Waltzing with the Earl

by Catherine Tinley

  A timely reminder!

  Giving the Earl a brilliant smile, Henrietta took his hand and rose.

  Murmuring some excuse to Miss Langley, Charlotte slipped through the nearby open door into the blessed coolness of the terrace. Behind her, the musicians struck up a country dance. Charlotte couldn’t resist one last look at the Earl and Henrietta.

  His attention was entirely fixed on her cousin, chatting and apparently flirting with her. Charlotte’s throat swelled with pain, and a film of tears half blinded her. She turned towards the gardens, away from the tender scene, though the image of their togetherness came with her, burned into her inner vision.

  The night was mild and dry, and the wind that had whipped up dust along the terrace earlier had now subsided. Charlotte dashed away the unwanted tears. As her eyes became accustomed to the starlight she began to make out shapes and outlines in the gardens. That was the archway of rose bushes over the main path, and that was the top of the fountain of Eros, in the centre of the pathways.

  On impulse, she left the terrace to walk in the silver darkness of the rose garden. By now she knew every turn in the paths and found her way easily to the wooden bench where she had enjoyed many happy hours these past weeks, reading and reflecting.

  She sat for a while, allowing silent tears to fall. Angry tears...tears of pain and of loss. The fountain burbled and splashed, and an occasional breeze rustled the leaves. Somewhere a vixen called. In the end the tears stopped, and she felt only empty.

  It was strange to think she had only one more day at Chadcombe, for she loved the place. She might never be back—unless her cousin married the Earl.

  She stood up. She had been out here long enough. She ought to be getting back.

  Moving easily back towards the house, she had almost reached the edge of the rose garden when she suddenly collided with the Earl, who was walking purposefully towards it.

  ‘Miss Wyncroft.’ He held her arm to steady her. ‘So here you are! Is anything amiss?’

  He must not know.

  She forced herself to speak calmly. ‘No, I was just enjoying a short time away from the heat of the ballroom. I am going back now.’

  ‘A wonder I did not take you for a thief, lurking around in the darkness like this.’

  The light from the house was behind him, throwing his face into shadow, but she could hear humour in his voice—along with something darker.

  ‘To be truthful,’ he continued softly, ‘today someone stripped my garden of its most beautiful flowers.’

  She shivered, unable to resist the warmth in his voice. She should leave. Right now. Where was the anger and hurt she had felt half an hour ago, when she’d left the ballroom? But she might never have a moment alone with him again. How weak he made her.

  She heard herself reply to him, and idly wondered at how calm she sounded. ‘And have you caught this audacious thief?’

  His eyes were as dark as midnight in the starlight, and the heady scent of roses surrounded them.

  ‘I have caught her now, and I demand a forfeit.’

  Slowly, allowing her time to pull away if she wished, he bent his head towards hers.

  This time she knew what to expect, and met his lips with an enthusiasm which surprised them both. If this was all she would ever have she would make the most of this kiss.

  Seemingly much moved, he put both arms around her and pulled her close, deepening the kiss. She was lost in a dream, where the only reality was him, his kiss, his warmth, his intensity.

  ‘It was just so damned hot in there, and I have had my fill of dancing, Foxley. I—Good God!’

  The Captain’s voice carried clearly to the Earl, who immediately ended the kiss. Charlotte, greatly confused, looked up to see the Captain and Mr Foxley standing a few feet away.

  ‘Well, dear brother,’ said the Captain, recovering his composure. ‘Am I to wish you happy?’

  He thought they were to be married! Mindful of the speculative glances in the ballroom, and now this, Charlotte was horrified. The Earl might be trapped into an unwelcome match with a lady of no great fortune—herself!

  She made haste to correct the Captain’s misunderstanding. ‘Oh, no! Please do not say so! It was nothing—I mean, I was just—I mean—no!’

  She stole a glance at the Earl. He looked grim, his face as unyielding as stone. And why should he not? He was close to being trapped for life over what she was sure was for him a light flirtation. She could not do that to him. She loved him too well.

