She gently wiped his tears away.
“If it had been my sister, I would have killed the bastard,” he choked out.
“I know you would have,” she soothed him. Stepping nearer to him, she slipped her arm around his shoulders and drew his head down to rest against her neck. “It is alright, George.”
“My father talked to me of honour,” he said against her skin, “yet he possesses none himself. He would have stood by and watched how Burnell killed his sister. He would have killed her, Charlie. He really would have killed her.”
“But he didn’t,” she whispered fiercely, tunnelling her hand through his hair, pressing her fingers against his scalp. “Your aunt survived and overcame whatever horror her husband inflicted upon her.”
In the safe round of her arms, Chanderley shuddered. “That is my father’s idea of a respectable marriage.” He raised his head, his eyes wet and red-rimmed. “I spit on his respectability. Where is the honour in respectability if it means to refuse to help your sister when she fears for her life? And where is the honour in respectability if it means forsaking the woman you love above all others?” He searched her eyes. “Am I too late, Charlie?”
For once speechless, Charlie could only stare at him in amazement while her heart hammered against her chest.
“Will you have me, my dear?”
She looked at him, wanting to treasure the moment. Tied to a stake, dirty and tousled, he presented quite a contrast to the slick man about town she had first met. For her, he had shed his polished shell. For her, his famous control had slipped and unravelled.
A burst of happiness blossomed in her chest, engulfed her whole body until even her fingertips tingled with it. Charlie threw her head back and laughed in sheer abandon. And then she kissed him, still laughing. “I love you,” she told him between kisses. “I love you.” Then, “And you love me, too? Is this not the most extraordinary thing? Most peculiar, if you think about it.”
“I see nothing extraordinary about it,” he told her in his superior viscount-tone. “I love you most ardently. I also would appreciate it if you could untie me now.”
“Do you, now?” Mischief bubbling inside her, she took a step back to look at him from head to toe. He did present a fine sight indeed with his broad frame and the rumpled clothes. His shoulders were straining against the fabric of his coat, and the golden stubble…
She narrowed her eyes.
Why, the stubble made him look like a highwayman!
She grinned.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Carlotta—”
She kissed him again because she could and because he was such a fine specimen of man and because in an extraordinary stroke of luck it would appear he was hers, hers, and hers alone. Teasingly, she licked across his lips, making him groan.
“Minx,” he told her, and deepened the kiss.
Her hands explored the width of his shoulders, roamed down to his chest. She remembered how he had risen above her that afternoon she had spent in his bed—his chest gleaming with sweat, his movements dynamic and oh-so powerful.
The thought that all this power was now tightly leashed sent an excited shiver down her spine.
She fumbled with the knot in his cravat, and sighed happily when it came undone. The two sides fell apart, granting her unrestricted access to his hot, damp throat. “Hmmm,” she mumbled, burying her face there, nibbling at his skin.
He jerked in his bounds. “What are you doing?” he asked in a strangled voice.
She snorted—what a daft question!—and nipped at his earlobe.
“If I ever get off this deuced stake, I swear I’ll find the nearest bed and tie you to it and have my wicked way with you for three days straight,” he muttered darkly, trying in vain to get his throat and ear out of her reach.
Grinning, she leaned back. His wonderfully bushy brows were meshed, and he had a mean look on his face. Or perhaps that was just his highwayman-stubble.
“That sounds… exciting,” she told him, raising her brows on the last word.
His eyes widened. Then, shaking his head, he gave a rueful laugh. “Trust you to be utterly unimpressed by my threats.”
While she gazed at him, her mood once again shifted. Teasing mischief turned into a wave of tenderness as she took in the signs of exhaustion that were stamped on his features.
She reached out to run a hand down the side of his face and then into his hair. “Trust me to love you most dearly,” she whispered, and pressed one last, lingering kiss on his lips before she started to work on the knots in the ropes that bound him to the post.
Finally, the last rope fell, and he stepped away from the post, dragging the remains of the sack over his head. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms and fingers. “Lud!” he groaned. “Those deuced bloodthirsty little monsters!”
