Waltzing with the Earl

by Catherine Tinley

  Hubert was not amused, while Mrs Buxted looked pleased and Millicent pursed her lips.

  Seeing his arm around Henrietta, even momentarily, caused a wave of agony to swell in Charlotte’s chest. Only minutes ago he had been flirting with her! When she’d first met him he had not seemed like a rake, or someone who would play with dalliance without thought for others. Yet here was the evidence of her own eyes. She was so angry she felt that she actually hated him in that moment.

  He must not know! No one must know how vulnerable she was.

  Determined not to watch them as they walked away, arm in arm, she asked, ‘Are there any more strawberries?’ of no one in particular. Her voice was remarkably steady.

  Reverend Sneddon, attentive as always, secured some berries for her, then spoke for quite five minutes about how he could not eat strawberries as they gave him hives. Charlotte could hardly bear it.

  Mrs Etherington, always keen to learn more of interesting afflictions and conditions, was fascinated, and she engaged the Reverend in a discourse about the foods that did not agree with her. The two found an affinity in their distrust of tomatoes, and both felt liver was most efficacious in curing a bilious habit.

  Charlotte tried hard to listen, tried not to think about Henrietta and Adam walking alone together.

  They returned some ten minutes later, with Henrietta in high spirits. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have never been more disappointed. For it is only a couple of old walls, as you see, and they look like a thousand other church walls. The river was pretty, though. If it were not for the excellent company—’ she flashed a sidelong glance at the Earl ‘—I should have been bored!’

  Had Adam looked at Henrietta the way he had looked at her? Had he even, perhaps, kissed her cousin just now? Men, she had often been told, liked to steal kisses at every opportunity. She felt hurt that he could have used her so, and was almost overcome by the unexpected urge to hit him, and then pull her cousin’s hair, just to remove the smirk from her beautiful face.

  ‘Do you enjoy walking, Miss Buxted?’ asked Lady Olivia politely.

  ‘Normally, no,’ admitted Henrietta. ‘But on a lovely day, and with good company, I do.’

  ‘I should be happy to accompany you on a walk, if you wish,’ said Hubert forlornly.

  Henrietta, enjoying her power, smiled condescendingly at him.

  Charlotte concentrated on breathing in, then out. She unclenched her fists.

  ‘Of course I shall walk with you as well, Mr Etherington. But not today.’

  ‘Then tomorrow?’ asked Hubert hopefully. ‘I understand Lord Shalford—’ he inclined his head coldly to his host ‘—accompanied some of the young ladies on a tour of the woods yesterday.’

  Henrietta glanced sharply at the Earl.

  Oh, no, thought Charlotte. I had hoped she wouldn’t find out about that walk. I hope she doesn’t make a scene. I don’t think I could cope with a Henrietta scene right now.

  ‘Indeed?’ asked Henrietta, with a raised eyebrow. ‘And why was I not invited on this cosy walk?’

  ‘It was quite a spontaneous outing,’ said Mr Foxley in a soothing tone. ‘We visited the temple at the far end of the deer park, and then walked through the woods to the main drive.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ said Henrietta. ‘I shall go on this walk tomorrow, if someone will accompany me.’

  Hubert immediately confirmed that he would, and Lady Olivia also offered to walk with her.

  ‘I shall go too,’ pronounced Millicent—to Henrietta’s clear displeasure.

  The Earl had turned to speak quietly to one of the grooms, and so missed the opportunity to commit to the outing. Henrietta frowned.

  ‘Hubert!’ said Mrs Etherington. ‘You must be careful if you walk in the woods. I hope tomorrow will not be damp. He had a bronchial condition when he was a child, you know,’ she confided in Miss Langley.

  During the ensuing litany, in which Hubert’s devoted mama recollected the various conditions that had characterised his childhood, Charlotte noticed that Faith was looking flushed and uncomfortable, and kept closing her eyes tightly. Mr Foxley had also noticed, and took the opportunity to speak to Faith quietly. She looked at him gratefully and answered in a low voice. Mr Foxley stood, and assisted Faith to rise.

