She wondered if Deb had even returned home yet, or was still honeymooning with her new husband. Charlotte’s precipitous disappearance from Little Hyssop had been duly noted and remarked upon. When accosted in the village shops, Charlotte staunchly told the tale of her sister’s wedding, not that she had witnessed it. She discovered she had a flair for dissembling, right down to the color of her sister’s wedding gown (rose pink, she decided, mostly because it would be her own choice in the unlikely event she ever married) and choice of flowers (white lilies, for the same reason). This fictitious version of her London trip seemed to satisfy the local tabbies, who always had time for a good gossip, even if the protagonists were unknown to them. Charlotte had trudged home with her meager supplies, the brim of her old straw hat dripping rainwater, but she was not struck by a bolt of lightning for telling her lies. Despite Mr. Frazier pressing quite a lot of money into her hands, far more than she asked for, she had set it away for a rainier day and was determined to resume her quiet life on her restricted budget.
Now she really was a whore, bought and paid for, even if she didn’t intend to touch all the pound notes Mr. Frazier had conjured unless major calamity befell her. The money was sitting in a chipped ginger jar on her mantel. No self-respecting thief would be tempted to remove such pottery from the premises. She supposed if the cottage ever caught fire, she’d force herself to rescue it.
Having a bit of a financial cushion was a help. She might not be able to depend on Deb to keep herself and the cats afloat now that Arthur controlled the purse strings. And Deb had been indifferently generous anyway, depending on the gullibility of her past patrons. Months could go by before she remembered that she had a sister buried in the country. The last ten years had been a test for Charlotte to live within exceptionally modest means. The little she got for her lace had put food on the table, although it was not generally known in Little Hyssop that Mrs. Fallon supplied the ton with trimmings for their unmentionables and evening gowns.
Despite the early hour, Charlotte rose. There was no point in tossing and turning while Tom was fornicating under her bedroom window. The blasted cats had been contentious ever since she returned, punishing her for their abandonment. When they weren’t rutting, they were strutting and slinking and squalling around the kitchen door like beggars. Maybe if she tossed a few sardines into the dark, the racket would quiet down.
Charlotte opened her wardrobe and reached for her gray robe. Her hand brushed the cherry-red dress that she had unaccountably packed when she left London. She would never wear it again, of course. Little Hyssop was not the type of town that would sanction a scarlet woman. In fact, as today was Sunday, she would be on her knees in church in a few hours, praying for forgiveness. She had been foolish in the extreme—again. God must be very displeased with her, for surely she was old enough and experienced enough to know better now than to fall for the blandishments of an attractive man. She heaved a sigh. Bay was very attractive indeed.
Her little bedroom was just off the kitchen. It suited her to live all on one floor; it was cheaper also to heat just the downstairs rooms. She felt her way through the shadows, the coals a faint spark in the stove. She stuck her head out the kitchen door and was rewarded by a blast of wind and needling rain. Hard to believe that June was here when she had to race barefoot across the cold wet grass to the privy. She wasn’t about to ruin her slippers, but hoped she would not step on anything untoward in the gloom. The scent of battered roses climbing the little shed was pleasant and masked the fact that she needed to order lime the next time she went to the shops. She rationalized going outside this morning was much like a shower bath, freezing though it was. She lingered a bit on the path, letting the rain sluice down her face and throat. The cats were silent at last, probably languishing in the afterglow under the hydrangea bush. Sardines would be superfluous.
Once indoors, Charlotte stripped off her wet robe and set to stirring up and adding to the coals. She pulled a stool in front of the warming stove and brushed her hair, rebraiding it. When the flames licked up, she lit a fat tallow candle on the center of the table, filled the kettle, and made her tea. She was going to the early communion service. By all that was holy, she should not even be thinking about tea. But she was chilled to the bone. She allowed herself one small lump of sugar only, breaking the bad habit of three on Jane Street. Charlotte had a dreadful sweet tooth. Mrs. Kelly had aided and abetted it.