Charlie chewed on her lip. “I don’t think they would have actually boiled you,” she offered. “They merely liked trying out the idea of it. Girls at that age are very impressionable, and you have to admit that the cannibal scenes in Robinson Crusoe are most exciting indeed.”
He threw her an arch look. “Is that supposed to cheer me up?”
“Frankly, I don’t think you understand when I try to cheer you up. If you remember, I was talking about fishing when we first danced together. I don’t think you appreciated the effort.”
His mouth stretched into a boyish grin. “That explains the catfish and the eels, then. Did I look as if I needed cheering up?”
Charlie gave an exasperated sigh. “You always looked as if you needed cheering up. Why do you think I spirited you away to take you on a drive in a high phaeton?”
“My darling girl.” Still smiling crookedly, he looped his arm around her shoulders and drew her into his body. “I love you so.” He kissed her deeply. And rather… masterfully.
It was very exciting.
And delicious.
And wonderful.
And, alas, much too short.
“Hmm,” she said when he lifted his head, and, because this thought had only just occurred to her, “Will your parents disown you when you marry me?”
“They can try. Not that I would care a fig about it. Haven’t I told you? Upon my marriage to you, Aunt Burnell will gift me with one of the estates she owns.”
Charlie raised her brows. “You mean to say that you are only marrying me for a house, my lord?”
“Not just a house. We are talking about an estate that brings in six or seven thousand pounds a year.”
“Six…” Charlie gaped at him.
Laughing, he kissed her nose. “She is a very wealthy woman, my aunt.—Now, how soon can I marry you? How do you fancy to be wed over the anvil?”
Charlie slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I will have to think about this, my lord,” she said primly. “I might agree to it, if…”
“If?”
“If you agree to my terms. For if you get the estate, it would only be fair and proper if I get to tie you up in the wedding night.”
He laughed—a sound she would never tire of. “I might just let you do that,” he said. “My love.”
~*~
The Rt Hon the Viscountess Chanderley to Miss Emma-Louise Brockwin
My dearest Emma-Lee,
you will not believe what has happened! Chanderley has pursued me all the way to Scotland to make me the Happiest Woman alive! We were wed in the smithy in Ardochlan, with Miss P. & the whole of St. Cuthbert’s present. True, it was a very Hasty Wedding, but it couldn’t have been more beautiful: the girls had made a flower garland for me, & after the ceremony, they all sung our school song. It was most rousing (though Chanderley, I believe, was much startled). The only thing that would have made this occasion even happier would have been your presence. You must promise that you will visit me once we have settled into our new home. I only hope we will not encounter any of these aggravating Highwaymen on our way to the south coast. But as you know, a True Cuthbertian is prepared for anything!
Carlotta
Epilogue
Meanwhile, considerably south of the Tweed
The family sat at breakfast when the butler came in to announce Mrs Burnell. Even before he had quite finished his sentence, she swept past him into the room. “That’s quite alright, Jones. As I am part of this family, there is no need to stand on ceremony.”
Isabella’s father stood, his brows furrowed. “Good morning, Henrietta. I say, this is a most unusual hour for making a social call.”
She gave him a chilling smile. “But this is not a social call, Lymfort.”
Ever attuned to the disposition of the people around her, Isabella felt a warning shiver run down her spine. She gripped her elbows. Oh, how she hated those awkward, uncomfortable family situations!
With a pang she thought of Boo’s visit a mere three days ago when he had made her yet another offer of marriage. Dear Boo… She should have accepted his proposal and let him sweep her away from all of this.
Her father huffed. “Pray, what is it, then?”
Yet if his sister was in any way perturbed by his harsh tone, she did in no way show it. “I hear you have been busy arranging a respectable marriage again, Lymfort,” Aunt Burnell replied in icy tones. “What a small-minded fool you are. If that boy of yours has any sense, he will be on his way to Scotland as we speak and throw himself at Miss Stanton’s feet.”