  Charlotte also stood, and made her way to the pair. ‘Faith,’ she said quietly, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Faith. ‘It is just—I have the headache.’

  ‘I think perhaps Miss Faith has had too much sun,’ said Mr Foxley solicitously.

  Charlotte glanced around. The sun was now directly overhead, and there was very little shade to be seen.

  ‘Perhaps...the coach?’ suggested Mr Foxley.

  ‘Of course!’ said Charlotte. ‘Mr Foxley, could you bring some lemonade for Faith?’

  He agreed immediately, and Charlotte accompanied Faith to the closed carriage. It was stifling and airless inside, but offered Faith blessed relief from the bright sun.

  Faith was suffering greatly, with her fair complexion offering her no protection from the noonday heat. Unlike Henrietta and Millicent, she had no parasol, and had been exposed to the full force of the sun during the journey to Waverley.

  Once inside the coach, she pressed her hands to her head and began rocking gently back and forth. Charlotte, upset by poor Faith’s obvious distress, spoke calmly to her, and deployed a chicken-skin fan which she found behind the squabs. She was relieved to have something to divert her attention from her own troubles.

  Mr Foxley soon arrived, with a large jug of lemonade and a drinking cup. Charlotte thanked him, and held the cup while he filled it.

  ‘Here, Faith,’ she said. ‘Drink this.’

  ‘I feel sick,’ said Faith.

  ‘It is the heat,’ said Charlotte. ‘Take small sips, so it does not upset your stomach.’

  The Earl arrived, and joined Mr Foxley at the door of the carriage. ‘What is amiss?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘She has a headache,’ said Charlotte. ‘We need to get her indoors.’

  ‘We could take her to an inn,’ said the Earl. ‘There is one only a few miles away...’

  ‘No, no,’ said Faith. ‘Please—I should like to go back to Chadcombe.’

  ‘But the journey...’ said Mr Foxley. ‘Are you sure?’

  She looked at him plaintively. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘take me back.’

  ‘Of course, my little love,’ he said softly.

  Charlotte stood. ‘Mr Foxley, can you take my place here for a few minutes?’

  The Earl handed her out of the coach, and Mr Foxley entered to sit by Faith’s side.

  By unspoken agreement Charlotte and the Earl moved a few feet away, allowing the couple a brief moment of privacy.

  ‘Does Mrs Buxted know?’ asked the Earl, indicating the couple in the coach.

  ‘I do not believe so,’ said Charlotte. ‘Faith and Mr Foxley have kept their feelings well-hidden before this. And my aunt does not focus much on Faith.’

  ‘I shall ask the grooms to fetch water from the river, so we might dampen some cloths for Miss Faith. It may give her some relief.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charlotte gratefully. ‘Will the party split, or shall we all go home?’

  He looked at her, an arrested expression on his face.

  ‘Home? Yes, home...’ he said cryptically.

  ‘Lord Shalford?’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Do you...like Chadcombe?’

  ‘Very much. It is a special place.’

  ‘I am glad.’ He smiled.

  ‘Adam! What’s amiss?’ Harry was approaching the carriages, with Lady Olivia and Henrietta.

  The Earl turned to face the newcomers. ‘Miss Faith is unwell. She wishes to return to Chadcombe.’

 
Henrietta spoke sharply. ‘Nonsense! Faith is never unwell. Why, Mama will tell you I am the one who becomes ill. I have a frail disposition.’

  They all looked at her. She was the picture of health, and a vision of beauty—apart from the petulant expression she wore.

  ‘We cannot go home yet. Why, we have only just finished our picnic.’

  Charlotte felt compelled to intervene. ‘Faith is indeed unwell. She has heatstroke, which I have seen before.’

  ‘She is only trying to be interesting, and to take everyone’s attention for herself.’

  Lady Olivia looked shocked at Henrietta’s words. Her brothers, who had had more contact with Miss Buxted, merely looked disgusted.

  Charlotte, anxious for Henrietta not to damage herself further, appealed to the Earl. ‘Cold water from the river would be most helpful.’

