I glared at her under my lashes. “You have been brimming with unwanted advice of late. I am the older sister. Therefore, I am the wisest. I say we do not trust Mr. Wortham. He is improper and ridiculous and disrespectful and—”
“Handsome,” Clara suggested.
I rolled my eyes, refusing to agree verbally.
“I must own that it was refreshing to see a man maintain his head in the sight of you and your flirting.” She laughed deeply.
It was humiliating, really. Nothing was right in the world here in the North. I was accustomed to lush woods, bell pulls, satin gowns, and a certain authority in the art of flirting. I had failed to make a match in the last season, despite being the prettiest debutante. I had been holding out for Dr. Owen Kellaway, whose heart had already been stolen. I had looked forward to another season in London—another chance, but now it would never come.
What if I failed to win Lord Trowbridge? Would Mama make other arrangements? Or would we be ruined forever? I shuddered at the thought of gutting fish in a pair of breeches while Mr. James Wortham relished in the sight. Sooner would I starve to death.
Chapter 5
“Friendship is constant in all other things.”
I thought I felt it swimming in my stomach after I swallowed it. The fish had been painstakingly cooked after much argument over who should have to remove the heads. Luckily, the kitchen was already fully equipped, but unfortunately, Clara was just as unfamiliar with preparing food as I was.
I grimaced with distaste as I scraped the rest of the fish off my plate. If I hadn’t been so hungry I never would have eaten it. With nothing to accompany the fish I was left with its lingering flavor. I stabbed my fork against the table and lifted my water with the other hand. I had noticed vegetables and fruits and even pies, puddings, breads, and tarts in the market. My mouth watered at the memory. Those foods I had taken for granted before now sounded like a delicacy.
My eyes drifted to Clara across our squat wooden table. With effort, she swallowed the last bite of her fish and scrunched her nose in disgust over the discarded skin on her plate. “I am telling Mr. Wortham what he wants to know,” she said. “I refuse to eat this for any longer than a week. We need his help immediately. Even if we find work tomorrow, we won’t receive our wages for a week at least.”
I looked down at my plate. My stomach protested against my better judgment. “Very well, but we must be discreet. Or fabricate a story that he will believe. We cannot have him spreading gossip in the way we are here to avoid. And we must also demand the information he has of Lord Trowbridge.”
“Of course.” She stood and pushed her chair away from the table.
Something about the plan still didn’t bode well in my mind. If Mr. Wortham was demanding so much of us in exchange for a favor, perhaps there was a way we could gain the upper hand. We only needed to find something we could hold over him. Anything.
z
Bright and early the next morning, I climbed out of bed, my back sore from the hard mattress. My stomach growled as I grudgingly wrestled with my buttons. I checked my reflection where a haggard, sullen face clouded the smooth confidence and easy beauty I had always known. It was purely manufactured by anxiety, an emotion I had only experienced over the prospect of another lady wearing my dress at the theater in London, or a pin coming loose in my hair. But now it was caused by problems of an entirely different sort.
I put a hand against my cheek and leaned closer to the mirror. I squinted. Soon my skin would resemble the color of that pitiful fish.
I stood in the midst of the seaside town an hour later, hands clasped firmly around a small basket covered with my shawl. I had stowed two of our brooches and a necklace inside, hoping to trade them for food. We could acquire plenty with such a trade. I was confident.
A sudden gust of wind stole my breath as I opened my mouth to speak to Clara. I readjusted my bonnet and tried again. “Where do you suppose Mr. Wortham has gone?” I wanted to try one last time to gain information about Lord Trowbridge from him, but I had no idea of where I might find him.
Her eyes shifted past crowds of people and small shops. Meat hung on racks above market stands and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air near the bakery. My mouth watered.
“I would imagine we could find him running a stand or out by the fishing boats,” Clara said.
