by Corwin, Amy
Someone had negligently stacked a pile of correspondence near the edge of the table. The envelopes appeared ready to topple off with the slightest encouragement. Her fingers twitched with the sudden urge to straighten them.
Charlotte repressed her inquisitiveness and remained seated. It wouldn’t do to be introduced to her new guardian with his correspondence in her hands. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, calming her rapid heartbeat.
Her restraint was unlikely to make any difference, but she at least wanted to start out on good terms with her new guardians. She had only been with the Westovers for a few months before they got rid of her and before that—well, it hardly mattered anymore.
Her chest tightened as her fragile confidence wavered. Was she really so dreadful that the Westovers could not bear to have her with them another three years? She tamped down the useless emotion.
Charlotte straightened a lock of her unruly hair.
Then, she smoothed her heavy skirts for the fourth time since her arrival. Time slowed to an agonizing crawl.
If only she wasn’t so outspoken.
Words tripped gaily out of her mouth at the least provocation and immersed her in the most appalling troubles. And the older she got, the worse the situation became. Now, it seemed the harder she tried to control herself, the less control she had.
However, this time, she absolutely had to be polite. It wouldn’t be for long. Soon, her fortune would be in her hands, and she would be free. For now, all she had to do was to keep her more advanced ideas to herself. If she could just be quiet and demure like most English girls, the Archers might let her stay.
She straightened. Self-mastery was not impossible, she just had to concentrate.
For the next three years, she absolutely had to avoid speaking to any impressionable female children who would get the wrong ideas, and then proceed to repeat her words, out of context, to their parents.
Wives must be avoided for the same reason. That wouldn’t be difficult since most of her guardians’ wives avoided her as much as possible anyway, except for Mrs. Edgerton, of course, who had been just as grateful as Charlotte to find someone to talk to. Unfortunately, Mrs. Edgerton had been so inspired by Charlotte’s discourse that she was suddenly driven to tell her husband precisely what she thought of him.
Charlotte had been horrified, but Mr. Edgerton had handled the situation quite humanely. He never said a word about it to Charlotte. Instead, he had proceeded to search diligently for yet another distant relative who might not object to a rich ward with odd notions about a woman’s position in a family, and he had found the Westovers.
And the Westovers had subsequently found the Archers.
The voices in the next room interrupted her thoughts. Charlotte smoothed her hair, tucking a few strands more firmly beneath her lace cap, and tried not to listen. However, they had moved closer to the door again, so it was impossible not to hear them.
“Now, my love,” a male voice said. “You cannot turn her away. What’s she to do?”
“That’s hardly my fault, is it? Where are her relatives? If she’s that wealthy, they must be positively falling over themselves to claim her. There must be someone else more appropriate to act as her legal guardian.”
“No, my dear. And I thought—after Mary—that you’d like the girl as a friend, if not a daughter. Why consider, you can dress her, take her to balls, and perhaps even present her to Society. Wouldn’t you enjoy that?”
“Oh, John.” The woman’s voice sounded muted. Sad.
“Mary would have been just twenty-three if she had lived—”
“Vee, dearest, I would never have mentioned our Mary if I thought it would make you cry.” The voices drifted away for a long moment.
“No, I am sorry, my love. I’ve been a beast, haven’t I?” the woman asked in a wavering, muffled voice. She sniffed. “However, she’s not a mannequin.” She laughed although the sound was watery and forced. “I cannot just dress her up as I please. She has feelings, too, and a will of her own.”
The man chuckled. “Never mind, dearest. I didn’t mean to imply she’s just a doll with no mind of her own. But you are wonderful, as always. You are never a beast…precisely.”
“Oh, John,” the woman replied with tenderness. There was silence and then a breathless giggle.
Charlotte closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. It improved her hearing to the point where it seemed as if she sat in the room with them.
“John, what are you doing?” The woman’s breathless voice throbbed, ending in a series of smothered laughs. “Stop that, John, you old goat! It’s the middle of the morning! This is the breakfast room!”
