‘Er...yes—we know,’ said the Captain, glancing at his brother. ‘We were in Brook’s when Mr Buxted mentioned she was to be sold. A fine specimen.’
‘Indeed she is, sir. One in a million.’
Joseph was still gazing at the door. The Earl looked at him sharply.
‘We must be gone, Harry. We can call later, when all the family is receiving.’
Captain Fanton assented, and the men rode off. With a heavy heart Joseph led Andalusia to the Buxted stables for the last time.
* * *
‘Charlotte!’
Aunt Buxted’s voice was sharp. Charlotte watched as her aunt descended the stairs.
‘Yes, Aunt?’
‘I am going to replace the hangings in the green bedchamber. It will therefore be convenient if you could move to a different room. Temporarily, of course.’
‘Of...of course. Where am I to stay?’
‘In one of the top floor rooms. I have already had your belongings put there.’
‘I see.’
Her aunt must have had it done as soon as Charlotte had gone out. Conscious of the footman standing impassively to her right, Charlotte kept her face neutral. Her aunt disappeared down the hallway with a self-satisfied air.
With a sense of foreboding, Charlotte climbed the stairs to the top floor. One of the doors was ajar. Peeping inside, she saw a plain room with two small beds which was clearly being used by the housemaids. Stepping back hastily, she knocked on the next door. When no one answered, she looked inside. Her trunks were in this one.
She stepped in and closed the door behind her. The room was cramped and dim, with a small bed, and her trunks were taking up most of the space. The only other objects were an old washstand, a chamber pot and a tiny cupboard. On the corner of the washstand stood a tallow candle—not wax. There was no fireplace.
The room was completely bare of ornament, and the bed linen was almost threadbare. The only source of daylight was a small skylight above the bed.
Charlotte sank down upon the bed, her knees shaking. This was clearly a servant’s room.
She was not concerned with the lack of comfort, for she had been billeted in much worse places during her Army travels with Papa. But the message from Aunt Buxted was clear. She was not worthy of a comfortable room, a fire, or expensive wax candles.
This, now, was her life.
* * *
Wearing black was dreadfully strange, Charlotte thought. Priddy—working tirelessly since she had insisted on taking the fabric from Charlotte—had finished making up the dress. Its cut was severe, with half-sleeves, a square neckline and not a single flounce or trim to lighten its plainness.
Priddy had had much to say about Charlotte’s new room, and her aunt’s cruelty. Charlotte had to ask her to stop, as it was lowering her spirits even further.
It was comforting, though, Charlotte thought, to be marked out as a lady in mourning. It was respectful to Papa, and would give her some licence to be even quieter than usual with visitors. She could not see—although Priddy did—how the tone and severity of the plain black dress accentuated Charlotte’s smooth skin and large, expressive eyes.
Mrs Buxted had ordered a second black dress from her own seamstress, to be paid for out of the money Mr Buxted would receive for Lusy. Charlotte was expected to wear only these two dresses for at least the next six months. She tried not to think about the dozens of fashionable outfits packed into her trunks.
Having the black dress meant she was expected to retake her place in the drawing room in the afternoons, on the days when they were known to be At Home to visitors. Aunt Buxted had made it clear that Charlotte should be available, since visitors must know how warm and charitable her aunt was.
Charlotte braced herself to deal with the curious, the sympathetic and the mock sympathetic. If she could maintain a distant poise she hoped visitors would eventually lose interest in her tragedy.
Town was unusually busy for late July, as many of the ton had returned for the Peace Celebrations to be held under the light of the next full moon. Their fellow guests from Chadcombe had all travelled to London, and would be expected to call in the next few days.
Mr Foxley, Hubert Etherington and Reverend Sneddon all called that afternoon—though Reverend Sneddon looked almost ready to leave again when he saw Hubert ensconced in the drawing room, holding forth on his planned outfit for the festival.
