“Would you be put out,” she asked her mother, “if I took Delia with me?” And then she told them all about their maid’s growing tendre for Charles’s coachman. “It’s utterly romantic, isn’t it?”
Bea laughed. “Not as romantic as Lord Jeffcoat, who has known you for years, if I may point out, unexpectedly realizing you are his heart’s desire.”
“And he for me,” Charlotte pointed out.
“Even more remarkable,” Amity said from her bed, “as he is your first love and will be your only.”
Charlotte decided there was no purpose in mentioning Lionel Evans. On the other hand, she didn’t want them to think she’d fallen for the first man to come along and show an interest in her. Charles would have won her over even if she’d had a long list of suitors.
“I’ve had my eye on another man before. I’m not entirely green, as they say.”
“Ha!” Beatrice said. “We knew it. Didn’t we?” She glanced at the bed.
“We wondered,” Amity said.
Charlotte didn’t expand upon who, nor ask what her sisters thought they knew.
“It was a silly infatuation compared to how I feel about Lord Jeffcoat.” Lionel had faded into insignificance entirely. More than that, Charlotte was actually relieved he’d left when he had. She might have done something imprudent that would have ensured she had to marry him. And now that she’d experienced the meeting of the minds with Charles — not to mention the lips — she knew being with Lionel would have been a dreadful disappointment and ended badly.
Amity moaned. Charlotte sighed. There was nothing to do but wait.
BEING A BRAND NEW AUNT with Amity having been delivered of a beautiful boy whom they hadn’t yet named was the first of Charlotte’s blessings. The staircase was finished to everyone’s satisfaction and the shop was set to reopen. Life was good.
And not only for her and her family.
“You should see the size of the place, miss,” Edward said after he and his mother and siblings had moved into their new flat in Marylebone. “Mum feels like a queen.”
Charlotte’s heart felt full, almost to bursting. And although she hadn’t seen the place, she had been told they were well-cared for by Miss Hill. Despite what Edward said, the flats were small by any standards except for having lived as a family of four in an East End flat. Definitely not a palace, but the Percys’ new Marylebone home would be safe and cheap.
“We didn’t even tell Mr. Tufts where we were going.”
“I think he’ll be too busy with my parents’ lawsuit to worry about finding you and your family,” Charlotte said.
Her mother had agreed that expanding to Covent Garden, if the license for having a small stall there wasn’t too expensive, would be a grand idea.
“Think of all those customers,” Felicity had said, “who don’t come to New Bond Street, but who wander through or near the marketplace every day.”
As soon as they reopened and were back to full steam, as her father put it, then they were going to pursue the notion with Mrs. Percy.
In the midst of it all, Charlotte had her wedding to look forward to. Charles had already chosen St. George’s Church, unless she had any misgivings. She had none. However, having never been inside it, she decided to stroll over and peruse the interior instead of eating a midday meal in the back room.
It was a short walk from the shop on a sunny day with just a few white clouds. Charlotte popped a piece of toffee in her mouth as she walked, wondering how her life had become so blessed. To think that she’d been working just a street away from the centuries-old church where she would marry seemed yet another miracle. Built after a parliamentary act called for fifty new churches in London and Westminster, the grand old building momentarily stopped her in her tracks.
The ringing of its single bell had been a familiar sound in her life, and she’d seen St. George’s many times, but never with the eyes of a bride. Passing through the six Corinthian columns at the front, the sole adornment to an otherwise plain exterior, she encountered no one else inside in the middle of the day. Free to wander into the nave, her gaze was instantly riveted to the stained glass above the altar in the apse at the other end. With the sun shining through, every color of the rainbow breathtakingly sparkled back at her. It was better than any painting she’d ever seen.
Passing between the box pews on either side of her, their height having been lowered eight years earlier so people could see over them, she imagined her family seated there witnessing her marry Charles. Glancing up at the arched ceiling, supported by pillars that mimicked the exterior columns, she breathed in the scent of the old building — not musty, simply ... rarefied. There was something special there, to be sure. It reminded her of being in a museum in which she’d been compelled to speak in hushed tones while taking in the magic of great art as much as she took it in with her eyes.
Shrugging at her silly notions, Charlotte took a last look at the polished gold leaf of the Corinthian tops and the gilded bands striping the ceiling. How fitting that the most expensive decoration had been placed closest to Heaven.
How incredible she, a shopkeeper’s daughter, would marry there!
Leaving the church, being as it was such a lovely day — rare for London, no matter the time of year — she headed north two minutes to Hanover Square, so she could enjoy a bit of greenery in the shade of the old trees.
Crossing the square, determined to find a place in the middle to sit for five minutes, suddenly, she spied Viola Evans, whom she hadn’t seen for months. And with her was ... Lionel.
Lionel! Her heart nearly stopped. He looked the same yet different. His hair was shorter, his clothing different, more reserved than he’d worn to art class. Less a flamboyant continental traveler and more ... ordinary.
Viola saw her next, dropped hold of her brother’s arm, and ran toward her. In the next instant, she’d clasped Charlotte’s gloved hands.