  He bowed ironically at her imperious tone. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He hailed a groom and passed on the instruction.

  The rest of the party had reached them and were now gathering around, expressing loud sympathy for the stricken Faith.

  Mrs Buxted, loath to miss any drama, proclaimed, ‘I must go to my child,’ and replaced Mr Foxley in the coach.

  Reverend Sneddon agreed that he would of course give way, and would travel back to Chadcombe in the landau. Miss Langley asked one of the grooms to tear up a white tablecloth used for their picnic.

  Everyone was ignoring Henrietta. Too late, Charlotte recognised the danger signs.

  ‘Lord Shalford!’ Henrietta’s tone was sharp.

  Everyone had started climbing into the carriages, and the Earl was speaking intently to the coachman.

  ‘There is something I particularly wished to ask you. That is, Lady Olivia and I wished to ask you—’ She signalled frantically to Lady Olivia, who looked confused.

  ‘One moment, Miss Buxted,’ said the Earl, continuing to give instructions to the coachman.

  Henrietta looked outraged.

  Charlotte spoke to her quietly, attempting to soothe her. ‘Henrietta, as you see Lord Shalford is busy. Perhaps later...’

  ‘No! Not later! And he is not busy with anything important. Why, he is talking to the coachman. How dare he ignore me in favour of a servant?’

  Adam approached, behaving as though he had not heard Henrietta’s last statement. ‘Now, what is it you wish to say to me?’ He looked pained.

  Henrietta employed her most winsome smile. ‘Lord Shalford, we are leaving next week, and we have all had a lovely time at Chadcombe. Lady Olivia and I were talking yesterday—’

  She threw an impatient glance at Olivia, who shook her head urgently.

  With a disgusted look at her accomplice, Henrietta continued. ‘Do you not think it would be a splendid idea if we were to have a ball at Chadcombe?’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ he said curtly. ‘Let me help you into the landau, Miss Buxted. There—now you shall be comfortable.’

  * * *

  Abandoning Henrietta with relief to the prosy vicar and the empty-headed coxcomb, Adam walked away. Today was fast becoming a nightmare. He had even been deprived of his chance to tease his sister about the possibility of a ball by Henrietta’s inappropriate timing.

  He shook his head, trying to deny the unwanted thoughts that threatened to overpower him again. The contrast between Henrietta and Charlotte had been particularly noticeable today.

  It had seemed so right, so natural, when Charlotte had referred to Chadcombe as ‘home’. He knew that she would love it, and already understood what a special place it was. He had barely tolerated the walk with Henrietta, who was irritating him more and more. All the while he had made polite conversation, and deflected Henrietta’s obvious attempts at flirtation, he had been keen to get back to Charlotte’s company again. He had felt lost.

  Adam’s groom gave him a leg-up—the others were mounted already—then the party moved off.

  Mr Foxley stayed beside the coach, watching as his beloved’s head was bathed with wet cloths by Miss Langley, for Mrs Buxted was too distressed to minister to her. His anxiety was high, for he could see Faith was in much pain.

  * * *

  If the journey home had seemed long to Adam and Charlotte, for Faith it had been interminable. She told Charlotte afterwards how her head had pounded as though it was a drum and someone was beating her with huge drumsticks—from the inside! She had kept sipping lemonade, and managed not to be sick, and the cool cloths and soft hands of Miss Langley had helped immeasurably.

  But, she confided through her pain, inside she had felt happier than she had ever been. He had called her his little love! He had! Surely Charlotte had heard him!

  Sitting by her cousin’s bedside, Charlotte quickly reassured her. Yes, Mr Foxley had said exactly those words.

  Faith smiled weakly. Charlotte felt like crying—and she didn’t know why.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Colonel Sir Edward Wyncroft was tired. Tired of war, tired of France, tired of a nomadic lifestyle. Now that retirement was so close he realised how much he wanted to go home. The days could not pass quickly enough.

  He had led his men through France, where most had boarded ships to England. A few had remained in France and others, once they’d had their prize money, had left to explore parts of Europe before returning home.

  After Paris he’d been part of the British group accompanying Napoleon through France to the ship which had taken the former Emperor to his exile in Elba.