Recollecting himself in time, the clergyman puffed out his chest, bowed to the ladies, and proceeded to offer a convoluted sympathy speech to Charlotte, who tried to listen to it. It was full of Bible quotes and well-intentioned advice, and Charlotte could not bear it. He had even gone so far as to mark out particular passages in the Old Testament he thought might be of particular help to her, and insisted on giving her his copy of the Bible so she might study them.
Since she had no wish to study his helpful passages, she tried hard to dissuade him from this, but he would have none of it.
‘No,’ he said stubbornly, ‘I insist. So many men have been lost in the wars, and each time—as a clergyman—I have tried to give succour to those bereaved in whatever way is most helpful to each individual. Which reminds me—I must speak with Mr Buxted.’
He bowed and left them, leaving Charlotte wondering what he could possibly want to talk to Mr Buxted about. Her uncle was certainly not grieving. Still, at least he had gone. She took up his Bible and pretended to read, thereby discouraging the others from talking to her.
Mrs Buxted was in conversation with one of her cronies—a Mrs Spenborough, who was unknown to Charlotte—Hubert and Henrietta were chatting by the fireplace, and Mr Foxley was in a tête-à-tête with Faith. Charlotte wondered how Faith was coping without seeing Mr Foxley every day. She knew now how it felt to be separated from the man she loved—though the circumstances were different.
She resolved to ask Faith about it later, and then realised that for the first time since hearing her bad news she was able to feel concern for others. In a strange way, she regretted the feeling, for she did not wish to heal or to move on as—in her bereaved mind’s logic—it might mean forgetting about Papa.
Biddle appeared in the doorway, with more visitors on his heels—the Earl and the Captain. They received a warm and vocal welcome from Mrs Buxted, who insisted they sit with her and Mrs Spenborough as she had just been telling her dear friend of the delights of Chadcombe.
Adam and Harry pulled up chairs and obliged, engaging easily in conversation with all three Buxted ladies as well as Hubert and Mr Foxley. Three weeks together at Chadcombe had eased relations between them all.
Charlotte, after standing for the initial curtsey, had returned to the Bible, seated in the corner. She was conscious of having behaved rudely towards the Earl in the park, but was at a loss to know how to apologise to him. Besides, he had provoked her.
Worrying over this, she was only half aware of the conversation going on between the others. She could hear Mrs Buxted prating on about how beautiful Chadcombe was, and how extensive its grounds.
‘There is a beautiful little temple near the woods. My daughters walked there many times. I would have walked too, but for the fact I am crippled with pain in my right knee. But you know, my dear Mrs Spenborough, I am never one to complain.’
This was news to Charlotte. Although she had heard Mrs Buxted complain many times, on a range of topics, she had never heard of anything ailing her right knee. Or her left one.
Talk of the woods, though, could only remind her again of the day the Earl had first kissed her, and she felt a slow blush growing. She stole a glance at the Earl—and found him looking directly at her. Confused, she dropped her gaze immediately.
‘Henrietta is an excellent artist. Of course she did not have much time for art while we were at Chadcombe, because our dear host kept us so well entertai
ned. I do recall, though, that she made an excellent sketch of the house. Henrietta, where is your sketchbook?’
Henrietta, with a more accurate notion than her mother of the level of artistic merit in her sketching, was reluctant.
‘I do not know, Mama. I have not seen it since we returned.’
‘It is on your dressing table,’ said Faith innocently, ‘for I saw it there this morning when I was looking for my blue ribbon.’
Henrietta glared at Faith.
Mrs Buxted was not to be deterred. ‘Faith, ring the bell. I shall ask Sarah to fetch it. No—wait. I have a better notion. Charlotte!’
Charlotte looked up, confused.
‘Would you be so kind as to fetch Henrietta’s sketchbook? It is on her dressing table.’
Charlotte froze, unable to believe what she was hearing. Was Aunt Buxted really asking her to perform a servant’s errand?
‘Charlotte!’ The tone was insistent.
