The Charmer

by CJ Archer

  ***

  The rain held off until Susanna reached the Sutton Grange chandler's shop. She could have sent Bessie to the village on her own but the maid didn't like driving the cart and Susanna wanted to greet some of her friends anyway. She'd had little opportunity to go into the village lately and missed them. With Holt helping in the garden, her workload had eased. She still couldn't believe he was going to build a more stable structure to protect her orange trees. Getting the timber for it, plus an extra pair of hands to help, was quite a triumph. She didn't think Jeffrey would acquiesce but he had. Thanks to Orlando Holt. Her gardener was worth every penny it cost her to feed him.

  Heat rippled through her body, right down to her toes, warming her all over despite the cool air. It happened whenever she thought about Holt, about his kiss and the way he'd touched her. She knew she should push thoughts of him aside, knew that thinking about him in her bed would only lead to yet another mistake.

  But it was impossible to ignore him. He was like the taste of an orange—the sweetness lingered long after the last bite. Running errands and chatting to friends was the only way to keep thoughts of him at bay.

  In the chandler's shop, she purchased her candles on credit. "We know you'll pay." Anne Lane, the chandler's wife, handed the box packed with a mixture of wax and tallow candles to Bessie.

  "In the meantime..." Susanna pulled out a jar of orange marmalade from the basket over Bessie's arm.

  "Oh, delicious!" Anne cried, accepting it. "I hear you got some help over at Stoneleigh finally." A gleam danced in her soft brown eyes. She pushed aside a box she'd been packing candles into and leaned on the counter top. Her crossed arms propped up her large bosom. "Quite handsome help too."

  "I suppose so," Susanna said, trying to control the heat rising to her face. "If you like dimples and boyish looks."

  Anne chuckled. "Oh, I like 'em. So does every silly creature in the village. He and that other stranger, Mr. Monk, are all they talk about. Mind you, if the girls had to pick a favorite, I'd put your Mr. Holt ahead. That other fellow's not as amiable, so they say."

  "He's not my Mr. Holt," Susanna said, pretending to be interested in a brass lamp hanging from the ceiling beam above her head. It dangled there among several others for sale, near enough to touch and inspect but not to bang one's head on.

  The chandler's wife chuckled and returned to her task of packing the boxes. Susanna didn't mind her light teasing. Anne might have grown-up children of her own, but she'd been a flirt herself when she was younger apparently. She'd been a kind friend to Susanna's mother, as had most of the village women, and that friendship had naturally extended to Susanna. Her mother had always stopped to chat to the shopkeepers' and farmers' wives when she could. As with Susanna, they had been her only friends in the parish, and Farley hadn't minded his wife and daughter socializing with them. Indeed, he had many friends among the Sutton Grange inhabitants himself.

  Phillip, however, had tried to end her friendships. The village women were beneath the wife of a country gentleman, he said. When she asked him who she was supposed to have for companionship he offered up Margaret Cowdrey. The Cowdreys weren't as gently born as the Lyndens and Farleys, but Phillip tolerated their friendship since the Cowdreys had become richer than both families in recent years.

  Susanna had not ended her friendships, but it had been the cause of many arguments between her and Phillip. Arguments and, once, a slap. It had been that slap across her cheek that ended any lingering affection she'd harbored for her second husband. With that slap, he'd become just like her first husband and that marriage was not one she liked to think about. Ever.

  But Phillip was gone and Susanna was a widow. She intended to take full advantage of her status this time and enjoy the relative freedom that came with it.

  "What do you know of Mr. Monk?" Bessie asked, resting her basket on the counter.

  "I haven't seen him, but I believe he's quite the handsome devil too," Anne said.

  Bessie giggled. "I mean is he friendly? Can he be trusted?"

  Anne shrugged. "As trusted as any man can be. Oh good," she said, looking past them and out the window to the street. "Here comes Mistress Cowdrey. I'm always sure of getting a sizeable order when she comes in. Pass me that lamp over there, Susanna. The big one." Susanna lifted the large brass oil lamp onto the counter. Anne picked up a cloth and began to polish it even though it shone brighter than any other in the shop.

  The door opened and Margaret Cowdrey paused just inside. "Lady Lynden, I didn't know you were here."

  "Mistress Cowdrey," the chandler's wife said, coming out from behind the counter. "Come in, come in. Is it still raining? Can I take your cloak and shake it out?"

  Margaret waved her aside. "Thank you but don't trouble yourself, Anne. I'm here for candles."

  "Then you've come to the right place."

  Margaret rolled her eyes and laughed. It was as brittle as the woman herself but not unkind. Her dislike for Susanna didn't seem to extend to anyone else in the village. "Two dozen, if you please."

  "Wax?"

  "Of course." The Cowdreys did not need to economize and use the cheaper tallow like Susanna. Tallow stank, which was why she only used it sparingly in larger, airier rooms.

