Naturally, she hadn’t traveled without something sugary and soothing. Although she and Delia had eaten a few on the train journey, there were many left. Without waiting for an answer, she fished the Rare Confectionery tin out of the carpetbag she carried.
“You can have whatever is left — chocolates, toffee, and marzipan — if you’ll just let me up the plank to speak with Lord Jeffcoat. Please.”
The sailor looked from her to the outstretched tin, which he took so slowly she wanted to scream. But eventually, with eyes narrowed, he opened it.
“Ah,” he said after breathing in the aromas of chocolate, butter, sugar, and almonds — all combined to smell like heaven. He chose a piece of toffee, popped it into his mouth and closed his eyes.
A whistle sounded on board, barely louder than hers, indicating the ship’s imminent departure.
“Please,” she said. “I’ll come back directly.”
Nodding while sucking the sweet, he stepped aside. However, when Delia went to follow, he barred her and said to Charlotte, “Just you, miss, the fiancée.” He said it as if he still doubted her. “This one stays with me.”
“This one!” Delia repeated, sounding outraged.
The sailor shrugged, again addressing Charlotte. “That way I know you’ll return.”
“As if I’m a hostage,” her maid muttered.
“I’ll be back shortly,” Charlotte promised. And finally, she set her foot upon the gangplank.
CHARLES THOUGHT HIS eyes might pop out of his head. Charlotte was bounding up the plank. Was she insane? He watched her board the vessel, but hemmed in from both sides by passengers standing at the rail, he couldn’t rush to intercept her and send her back down as he wished. Instead, slowly, he moved in her direction, annoyed that she was going to force them into a public display.
When they did finally get near one another, she didn’t stop at a civilized distance. As carelessly as she’d performed her unseemly whistle on the dock, she now did the unthinkable — she collided with him so he had to sweep his arms around her in front of the other passengers or be bowled over by her.
As soon as he had her against him, the noises of the vessel and the dock fell away, as did all thought of who might be watching. His familiar Charlotte had dropped her carpet bag upon his shoes and was holding on to him tightly.
“Charles,” she said, looking up into his face. “I caught you in time. Please come off the ship with me.”
“I’m going to France,” he said, thinking his words sounded a little lame and tepid in comparison to her grand gesture.
“If you go to France, then I will, too.”
He shook his head. She had no idea what she was saying. “Why?” he demanded.
“Because I love you,” she declared, and not quietly but as though they were alone and could speak frankly.
He sighed. Maybe she thought she did at that moment, but she might not tomorrow or the week after.
“I will leave the shop and go wherever you wish,” she insisted, the tears falling from her eyes, “because you are the most important person in the world to me.”
He was taken aback by her vehemence. After all, he knew how she adored her family.
“And because I won’t let you believe for another moment you’re not wanted.”
With those words, cutting to the heart of the anguish he’d felt for so many years, he set her from him. When she dashed at her tears, he produced a handkerchief and wiped her wet cheeks gently, then handed it to her to hold.
“Charlotte, I cannot forget what I saw.”
“You saw me telling a man how much I loved you and that I wouldn’t be blackmailed into giving him money. He wanted to tell you untruths about me, but I wasn’t scared for a moment. I know deep inside you trust me. You must, elsewise how could you love me as you do?”
Tears pricked his own eyes. He did love her with his whole heart and until that terrible moment in the park, he had trusted her implicitly. Why had he stopped? He should have given her a chance to explain.
“Now that I’ve told you,” she continued, “he cannot blackmail me. And after you clobbered him like that, I believe he understood you were not a man with whom he should trifle. After all, you are a barrister, and he is only an artist, and not a very good one at that.”
An artist! The passionate, poetic, dashing creature he’d imagined women admired. But not someone who could take a punch — that was certain.
“I shouldn’t have jumped to a conclusion that flew in the face of everything I know about you.” It was a miracle she had come after him.
“Dear Charles,” she said, blinking up at him. “I’m so glad I caught you. I would have followed you to the ends of the earth to make you understand how much I adore you.”
Reaching for her, he drew her once more into his embrace, bent down, and kissed her. Ignoring someone clearing his throat and another person exclaiming about her sensitivities, Charles felt Charlotte’s warmth race through him, easing his pain as she thawed his heart.
“Oh,” she exclaimed when he lifted his head. “I can feel your love tingling down to my toes.”
Her words, so artless eased the bands that had been squeezing his heart for two days. Besides he felt the same way, except it was more of a sizzle. Glancing down to see if his toes really were on fire, he realized the deck was tilting under his feet. They had departed the dock, and the people around them had moved to the railing on the other side of the ship.
At the same time, Charlotte let out a slight squeal before exclaiming, “Gracious! I don’t have a ticket. I gave the sailor confectionery.”
“Of course you did.” His delightful fiancée, for he had never stopped thinking of her as his, naturally paid people in sweets. “I will pay your passage.”
“And what about Delia?” she asked, her brown eyes filled with worry.
“I’ll pay her passage, too.”
“No,” Charlotte said, shaking her head and peering back the way they had come. “I left her on the dock.”
