Outrageous Fortune

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by Freda Lightfoot


  Charlotte jumped down from the stool, helped herself to a freshly baked piece of gingerbread still piping hot from the oven, ducked beneath Alice’s flapping, chastising hand and curled herself into the kitchen rocking-chair. ‘But you did promise me some entertainers at my birthday party. Do not deny it, for 1 remember you gave your word, and I shall keep you to it.’

  The wrinkled face creased with laughter. ‘Don’t scheme with me, little minx, for I have known you too long. I said you might have a fiddler or two for some dancing. That is quite a different matter.’

  ‘Oh, but there are strolling players in the neighbourhood, Alice. I have seen the posters,’ cajoled Charlotte, although to no avail. She saw how the lips clamped down in a firm unremitting line and how the plump cheeks dimpled with determination. When the housekeeper adopted such an expression it was best to withdraw and admit defeat, at least for the present. Tactfully Charlotte veered the subject on to more profitable lines.

  ‘And shall you make my favourite cinnamon and apple cake?’

  ‘What do you think I’m about now?’ said Alice laconically.

  ‘Oh, and some almond tarts. Yours are the very best.’ Alice chucked with good humour. No denying that the child had a captivating charm. ‘You’ll get what you’re given, and like it, miss.’

  Charlotte hugged her knees in delight. ‘I’m sure I shall. I can’t wait. Uncle Nathan is so kind to give me such a party.’

  ‘Coming out, it be a special time for a young woman,’ said Alice, then added more sombrely. ‘Though it sometimes brings with it new responsibilities and changes that a young girl of eighteen summers may not always welcome.’

  But Charlotte had already picked up her copy of Romeo and Juliet again and, with her head full of poetry and the promise of the celebration to come, she did not notice the warning note in the familiar voice, nor see how Alice cast her a quick glance of compassion. Bouncing from the chair With such vigour that it sent the rocker into a wild dance, Charlotte declared her intention to take the book into the garden and learn Juliet’s final soliloquy.

  ‘You will call me if you need me, will you not, Alice?’

  ‘I dare say I might,’ sighed she, knowing she wouldn’t. ‘Get along with you, then, before I find some potatoes for you to scrub.’

  Popping a kiss on the warm cheek, fragrant with yeast and spices, Charlotte picked up her skirts and ran from the room.

  From a shadowed corner of the large kitchen a voice emerged; sulky and resentful, it cut across Alice’s thoughts. ‘Why does she allus get her own way?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that she did,’ Alice replied, sharper than she’d intended.

  ‘She allus do,’ Molly grumbled, licking her fingers after dipping them in to the baking bowl and receiving a resounding slap for crime. ‘All this fuss ‘bout a birthday. Never had no party when I turned eighteen.

  ‘You weren’t an heiress going into her inheritance, so it’s hardly surprising, is it?’ retorted her mother dryly. ‘And Miss Charlotte will certainly not get her way, for I can’t see Mr Nathan agreeing to have strolling players in this house. It would be tempting fate,’ Alice muttered, whipping the cake mixture with more vigour than was called for and sending little spats of creamed sugar on to the scrubbed pine table. ‘Where are those apples I asked you to slice? I’m near ready for them.’

  Molly went to fetch the bowl of apples and started to slice them very slowly. ‘Mr Nathan might say she can, after all.’

  ‘Can what?’

  ‘Have the strolling players at the party.’ Molly secretly hoped that he would, for at present it sounded a very dull affair with only a few of the more upper crust neighbours invited. ‘He lets her have most of what she wants, don’t he? And so do you. Here we are, run off our feet with all the extra work for the party on top of the normal chores, with no more pairs of hands but our own to do it. You won’t even ask her to help.’

  ‘You mind your manners, and call her Miss Charlotte with proper respect,’ rebuked Alice, feeling hot and flustered. Her energy and enthusiasm for this wretched affair was fast beginning to flag. So much work still to be got through, and all by tomorrow night, with Christmas only nine days away. It was a most inconvenient time to celebrate a birthday, even such a one as this. And no one could ever accuse Nathan Pierce of enjoying such junketings so there had to be good reason for it. Alice allowed herself a tired sigh as she eased her aching back for a moment. ‘Maybe you have a point, Molly. There’s little enough help kept in this household for all the work that has to be done, but somehow it don’t seem quite right to ask an heiress to peel potatoes. Miss Charlotte is the daughter of a Lord, for all she has been brought up on this simple farm with neither the time nor the money for pampering and fol de rols.’