“It’s good to see you,” Viola declared.
Was it? It was the first communication they’d had since Viola had asked her for money. If Viola had written again with simply a few words of friendship, Charlotte would have responded in kind.
Lionel came to a stop in front of her. She realized she was trembling. A year and a half she’d devoted to watching him, hanging on his every word, letting him kiss her, waiting for the time when he would claim her publicly, as he’d hinted. When the time was right...
“Good day, Miss Rare-Foure,” were his first words. “I’m pleased to see you looking well.” And his gaze took her in from head to foot before offering his charming smile.
Scarcely able to breathe from the shock, she couldn’t speak.
“Won’t you greet my brother?” Viola said, her tone thin. “I hope you do not hold a grudge against him for not saying goodbye.”
Viola had conveniently forgotten her own grudge against him when he had fled with just a note to her parents. Apparently, all his subsequent letters had won over his sister.
Recalling a time when she would have melted if he’d told her she looked well and smiled benignly upon her like the sun in the sky, Charlotte found she no longer gave a fig.
“I am well, thank you.” Her thoughts flew to Charles. Without a hint of selfishness, he’d helped her, and then he’d kissed her, and all her troubles had faded. He hadn’t asked her for anything in return. Unlike Lionel.
Shading her eyes against the afternoon sun, she looked up at Lionel. “Are you recently back from your trip?”
Brother and sister glanced at one another. “Yes,” he said. “Just a couple days ago.”
“We were heading to Gunter’s for ices. Will you join us?” Viola asked. “Lionel was going to tell me in detail about the sights he saw.”
The sights! Viola spoke as if the trip had been a sanctioned journey instead of a sneaky, slippery escape with a young woman’s whose reputation was now ruined.
Feeling a little ill at the thought of hearing Lionel prattle on about places she’d seen with
her own family, Charlotte shook her head emphatically. Then she recalled her manners.
“No, thank you. I have just been ... on an errand.” What a banal way to describe touring the church where she would be married to the most wonderful man in the world.
However, the engagement announcement hadn’t yet been made, although she knew it would appear in the papers that very day. But the Evans were not her first choice of people to tell outside of her family, and to disclose such a thing out of the blue on the street seemed vulgar and boastful.
Charlotte excused herself. “I must get back to the shop.”
Viola released her hand. “All right. Another time. I’m sorry we lost touch, but now that my brother is back, perhaps we can return to our former friendship, the three of us.”
It had become blatantly clear over the course of the past few months that they had no common interests outside of the art academy. Not only had Lionel behaved reprehensibly, Viola had become peevish when Charlotte had expressed dismay at his departure, and then petulant when she no longer took an interest in his conceited letters. And that was before the request for money.
Nevertheless, there was no reason to be rude.
“Are you going back to art class?” Charlotte asked Viola, but her glance took in Lionel, too, and it was he who answered.
“If my sister still wants lessons, I can now instruct her, after all I’ve seen and done.” He gave a superior smile. “I’ve painted with some great artists in an atelier in Paris, and I would not go back to our old teacher, regardless. I don’t think any of us gained much from him.”
Lionel had gained a pretty blonde traveling companion, and Charlotte vaguely wondered what had happened to the model by the time they’d reached Rome. She couldn’t bring herself to care enough to pry, even if that had been an acceptable topic.
“I shall bid you both good day, then,” she told them. “Enjoy your ices.” That was if Lionel thought British ice could hold a candle to the French cream ice in Paris. After all, a few short months had apparently turned him into the next Delacroix if not Botticelli.
“Charlotte,” Viola said, halting her departure. “I hope you will forgive Lionel his former ill manners and abrupt departure.”
Viola didn’t know the half of it unless she included stolen kisses in those “ill manners.”
Because she no longer cared a wit, she said, “There is nothing to forgive, I promise you.” And she meant it. That aside, it would be impossible to return to any semblance of friendship with Viola alone, not with Lionel constantly being mentioned, or worse, linger about with his smug expression. It was unseemly.
“Good day, Viola. I wish you well.” She hoped that sounded as final as she intended. Then her glance flickered to Lionel. “Good day to you, Mr. Evans.”
Again, he took her measure, head to toe. It caused her cheeks to warm with shame for him, and she didn’t care for the sensation.
“Good day to you, Miss Rare-Foure. I hope we shall meet again.”
Lionel’s eyes, which she’d always thought flawlessly exciting, sparkling with interest, now looked wild with inappropriate thoughts in comparison to Charles’s intelligent and loving gaze.
Hurrying away, Charlotte felt rattled. It was the only way she could describe the unsettled feeling at seeing him again so unexpectedly, despite no longer having an ounce of affection for him.
THE SPRAY OF STONES upon her window and the wall beside it had her throwing up the sash in the wee hours of the morning.
As soon as she opened it, she recognized the perpetrator. Lionel appeared to be reaching for even bigger rocks in her parents garden and was swaying like a ship in choppy seas.
“Charlotte, Charlotte. I dream of you and you alone. My muse of fire! Let me paint you in the nude.”
Rolling her eyes at the drunken fool, she called down to him, “Mr. Evans, be quiet.”
