Waltzing with the Earl

by Catherine Tinley

  ‘I shall take your place, Lord Shalford. Dear Charlotte needs me.’

  Aunt Buxted sat beside Charlotte, and the Earl gave way.

  ‘Oh, my dear, dear Charlotte...’ Miss Langley’s tears were flowing.

  Charlotte could not bear her distress. ‘Please, Miss Langley. You will make yourself ill.’

  Charlotte’s voice sounded weak and small. Miss Langley wept all the more.

  Charlotte kept her left hand in Miss Langley’s—to give and receive comfort. The Earl’s hand was gone from her right, and Mrs Buxted was awkwardly patting Charlotte’s arm. Her aunt looked rather chagrined.

  Charlotte could not bring herself to look at the Earl. Of all those present, he was the one she most wanted to console her—and the only person she could not expect to comfort her.

  The maid returned with tea. Mrs Buxted poured. Charlotte’s hand shook as she took it, making the cup rattle in its saucer.

  ‘Tea?’ said Mr Buxted scathingly. ‘Shalford, what we need here—for medicinal purposes—is whisky.’

  The Earl acquiesced to this, and left the library. As the door closed behind him Charlotte was overcome with a wave of emotion. Her head swam again and she closed her eyes. Unnoticed, her hand slackened and hot tea spilled on her dress.

  The shock brought her back to herself and she jumped up. Mrs Buxted and Miss Langley fussed around her, lifting the fabric away from her leg in case she should be scalded. She felt some pain on her right leg, but it was brief. Strangely, the intense physical sensation was almost welcome, as for a second it distracted her from her anguish.

  The Earl returned with a bottle of golden whisky and a glass.

  ‘What is amiss?’ he asked, frowning. He still looked pale.

  Miss Langley, with many false starts, explained about the tea. Charlotte sat down again.

  ‘Do you wish me to call the doctor?’ he asked, looking directly into Charlotte’s eyes.

  ‘No, no—please do not!’ said Charlotte. The thought of being prodded and poked and disturbed was distressing.

  ‘He can perhaps give you something...’

  ‘No, I do not wish to have laudanum. I will be well.’

  He looked at her intently, then nodded. Without speaking he poured a generous measure of whisky and offered it to her. Their fingers touched briefly as he handed her the glass. She sipped, choking a little as the fiery liquid burned its way down her throat.

  Major Cooke cleared his throat. ‘Charlotte, I know this is difficult for you, but do you know who your guardian was to be in the event of...?’

  She shook her head. ‘I do not know, for Papa never said. Perhaps it is Mr Buxted...’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course! I think I am—but I do not recall exactly,’ said her uncle. ‘Happy to oblige—poor little thing! It really is quite affecting, you know.’

  Mr Buxted, as though Charlotte was not present, proceeded to outline how terrible it must be to be orphaned, and that he would do his duty by the child if his name was indeed discovered to be listed as guardian in Sir Edward’s will.

  Talk of wills and the use of the word ‘orphaned’ was too much for Charlotte. She begged to be allowed to go to her room. No one stopped her, though Mrs Buxted claimed rank as closest female relative and accompanied Charlotte up the wide staircase.

  They disturbed the maid, who was packing the last of Charlotte’s possessions into her trunks. Mrs Buxted shooed her out briskly, bade Charlotte lie down upon the bed, then proceeded to express at great length her shock at Sir Edward’s death, her own emotional reaction to the news, and her surprise that Charlotte—following an initial fainting fit—should now be so stoical in her response.

  ‘For I am sure if I had such bad news—such terrible news—I would wail and cry and be unable to function. I declare it is most unnatural to be so quiet and reserved when you have heard your dear father is dead!’ Wandering to the mirror, she patted her hair. ‘I know my dear daughters would be unable to contain themselves, for they are sensitive, feminine girls. I declare it pains me to think of it—and when I remember how you danced with Lord Shalford, as though you were his equal!...’

  Mrs Buxted was becoming more animated, working herself up, pacing up and down the room. Charlotte felt pain in her hands, where her own fingernails were digging into the palms.

