He had decided not to overwhelm her with talk of how much he loved her. He knew she was sensitive and could be skittish. She had also run away from him in the rose garden, when Harry had thought they were to be married. The mention of their kiss—a sign, he thought, of the powerful connection between them—combined with a reminder of the evils of her situation would be a careful strategy.
Well, so much for strategy. So much for his knowledge of the female mind. His first ever proposal and he had made a complete mull of it!
He kept pace with her, trying to marshal his thoughts, attempting to understand how he could mend things.
‘Miss Wyncroft.’
She would not look up, but he knew she heard him.
‘I apologise if I have offended you. I sought only to help. I do not wish to cause you any further distress.’
On they walked. She did not respond.
‘I shall not mention this again.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was low, her words mumbled.
They rounded a bend in the path. Just ahead they saw the Captain, still with a Buxted sister on each arm. Beyond, the trees opened up to reveal the Chinese Bridge. The trio had not, it seemed, noticed that Charlotte and the Earl had been out of sight for a few minutes.
‘Here we are.’ The Captain indicated the bridge. It was indeed an impressive sight. And a huge pagoda perched on its back, quite four storeys high.
‘My goodness!’ said Henrietta. ‘Look at all the lights hung about it.’
‘They are gas lanterns. I think with so many lanterns, this place will be as bright as Vauxhall during the festivities on Monday.’
‘Well, I do not know anything about that, for Mama says we are not to go to Vauxhall. She says vulgar people go there.’
‘I am rebuked, Miss Buxted.’
‘Oh...’ Henrietta said playfully. ‘You know I did not mean to suggest you are vulgar, Captain Fanton.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
Charlotte heard their conversation break over her. She was having quite the worst week in her life. Following everything that had happened, and Reverend Sneddon’s excruciating proposal today, to have such an insulting offer from the man she—she—
‘Shall we turn back?’ The Earl’s voice was curt.
Henrietta pouted. ‘Must we?’
‘I fear we must.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Actually, I had meant to inform you all—I will be gone from London for a while on business.’
Henrietta pouted. ‘But it will be my birthday soon. And the peace celebrations. Surely you will be back by then?’
‘I cannot say. My plans are not yet fixed.’
The Captain looked surprised, but said nothing.
They all turned away from the Chinese Bridge and its showy pagoda to return to Half-Moon Street. The walk back was long, and—on the part of two of them—extremely uncomfortable.
* * *
Next morning, again at an unfashionably early hour, the Earl called at his godmother’s house. He had to wait for half an hour in her drawing room, as Lady Sophia had not yet arisen when her maid informed her that Lord Shalford had called and was insisting on seeing her.
She eventually appeared, grumbling but intrigued. Her hair was pinned up in a makeshift chignon, but her morning dress of mauve silk was impeccable. Complaining about the cold summer, she added a long shawl, one end of which trailed behind her and almost got caught in the door.
‘Good morning, Godmama.’ He kissed her, then retrieved the shawl, offering it to her as she sat in her favourite armchair.
‘Heavens, Adam, do not be so loud. It is not yet noon, you know. Why do you always visit so early? What do you mean by it? Is all well? Miss Langley? Olivia? Harry?’
‘They are all well, as far as I know.’
‘Then what is it?’ She eyed him keenly. ‘Ah, it is you, Adam? What ails you?’
‘Simply the knowledge that I am a fool, Godmama. I took your advice, you know, in the matter of courtship.’
‘Indeed? Has one of the young ladies touched your heart?’
‘Touched it?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘She has stabbed it, more like.’
‘Now, Adam, do not pout. It does not become you. Tell me first which young lady has claimed your attention? Not Miss Buxted, surely?’
‘Lord, no. It is Miss Wyncroft.’
‘Sir Edward’s daughter?’ She clapped her hands together in delight. ‘You have impeccable taste.’
‘She is a darling, is she not? I cannot conceive how I did not realise it from the first day I met her.’