“He would not dare!” the earl snapped. “He knows what he duty he owes to the honour of this family.”
Aunt Burnell snorted. “You are a fine one to talk of honour, Lymfort,” she said contemptuously. “Your son has more honour in his little finger than you in your whole body.”
The countess gasped.
Astonished beyond bounds, Isabella stared at her aunt. Nobody had ever talked to the earl like this. Never!
And as he now turned an angry, ugly mottled red, her aunt did not even bat an eye. “But I have not come to talk about Chanderley,” she continued. “No, I have come for my godchild. Obviously, your influence on the poor girl is pernicious. So I have decided I am going to take her on a tour of the Continent.” Her expression softening, she turned to Isabella. “Would you like that, my child?”
But before Isabella could answer, her father exploded. “You talk nonsense, Henrietta! This is most unseemly—not that this is anything new with you. Miss Smith, be so kind as to take my daughter out of the room. This conversation is not suitable for a young girl.”
A wave of angry despair rolled through Isabella, as Miss Smith hurried to follow the earl’s instructions and pulled the wheeling chair from the table. Oh, how she hated that chair! Hated the way she was trapped inside it, like a helpless rabbit in the sling!
Her nails dug painfully into the soft skin of her forearms, while she tried to contain her emotions. Keeping her eyed lowered onto her lap, she felt the chair move—past the table—up to Aunt Burnell, and—
Out of nowhere, an umbrella was thrust in front of the chair, stopping its progress.
Confused, Isabella looked up, encountering her aunt’s glittering gaze. The older woman searched her face.
Isabella’s heart started to thump against her chest as hope unfurled inside her. A voyage with her aunt—that would be famous! Beyond anything, really.
Her lips curving into a satisfied smile, Aunt Burnell gave her a small nod before she turned her attention back to the earl. “You misunderstood me, Lymfort. This was not a question, and I’m not asking you for permission.”
Isabella looked over her shoulder and found the earl turning even redder than before. “You have clearly taken leave of your senses, Henrietta,” he said in rigid tones. “You will leave this house immediately and only come back—”
“With pleasure, dear brother,” she replied coolly. “If you pay me back the twenty thousand Burnell gave you to clear your debts. With a twenty-one year interest that would make… shall we say forty thousand pounds? Not counting the financial supplements you have received from me over the years, of course. I believe my secretary would be most happy to add these up as well.” She smiled her terrible, terrible crocodile smile, and the earl blanched.
“You cannot do that. You wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t I?” She raised a brow. “Think about it. I ask very little in return: the company of your daughter for a few weeks, or months.” Her tone became mocking. “What a fuss you make, brother dear. Haven’t you had practice enough in selling off the females in the family?” Not waiting for an answer, she turned to address Miss Smith. “You may take Lady Isabella to the front door now. I trust there are footmen who can assist her into my carriage.”
“Y-yes,” Miss Smith whispered.
“Very well. If you wish to, you may accompany us. Have Lady Isabella’s bags packed and your own, if you like, and come to Peardrop House later.”
“Oh,” Miss Smith breathed.
“Now go and make sure that my niece is settled comfortably in my carriage.” Aunt Burnell patted Isabella’s shoulder as the wheeling chair rolled past her.
Behind her, Isabella heard her father say in restricted tones, “I will not forget this, Henrietta.”
Aunt Burnell’s voice was crystal clear and carried easily into the hallway, where several curious servants had assembled. “Ah, William, dear, have you not realised? I don’t care a fig about your opinions.”
It was, Isabella thought numbly, like some strange dream, where the world is turned upside down, and right becomes left, and left right, and everything so topsy-turvy as to make one’s senses swim.
A few minutes later, she found herself sitting in her aunt’s carriage, while her aunt settled down next to her, trying to bring her voluminous skirts in order. As the carriage jolted into motion, the older woman turned to Isabella and gave her a smile. “My dear girl.” She patted Isabella’s knee. “I must apologise for the shocking way in which I have abducted you just now. Rest assured that I will not drag you around in this fashion again.”