  ‘What did happen to him, the Lord, I mean, and to Charlotte’s mother?’ asked Molly, her curiosity making her quite forget the apples. ‘Why will you never tell me?’

  ‘Because it’s none of your business.’ Alice waggled a wooden spoon at her daughter. ‘That all happened long ago and is best forgotten. But, mark my words, the future will be very different. Life for Miss Charlotte is about to change and I’m not sure ‘twill be for the best. Not as far as she is concerned, anyway. She’s happy enough with the way things are.’

  Molly’s eyes narrowed consideringly. ‘Will she get a lot of money, do you think? And what’ll she do with it? D’you reckon she’ll go away somewhere, or spend it on the farm? It could do with a bit of money spending on it, could this place.’

  Alice looked up in surprise at her daughter, dark head bent over the apple bowl propped upon her skinny knees, and wondered, not for the first time, just how simple Molly really was. Most of the time she quietly drifted along, happy to follow any course her mother set for her. But recently she’d started to balk at the least little thing, and to show petty jealousies quite unlike herself. And some of her questions were growing quite pertinent. At nineteen she’d seemed a child still, but something, or someone, had wrought a change in her. ‘Have you been talking to Dickon?’

  ‘Dickon don’t want her money.’ The dark head jerked back with the vehemence of the reply and Alice met the fiery gaze with fresh unease in her heart. The child had developed an attachment to Nathan’s son, Dickon, far beyond what was right for a mere kitchen maid. Something would need to be done about that. ‘He’m not interested in Miss Charlotte at all, so there. It’s only her what says he is.’ Molly’s dark eyes glittered with malice. ‘Dickon has his eyes on quite another, he do.’

  ‘That’s enough of such talk, Molly. When the time is right for Master Dickon to take a wife, I dare say Mr Nathan will have some say in the matter. And even if he doesn’t it is none of our business.’

  Molly’s cheeks flushed with self-righteous indignation. ‘I never said ‘twas. Anyway, Dickon don’t intend to marry anyone, not yet. Not till ...’

  ‘Till what, Molly?’ The question hung in the air between mother and daughter, each aware that much more could he said, but in the end both backing away from the confrontation. ‘Get on with those apples. Gossip won’t bake cakes.’

  And for once Molly readily dipped her head to her work, anxious to break the probing shrewdness of her mother’s gaze.

  * * * *

  ‘You can marry me if you like.’

  Charlotte almost dropped the precious book from her hand as the low thrumming voice spoke softly in her ear. ‘Dickon, don’t startle me so,’ she scolded, sinking back with relief into the sweet-smelling bed of hay she had made for herself, a warm cocoon in which to savour a half hour’s peace with her book before the midday meal. ‘What nonsense you do talk.’

  Dickon looked downcast. ‘Why is it nonsense?’

  ‘Because we are cousins.’

  ‘Cousins do marry.’ Dickon eased himself from behind the beam where he had hidden. He loved to watch Charlotte, particularly when she was entirely unaware that he was there. Sometimes she spoke the poetry or whatever she was reading out loud, and i
t sounded so beautiful coming from her pretty lips that he wanted to keep every word locked in his head so that he could bring them out and listen to them whenever he wanted. But recently he’d started taking more notice of the movement of those lips themselves rather than the words they spoke. They were soft and moist and rosy and from time to time he’d wondered what it would be like to kiss them. Molly let him kiss her often, but Charlotte’s lips would be different from Molly’s ever chattering mouth. Now he settled himself beside her in the hay, grinning cheerfully, his large, round, tousled head propped unsteadily upon one rather grubby hand. ‘So, why not?’ he persisted.

  ‘We are first cousins, Dickon, far too closely related for it to be possible even if we were to consider such a thing as marriage, which of course we never would.’

  Charlotte had long since grown used to Dickon’s crushes, which altered as easily as the waxing and waning of the moon. He was an innocent romantic where young women were concerned, his knowledge of the world stopping abruptly short after the tending of his cows and sheep. ‘One day you will find a beautiful young maiden to love. Who knows, perhaps one will come to my party?’