‘Ah, well, there I have the better of you, for I could see what she was from the minute I met her in this very room.’
‘She was here?’
‘Yes—before they travelled to Chadcombe. The Buxted mother wished to ingratiate herself with me, I think.’
‘That woman!’
‘Such loathing! Why, what has she done—apart from being her usual vulgar self?’
‘Two days ago she asked Miss Wyncroft to perform a servant’s task—in front of me, Harry, Mr Foxley and some woman called Spenborough.’
‘Oh, I have met Mrs Spenborough—as vulgar as Louisa Buxted herself! But poor Miss Wyncroft. Why would the woman do such a thing?’
‘I fear that—what with death duties and whatnot—Miss Wyncroft may not be as comfortably circumstanced as before.’
‘Ah. That is unfortunate. Still, with her charm and intelligence, and—yes—her beauty, she will still be sought after.’
‘She is beautiful, is she not? I think I did not realise at first just how beautiful she is.’
‘I like that, Adam. You see her in her essential self, as I do. Some people would see her as pretty, rather than beautiful.’
‘Really? I do not think so.’
She let this pass, saying, ‘I shall continue my acquaintance with Miss Wyncroft—even if it means tolerating the Buxted woman and her equally vulgar daughters.’
‘Oh, the younger daughter, Faith, is harmless. Colourless, and terrified of her mother, but a kind-hearted little widgeon. She will not imitate her mother’s cruelty.’
Lady Sophia dismissed Faith with a wave of her hand. ‘I have no interest in her. I never did. But—Adam—such a pity my friend Sir Edward is dead. I was never so shocked.’
‘Yes. I called at his regimental headquarters yesterday. They know little about his death, save that he was travelling with three others near Reims. So many have died, they said. It is hard to keep track.’
‘Shocking. I was looking forward to renewing our acquaintance when he retired. He was one of my admirers, you know, many years ago.’
‘You have so many admirers, Godmama, that it is difficult to keep count. But I came to tell you I will be out of town for a short while. I hope to be back for the peace celebrations, though I cannot be sure it is possible.’ He frowned. ‘It would be good if you could call on Char—Miss Wyncroft. I fear she is suffering.’
She noticed the slip, which suggested an encouraging degree of friendship between her godson and Miss Wyncroft. ‘You may trust me. I will do what I can.’
‘I...’ He hesitated. ‘I may have said something that offended her, or upset her. I do not know exactly why—’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I wish only what is best for her. If she does not want me, then I must do what I can for her in other ways.’
‘Not want Shalford of Chadcombe! Not want the biggest prize on the marriage mart? No, do not look at me like that—you must know that I am funning. But are you sure she does not want you?’
‘She said so. I should be honoured to have her as my wife, but I do not think that she sees herself so.’ He stared into space for a moment. ‘Still, I must not give up hope. If I only knew where I went wrong...’
‘What do you mean, Adam? What has happened?’
He would not say more, and refused to be pressed.
He left shortly afterwards, and she thought she must have misheard when she asked him where his destination was.
But it really sounded as though he had said, ‘First, Dover.’
Dover? Surely not...
Chapter Twenty
His sense of hearing came back first. An irritating drip, drip, drip. It wouldn’t stop. Why wouldn’t it stop? Drip, drip, drip. It was slightly slower than his heartbeat, which he could also hear. Or feel. He felt the air in his lungs. Breathe in, breathe out. He was alive, then. For some reason this surprised him.
His head ached. To every beat of his heart, his head answered with a throb of pain. He reached out with his other senses. A smell. Dank air and earth. The metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth. He was lying on a firm surface. His right hand rested on his stomach. He stretched out the fingers carefully, gently. The other hand was twisted slightly underneath him and was painful. He moved carefully to extract it—the arm was sore, but not broken, he thought. He breathed carefully—in, out...in, out. Feeling the space beside him, he touched cool earth, gritty and damp. He was outside, then.