As the sky lightened, Charlotte blew out the candle and toasted her forbidden bread. She ate it minus butter and jam as penance. If she cleaned her teeth thoroughly, Vicar Kemble might not realize that she had broken her fast. It wasn’t as if she weren’t going to Hell anyway. Eating breakfast was a very minor transgression. She pinned up her still-damp hair and dressed in a gray dress in the gray light. It was her turn to do the altar flowers this morning. She had been smart enough to pick them in a brief break in the rain yesterday afternoon, and pails holding drooping blooms were lined up along the edge of the carpet of her snug parlor. She fished out the flowers and laid them in a flat basket, covered her hair with her usual cap and battered hat, and marched down the lane to the church, gripping an umbrella tightly in the wind. Her skirts whipped about in the mud. Her person would win no prizes today for beauty, but her flower arrangements would speak for themselves.
Once inside the hushed, cool church. Charlotte shivered and grabbed the empty brass urns off the altar and took them to the vestry. As good as his word, the vicar had left a ewer filled with water, and she poured it carefully into each container. She heard the thud of the church door and waited for Vicar Kemble to shout out a good morning, but curiously she heard only booted footsteps on the stone aisle and the scraping of a kneeler. An early bird sinner with plenty to pray for, she thought, and continued her task. The rain spattered against the roof and pinged against the wavy glass window. The world outside was a blur of gray and green. It was good to be home, doing something familiar in a familiar place. She didn’t miss Jane Street a bit. Or Bay either.
Her cottage garden had blossomed quite happily while she was away in London. She buried her nose to inhale the rich scents and stepped back, giving the vases a critical eye. Too much yellow on the left. She ruthlessly ripped some buds from the coreopsis stalks. There. Perfect balance, a rainbow of colors and fragrance. Lifting one heavy vase she carried it to the altar.
The top of a gentleman’s head was just visible over a high-backed pew toward the rear of the church. It was too dim inside to distinguish its color—darkish, some sort of brown. She didn’t wish to disturb him in prayer, so tiptoed quietly over the flagstones to get the other urn. When both were in position, she herself slipped into her regular spot, tugged her gloves back on, and closed her eyes. Just last week she had been staring down the barrel of a gun. She was still alive. Pinching herself just to make sure, her lips moved in the silent repetition of the Lord’s Prayer. She leaned back, relaxing into the pew. A few neighbors came in and nodded to her, then Mr. Kemble, who flashed her a bright smile and disappeared to change into his cassock.
The steady rain drummed on the slate roof throughout the brief Holy Communion service. The sound was as lulling and peaceful as a prayer. Charlotte nearly dozed off through the reading, and had to pinch herself again. She needed her wits about her to instruct the children who would be coming for Sunday school. She rose to take communion, joining the few others before the altar. Mr. Kemble paused, then looked over their heads to the back of the church. After a moment, there were crisp footsteps against the stone floor. Charlotte didn’t turn out of politeness, but expected it was the same man who had come in while she was busy in the vestry. He knelt at the opposite end of the communion rail, his face shielded by the very topiarylike hat of Mrs. Beacham.
A stranger then with the few faithful who came to early services. Charlotte peeked around the corner of her own bonnet again, but was rewarded with only the sight of Mrs. Beacham’s truly extraordinary hat. Receiving her wafer and sipping from the ch
alice, she returned to her seat. Curious now, she observed the broad shoulders clad in dark brown superfine, the unscuffed boot soles. Whoever the gentleman was, he had money.
She watched as he tipped his head forward. There was something about the close crop of hair—
Bay! Charlotte dropped her Book of Common Prayer. It fell with a clunk that reverberated through the near-empty church. Hastily, she bent to retrieve it, staying low as he walked back down the transept. Her blood rushed to the surface of her skin. She needed to leave at once.
Mrs. Kemble was more than capable. She could deal with the children for the Bible lesson in the rectory when they came. Half of them were hers anyway. Perhaps the rain would keep the others away. Charlotte inched down the pew, heart beating rapidly.