Charlotte, her face burning, set down Reverend Sneddon’s Bible and left the room.
She was entirely humiliated.
* * *
Adam was stunned by what he had just witnessed. Mrs Buxted’s cruelty had been so casual, yet calculated to inflict maximum hurt on Charlotte. She could not have made it clearer that Charlotte had been reduced to Poor Relation by the death of her father. The fact that she had done it in front of a stranger had made it a very public humiliation.
He glared at Mrs Buxted, but she was serenely unconcerned. Henrietta looked gleeful and Faith shocked. Hubert seemed uninterested in Mrs Buxted’s request, and was focused on trying to engage Henrietta’s attention again.
Mr Foxley and Harry both looked grim. It was clear all three of them were of one mind regarding the crass insensitivity of Mrs Buxted and their anger on Charlotte’s behalf. Adam felt so strongly about it he wished to smash something.
A few moments later, Charlotte returned with the sketchbook. The Earl had in the meantime suddenly remembered an urgent appointment, and he and Harry were preparing to leave. Adam simply could not remain in the same house as Mrs Buxted, feeling powerless. There was nothing he could do for Charlotte.
* * *
Charlotte, grateful for the cover provided by their leavetaking, handed the book to Henrietta and made to leave.
The Earl, moving quickly, opened the door for her. Exiting to the upper hallway before Mrs Buxted had quite finished her farewells, he caught Charlotte by the arm.
‘Charlotte—Miss Wyncroft!’
She looked up at him.
‘That woman! How can you bear it?’
He took her hand in his and held it without letting go. His eyes blazed with anger.
Something inside her melted—that cold, frozen place. She treasured his warmth as her eyes caressed his dear face.
‘Because I must. Please, let me go!’ Her voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears.
Reluctantly, he complied. She ran for the second time that day—away from him into loneliness.
* * *
He heard her sobs escaping as she climbed the upper stairs, seeking the privacy and security of her chamber. He stood, paralysed and frustrated. If only there was something he could do.
He waited, half hearing his brother exchanging final pleasantries with the Buxteds and agreeing to return tomorrow to walk with the ladies in the park.
A servant came along the corridor. Adam recognised her.
‘Miss Priddy?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Your mistress needs you.’ He indicated the upper stairs.
Priddy’s brow creased in concern, but she thanked him before hurrying upstairs after Charlotte.
He watched, then frowned as he noticed the abigail continue up past the family floors to the attics. He leaned out and clearly saw her hand on the rail as she continued to the top of the house. Why was she going up there?
Harry emerged—finally—from the drawing room, and they left together.
‘That woman is outrageous. How dare she treat Miss Wyncroft so?’
‘She has no breeding, Harry. Charlotte is trapped here. Buxted is the guardian, yet it is his wife who rules the household.’
Harry shook his head. ‘Can nothing be done?’
‘Something must be done, Harry. It simply must.’
Chapter Eighteen
Priddy found Charlotte on the floor. Grief had finally overcome her and she was engulfed by it. Racking sobs convulsed her body, her tears flowed freely and she was incapable of speech. She knew that she might be heard by one of the servants, but she could not stop. She had never felt more alone.
She lay on the cool wooden floor and sobbed in despair. She was not even sure if she was crying for Papa, for Adam, for darling Lusy, or for herself. Everything was lost—her family, her chance for love, the limited independence she had enjoyed, her status in society. She could see no future beyond poverty, servitude and casual humiliation. She was without hope.
Priddy did not hesitate. She sat on the floor beside Charlotte, stroked her hair and laid her hand upon Charlotte’s trembling shoulder. She uttered soothing, reassuring words, and Charlotte felt their tone even if she could not truly hear them.
Eventually Charlotte climbed into a half sitting position. She clung to Priddy as she had when she was six, when her mother had died. It took a long time for the storm to subside. In the end, Charlotte knew only a quiet emptiness. She felt hollowed out—an empty, fragile shell.