  ‘I am not a vindictive woman,’ her aunt continued. ‘Indeed I am full of Christian charity. But I cannot help but think about the wages of sin, and that “evil pursueth sinners: but to the righteous good shall be repaid”. Yes, all’s changed now. Changed indeed...’

  Charlotte, unable to fathom the workings of her aunt’s mind, turned her head to one side, closed her eyes and tried to imagine that it was all simply a bad dream.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Charlotte stared at her own face in the mirror and wondered why she was not crying. The pain inside her was a tight, hard knot. It radiated out from her chest, making it difficult to breathe, to think, to function.

  It was two days since they had returned to London, and three since Major Cooke’s news. Aunt Buxted had eventually left Charlotte alone, after getting no response to her sermon, and Charlotte had kept to her room afterwards, picking at the food brought to her, wandering aimlessly around the bedchamber and lying listlessly on the bed, struggling with the unreality of it all.

  She had been unable to sleep properly, though she had fallen into a light doze once or twice. The coming of dawn seemed a relief—though how, she wondered, could the birds sing and servants rise to their work when her world had ended?

  Somehow she had endured the farewells and expressions of sorrow from the Fanton family, their guests and the senior servants. She had been reserved and dignified, and had felt far away from all of them. The part of her mind that still functioned had been able to see that some of them were genuine in their concern for her, but she could not allow herself to feel it. She had avoided him as much as she could, for fear he would pierce her armour and allow unwelcome feelings to surface.

  She could not behave normally. The muscles of her face stubbornly refused to form a smile. Humour meant nothing to her; absurdity had no impact. Even social smiles would not come. She felt hollow—as though she were simply an ornament or a piece of furniture. Everyone else had life and colour, whereas she was flat and grey—a shadow.

  The long journey back to London had been as bad as she’d expected. Imprisoned in a jolting carriage with Aunt Buxted, Faith and Henrietta. Trying to shut out their conversation. Giving minimal responses when they spoke directly to her. Surviving it.

  Finally, thankfully, they had turned into Half-Moon Street. As soon as she had been able, Charlotte had escaped to her room, where Priddy—dear Priddy—had been waiting for her. Major Cooke, in search of Charlotte, had called at Buxted House first. Priddy, who was no fool, had surmised what his news was likely to be.

  Priddy had opened her arms and Charlotte—as she had done in times of trouble ever since she was six—had sought comfort in her abigail’s motherly embrace.

  Priddy had shed tears, having had great regard for Sir Edward. Her genuine grief was surprisingly comforting. All the others—the Earl, Miss Langley, Olivia—had felt only sorrow for Charlotte, for they did not know Sir Edward. Priddy grieved Papa’s loss for his own sake, and Charlotte needed that.

  Charlotte herself could not succumb to grief. The tears remained frozen inside her. The song she had sung at Chadcombe reverberated around her head. Let me weep. Let me weep.

  Yesterday had been Charlotte’s birthday. The day would now be associated with this for ever—with pain and loss and sorrow. As a birthday it had meant nothing to her, though she had appreciated the small gifts from the family—some sweetmeats from Henrietta, a friendship sampler from Faith. And Aunt Buxted had given her black gloves and a length of black bombazine.

 
‘You must have it made into a gown, Charlotte, for you cannot be seen until you have appropriate mourning clothes!’

  ‘Mama, since Charlotte’s father has died do we also need to go into mourning? Please say we do not! For I should hate to wear black and miss the balls and routs all because of some man we barely know.’

  ‘Of course not, Henrietta. Sir Edward was the husband of your father’s cousin—hardly a close relative.’

  ‘Thank goodness! Imagine how terrible that would be.’

  Mrs Buxted had ignored this. ‘Charlotte, your father’s lawyer, Mr Ritter, is to call later. Your uncle will send for you when he needs you,’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Buxted.’

  Mr Ritter, a small man with eyeglasses and a sympathetic smile, had had more bad news for Charlotte. Seated in her uncle’s library, with Mr and Mrs Buxted also present, she had learned that Mr Buxted—as anticipated—was to be her guardian until she reached twenty-five, unless she married first.