As we walked, I observed the many eyes that shifted to us. Some bled envy while others merely appeared curious. A trio of women, one significantly older than the others, caught my attention. They were dressed at the height of fashion, and each sported neat hairstyles and an elegant air. They smiled at each other as they walked ahead of us. Giggles resounded from the two younger girls. They seemed to be close to my age. As they came closer, one girl with dark brown curls noticed us, whispering behind a gloved hand to her companions. They slowed and came to a stop ahead of us.
“Good day,” the oldest lady said, her voice carrying a tone of surprise. “I had assumed we would be bereft of new faces in town today, but it appears I was mistaken.” Her lips curved into a pleasant smile. “I am Mrs. Helen Abbot, and these are my daughters, Lucy and Rachel. We live just up the road at Clearfield house.” She gestured in the opposite direction of our cottage where I could see a tall, neat home standing among a cluster of smaller houses.
“A pleasure to meet you,” I said. “I am Miss Charlotte Lyons, and this is my sister, Miss Clara.” I made a quick examination of the two girls. The one with the darker hair—Rachel, she had been called—was pretty enough, but nothing to worry myself over. The other girl, Lucy, I would need to watch a little more carefully. Her eyes were deep brown and framed in charcoal lashes. Her hair was also dark and curly, and her complexion was nearly perfect. She was a short, pretty, petite little thing, likely close to my own age. I masked a frown as I evaluated my competition.
“We would love to speak with you in greater length, as we are rather destitute of company here, but we are in a hurry for a fitting at the moment. Are you available for tea this afternoon?” Mrs. Abbot regarded us, her hazel eyes wide.
“Oh, yes, to be sure.” I spoke in my most gracious voice.
“That is quite perfect then. We will receive you at two o’clock.” Mrs. Abbot’s smile was quite unlike any smile I had ever seen. It puzzled me. It was as if her eyes cared about her smile, and wanted to deliver it with sincerity.
“We thank you,” I said, momentarily forgetting about all my other endeavors. And I found myself smiling back.
z
The butler welcomed us to Clearfield house at precisely two. With a pang of melancholy, it reminded me of our home in Canterbury. The home that was no longer mine. I lifted my chin, willing myself to forget my sorrows and melt into this refinement I was allowed to reclaim for an hour. Clara stood beside me, her blue eyes flickering between all the beautiful portraits, trimmings, and furnishings of the lovely house. Her mouth hung slightly open. She missed these things as much as I did. I was tempted to push her mouth closed with my hand and remind her that a proper lady never gapes.
Mrs. Abbot, Rachel, and Lucy were awaiting us in the sitting room. I entered first, bringing my eyes to a thoughtful gaze and my mouth to a slight curve. I had managed to tame my hair into something presentable, which I was quite proud of. The most important task I had in coming here to Clearfield was to develop a positive standing in town gossip. The look of screened envy Rachel threw in my direction was a promising start.
Mrs. Abbot welcomed us and beckoned us to our seats on the settee. Something lifted inside of me when I saw a pianoforte sitting in the corner of the room by the window. I sighed softly.
“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Abbot recalled my eyes.
I brought my expression back to neutral. “Oh, I was admiring your pianoforte.”
She shook her head and swatted her hand through the air. “Oh, that old thing? It is an antique. But of course, that makes the sound all the richer. Would you like to favor us with a song?
We would be so honored by your performance, wouldn’t we, girls?” She raised her brows at Rachel and Lucy who nodded.
“Very well. But be aware that I am a bit out of practice.” I thought I saw Clara roll her eyes.
I stepped up to the bench, fluently swept my skirts under me, and sat down. The keys were chipped and ugly in some places, but my hands found them and accepted their music anyway. I chose a piece I knew well, a sonata by Bach in A minor. Or rather, it chose me. I had copied the music into a journal from my instructor as a child, and had played it so often that I remembered every note. It was a stately, aching, and nostalgic song, a sharp contrast to the allegro pieces by Pleyel and the Scotch and Irish airs I had played most frequently as I’d grown. This moving piece by Bach came to me now for a reason I couldn’t name.