He couldn’t help laughing at her morose tone. Nothing seemed sad anymore. He couldn’t dredge up an ounce of worry or fear. He had the woman he loved at his side, and they were going to France.
Dear God! They were going to France, unmarried, having just kissed in front of a ship full of people. And she had no chaperone. What’s more, they would have to spend the night in a hotel and return via the morning’s vessel. Her reputation would suffer no matter what they said or did on the Continent. Unless...
“Charlotte, will you marry me?”
She giggled. “I already told you I would.” She reached up and stroked his cheek. “Have you been in the seaside sun too long?”
“I mean will you marry me when we get to France. You have family there as I recall, and then we can return to England as husband and wife.”
For a moment, she sunk her teeth into her full lower lip that he loved to nibble on. What were her thoughts? Did she have doubts?
“I suppose my parents have had the enjoyment of two church weddings for my sisters. As long as we have a splendid party when we return, then I see no reason why not.”
Then she frowned. “But what of your father? Won’t he be disappointed not to witness the marriage of his only child?”
Charles couldn’t help grimacing. “My father will definitely not be sorry to miss a wedding. They are among his least preferred events. In fact, we will be doing him a favor by getting it over with.”
“Then, my dear viscount, I say yes to France. We must go directly to my grandparents. They have a large apartment in Paris. Also, a farm that my father inherited when his older brother died last year, but I doubt we shall go there. Unless you want to. Oh, you will love the Foures, such warm people.”
Charles didn’t mind as she continued telling him about the French side of her family, and how she’d become The Honorable Miss Rare-Foure the previous year when her father also inherited the barony.
In fact, as they faced forward toward the dista
nt horizon, he was so wrapped in their love, he could no longer feel even a hint of the gusting breeze. And despite the pungent sea air that had filled his nostrils all morning, now all he could smell was her delicate aroma of flowers and citrus.
“Good Lord!” she suddenly declared. “We’re eloping. How exciting!
He grinned at her.
“Your dimple,” she exclaimed. “It’s the first time I’ve seen it in days, and I have missed it so.”
“I have missed you so,” he told her. “Up until now, I’ve been a rather boring person, but I hope this is just the first of a lifetime of adventures.”
“I don’t see why not,” she said sounding so practical about such a matter, he had to laugh again.
“No, I don’t see why not either.”
Epilogue
Charlotte had been incorrect in her assumption her parents wouldn’t mind missing their youngest daughter’s wedding. As soon as a telegram was sent from Paris to London and delivered to the Rare-Foure home on Baker Street, one was sent in return and delivered to her grandparents’ home on the Boulevard des Capucines.
“Wait! We’re coming.” Charlotte read the short message aloud over dinner to her father’s parents and to Charles, who then slipped on his glasses to reread it.
“I guess we are not marrying tomorrow after all,” he said.
Instead, they went through the formality of banns being published at the mayoralty of the city in preparation for their civil wedding at City Hall.
Meanwhile, both her grandparents were delighted to chaperone the engaged couple wherever they wished to go. Their first stop was Boucicaut’s multi-floored emporium, Le Bon Marché, since Charlotte had nothing with her except her small traveling bag. In the spacious department store, Charles insisted she let him buy her a new wardrobe, not simply for the duration of their stay before the wedding, but also a trousseau befitting a viscountess for their wedding trip.
Naturally, they couldn’t do all that at the ready-to-wear department of a single shop. Once her parents arrived — surprising her with Beatrice and her husband, too, as well as Waverly as best man — the shopping and eating began in earnest. For the sheer excess of it, they strolled three arcades in one day. Since it was sunny out, the covered shopping malls were not crowded. The sunlight streamed down through the glass overhead onto the flagstones of the oldest of them, the Passage des Panorama.
When they came out, they crossed the Boulevard Montmartre directly into the next row of covered shops at the Passage Jouffroy. When they’d enjoyed every type of shop imaginable, from books to tiny teacups to parasols, Felicity declared herself famished. After leading them in a lively debate whether to eat at Le Grand Véfour or her favorite, Le Procope, Charlotte’s mother settled for the former as it was closer to the last arcade they intended to visit. Yet immediately after the sumptuous meal, they couldn’t resume shopping without a stop at Stohrer’s.
“Mother’s beloved patisserie,” Charlotte told Charles, leaning in as she often did, just to breathe in his beloved scent. “It’s supposed to be the oldest one in Paris, too. If we decide to serve anything other than beverages and our sweets upstairs at Rare Confectionery, we will want to find someone who can make pastries like these.”
Then she paused before adding, “If you try to order anything other than a rum baba, Mother will make you also buy a rum baba. Everyone must have one who goes to Stohrer’s, or so she thinks.”
“What do you think?” he asked her.
“My favorite are the eclairs, which I may get, as well as a—”
“Rum baba,” he supplied.
“Precisely so. You will get along well with my family.”
They ended their day at the third arcade, the Passage Verdeau with its magnificent pitched glass ceiling and timber shopfronts.
“This was the perfect day,” Charlotte proclaimed later when they had returned to her grandparents’ spacious apartment on the wide, tree-lined boulevard. Sitting in the garden behind it, she added, “The only thing that would have made it better was the presence of Amity and her duke.”