  She was her father’s sole heir, but the state of his finances was not healthy. The house in Shawfield was indeed mortgaged, with the rental income covering the cost of the debt. Mr Buxted and Mr Ritter, as trustees, would jointly manage it to ensure there was no foreclosure. In another fifteen years, the debt would be paid and she might benefit from the income herself.

  Until then she would have to rely on returns from the small sum deposited in Child’s, along with whatever the Army would give, and any money Papa had banked in Vienna. In the coming weeks, Mr Ritter would write to Sir Edward’s man of business there, if Miss Wyncroft would assist in furnishing his name and direction. She had undertaken to do so.

  After the lawyer had left, Mrs Buxted had had what she termed ‘a kindly word’ with Charlotte.

  ‘You know, Charlotte, this means there will have to be changes. It would not be appropriate to ask your uncle to pay for your personal servants, or to stable a thoroughbred horse.’

  Priddy and Joseph! But they had been there her whole life. And Lusy! Was she to lose Lusy too?

  ‘Now, now, Louisa...’ Mr Buxted had protested. ‘She will still wish to ride, and I would not deprive her of that pleasure.’

  Aunt Buxted had glared at him, irritated by his lack of common sense. ‘She may ride the hack—for you rely on me to manage the household accounts, and if you took any interest in them you would know it would not be economical to keep extra horses that we do not need!’

  ‘Yes, but surely—’

  ‘Please...’ Charlotte had intervened. ‘I do not wish to be the cause of a quarrel between you. I shall be content to ride the hack.’

  ‘I knew you would be sensible, Charlotte. You see, husband, it is all settled.’

  Mr Buxted had shrugged his shoulders helplessly. And so, today was to be her last ride on Andalusia.

  Mr Buxted had found a buyer immediately on mentioning it at his club, he said, for the connoisseurs of horseflesh had all heard about the stunning Spanish mare belonging to the Buxteds’ houseguest.

  He had avoided Charlotte’s gaze as he’d revealed that he had been offered a surprisingly high price for the horse. Charlotte had wondered if he had, in fact, supplemented the amount himself, to help her.

  So here she was, staring into the mirror and wondering why she was still unable to cry. It was Tuesday, and Papa had been gone since Saturday. No, she had heard on Saturday. Papa had died some days ago, while she had been enjoying the pleasures of walking and laughing and dancing—and kissing.

  She did not know exactly when he had died, or how. She might never know. She, better than most, knew how chaotic things could be when soldiers died, simply because it was so commonplace. The Army focussed on counting the deaths and informing the relatives, but many soldiers were simply buried where they fell, with no record of the details. Their families would mourn and wonder and carry the lack of knowledge with them for the rest of their lives.

  Priddy—an excellent seamstress—was still working on the black gown, so Charlotte had been wearing her plainest clothes. Her riding habit was rather dashing for a lady in mourning, but she would cover it with a dark cloak. She needed to get out of the house, so would risk Mrs Buxted’s censure.

  She stood up straighter, as if her aunt was already reprimanding her. Charlotte was alone in life now, and every battle to be fought was hers alone. Papa would not be coming to rescue her from Buxted House.

  Stop! she told herself. Do not make things seem worse than they are.

  Most of the time life was perfectly acceptable in Buxted House. But the contrast with the vast expanses of Chadcombe was particularly taxing, as she had become accustomed to freedom, and to spending much less time with Henrietta and Aunt Buxted. Here, they could not be avoided. She would simply have to endure.

  She sighed at her reflection and considered what she saw. A slim young woman, pale and haunted, with blue eyes that seemed huge in her face. Her father’s eyes.

  She slipped down the stairs quietly, avoiding contact. Biddle was there, and indicated with a gesture to the footman that he himself would open the door for Miss Wyncroft. Charlotte thanked him, aware of the honour.

  Outside, Joseph was waiting, with Andalusia and his own mount. Charlotte felt a pang as she saw Lusy, sidling impatiently, keen to enjoy the treat ahead. Lusy, too, had missed their morning rides.

  Joseph helped her mount.