  Anne bent to look under the counter where she stored extra boxes and crates. "We were just discussing the newcomer up at Sutton Hall. Do you know anything about him?"

  Margaret sidled in between Susanna and the counter, blocking Susanna out. "A newcomer up at the Hall?"

  Anne straightened. "Aye, a Mr. Monk. You haven't heard about him then?"

  "No. The only stranger I know of is Mr. Holt, your gardener," she said over her shoulder to Susanna. "How long has this Monk been here?"

  "He arrived in the village on the same day as Mr. Holt."

  "Did he? And what's the nature of his business?"

  "No one knows. He asked for directions to the Hall and went there right away."

  Margaret finally turned to Susanna, as if she'd just given permission for her to join the conversation. "Lord Lynden hasn't told you anything about him?"

  "No," Susanna said. "He doesn't confide in me."

  Margaret took the boxes of candles Anne handed to her. "How vexing for you."

  Susanna was about to ask what she meant but refrained. No doubt Margaret would say something Susanna didn't want to hear, something bitter and sharp that was meant to wound. It was why Susanna avoided her. When they were younger, Margaret had been even crueler, telling Susanna that her mother loved her orange trees more than she loved her and that her father was a wastrel who didn't know how to manage his ancient family lands. She told Susanna her patched-up gowns were ugly, which they were, and that people only liked her because she was pretty and a Farley.

  It had been awful at first. They'd been so close as little girls. Their mothers had been friends. They'd played together and swapped doll clothes. But then womanhood arrived and Margaret turned into a viper toward Susanna. At first she kept her barbs for when they were alone, but when Susanna returned to Stoneleigh after her first husband died, Margaret no longer bothered to keep her waspishness to herself. The entire village knew of her dislike for Susanna and many had offered an explanation—Susanna was the prettier of the two. She'd protested that Margaret was not ugly in the least and while all agreed with her, they said it wasn't enough. Not for Margaret. She was jealous, bitterly so. Susanna finally had to admit they may be right. She could think of no other reason why such hatred was directed at her and Margaret refused to discuss it.

  "I saw your brother at The Plough talking to Farmer Digby the other day," Anne said. "I thought those two didn't get along."

  If she was hoping to hear some gossip from Margaret on the subject, her attempt failed. A shadow darkened Margaret's brow but quickly cleared, and she simply shrugged in answer.

  Anne didn't pursue the topic. She picked up her cloth and began polishing the lamp again. "Can I get you anything else, Mistress Cowdrey? T
his lovely piece just came in. The pattern in the brass here is pretty and the style elegant."

  "It is lovely, thank you," Margaret said, hardly looking at it. "I'll take it." She turned to Susanna. "May I walk out with you?"

  She was so surprised, it took Susanna a moment to gather her wits. "Of course." They waited until Anne finished packing the lantern in a box then left together.

  Out the front, Bessie climbed into the cart and set the basket at her feet. Margaret pulled Susanna a little aside out of earshot.

  "My brother returned home in a state earlier," she said. "Had he been to see you?" Her eyes, already slanted because of the tightness of her hairstyle beneath her hat, narrowed further. Her mouth was a mere slit.

  "Did he say he had?" Susanna was not going to make it easy for her.

  "No, but you are the only one who upsets him so."

  "It wasn't intentional, I assure you."

  "He's infatuated with you," she spat, as if the very notion disgusted her. "Until he comes to his senses I think it wise if you avoid him. Please," Margaret added quietly. "I don't ask much of you, Susanna, but I am asking this. It's important."

  It must be if she was pleading. She had never asked anything of Susanna and certainly never begged. "Of course," Susanna said. "But I cannot stop him from coming to see me." Although she wished she could. Walter's visits always produced a stab of guilt in her chest. Every time she refused him, it twisted deeper. All she wanted was for him to leave her alone and treat her like a neighbor, not a potential wife.

  Margaret said nothing. Her gaze skipped past Susanna to a point behind her. Susanna turned and saw what had taken her interest. Two strangers rode up to The Plough Inn on the opposite side of the street. One sported a portly belly and wore green livery. He was dark in appearance but whether from too much sun or an exotic heritage, it was difficult to tell. The other man was clearly a gentleman. He was slender compared to his servant and wore a crimson cap with a peacock plume shooting from the crown. The colorful eye at the top of the feather bobbed back and forth as the gentleman pulled his horse to a stop. The servant dismounted effortlessly despite his size, and his master bent to say something to him. When the gentleman straightened, he flipped his cape back, flashing the crimson lining of the elegant garment.

  "More strangers," Susanna said. "I wonder why they're all attracted to Sutton Grange lately."

  Margaret stared unblinking at her, her eyes like deep, still ponds. "Yes. I wonder."