Every bottled emotion streamed through my arms and through the keys and the air as I pressed the first key. It was the same experience that I’d had in the music room the night I had learned of Papa’s disgrace. I forgot the time and place. As I swayed to the song, I forgot the eyes trained on me, expecting something of me that I could actually deliver. My fingers moved deftly over the keys, feeling every ridge in their imperfections, yet understanding the contradiction of their hauntingly beautiful sound. The sense of release was intoxicating, and when the song was over, my hands trembled, and it was all I could do not to cry.
The room was still. Before I could turn around, the silence was split by a most improper applause.
I turned my head in surprise. Clara’s face was tight with emotion, but she smiled when she saw that mine was too. Rachel and Lucy’s expressions were in combat between amazement and what I hoped was fresh envy. For the first time I wasn’t pleased to see the envy. I had just shared a piece of something important to me, and it was new and rejuvenating. I had never delivered a song for the purpose of anything but accuracy and praise.
Mrs. Abbot rushed to my side with her hand pressed to her chest. “Miss Charlotte! You have broken my heart. You are a musician! That was truly exquisite.”
I would have never thought it possible, but I felt bashful under her praise. It was different when my intention hadn’t been to impress. My intention just then had been to release, and whatever I had released now belonged to every person in the room, and I felt raw and vulnerable from it. It was not a feeling I enjoyed.
When I reclaimed my seat, and all the ladies had recovered from my performance, we were presented with a tray of sandwiches and cakes, along with a kettle of tea and a cream pitcher. I wanted to eat it all. My stomach made a sound of ample agreement.
Mrs. Abbot sipped from her teacup slowly and then raised her gaze to Clara and me. “Do tell us … how long have you been here in Craster? It is a fairly small town and we have not met until today. It cannot have been long.”
Truth and lies battled inside me. She was very kind, but without a doubt one of the most reliable sources of gossip in the area. If any eligible men heard of my situation, I could have no chance of making an acceptable match. Kindness could not come without a price. I had learned that lesson. Certainly Mrs. Abbot and her daughters were only trying to coax the truth out of me to feed their acquaintances enough of a scandal to keep them entertained.
I nibbled the corner of a cucumber sandwich before speaking. I wished I had pockets to stuff with the entire tray. “It has been less than a week, in fact. Our poor grandmother has been ill for several months, and thought the fresh sea air would serve her well. We accompanied her here to aid her as needs arise. Already the new scenery and air has livened her spirits.”
Clara grumbled something behind her teacup.
“What was that, Miss Clara?” Lady Abbot asked.
Clara’s eyes rounded. “Oh … may I—er … more cream, please?”
I stifled a laugh as Lady Abbot graciously added three more drops to her tea. Clara shot me a glare through the side of her eye.
“How very kind of you both,” Rachel said. “We have always preferred life here in the North. We used to visit the southern countryside nearly every summer but I was always anxious to return here. Thankfully we haven’t left the North for several years. It is necessary for my health and happiness.” She half-smiled. “Have you come to appreciate these benefits yourself?”
I kept my face even. “I must admit I prefer life in the South. But more than anything, I enjoy visiting London during the season. Canterbury is relatively close to London, so I have had the opportunity to enjoy both.” I pushed the empty feeling from my chest. I would never feel the same way about this desolate, sea-sprayed town.
Rachel swallowed a hefty chunk of cake. “I have never been to London. But I don’t wish to. If I must marry, I will find a man in this very town so I am never forced to leave.”
I studied her, wondering if she would continue speaking, but she was preoccupied by the tea tray. Lucy’s expression tightened, then relaxed before I could wonder what it meant.
“Have you been acquainted with any others in the village?” she asked me.
When I didn’t answer immediately, Clara spoke up. “Mr. James Wortham.”
“Oh, but briefly,” I added quickly. “We don’t make it a habit to speak with such roguish, disagreeable society.”
Mrs. Abbot’s brow furrowed in a frown. “I must disagree. Mr. Wortham is quite respectable. He works for reasons of his own; he prefers to stay occupied. I find him to be a very amiable young man. I must come to his defense, of course, because he once carried Lucy all the way home when she injured her leg in town.”