  ‘Please do not speak of this to anyone, for nothing happened.’ Her voice cracked, and she looked at them all pleadingly.

  ‘Of course...of course,’ said Mr Foxley.

  ‘I must go!’

  The Earl did nothing to stop her.

  * * *

  It seemed to Adam he had never seen her so agitated. She had coped with the incident with the poachers with more calm than this. The thought of marrying him was abhorrent to her, it was clear. So he did not protest when she left them, in a flurry of white gauze and distress, to return to the house.

  ‘I thank you, Harry,’ he said stonily. ‘You have outdone yourself.’

  The Captain had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Sorry, Adam. But how was I to know you would be in the garden kissing girls at your own ball?’

  ‘Not “girls”. Miss Wyncroft.’

  ‘Kissing Miss Wyncroft, then. Though I confess I would have been mightily shocked to catch you kissing anyone else, for you two have been smelling of April and May these two weeks and more.’

  ‘I shall thank you to keep your opinions—and this incident—to yourself.’

  ‘Of course! Never a word of it shall pass my lips.’ He nudged Foxley—hard—in the ribs.

  ‘Er...nor mine.’

  ‘Good!’ The Earl stalked off.

  ‘Well. I have never seen your brother so animated.’

  ‘Nor I, Foxley. Nor I.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  A curious lethargy pervaded Chadcombe on the day after the ball. Not among the staff, who were busy from early morning, clearing up and cleaning. But for the guests—and for some of the family—there was a sense of change, of endings, and the foreboding of goodbyes.

  The guests slept late, with most having reached their beds just before sunrise.

  Charlotte woke to the hiss of rain and the muted tick of the clock on her mantel. Surprised to find it was almost noon, she sank back on her pillows for a moment’s reflection.

  She loved him!

  Of course she did—it was blindingly obvious to her now. No other man had occupied her thoughts as he did. She felt an affinity and a closeness with him akin to the intimacy she shared with only a few people—her father, Priddy, Juliana.

  Yet her feelings for the Earl went beyond warm friendship. She was intensely attracted to him—the thought of his handsome face and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled had the power to make her insides melt and her pulse race.

  She was not blind to his faults—she still remembered how arrogant he had been towards her at first, and how he had flirted ruthlessly with her as well as courting Henrietta and Millicent. Deep down, though, her heart told her he was a good man, trying to do the best he could with his life.

  The reason she was sure beyond doubt that what she felt for him was love was that she wanted only what was best for him. Even if it meant she could not share his life. Caught in a compromising position such as last night’s kiss, she was sure Henrietta or Millicent would have created a drama, to make certain they secured an offer of marriage from the Earl.

  Charlotte, raised with a sense that honour was higher than self-interest, could not. She had done all she could to reassure Harry and Mr Foxley that what had happened was trivial—no one should be forced into marriage because of a kiss, f
or heaven’s sake!

  Despite their friendship, he probably viewed their flirtation as a light pastime, to endure no longer than her stay at Chadcombe.

  She recalled his tone as he teased her about being a thief and demanded a forfeit... Yes, to him, this was simply an amusing, entertaining way to spend a summer. He would expect her to walk away as unaffected as he would be himself. As she had been, she reflected, after her flirtations with the Italian Count and the young officer in Vienna. She had enjoyed flirting, the thrill of gaining their attention, yet she had kept her heart untouched and had walked away with a smile and a pleasant memory.

  Not so this time. Loving him was her fault and her responsibility and she would bear the consequences. She would not accuse him of playing fast and loose with her heart by deliberately trying to make her fall in love with him, as some rakes did. The Earl was no rake, and he could not know the devastating impact of what he would have thought a light flirtation. The fact that she loved him was because of all he was, not what he did.

  His duty to his family and to Chadcombe meant he should marry someone who could bring increased wealth to its legacy. That was how marriage worked. Charlotte could not be said to be offering anything to Chadcombe, and Adam—the Earl—would be criticised for not marrying well.