He opened his eyes. No change. Complete darkness. No moonlight, no starlight—nothing. Was he blind? He lifted his right hand close to his face. Close enough to smell it—blood, dirt and sweat—yet he could see nothing. He turned his head—then wished he hadn’t. Pain flooded through him. He touched the back of his head with his hand. A sticky mess.
He remembered. Fighting for his life in that field outside Corbeny. Knowing he was going to die. Mercer to his right, fighting bravely.
‘La guerre est fini!’ he had shouted at the end. ‘The war is over!’ It had seemed to him the greatest irony that he would die in battle after the war had ended.
They had been French soldiers, not bandits, their attackers. He had realised this as he’d been fighting them, had recognised their weapons, their techniques, the way they’d fought together as a co-ordinated unit. Pockets of resistance remained, and the news had not yet reached everyone. Those men included, clearly.
‘La guerre est fini!’
He had tried to look them in the eye as he’d said the words, all the while fighting on, blocking thrusts, staying alive for one more second, one more breath. One man had listened.
‘Halte! Arrêtez!’
The French soldiers, well drilled, had immediately begun to pull back. The man who had spoken—their leader—had been a short, swarthy man in his late thirties. He had been bleeding from a wound on his arm, but otherwise unscathed. Both sides had paused, bloodied and panting, their dead all around them.
‘Do you tell the truth?’ he had asked.
‘I tell the truth. I am a man of honour,’ Sir Edward had replied, gazing at him steadily.
‘He lies, Capitaine Didot!’ one of the others had said. ‘This is our enemy.’
‘I am not your enemy. The war is over.’
‘The war is over,’ Mercer had repeated.
Didot’s eyes had narrowed. ‘I have decided,’ he’d said, ‘that we will take these men as prisoners until we know the truth. Will you come with us as prisoners?’ he’d asked Sir Edward politely.
‘We will.’ Sir Edward had dismounted, and offered his weapons to Didot. Mercer had followed suit.
Didot had taken their swords, along with Sir Edward’s pistol and Mercer’s Paget Carbine. Their fallen colleagues had already been relieved of their weapons, money and, in Foden’s case, his boots.
Sir Edward had looked away.
Didot had spoken to his men. ‘Go and bring the cart from the cottage. You—bury the enemy bodies in the wood. Go to the abbaye to bury our own fallen comrades, who died for France.’
Sir Edward and Mercer had been marched through the trees to the road. Within minutes a cart had appeared, driven by the scrawny old man. He’d spat with disgust when he’d seen the two Englishmen, still alive.
‘Mais les Anglais vivent toujours! Pourquoi? Pourquoi?’
‘Do not question me, old man,’ Didot had said. ‘These soldiers say the war is over. Is that true?’
‘Non! La guerre n’est pas fini!’
‘We thank you for bringing us food these past weeks, while we awaited orders. But the time has come now for us to seek information from our commanders.’ He’d turned to the prisoners. ‘Please climb into the cart.’
Sir Edward had alighted, assisting Mercer, who’d been clutching his stomach. He had moved the shirt fabric aside. His wound had been long, but superficial.
Didot had spoken from behind Sir Edward. ‘We cannot take the risk of letting you see where we are camped. I apologise.’
Sir Edward had suddenly felt a painful blow to the back of the head and had known no more.
And now he was awake, with a sore head and a dry mouth, and he could not see. He carefully moved his aching head in both directions. There. To his left there was a faint glimmer of light. He was in some sort of cave or cellar. He stilled, listening. He could hear, somewhere to his right, the faint sound of someone breathing.
‘Mercer? Is that you?’ he whispered.
No response.
From his dry throat he managed to produce a low, cracked voice. ‘Mercer!’
He was rewarded with a low groan. Moving slowly and carefully, he got himself up into a sitting position.
‘Colonel? Are you awake?’
‘I am. Where are we?’