Priddy encouraged her to stand, then to sit on the bed. Her devoted maid helped remove Charlotte’s hairpins, slippers, dress and corset, then fashioned a cover for the skylight, using a thin linen towel. Blessed darkness surrounded Charlotte, and she lay down on top of the bed in her petticoat, closing her eyes.
Priddy secured a small chair from her own room, which she placed in the corner. She would stay, guarding her mistress’s sleep.
* * *
Charlotte slept right through the evening and the night, and woke early the next morning in some confusion. Where was she? Why was she sleeping in her petticoat? Why was she on top of the bedpane—though with a warm blanket over her?
A second later it all came flooding back.
Papa!
Then the rest.
The Earl. Lusy. Priddy. Joseph. A litany of losses.
There was more.
Aunt Buxted’s humiliation of her.
The tears which had so eluded her now flowed again. Memories—layers of them, waves of images, sounds, emotions—overcame her. They were so powerful that they escaped from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
Sniffling, she groped around for a handkerchief. Suddenly she stilled, hearing a soft noise in the room. A moment later the towel was removed from the skylight. Early-morning light fell on Priddy, who was carefully folding the towel and placing it on the washstand.
‘Priddy!’ Charlotte’s voice was husky. Her throat felt dry and raw. ‘Have you been here all night?’
‘Hush, now, child. And where else would I be?’
‘Oh, Priddy, I don’t know how I shall go on without you.’
‘Oh, you poor girl.’ Priddy sat on the side of the bed and offered Charlotte a clean handkerchief. ‘You will go on, for you know your duty and you must.’
‘But what is my future? What use am I?’
‘Now, now, miss! No one can know their future. We simply do what we can with each day we are given. This has affected many lives, you know.’
‘Oh, Priddy, you are right—as you always are. I am sorry to be so focused on myself, when you and Joseph are to go to—goodness knows where.’
‘Well, we are servants, Miss Charlotte. When we are no longer needed we must move on.’
‘But I do need you. It is so unfair.’
<
br /> ‘I know...I know.’
‘I apologise—again. I must stop crying. And I shall. Papa would expect me to be brave. But I feel like a lost child, not a lady of twenty.’ She blew her nose. ‘No, twenty-one. I am twenty-one, Priddy. I wish I were ten again, with none of these grown-up worries.’
‘You will endure, Miss Charlotte. You are the daughter of Colonel Sir Edward Wyncroft. That does not change, even though he is gone.’
Charlotte hugged her. ‘Again you are right, Priddy. I will endure, and I will triumph—although I cannot yet see how.’
Priddy poured her a glass of lemonade. Charlotte sipped slowly, relishing its bittersweet freshness.
‘I shall miss you and Joseph so much. When will you leave? Will you find positions together in the same household, do you think?’
‘Mr Buxted has kindly offered to pay us for two more weeks, which will give us time to find new positions. And it will give you time to adjust before we go.’
Two weeks! Charlotte thought she would never adjust, but did not say so. Instead she sent Priddy to take a few hours’ sleep, then sought the security and comfort of her own small, hard bed again.
She lay awake for a while, conscious that she felt a little better after her storm of weeping. It was as if her eyes had needed to be washed by tears for her to see things clearly. Her life so far had been focused on duty, and on trying to make Papa proud. Her future, she resolved, would be no different.
* * *
The black dress was rather crumpled, but Priddy had done what she could to freshen it. At least Charlotte had the comfort of a clean petticoat. And she had had a bath in her tiny room. The trunks had had to be moved out temporarily, to fit it in.
Priddy had insisted a bath would make her feel better. She had been right.
‘There you are, Miss Charlotte. All done. Your hair is dry and styled neatly, and the dress looks passable. I will clean and press it properly tonight. Now you are ready to go downstairs.’
Charlotte did not feel ready. She had not seen anyone but Priddy since yesterday’s incident, and found her heart quickening with anxiety as she descended to the drawing room.
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