  ‘Adam.’

  She said his name aloud, just to feel it in her mouth, hear it in her bones. It sounded strange in the quiet bedroom. She suddenly felt sad.

  Shaking herself out of it, she rang for a maid and asked to have nuncheon in her room. Today was not a day for the dining room. Afterwards, dressed in the elegant green crêpe dress she had bought in London, she ventured downstairs. The maid—one of the new ones, recently hired in London—was to start packing her trunks, apart from the dresses she would need today and her travelling clothes for the journey to Buxted House tomorrow.

  Faith, suffering with burdens of her own, was the only guest interested in walking in the rain. Mr Foxley had gone for a final day’s fishing with Mr Buxted.

  ‘Papa insisted,’ she said, looking glum. ‘Fishermen like the rain.’

  Donning long pelisses and stout walking boots of kid leather, the young ladies decided on a turn around the gardens rather than heading for the woods. Following the drama of the poachers, Faith was still nervous of walking without a gentleman to protect them—and Mr Foxley had made her promise she would not venture far without him.

  ‘Shall we go through the rose garden?’ she suggested as the footman opened the front door.

  Charlotte blushed slightly, remembering last night. ‘Er...no. Let’s walk along the stream today, for we have not done so in days.’

  ‘Good morning, Lord Shalford!’ Faith hailed the Earl.

  He was approaching the house on his tall stallion. A misty rain was falling, glistening on his coat and adding droplets to his dark hair. It was not clear to Charlotte if he had heard their conversation.

  ‘Are you well today, ladies?’

  The Earl was polite, but distant. His eyes searched Charlotte’s face.

  Both ladies, lifting the hoods of their pelisses to cover their hair, confirmed that they were in good health. There was a short silence. Charlotte could not think of what to say. The Earl seemed similarly lost for words.

  ‘Thank you for the ball,’ offered Faith. ‘It was most enjoyable.’

  ‘I am glad you enjoyed it, Miss Faith. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return Volex to the stables. I have much work to do today.’

  Faith and Charlotte watched him go. ‘Well!’ said Faith. ‘I wonder what ails Lord Shalford today? He is not normally so curt. And he did not suggest joining us on our walk, as he normally would.’

  ‘He said he has work. The ball may have been keeping him from matters of business.’

  ‘Indeed. I am glad we ladies do not have to worry over such things.’

  Charlotte offered a non-committal answer, and steered Faith towards the gardens. They walked along the pretty path bordering the stream. The greenery was more intense in the light rain, and Charlotte marvelled again at England’s lush beauty.

  They saw a heron, and a brown otter, and glimpsed what they thought was a kingfisher. The rain eventually stopped, so they lingered longer than they had intended. Charlotte was determined to imprint every memory of Chadcombe in her mind. In years to come, she wanted to be able to remember this place—how it looked, smelled and sounded, and how she’d felt. It was all she would have.

  She might have meandered through the misty gardens for hours, but Faith had spotted in the distance that her father and Mr Foxley were returning to the house, so they turned back.

  They were still a good half-mile away, so it took them nearly fifteen minutes to get there. As they neared the building they noticed an unfamiliar travelling coach outside the main door. The head groom was hurrying towards it to offer assistance, but it seemed its occupants had gone indoors shortly before. Charlotte did not recognise the insignia on the door, but standing with the driver was a young man in regimentals.

  ‘Could it be one of Captain Fanton’s friends?’ asked Faith.

  ‘Possibly.’ Charlotte had had a better thought. Could it be her own, dear papa? It would be so good to see him, today of all days. He would take her to London—away from everything.

  Stepping inside, she hurriedly removed her pelisse. The footman brought her slippers, and she swiftly unbuttoned and removed her boots.

  ‘Do we have visitors?’ she asked the footman.

  He was spared from answering by the arrival of Merrion.