‘Some sort of cave, I think. They hit me too, so I have no idea where we are. Their Captain—Didot, they call him—asked me to pass on his apologies.’
Sir Edward laughed harshly. ‘Well, at least we are still alive. Have they told you their plans?’
‘Didot has left us in the care of his troops while he travels to his command centre. He admits to being out of contact for weeks—ever since Reims fell—but I think he suspects we have told him the truth.’
‘Good. Let us hope he will return soon, for I have had enough of this war. It still tries to kill us, even after peace has been agreed.’
* * *
Charlotte felt as though she was living through a bad dream that refused to end. Papa was gone and she missed him horribly. This was worse than a normal bereavement, though. The limits of her world had unexpectedly narrowed. She felt trapped by her new life, and tortured herself with memories of what had been—Vienna, Papa, long rides on Lusy, and her time at Chadcombe, when she had still had respect from the Earl.
She was struggling to understand the change in him. She had seen the Earl as an ideal man—a man of integrity. Yet, she knew men of the ton lived by a rigid set of rules regarding the women in their lives. Society made a clear distinction between the high-born sisters, daughters and wives of the upper ten thousand and those of the lower classes. Charlotte’s position, she now realised, was in the grey world between the two.
Although her birth was good, the reduction in status, made so clear by Mrs Buxted, had opened Charlotte’s world to other evils—including the offer from Reverend Sneddon which, at least, had been an honourable proposal. That was as high a husband as someone in her position dared to hope for—a clergyman, or perhaps a lawyer, even someone with a background in trade who wished to ally himself with a gentleman’s daughter.
If she did not wish to marry, then she would spend the next fifteen years living with the Buxteds as a tolerated Poor Relation. She would survive as best she could until the mortgage was paid off on the Wyncroft property, then rent a cottage with the income. Maybe Priddy would live with her. Priddy would be old by then, if she was still alive.
Perhaps, Charlotte thought, she should have accepted Reverend Sneddon after all. No! She shuddered at the thought.
The other offer she’d had that
day should not, she reflected, have surprised her. Her abandoned behaviour—the nature of the kiss she had shared with the Earl—had left her open to such an insult. How was he to know she had never behaved in such a way before? The few previous kisses she’d had had been chaste, innocent encounters—including the first time the Earl had kissed her. No, it was that second kiss, in the rose garden, which had clearly given him a different impression of her and made him think a carte blanche might be acceptable to her.
She was glad he was away on business. The thought of seeing him again terrified her. Despite what he’d said, would he repeat his dishonourable address?
And yet she missed him, too. Missed the other Adam. The one who had walked and danced with her, and conversed with her on every topic imaginable. The one she had thought of as her true friend. But that man was lost for ever. Now she was left with a man who looked like her Adam but was interested in her only as his chère-amie, not his equal.
Buxted House had never seemed so small. She could not escape her aunt and Henrietta. She was forced to spend hours in their company—doing their bidding, coping with their casual cruelties and inane, self-centred opinions. Henrietta, taking her mother’s lead, now frequently asked for Charlotte’s ‘assistance’ when she forgot something, or was ‘too tired’ to do something. Her manner was becoming increasingly brusque, and she openly sneered at Charlotte at times, finding fault with her behaviour, manner and appearance.
Charlotte found herself each day writing responses to their many invitations, and helping Mrs Buxted by darning pillowcases and counting candles with the housekeeper. The requests were always couched in polite language, but Charlotte was left in no doubt about Mrs Buxted’s intentions. Too poor to be a true member of the family, yet too well-born to be treated in exactly the same way as a servant, Charlotte was now doomed to assist Mrs Buxted to earn her keep.
She hated it.
The only time she could feel free and pretend her life was as it should be was when she played music. Thankfully no one had—as yet—stopped her.
She still could not sleep well at night—her room was cold and she was troubled by nightmares. The dreams in which Papa was still alive were the worst, for she would wake with a brief feeling of well-being before remembering.
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