  Charlotte smiled at him, trying to give Dickon confidence for she felt that this was his chief problem. Riddled with shyness, he held himself in such contempt that he never ventured out into society to meet any young ladies. And, at five and twenty, it was long past time that he did.

  But Dickon only looked sulky. ‘Don’t want anyone else,’ he declared, and Charlotte couldn’t help giving a little sigh of weariness.

  ‘How can you know till you go out and about and look?’

  ‘You don’t like me, do you?’ he accused.

  ‘That is quite untrue, Dickon, and you know it,’ Charlotte said. ‘I like you very much.’

  ‘Molly doesn’t.’

  ‘Yes, she does.’

  ‘She don’t,’ he protested, growing agitated. ‘She told me to go away and not bother her no more. She said, go to Miss Charlotte, if that’s what you want, and it is. I love you, Charlotte, and if you’ll only say the word I’ll ask Father if we can be wed. Then you won’t ever need to leave the farm.’

  Charlotte gasped, her heart skipping a beat. ‘Leave the farm?’ she whispered. It was the only part of his little speech which she really took note of. ‘Why should 1 do that? This is my home.’

  ‘I heard Father telling Alice that you are to go away. But I don’t want you to. Don’t go, Lottie.’ Dickon lay his head upon her lap, and absentmindedly Charlotte smoothed and straightened the rusty coils of his tousled hair, removing the bits of straw which had lodged there, while she considered this new and astounding information.

  ‘Perhaps I am not to have any say in the matter.’ Charlotte spoke through lips gone stiff with fear. Never in all her wildest fears had she imagined being made homeless by Uncle Nathan.

  Dickon lifted his head to peer closely into her face. ‘Are you crying, Lottie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You do like me, after all, don’t you? You’re crying because you’ll have to leave me, is that it?’

  Charlotte wasn’t listening. ‘How can I be sent away? Tomorrow is my birthday. Where would I go? You must be mistaken, Dickon.’ The tears shone with her fear, but pride would not let them fall.

  ‘Don’t cry, my lovely Lottie. I’ll look after you. Kiss me and we will plight our troth.’ And, before Charlotte could take evasive action, Dickon had clamped his arms about her and planted his large wet mouth over hers. They rolled together in the hay, locked in an embrace which Charlotte could not break for her arms were trapped between their two bodies. All she could do was to beat her legs in futile despair as the kiss went endlessly on.

  ‘I beg your pardon for interrupting, but the door was open and I am seeking a Mr Nathan Pierce.’ Charlotte found herself released from the punishing grip as Dickon turned to the voice and, as she followed his wondering gaze upwards over shapely booted calves and coat in the finest of blue cloths to the source of it, she let cut a little gasp of dismay.

  Chapter Two

  For the first time in her life Charlotte was struck utterly speechless. If in her fantasies she had ever imagined meeting such a man, it had not been in these circumstances, with Dickon proving more of a nuisance than usual.

  The tall, good looking stranger, most handsomely attired in the very latest many caped blue coat with matching stock and flat topped hat, which, she noted, he did not remove, seemed as out of place in the hay barn as a racehorse in a cart shaft. Charlotte felt suddenly very dusty and decidedly dowdy in her striped poplin overdress tucked up over a faded muslin gown, for all the fineness of the lace kerchief modestly tied about her neck and shoulders. It did not help either that she had covered her only good feature, her mane of’ nut brown hair, with a large mob cap more serviceable than pretty.

  With scarcely a scrap of dignity left to cling to, Charlotte scrambled to her feet. Dickon, she noticed, remained sprawled in the hay, mouth a gaping oval of astonishment.

  ‘I did knock. But you were both too busy to notice.’ A pair of quizzing charcoal grey eyes laughed down at her and Charlotte felt her cheeks redden with fresh embarrassment. He took her for a dairymaid enjoying a frolic.

  ‘I’m sorry. This is only Dickon ... It was not. . .’ Her halting explanations came to an abrupt end as she saw only an increase in his amusement.