“Yes, my dear. Now if you would just—”
“John—” A giggle and sigh interrupted. “John, now, John, really, whatever are you thinking? Oh, John…John!” There was a thump against the wall. And then another.
Charlotte flushed and stood up, uncomfortably warm. The hushed murmurs receded as she walked across the marble floor to stand in front of a soothing pastoral painting. The picture portrayed a deep blue lake bathed in mist with a few white-and-black cows lurking among the wildflowers along the banks.
Then she noticed one of the cows was actually a demonic-looking black bull. The massive, horned beast stared directly at an innocent little heifer with a charming white face and black ears. The cow leaned forward, happily munching a mouthful of clover, entirely unaware of him.
Charlotte frowned and rubbed her arms.
If that cow knew the fate about to befall her, she would gallop off in the opposite direction! Why did so many females allow themselves to be dominated by males barely able to find their way out of the barn?
What had the artist been thinking to paint such a dreadful thing?
“Really!” Charlotte said, turning away to eye the envelopes resting on the table. “And they say I am a bad influence.”
“Miss?” The butler’s solemn voice interrupted her just as she stretched her fingers out to pick up the topmost envelope.
Every muscle in her body tensed but she did not snatch away her hand despite the strong desire to do so.
Very deliberately, she pushed the stack further away from the edge of the table and aligned all the corners neatly, just as if she had intended to do that all along.
Charlotte glanced up. “Yes?”
“Mr. Archer and Lady Victoria will see you now.”
A small, hot wave washed over her cheeks despite her efforts at self-control. However, she managed to meet the entirely unsuspicious gaze of the butler with aplomb.
“Thank you,” she said.
He inclined his head and opened the door to the breakfast room.
Clutching the sides of her heavy bombazine traveling dress, Charlotte entered. Two slender people stood in front of her, smiling warmly. The woman stepped forward, smoothing her gray silk dress as she moved. The gesture reminded Charlotte of her own nervous habit, but Lady Victoria did not appear worried.
Her clear, gray eyes sparkled above rosy, flushed cheeks and she appeared younger than Charlotte expected. Her narrow, aristocratic face had only the faintest of lines around the eyes and mouth, and her fluffy brown hair was barely touched with gray at the temples.
She looked pleasant and welcoming as she held out her hands to Charlotte. “Miss Haywood, it is so good to finally meet you. I am Lady Victoria and this is my husband, Mr. Archer.”
Charlotte took a deep breath and politely stepped forward to touch the lady’s outstretched hand.
“How do you do?” Charlotte asked, surprised at the genuine welcome in Lady Victoria’s gaze.
When Lady Victoria released her hand, Charlotte glanced shyly at Mr. Archer and smiled. He nodded, studying her curiously with sharp brown eyes. Although he stood only a few inches taller than his wife, he appeared wiry and full of nervous energy. His hair was a shade darker than Lady Victoria’s, and there was a bit more gray around his ears.
“Welcome to
our home,” he said. Mr. Archer glanced from Charlotte to his wife and rubbed his side of his chin with his hand as he appeared to wait for her reaction. “Thank you,” Charlotte said, uncomfortably aware of her awkwardness and height.
Despite the low heels of her walking boots, she stood two inches taller than either of them. However, neither Lady Victoria nor Mr. Archer stared at her gangly form with the shocked dismay everyone else exhibited. In fact, they seemed oblivious to it.
Some of Charlotte’s tension slipped away as she let out a long breath.
“We’re so glad to have you here,” Lady Victoria said at last.
“Indeed. Come in, sit down.” Mr. Archer gestured at a nearby chair.
Just behind him was a small, cozy sitting area complete with an oval table still laden with the remnants of a large breakfast. The sun shone cheerfully through frothy lace curtains and several benches and chairs were arranged haphazardly in clusters around the room. Most of the seats were smothered under a variety of colored silk cushions and open books were piled on the two chairs closest to the windows.