My breath came in sharply. “How improper,” I half-mumbled.
Lucy reddened. “I was only eleven years old,” she said quickly. “Never would I allow such a thing to happen now.”
“What a lie!” Rachel said, her voice trailing with laughter. “You would, and you would thoroughly enjoy every moment.”
Lucy opened her mouth to contradict her but seemed to change her mind. Clara giggled from beside me and I shushed her.
“Well, I would call the act kind.” Mrs. Abbot smiled. “It is a rare soul that will engage in an act of kindness for nothing in return.”
My mind wandered to the day before, when Mr. Wortham chased after the man stealing our reticule. I had assumed Mr. Wortham had intended to keep it himself, but he had only hoped to return it to us. I remembered the shilling piece he had offered the proud man and his hungry, dirty little girl. And then he offered us food for a week, without asking for payment. Something told me he wouldn’t have accepted putting us in debt to him. Yet somehow I felt like he had.
It was a weakness he possessed then, too strong a conscious to refrain from assisting anyone in need, and too much pride to accept reimbursement. The man was obviously lacking great wealth, and for reasons besides lack of peerage or holdings. He gave it all away.
A thought stabbed me with anger. But he did expect something in return. He wanted my secrets, a payment I could never give. His charity was not unending. It would expire after a week. Why did we need his assistance? Mrs. Abbot and her daughters likely knew a great deal about Lord Trowbridge. As for finding work—I shuddered at the thought—Clara and I would need to do it alone. I was not going to amuse Mr. Wortham by allowing him to pull us by a leash into his charitable trap. He was cunning, but surely he didn’t know that I had been trained to be the same.
The conversation turned to our hostesses and how they came to live in Clearfield house, Mrs. Abbot’s husband, and their odd gardening habits. As soon as I found the opportunity—a lull in conversation—I posed the question eating on my mind.
“What do you know of Lord Trowbridge? I have seen his lovely estate and wondered what the owner of such a beautiful and haunting house could be like.” I filled the proceeding silence with three breaths. Finally, Mrs. Abbot found her voice between the shifting eyes of her daughters.
“Regrettably, I must say I do not have much to tell. He typically refrains from making appearances. He is an earl, a widower, and I have only met him onc
e, several years ago. His disposition was rather reserved and a little pompous for my liking.” Her voice faded at the end.
To be a countess? It was more than Mama had ever hoped for. A little grin lifted my lips. Lady Trowbridge. How lovely.
“Does he own a country or town house as well?” I pressed further.
“None that I know of. I have told you all I know. You have met Mr. Wortham, and if I am not mistaken, he would be able to offer you the most information about the earl. Not a soul knows Lord Trowbridge like he does.”
I tried very hard to conceal my clenched teeth. “Thank you. I suppose I will take my questions to him.” I glanced at the clock on the back wall. We had already stayed for an hour, and I had eaten my fill from the tea tray. I was going to avoid eating fish tonight if I could manage.
My eyes flitted deliberately from the clock to Mrs. Abbot. “Oh, the time. We really must be going. I thank you for your hospitality.”
She stood, smiling with that same twinkle in her honey-colored eyes. “You are welcome to come calling any time you would like. It is not often we have such amiable and talented guests. And please do plan to honor us with your music again. It was absolutely stunning.”
I thanked her and hooked my arm through Clara’s. After Clara had offered her gratitude, we walked toward the door. Lucy and Rachel bid their farewells, and I thought I must have mistaken the disdainful look I had seen in Lucy’s eyes before, for now they held nothing but kindness and smiles like her mother.
Mrs. Abbot grasped my hand as we were leaving. “Wish your dear grandmother well from me.”
I thanked her with a false smile and stepped into the uncharacteristic calmness outside. Large black birds soared through the air, and I was tempted to cover my hair from their potential droppings. I shook my head in an effort to clear it, and took a deep breath. The air smelled of salt and rain.
Lies and Letters Page 5