  ‘I am sure it is none of my business,’ he drawled. ‘I would not have interrupted you and your lover for the world, had I known. However, on learning I had received an invitation to a celebration here tomorrow, night, I was anxious to do the courteous thing and accept personally. The housekeeper believed that Mr Pierce might be here in the yard. Evidently not.’

  A smile tilted one corner of the wide mouth in an expressive quirk as if by way of apology. And thick silky brows, almost as black as the unpowdered hair drawn into a queue and tied behind his neck, lifted questioningly.

  The man was evidently enjoying her discomfiture hugely. His arrogant smile was beginning to kindle an anger within Charlotte she found hard to resist, but he had declared himself to be one of Uncle Nathan’s guests so she must curb her tongue whatever it cost her in terms of pride.

  She glanced down at Dickon, wishing he would speak, but she saw that his shyness had tied him into the familiar knot and with a heartfelt sigh of resignation Charlotte attempted to redeem some of her lost dignity.

  ‘Dickon is not my lover. You have it all wrong. He is my cousin, almost a brother to me.’

  If she had hoped that this explanation would resolve the embarrassment she was soon disabused of this notion. Though she had certainly succeeded in dispelling any trace of amusement from the keenly observant eyes, she was astonished to find it replaced by a darkly glowering disapproval.

  ‘Your brother?’ The crisply condemning tone sliced through her like sheet ice.

  ‘N-no, 1 said he was my cousin. It is only that we have been brought up together as b-brother and sister.’ She hated herself for stuttering, but there was something terrible in the appalled expression of disdain upon his cleanly handsome face which set her trembling.

  Charlotte fully understood his reaction, for their behaviour must have seemed most unseemly. How could she explain about Dickon? Not entirely simple-minded, but certainly naive in the extreme.

  ‘Can you be the niece?’

  He made it sound like an accusation and, feeling she needed more substantial support, she gave Dickon a resounding kick upon his ankle. Far from bringing him to his senses, he simply took to his heels and scampered from the barn. Now Charlotte and this intimidating, censorious stranger were quite alone.

  Lifting her chin in defiance, Charlotte acknowledged his accurate guess. ‘My name is Charlotte Forbes, and yes, I am the niece of Nathan Pierce. You say my uncle invited you to my party? He said nothing of it to me.’ There was the faintest hint of incredulity in her tone, but it did nothing to soften the darkness of his for-bidding expression.

  ‘I
am Sir James Caraddon and have promised to escort my grandmother, Lady Caraddon, who enjoys such junketings but felt in need of my company. I can fully understand why.’

  Charlotte watched in helpless horror as his eyes moved impertinently over her body, not simply scanning it, but studying it in intimate detail, removing his hat so that he could adjust his fine head more freely for a better view. Reaching forward, he plucked a piece of straw from a ringlet that lay coiled upon her shoulder. ‘I can also understand why your cousin is so besotted. But, if I am any judge in these matters, tomorrow’s proposed gathering is as much to find you a husband as celebrate a birthday, and I would say on present evidence that it is not a moment too soon.

  Charlotte’s usually fair skin shot with colour and her heartbeat rat-tatted against her ribcage. Worse, her tongue seemed rooted to her teeth and, as she looked up at this giant of a man with his disparaging attitude, she felt like some immoral slut who had crawled out of a bawdy house. `You go too far, sir,’ she said at last in a small choking voice.

  ‘And so, I think, did you.’

  Charlotte gasped. ‘That is the most scandalous untruth. We did not ... Dickon is not quite...’

  She was floundering for words, lost in her own defence. Desperate to pull herself together, she felt herself sinking in that very desperation.

  His disappointment in her made the laugh he gave sound harsh. Determined to be better prepared this time for whatever dreadful female his grandmother had found for him, James’s decision to pay a preliminary call to Caperley Farm had evidently been a wise one. Charlotte Forbes was certainly an improvement on her predecessors. Despite the rumpled, dusty dress and that hideous mob-cap, she presented the picture of charming rustic beauty. The eyelashes which fringed the deliciously sparkling green eyes were dark and entrancingly curled. The rosy lips took on a sensual pout and she held her body with an unconscious knowledge of its slender beauty. Yet despite this seeming innocence he had found her in an intimate embrace, and with a relative of dismaying closeness. Hardly the kind of behaviour one could consider fitting in a young lady of means.

 

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