Isabella folded her hands in her lap. She felt her mouth starting to twitch. “It was most exciting, ma’am. I don’t think I have grounds for complaining.”
Once more, her aunt searched her face. “I do hope you have no objections to a tour of the Continent?”
Objections? To a tour of the Continent? Laughter bubbled up inside Isabella. She felt like a bird poised to fly after having spent years and years and years inside a gilded cage. After all this time, life had suddenly opened up intriguing possibilities.
How often had secretly envied Charlie for her boundless energy and the way she took life on head on! And now, all at once, life had thrown an adventure into her own lap. She heard the notes of Charlie’s school song echo in her head—about the bold maidens of St. Cuthbert’s, ever ready to do battle with whatever or whoever foolish enough to stand in their way.
Isabella started to laugh. Oh yes, like them, she would stride towards her fortune, fearless and bold.
“A tour of the Continent? There is nothing I would like more.”
THE END
Author’s Note
A few years ago I stumbled across the original St. Trinian’s films—and was mesmerised by this very unusual portrayal of young girls. The girls of St. Trinian’s are bold, fearless, and utterly unconventional (to put it mildly). They terrorise adults, have great adventures, and get into mad scrapes. What would happen, I wondered, if such girls were let loose in Regency England? At that moment, the idea for Springtime Pleasures was born. I have turned the school song of St. Cuthbert’s, “Maidens of St. Cuthbert’s,” into an affectionate reference to, and echo of, the musical intro to the old St. Trinian’s films.
Likewise, I have made the beginning of the novel an equally affectionate parody of the beginning of Vanity Fair by W.M. Thackeray, one of my favourite authors. At the beginning of Vanity Fair two very dissimilar girls, Becky Sharp and Amelia Sedley, leave their school, Miss Pinkerton’s Academy for Young Ladies, and go out into the world to fin
d their destiny. However, Charlie is no ambitious, scheming Becky Sharp, nor is Emma-Lee a passive, shrinking violet like Amelia. Rather than rivals, they are friends and confidantes.
The character of Mrs Burnell has been partly inspired by two other fictional characters. When I first read Gladys Mitchell’s The Saltmarsh Murders, I was enchanted by the description of her female detective, Mrs Bradley, as Mrs Crocodile. I love unusual female characters, especially those who don’t comply with contemporary standards of beauty. Moreover, the reference to a crocodile reminded me of one of Richard Doyle’s initial letters for Thackeray’s The Newcomes, showing an anthropomorphic crocodile (my mind is strange like that). So it seemed fitting to give Griff’s formidable aunt that reptilian nickname—especially as it nicely contrasts with the horrific experience of her marriage and the helplessness she felt as the wife of Mr Burnell.
Domestic violence is made an issue in a number of nineteenth-century novels, most prominently, perhaps, in Anne Brontë’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Here the wife runs away from her violent husband—which was considered quite scandalous in 1848, when the novel was first published—only to later return to him when he lies dying. Several decades later, in 1901, Frances Hodgson Burnett wrote The Making of a Marchioness. At the surface a very light, fluffy novel, it contains some much darker undercurrents. Perhaps the darkest of them all, that which reads like a commentary on The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, is sprung on the reader quite suddenly in the very last chapter: there we hear of the fate of a secondary character, poor Hester, who is married to Captain Alec Osborn. While Brontë only hints at the fact that her heroine is raped, Burnett makes this very explicit. Moreover, while Brontë’s Helen eventually succumbs to Victorian conventions and returns to her brutal husband, Burnett found another solution for her character: Hester’s maid makes sure that the captain’s gun is loaded when he handles it in a drunken state after raping, and nearly killing, Hester one last time. “Before I married Alec,” Hester says to Burnett’s naïve heroine at the very end of the novel, “I did not understand how one human being could kill another. He taught me to understand—quite. But I had not the courage to do it myself. Ameerah had.” Mrs Burnell, thus, is my tribute to Hester Osborn. In contrast to the latter, she had no Ameerah to help her; hence she had to find the courage to do it herself.
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