  ‘Miss Wyncroft,’ he said, with his usual impassive demeanour. ‘Your presence is required in the library.’

  Her heart leapt. It must be Papa! Leaving Faith behind, she hurried along to the library, failing to notice how Merrion’s gaze followed her.

  The library, with its comfortable leather chairs, velvet sofas, warm wooden panelling and hundreds of books, was one of her favourite rooms. She had spent many hours there on rainy days, enjoying everything from gothic novels to fables, though she had found some of the more ‘improving’ texts a little dry.

  She opened the door, which creaked slightly. Her first thought on entering was a sense of surprise at the number of people in the library. There was Mr Buxted, his wife beside him, immediately opposite the door. Miss Langley was by the windows, pacing agitatedly. And the Earl dominated the room, standing tall and immobile in its centre. He looked strangely pale. Was he ill?

  Facing the Earl, in regimentals, was a man with his back to Charlotte.

  ‘Oh, Charlotte!’

  Miss Langley sounded upset. Why was that?

  The man in regimentals turned. It was not Papa. It was—

  ‘Major Cooke!’ Charlotte was surprised to see Papa’s friend and colleague.

  The Major approached. ‘My dear Charlotte.’ Reaching out, he took both her hands, then paused, a crease between his eyebrows.

  A dreadful feeling swamped Charlotte. Suddenly she knew she did not want to hear what he had to say. Her mind froze, and she was barely aware that he drew her into the room and seated her on the edge of the green sofa.

  ‘You must be brave, my dear. I have bad news...the worst news.’

  Her eyes were fixed on his face, which seemed to grow and shrink as her vision distorted. His voice, too, suddenly seemed faint and far away.

  She picked out some words.

  ‘Died... France...attacked...duty...’

  She heard another voice—her own, though from far away. ‘Nooooo!’ It was a high-pitched wail.

  The edges of her vision began to go black...

  * * *

  The sharp smell of ammonia filled Charlotte’s nostrils. Confused, she tried to move. She was lying on the sofa, and Miss Langley was holding hartshorn under her nose. Weakly, she tried to push it awa
y. In the background she could hear Mr Buxted’s voice, and another—Major Cooke’s.

  ‘They found two shallow graves in the woods—four of them were travelling together. The other two will no doubt be located in the next few days.’

  ‘Shocking, indeed. Do they know who attacked them?’

  ‘No. Bandits, perhaps, or renegades.’

  ‘Papa!’ Charlotte managed, and a rush of shock filled her again.

  Someone was holding her right hand—she could feel the warmth. She turned her head slightly. It was the Earl. His grey eyes pinned hers, filled with sorrow and truth.

  Her hand clutched his, desperation filling her. ‘No!’ said Charlotte, hoping that he—that someone—would agree with her. The Earl would surely save her. Papa could not be—not be—

  ‘I am so sorry, Charlotte.’ His voice was low, deep and sincere.

  ‘Please...this can’t be true.’

  ‘Oh, you poor, dear girl.’ Miss Langley, visibly upset, set the hartshorn down and took Charlotte’s other hand.

  Charlotte could not bear it. She directed her gaze to the ceiling above. There, painted in beautiful pastels, was Venus reclining. The goddess was naked apart from a strategically draped sheet. She lay in languorous ease on a golden couch, a slight smile playing about her lips. Her reclined pose mirrored Charlotte’s own, which struck Charlotte as absurd.

  Nothing was real.

  Charlotte struggled to sit up, then wished she hadn’t. The room was spinning alarmingly, and her legs felt as though they were made of water. Shock, she told herself.

  There was a light scratch on the door. A housemaid entered—summoned, it seemed, by Mrs Buxted.

  ‘Bring some tea,’ said her aunt briskly. ‘Miss Wyncroft has sustained a shock.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ The housemaid, after a glance towards Charlotte, left.

  Charlotte could imagine the speculation among the servants. It was easier in this moment to concentrate on that, not to think about—