Mr. Kemble stepped down from the altar and made his way down the aisle. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all ever more. Amen.”
Charlotte shot up as the bells began to ring, her heart racing. Bay was waiting in the vestibule, a tall beaver hat rolling in his hands. He was deep in discussion with Mr. Kemble. His face lit with mischief when he saw her. Charlotte clutched at her umbrella and prayerbook, wondering which would do more damage wiping the smirk off his face.
“Ah! Mrs. Fallon! The flowers are as ever lovely,” Mr. Kemble boomed. “This gentleman was just remarking on them. I told him you have one of the loveliest gardens in the village. Puts Mrs. Kemble’s to shame, it does.”
“Th-thank you, Mr. Kemble,” Charlotte stuttered.
“I would so love to see it. Gardens are a particular interest of mine,” Bay said smoothly. “One might say they tie me in knots.”
“B-but it’s raining!” Charlotte glared at him. Let Mr. Kemble think of it what he would.
“A little rain never harmed me. I’m used to much worse, I assure you. Kidnap. Torture. I was an army man. Mr. Kemble, perhaps you would do me the honor of introducing me to this young lady.”
It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to give him a rousing set-down. Young lady! She had more gray hairs after her time with Bay than ever. He was not going to charm her ever again.
“Certainly, sir. Sir Michael, isn’t it? Haven’t a head for names, I’m afraid, a failing in my line of work, but I do know Mrs. Fallon’s. Pillar of the church. She made the altar cloth too. Mrs. Fallon, may I present Sir Michael—” The vicar looked helplessly at Bay.
“Sir Michael Xavier Bayard. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fallon.”
Charlotte flushed and fidgeted. “How do you do?” she asked her feet.
“Very well. Do say you can give me a tour of your garden before I am obligated to leave your charming village. Perhaps you have time now? Good morning to you, Mr. Kemble. Excellent service.” Bay put his gloved hand on her elbow and practically shoved her out the open door. In one fluid motion he took her umbrella and popped it open over them. Charlotte had no opportunity to beg off teaching Sunday school. She could only hope Mr. Kemble would make her excuses to Mrs. Kemble since it seemed she was practically being carried away by a forceful man with a heretofore undeclared passion for gardening.
“Why are you here?” Charlotte blurted.
He looped his arm through hers. The comfort and warmth of it was most unsettling. “London was a bit of a bore. I thought I’d go home for a bit, actually. To Bayard Court. It’s right on the coast, you know. June. Summer. Swimming and boating. I was rather hoping to persuade you to join me.”
Charlotte escaped his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous! Our association is over. Completely over.” Charlotte stepped in a puddle and lurched sideways. Bay tugged her close, saving her from going down in the mud.
“I don’t see why.”
“Oh, don’t you? I’ll have you know I was telling the truth when I said I was a respectable woman! This is my home, and I’ll not give the gossips any reason to talk. How dare you come to church?”
“I dare because I worry about my immortal soul. And yours. I often go to church.”
Charlotte snorted.
“I do, no matter your rude noises. My grandmama insisted upon it. You still think me a fiend, don’t you?”
Charlotte decided it was best to remain silent. She didn’t trust herself to speak coherently. They continued on the path. It seemed Bay knew exactly where he was going, which made her even more nervous.
Bay peered through the sheets of rain. “Little Muckup is a quintessential English village, isn’t it? It must be lovely on a sunny day. Thatched cottages. Climbing roses. And you, on the altar guild, arranging flowers and tatting lace. How homely. There are cats too, as I recall?”
She couldn’t resist elbowing him in the ribs.
“Don’t mock me! I’m very happy here! And you will ruin everything!” They turned into her lane. She would not let him into her home, she would not. He could wander around the garden in the wet all day to lend credence to the fiction that he was some sort of horticulturist. If any of her neighbors were nosy, they would not see Sir Michael Xavier Bayard cross her threshold for any reason whatsoever.