As Charlotte moved to sit, Mr. Archer took his wife’s arm and led her to a handsome Hepplewhite settee with delicate curved legs.
“I am afraid I cannot stay,” he said. “An appointment with my man of business. You understand.” He kissed Lady Victoria’s cheek and rested his fingers briefly on the curve of her neck before straightening. He nodded to Charlotte.
She smiled with relief. The famed British reserve seemed sadly lacking in the Archers. The Westover household, in contrast, had been absolutely moribund with it. Charlotte couldn’t remember either Lord Westover or his wife demonstrating any particular affection for each other, especially in public. In fact, Charlotte couldn’t remember them staying in the same room with each other for more than five minutes without resorting to a lot of subdued hissing and frowning.
“But, John—” his wife protested. She caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek before releasing it.
“Sorry, my dear.” Flicking a finger over her cheek, he shook his head before giving a brief bow to Charlotte. “However, you two ladies can use the time to get acquainted. I will tell Suddley to bring in some tea, shall I? And those lovely seed cakes?” He waved at the table. “Or, help yourself to the ham—”
“Yes, but dear—oh, never mind,” Lady Victoria replied, her voice breathy with exasperation. “You will be back for supper, will not you?”
“Oh yes, unless my nephew wishes me to meet him at the club.”
“I should think you’ve seen enough of the club for one week. We haven’t had him to dine for quite some time. Why don’t you invite him? I can arrange for a few friends to join us, and we shall have quite a nice evening.”
He sighed. “Impossible. If I forgo the club, I suppose we’ll have to attend that infernal soirée—you haven’t forgotten, have you? That chit, Lady Beatrice, invited my nephew, and if we don’t go to the club, well….” He shrugged and held up his hands in a helpless gesture. “We cannot let him go without us.”
“I would almost rather you go to the club—”
“If you insist.”
“But I believe the soirée will be a better choice.” A small frown puckered the skin between her brows. “He’s not dangling after that creature, is he?”
“Lady Beatrice? Shouldn’t think so. Unpleasant little trollop—regular viper—if you ask me.”
“Yes, but you have more sense than most,” Lady Victoria said, her voice low and tender. “She has a pretty face and men rarely look beyond the façade. Particularly young men.”
Charlotte studied Lady Victoria with interest, relieved to hear views so similar to her own. She couldn’t abide the abysmal lack of intelligence most women seemed determined to exhibit around the male sex, as if rampant idiocy would make them more attractive.
“My nephew has more sense, my dear. Believe me.”
“The way he follows you about—worshiping you— hardly inspires me with faith in his perspicacity.”
Mr. Archer’s brows waggled in amusement. “But that is precisely why I am so convinced of his intelligence.”
Lady Victoria laughed and shook her head as her grinning husband finally took his leave.
“Now, my dear Miss Haywood, would you care for a cup of tea or would you rather go to your room to rest?”
“Tea would be lovely, Lady Victoria,” Charlotte said. She had barely walked three blocks from the Westovers’ house to the Archers’ townhouse. In truth, she needed neither the cup of tea nor a rest, but she hoped to stay longer than a month or two, so she was determined to be agreeable.
Thankfully during the last few minutes, her anxiety had dwindled until it seemed like a bad dream. She liked the Archers and felt strangely at home with the pair. They were both so cheerful and unabashedly affectionate with each other that she longed to find the right path to friendship. She wanted to be part of their home. Her heart ached to belong.
All she had to do was hold her tongue for three short years.
“So, Miss Haywood, have you been in England long?”
Startled, Charlotte caught Lady Victoria’s curious gaze. “Actually, yes. I’ve been here eight years.”
“You’ve lived with the Westovers for eight years?”
“Oh no, I’ve only been with the Westovers for a few months.”
Lady Victoria’s finely arched brows rose. Her gray eyes shone with intelligence and sympathy. “Oh?”
“I suppose I should explain.” Charlotte suppressed a sigh. “Perhaps it is simpler if I start at the beginning as it will save misunderstandings.”