“Your cruelty knows no bounds. Am I truly now ‘Mr. Evans’ to you when I have claimed those perfect lips?”
Sweet mother! Did he care nothing for her reputation?
“I have returned,” he added unnecessarily, “to claim the rest of you.” With those words, he held his hands up and spread his arms wide as if he would catch her should she jump from the second floor.
His behavior was indefensible. Delia had probably popped awake at the first shouted words and had heard everything. Her parents, whose room was on the other side of the house, hopefully had not roused from their slumber. But Mr. Finley and Lydia may also have awakened. Not that she thought their household help were disloyal gossip-birds, but anyone with a cup of tea in one hand and a biscuit in the other was liable to start gabbing about something this irreverent.
“Go away, Lionel,” she said, hoping by using his name he would calm down and retreat.
“Oh, yes! She loves me still. Look at yonder window how Charlotte outshines the sun,” he said loudly, mangling a Shakespeare quote that even she knew by heart.
“What will make you leave this instant?”
“A promise, dear Juliet,” he insisted. “Meet me today at our paradise in miniature.”
His meaning was clear. Duck Island in St. James’s Park, where they’d once met. She’d scrambled by a fence, nearly tearing her cloak, and hurried past the bird-keepers’ cottage where she knew she ought not to go as the public weren’t welcome. She’d met him assuming he would propose or declare himself, at the least.
“I will come if I may bring my sister or my maid.”
“Absolutely not. What fun would there be in that?” Suddenly, he plonked himself down on the edge of the small garden, not even bothering with the stone bench. “You must come alone or I...,” he trailed off.
She waited, but when he said nothing more, she wondered if he’d fallen asleep in a drunken stupor.
“Lionel?” she prompted, about to shut the window.
“Or I shall tell everyone how ill you used me?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lionel was mad! Perhaps he’d been eating some of his oil paint. Charlotte had heard it could drive a painter as batty as a march hare.
“What on earth do you mean?” she demanded.
“Your feminine wiles were more than I could handle,” he pouted.
He’d had no problem leaving her and her wiles behind. When she started to say as much, he rose to his feet again.
“Meet me at ... at noon,” he said in a more demanding tone.
“That’s impossible. I must work today.” She hoped that would put him off. Besides, he would be sound asleep before noon, she had a feeling, and that would be the end of it. But what if he returned with his loud voice and menacing words?
“Then when you close up shop,” he amended. “I will await you on the island amongst the water fowl.”
Something was foul, all right, and not merely the ducks. Charlotte clenched her fists. What did he hope to accomplish?
“Promise,” he added. “Or I will stay here until forever. And also return daily.”
If he stayed, how could he return? He was truly a terrible drunk.
“All right. I will be there by six o’clock.” She shuddered at the notion of doing something so sly as to illicitly meet a man who wasn’t her fiancé.
“But you must promise me after that, you will never come here again,” she insisted. “You will leave me alone.”
“If you wish,” he said softly, sounding less inebriated than before. “It will be hard to wait until I see you again.” And he walked away without teetering or stumbling.
CHARLES SAW THE ANNOUNCEMENT in the paper, which he read with his morning pot of tea — a day late as often happened, since he hadn’t had a spare moment for newspapers or tea the day before. The effect of seeing his name linked with Charlotte’s was a welcome one, and he gave a sigh of relief. Somehow, seeing their engagement in black and white made it real, irrevocable. Charlotte Rare-Foure was going to be his capable, warm, loving wife. They would have many babies and many happy years together.
He had to spend the day in court on a case he didn’t expect to win but hoped to see his fiancée later, making any potential legal loss fade into utter irrelevance.
Fiancée! He realized he was smiling to himself for the umpteenth time simply by thinking of the word. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected one day to have one. But to suddenly be able to acknowledge he’d bound himself to someone, to the impossibly wonderful Charlotte, had elevated his happiness.
His betrothed — he smiled again, another good word! — had told him the stairs were finished and the shop was close to reopening. She and her mother had started working on the upstairs ahead of schedule. With her insight into what people liked, Charlotte’s new café would be a resounding success.
And he was determined to support her in whatever way he could. For one thing, Pelham had taught him how to live with a wife who worked, and how to steer the conversation away from that very fact when necessary, under certain circumstances. He wasn’t ashamed of her middle-class status and didn’t mind at all that she couldn’t play piano or sing. If they needed entertainment, he would hire it, not expect Charlotte to provide it.
It was rather insulting when one thought of it that way — prancing out one’s wife to amuse people in his drawing room the way one brought out the winning horse at the Ascot racecourse or even a prize pointer at one of those newfangled dog shows in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
And for those times when he could safely sing her praises without embarrassing her or inviting censure, then he would do that, too. To the right group of his friends, he would proudly tell them his wife was a confectioner who made the creamiest, smoothest marzipan.
Perhaps he could increase the Rare-Foure’s business simply by patronizing it, just like Pelham. Maybe Charlotte would even name something after him.
The Jeffcoat marzipan. He grimaced at the silly notion. Maybe not.
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 29