“I have been completely discreet. I put up at the Pig and Whistle last evening and didn’t overindulge, although the local ale is very good, I must say. Even when the landlord—Mr. Braddock, is it?—tried to pry my life story out of me, I resisted all his efforts. I even asked your vicar to introduce us this morning. No one will have an inkling of our earlier association.”
“Association!” Charlotte stamped her foot, splashing more mud on her skirts. “You blackmailed me into becoming your mistress! I trust you got the necklace back?”
They were at her gate now. One of the cats darted under a bush. Unfortunately Charlotte could detect the very distinct aroma of cat arousal. Bay seemed oblivious. He passed her the umbrella, put a hand in his pocket, and pulled out the most magnificent rope of rubies and diamonds she had ever seen. The umbrella tipped. Charlotte shut her mouth before the raindrops fell in and she drowned.
“You can see why I was anxious to have it back, I trust. Mr. Mulgrew returned it to me the other day.”
“Uh.” How absurd she was being! As if jewels meant anything to her at all. She was not Deborah. No indeed. Her head would not be turned by sparkling cold stones—
Unbidden, Bay’s written words snaked into her head.
I cannot wait to clasp the rubies and diamonds around your throat and watch as the candlelight reflects each facet on the marble whiteness of your body. For, my dearest Deborah, you shall need no other adornment than these borrowed jewels and the velvet of your own soft skin. It is my wish to fuck you until we are both quite exhausted, and then fuck you again.
She edited out the “dearest Deborah” part, feeling gooseflesh wash over her body. It was just the chill from the ever-present rain, she assured herself, nothing more. She had read those foolish letters one too many times if she could quote them so readily. Why had she packed them into her bag and not left them at Jane Street, shut tight in a dark drawer? She would burn them in the stove today. Yes, she would.
Bay wiped a raindrop from the tip of her nose and righted the umbrella. “We’re getting soaked through, Charlie. Do you think I could beg a cup of tea from you? Perhaps a bit of bread? It’s hard to believe that summer is right around the corner.”
He was talking about the weather, impudent man. As though they had some sort of normal relationship. A relationship not predicated on bullying and sinful sex and sheer terror.
Charlotte’s lips thinned. “You must leave. I understand the Braddocks put on an excellent spread at the inn.”
Bay tsked. “Here I’ve come, all this way to see you, and you want to cast me off. I confess, Charlie, I’m wounded.”
“Good! You have been nothing but a pebble in my shoe, Sir Michael, since the instant you—you—”
“Brought you to heaven beneath all those cherubs? I do remember, Charlie. There was no talk of shoes and pebbles, but rather a lot of charming undulating and heavy br
eathing. And love bites.” He looked so very self-satisfied she wanted to shriek.
“I propose,” he continued, “that we start again. As if that week we shared never happened. Why, I met you in church just this morning and inquired after your garden. A hobby of mine.”
“You never mentioned it before,” Charlotte muttered.
“There are a great many things you don’t know about me,” Bay smiled. “Come, Mrs. Fallon, you’ll catch your death out here in this drizzle. Surely you can spare me some hot water and a few tea leaves.”
“If I give you breakfast, do you promise to leave me alone?”
Bay shook his head. “I never make promises I can’t keep.” He pushed the gate in and made for her front door. “A cheerful red. Matches your roses. Did you paint the door yourself? I expect it’s unlocked. I thought about coming by last night, you know, but it was too reminiscent of our earlier introduction. And we are starting fresh.”
Charlotte found herself running after him. He turned the handle before she could make the pretense of fishing a key out of her pocket.
“Ah. I was right.” He ducked under the lintel. He was almost too tall to stand straight under her cozy ceilings. She hoped he’d knock himself unconscious. “Delightful. All this lace. I suppose you made it yourself?” He was standing in the center of her little parlor, hands in his pockets, no doubt checking to see if the blasted necklace was still there. Why on earth did he have it on his person? She supposed he didn’t trust the Pig and Whistle clientele, which was ridiculous. Visitors to Little Hyssop were pure as the driven snow. Except for him.
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