“Undoubtedly. I always prefer it when tales begin at the beginning.” Lady Victoria’s lips twitched.
Brightening, Charlotte released a breath and let out a small, breathy laugh.
Lady Victoria reached over and squeezed her hand just as the butler opened the door. He ushered in a maid carrying a tea tray, liberally festooned with lace and covered with plates of seed cakes, biscuits, and a large silver pot of tea. In solemn silence, the butler pushed aside the dishes already on the table. He nearly spilled two cups half-filled with milky coffee before he could make enough room for the tea service.
Taking charge, Lady Victoria poured a cup for Charlotte and grinned when she requested it without milk or sugar.
“Would you like a cake?” Lady Victoria asked, holding the plate out to her.
“No, thank you.” Charlotte took a deep breath and then put off her confession for another minute by draining her teacup. Lady Victoria refilled it, although she kept her gray eyes on Charlotte’s face. “Well,” Charlotte started again. “My mother and father passed away when I was three.”
Lady Victoria nodded, but didn’t offer any embarrassing expressions of sympathy.
“My mother’s sister lived with us in Charleston, that is Charleston, South Carolina,” Charlotte said. “So I lived with her for a number of years. Unfortunately, she died of influenza during the winter of eighteen-ten. That is when I was sent to England.” She shivered involuntarily, remembering the freezing weather and the long, cold voyage. Her ice-stiffened cloak never seemed to keep out the chill on the ship, and after she arrived in London, the cold permanently settled around her. “My father’s brother had estates near Brighten. So, he invited me to live with his family.”
She didn’t mention that two months after her arrival, her uncle had sent her to the first of a series of Swiss boarding schools for well-bred young women. There had been three in all. Finally, the headmistress of the last school sent her home with a note indicating she felt she could speak for all the ladies academies in her country when she said they would prefer Charlotte not return to Switzerland as she had an unsettling influence on the other young ladies.
“In eighteen-fifteen—no, eighteen-sixteen—I went to live with my uncle’s uncle near Richmond,” Charlotte said, her voice hesitant despite her efforts to make it all sound like a grand adventure.
All the young fema
les in that household were already married, therefore this situation seemed best for everyone. Unfortunately, that was when her negative influence on older, married women first exhibited itself. Charlotte had not realized what her opinions about the equality of women meant to an older, careworn lady.
After years of silent suffering, Charlotte’s aunt had informed her husband she would no longer tolerate his affairs with dancers and opera singers. If he didn’t mend his ways, she would remove herself to their country estate where he would emphatically Not Be Welcomed!
Of course, Lady Victoria did not need to know any of this. Mr. Archer could entertain dozens of opera dancers and Charlotte would not say a word.
“Are the Westovers your uncle’s uncle?” Lady Victoria asked when Charlotte paused.
“Oh, no. I was only with them for two years. Then I went to live with the Westovers. They are, I understand, distant relatives of my uncle’s uncle. I am not entirely sure of the exact relationship. I went to them a few months ago.”
“And so now you’ve come to live with the Archers.” Lady Victoria patted Charlotte’s clasped hands. “It will be a relief, I am sure, to finally settle someplace.” Her sharp gaze was surprisingly kind when she caught Charlotte’s glance.
A few hot tears pricked the backs of Charlotte’s eyes. “Yes, I suppose it shall.” She sipped her tea to regain her composure. She would not indulge in a fit of the vapors the first time someone seemed sympathetic to her. “If it isn’t impertinent, may I ask how you are related to the Haywoods?”
“Haywoods?” Lady Victoria repeated, her face blank.
“Yes, well, I was simply wondering how I came to be here, that is—are you my relatives? Distant, I am sure, but I had not heard of the Archers….” Her questions sounded impolite, but she couldn’t help asking.
She suddenly felt desperate for reassurance that she was safe to make friends with the Archers: that they wouldn’t send her on her way in a few weeks or months.