“So, you think you can have more than perfect?” Beatrice asked.
Charlotte looked at Charles who smiled back, showing his dimple. “Definitely,” she said.
A week later, Charles and Charlotte were married at the Hotel de Ville, still undergoing its finishing touches after being burned in 1871, but already looking extremely majestic.
“Even the name sounds so much grander than calling it merely City Hall,” Charlotte whispered as they stood on the gorgeous red carpet before Monsieur Moreau, mayor of the 19th arrondissement in Paris.
Naturally, officiating in French, he read from a book, while bureaucrats remained seated on either side of him. As witnesses, she supposed. Behind her, her family and Lord Waverly were seated, and behind them were her grandparents’ friends, standing between the mural-clad walls depicting the countryside, reminding Charlotte of her grandparents’ farm outside the city.
“I hope you’re not disappointed,” she said. “It’s not St. George’s, but it’s a fine building nonetheless.”
Charles cocked his head. “If you think this government building is fine, I cannot wait for you to see my country home of which you will be its mistress. Another minute and you shall be my wife.”
She nearly slapped a hand to her forehead as a thought dawned on her. She had run away to the Continent with a man without telling her family — the exact thing she’d thought was too selfish to ever do. Granted, crossing the Channel had been unintentional, but if Charles had gone ahead of her, she would have pursued him without care for her own ignominy by the very next steamship. Luckily, she had caught him.
They were holding hands, facing one another, and she squeezed his gently.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you,” he said louder so everyone could hear.
There was an approving murmur in the room, and she knew there was nothing selfish about what she’d done. For she would spend all the days of her life loving this man with all her heart.
When the mayor declared them married, Charlotte turned to see her parents, certain she could see joy shimmering in the room.
A MONTH AND A HALF later, having seen everything they wanted to see of France, Switzerland, Italy, and Germany, Charles sat beside his viscountess on a train from Dover to London in a private carriage. Taking hold of her gloved hand, there were times when he still couldn’t believe they were together. He should never have doubted her.
It was strange then to hear her suddenly doubt herself over the clackety-clack of the train wheels. “I don’t know anything about running a nobleman’s household. What if I make a hash of it?” she asked as they approached the outskirts.
He grinned down at the capable woman who could accomplish more than most men he knew.
“You shall make a welcoming hostess,” he vowed. “But as your older sister will tell you, it is not all parties. Or rather, it can be too many parties. Hosting becomes a duty and a job, as demanding as being a confectioner. And the stakes are higher.”
“Higher than my almost ruining my family’s shop with a few hasty decisions?”
Shrugging, he brought her hand to his mouth and nuzzled it through the thin cotton, making her laugh.
“You didn’t almost ruin anything. However, a misstep in the wrong place, such as at a royal event, for instance, or a word in the wrong ear can have monumental consequences, international ones even. On top of being a viscountess, you are the wife of a barrister.”
“Meaning what exactly?” she asked, trying to keep her face solemn and failing. Abruptly, she flashed him a smile.
“What do you find so amusing?” he asked.
“Every time you use the word wife and refer to me, it feels as if you’re tickling my ribs.”
“I enjoy tickling you,” he said, then thought of the past few weeks in various inns, especially their nights together. “I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve had the pleasure to
do with you,” he added, making her cheeks turn pink.
And since they were alone, he yanked off his gloves and trailed his finger down the sweet curve of her cheek.
“As the wife of a barrister,” he said, trying to sound grave, “you must not seem perverse or depraved in any way.”
She clamped her hand to her mouth, but her shoulders began to shake. Finally, she let loose her laughter, spilling out like water from a broken dam.
“Oh, Charles,” she said when she could speak again. “You are so dear to me, even when you are too serious. Do I seem as if I might have a tendency toward some perversion I cannot even imagine or depravity that might get you thrown from the bench or disbarred?”
“No,” he said, glad she hadn’t been insulted because he was, in fact, only joking. “In summation, as the wife of a peer of the realm and a barrister’s wife to boot, you must behave with decorum and dignity, demonstrating good judgment and ... you’re grinning again,” he pointed out.
“You said wife again.” She tapped her lap with her free hand. “I don’t wish to gainsay you, for you know better than I, to be sure, but I have read the papers, including the scandal sheets. A bad habit, I know. Nevertheless, it seems you are discussing standards that are broken daily by men and women of the nobility.”
She was right, but he wanted to do better. Moreover, he wanted her to do better. He didn’t want anyone to ever whisper about her as they had his mother.
“I don’t want to be in the gossip rags,” he insisted. “I don’t want people reading how you were dancing to closely with another man or how I slept with my cook or with Lord So-and-So’s wife.”
She drew back. “Would you sleep with our cook?” Her tone was appalled.
“Of course not,” he said quickly. “Thus, I will behave in a manner that precludes my having to worry about seeing such a story in the paper. But I also don’t want to read about my wife with another man.”
“Oh,” she said, her tone soft. “Whether nobility or not, no one wants such a thing to happen. I cannot imagine the heartbreak of my mother or my father were either to find the other had been untrue.”
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 32