy arms toward his shoulders. "Is it time yet?"
He caught her hands in his but he didn't push her way. "Only another minute. I have to tell you why I was wrong and why you were wrong. That's the best part." He paused to find his place in his mental script. "At first, I just knew I had to make you my wife. I'd never really had a home, you see. I don't just mean a house, but a place of peace. A place in someone's heart. I thought you might have room in that generous heart for me. But it was only when you denied me that place— how cruel you were! but how right— did I realize that if I wanted love from you, I must love you back. And not just as others love you, for your good sense and good deeds. They love you for what you do, all your angel-of-mercy acts. I learned I had to love you for what you are. And you are no angel. I knew that as soon as I kissed you. You are a woman of passion and mystery— you are, Charity, you mystified me well enough. I had to investigate you and contemplate you, but now I know you well enough to love you truly. Even if you did treat me brutally."
"I was afraid," she murmured.
"Afraid?" He brought her hand up to touch his heart. "You didn't want me to understand you. No one ever has, not really. They only see what you let them see."
"I was wrong to pretend that you were the one at fault."
"But it was the best thing for us both. What were we thinking, to get betrothed after a fortnight's acquaintance? We must have been mad. You were right to call a halt to it, though at the time I didn't think so. I needed to consider whether I could make room in my heart for you— the real Charity, and find a way to take my place in your heart. Now it's been nearly a month since we met, and we are so much wiser now."
"How am I wiser?"
"Ah, because you have learned patience. And you've learned to ask. From the first you wanted a miracle from me; you wanted me to read your mind and know what you wanted in a husband, and you wanted me to be it straightaway. You thought husbands came as a package, created all complete. Men might be that way, but not husbands." He turned her to look out the window at the hills rolling gentle under a blue sky. "It's the difference between that, a work of nature—" Then he turned her, unresisting, toward his painting of Ferendisi. "And this, a work of art. Art must be crafted, shaped by the human touch. You thought that it is magic, that I wave my paintbrush and a picture appears. But it's much more work: I must make measurements and calculate proportions and mix paints and make compromises, for while my vision may be limitless my ability certainly isn't. And sometimes I make mistakes and have to scrape them off or paint them over. But you know that now since you hel
ped me to paint Jonah." His kiss just brushed the nape of her neck, and she shivered. "It takes the same sort of effort to make a husband. And sometimes it's the work of a lifetime."
She twisted in his arms to study his intense dark eyes, his tender mouth, this solitary man who couldn't be alone any longer. "I'm lucky, aren't I, to find a man who needed only a month's worth of shaping."
"Oh, I expect I'll need a few corrections throughout the years. Wait, I'm almost there. I hope you're impressed. Romeo proposed in half this time. I counted the lines. That reminds me, it's time to go out onto the balcony."
"Oh, no," she cried, holding his arms. "Let's stay here. I think your studio is the most romantic place in the world."
He glanced around at the disarray of unfinished work and untidy supplies and shrugged. "You have but to ask, my love. I will kneel, however, whatever you say."
And he did go down on one knee, just as she had planned to do herself, except that he looked so much better, so slim, so graceful, his burning eyes lifted to her. "I knew from the start, my treasure, that you would make me happy. Now I think—I know—that I will make you happy, too, if you will only let me. So, Charity, I shan't ask again if you will do me the honor of being my wife. Now I ask you if I may have the honor of being your husband."
Finally she heard her cue and answered it. She threw her arms about his neck, and he fell back on the floor under her kisses. They lay tumbled there amidst the scattered charcoal pencils, her hands clasped behind his neck, her legs entwined intimately with his.
When they paused for breath, he managed to say, "I'm glad I wasn't hanging off the balcony after all. I take it that's an affirmative answer."
"Yes," she murmured in his ear. "Oh, Tristan, I do love you, I've waited to say that for so long." She sat up and tucked her feet under her skirt, recalling last night's resolution. "Oh, I meant to propose to you! Last night, but you wouldn't let me!"
He lay there, his curls black against the paint-stained oak flooring, and reached up to stroke her cheek. "I wanted to let you. I wanted you to ask me for what you wanted. But I had everything planned: the party, the painting, the proposal. I couldn't let you spoil it! Now, now, you may ask for anything you want, for my script ended with the kiss. And the happily ever after, of course."
Charity Begins at Home Page 29