  In each town they’d passed through, the reactions had been varied. At first, when Napoleon had been accompanied by his own Imperial Guard, the cry had been, ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ but later, when the royalist Allies had formed his escort, the French people had called out, ‘Vive le Roi!’ The angry crowds had become more intense as the journey had progressed, and the erstwhile Emperor had been a trembling idiot by the end, fearful of his shadow and agonising over how he should disguise his identity in order to escape the mob.

  After watching Napoleon board the frigate Undaunted at St Tropez, Sir Edward had made the laborious journey to his base in Vienna, where he’d dealt with matters of business and arranged for a coachful of luggage to be sent to his barracks in London. Now—finally—he was on his way home.

  He was looking forward to seeing Charlotte again. He missed his daughter’s lively opinions and insightful warmth. Her letters were full of vivid description, but they reminded him of how much he missed her. She seemed happy enough in England, and was always respectful when speaking of the Buxteds, but Sir Edward had a fairly clear notion of how things stood.

  Her tales of the young men she had met intrigued him. These Fantons seemed to feature in many of Charlotte’s letters. He’d spoken to Captain Fanton’s commander, who had had nothing but praise for the young officer. And Charlotte was grown up now—he supposed she would leave him one of these days to make a home of her own.

  Feeling suddenly old, Sir Edward came back to his surroundings and surveyed the road ahead. Something was not quite right. At first glance all looked well. They had left Reims a few hours earlier, and the next major town was Laon. It was now close to sunset, so they were looking for somewhere to stop for the night.

  Travelling with Sir Edward was Captain Foden of the Fifteenth, and a couple of Light Dragoons—Mercer and Hewitson. Their destination was Calais, where they would find a ship to take them across the Channel.

  Dressed in their uniforms, they had been immune from attack so far. The usual bandits who preyed on travellers tended to avoid any group of armed soldiers on horseback.

  Sir Edward’s attention was drawn to a copse ahead on their left. Was someone there? He thought he detected movement... At the point at which an attack would surely come he tensed, but nothing happened. After they passed, Sir Edward saw a dark figure slink off through the trees, but said nothing. W
hoever the lurker was, he had thought better of attacking them. Some less fortunate traveller might not be so lucky.

  Twenty minutes later, with the light fading, a dilapidated hamlet came into view. There were two inns, the larger bearing a metallic sign with a faded image of a red-haired child and the legend ‘Charlotte de Valois’.

  Taking this as an omen, Sir Edward indicated the inn. ‘Let us try this one first.’

  They dismounted easily, well used to life in the saddle. Mercer and Hewitson remained with the horses while Sir Edward and Captain Foden went inside. They emerged after a few minutes with good news.

  ‘Well, boys, they have a room for us. Flea-ridden, possibly, but we’ll have a roof over our heads tonight.’ Sir Edward took his horse’s reins from Mercer. ‘And they have promised to kill a couple of chickens and a piglet for our dinner.’

  All took heart from the promise of a cooked meal, for they had been travelling most of the day, keeping a steady pace so as to spare the horses. They saw their animals rubbed down and fed in the stables, before entering the inn with their saddle-packs.

  In darkness, the inn looked much cosier. A small fire was lit in the huge fireplace, though the night was warm, and a group of farm workers were drinking ale in the taproom.

  The four soldiers chose a table in the corner, which allowed them to keep a watchful eye on the rest of the room. It was hard to forget that until a few short weeks ago they had been at war with the French. The landlord came with foaming beer for all of them, setting it down without speaking. Ignoring him, they sat quietly, enjoying the light of the fire, the cool beer, and the fact they were not on horseback.

  A scrawny old man with tattered clothing eyed them intently, listening to their conversation. ‘Anglais?’ he asked, in strongly accented paysan French.

  They confirmed this, at which point he launched into a tirade of vitriol against foreigners, Englishmen, murderers and thieves. Ignoring the sentiments, they shooed him away, but paid the landlord for a drink for him. He continued to mutter malevolently in their direction—although he still accepted the drink.