  ‘Thank you, Joseph,’ she said softly, hooking her knee between the two pommels and checking that her skirt was securely taped to her boot. She was conscious that Joseph, too, would be soon gone.

  ‘My pleasure, miss.’ His voice was gruff.

  She dared not look at him.

  He climbed on to his own horse—the staid Buxted hack that would soon be Charlotte’s mount—then they walked together to Green Park. It was earlier than usual, as Charlotte had awoken before the sun again. The only people in the park were the men working on the fortress that would become the Temple of Concord for the Regent’s peace gala.

  They spent half an hour enjoying the various walks around the park, then Charlotte said, ‘Joseph, I should like to gallop one last time on Lusy. Do you think I could?’

  He looked around. About to advise her against it, he glanced at her pinched, anxious face and changed his mind. ‘Seems to me, Miss Charlotte, there is nobody here to tell tales of you in society. Let her have her head.’

  He had barely finished speaking before Charlotte was off. A skilled horsewoman, riding side-saddle on a spirited mare. They moved together as though they were one creature.

  * * *

  ‘Ho, there!’ Harry hailed Charlotte’s groom as he and Adam trotted towards him. ‘Is that Miss Wyncroft?’

  The groom hesitated.

  ‘Oh, you should not be concerned for her reputation. We would not dream of telling anyone she was galloping in a London park.’

  Thus assured, the man confirmed that it was Miss Wyncroft, though they already knew it.

  ‘We have just called at Half-Moon Street to ask if she would ride today, but she was too early for us,’ said Harry.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Joseph, loyal to his mistress, would say nothing more.

  The Earl, who had not spoken at all, kept his eyes fixed on that small, distant figure.

  ‘She is coming back,’ he said. His voice was strained.

  Charlotte was indeed returning.

  Galloping at full speed was difficult for a man using a traditional saddle. With a side-saddle it was considered dangerous. It was difficult for a lady to signal properly to her horse, as only her left leg was in contact with the animal. If she fell—as ladies sometimes did while galloping—her foot might become entangled in the elaborate side-saddle stirrup, meaning she might be dragged along or trampled by a frightened horse.

  All three men watched tensely until she came close, then breathed
again as Charlotte slowed Andalusia to a gentle trot.

  ‘Good day, Miss Wyncroft.’

  ‘Captain Fanton.’ She nodded to him, then to his brother. ‘Lord Shalford.’

  ‘What the devil do you mean, riding like that? You might have been killed!’

  All looked in surprise at the Earl. He looked pale and grim. His jaw was set in a hard line, and his mount sidled and pranced as he gripped the reins too tightly.

  ‘But I was not.’ Charlotte’s voice was quiet and steady.

  ‘You might have been.’ He glared at her.

  Her chin went up. ‘And exactly what business is it of yours, my lord?’

  He opened his mouth to speak, then clammed it shut. ‘None,’ he offered, after a pause.

  She turned towards home, and they all directed their mounts to follow. Joseph, who was feeling extremely uncomfortable, dropped back a little. As did the Earl a moment later.

  Not accustomed to making polite conversation with Peers of the Realm, Joseph did not speak. Ahead, they heard Captain Fanton make a banal comment to Charlotte about the weather. Charlotte replied with an equally ordinary remark. The stilted conversation did little to dispel the tension. They walked in almost silence to Half-Moon Street, and stopped in front of Buxted House.

  Charlotte slid off before Joseph could dismount to help, and walked round to nuzzle her horse for the last time. She spoke quietly to the animal, kissed its soft nose, and offered a sweet treat from the pocket hidden under her cloak. Andalusia munched contentedly. Charlotte rested her cheek against the horse’s smooth neck for a moment, then stepped away.

  ‘I must go. Good day!’ she announced to no one in particular, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Shoving the reins at Joseph, she turned and ran—actually ran—up the steps.

  The footman, peeping through the glass in readiness, did not anticipate such haste, and she had to wait a moment for him to open the door. As soon as he had done so she entered without looking back.

  ‘The horse is to go today,’ Joseph offered, feeling the need to give some explanation for his mistress’s behaviour. ‘The new owner is to send a groom for her.’