Charity Begins at Home (18 page)

Charity stepped back instinctively, backing up right into Lord Braden. She scarcely noticed his arms going out to hold her up, but she sensed the hard support of his chest against her back and closed her eyes. She dragged in a breath, shut out the vision she had long blocked and, turning her head, opened her eyes.

She could see only the light tan weave of his linen coat, and it was to this she addressed her comment. "Very evocative," she said, in a voice that sounded false even in her own ears. She slipped out of his grasp and, stooping to pick up a balled-up piece of brown paper, added, "That's the one I would choose to send out, were I you. It's almost done, isn't it? Or perhaps the one of the village." Without giving him time to answer, she stuck the paper in her pocket and walked to the door. "We must get back, don't you think? I must stop by the church hall before dinner to see how Crispin's booth-building is doing. Let's take the long way out, shall we?"

And with such light comments she got them out of the door and away from the studio. She knew that he didn't believe her cheerful mien, that he was studying her closely to discern her real feelings. But she wanted only to be away, away from fiery visions and ghastly memories, away from his work and what it revealed.

Chapter Ten

The next morning Tristan added a last dash of white on the smoke, then stepped back to examine the painting of the ship afire. Had he gone too far? If anything, he had erred on the side of subtlety. He had scorned the cheap dramatics of bodies blown through the sky, of limbs floating in pools of blood, of sharks circling. He had seen all that one night from the rail of a ship, after a frigate caught fire and its gunpowder chamber exploded. But this painting was of a later moment, just before the ship sank. There were a few bodies, of course, but they were hardly noticeable, floating darkly against the dark sea, along with the other debris of the explosion.

But perhaps it was more theatrical than he intended, or Miss Calder more delicate than he imagined.

No. The Charity Calder he knew would not blanch at a bit of gore. She had only laughed when he described his vision of Jonah's whale, seamen impaled on his teeth. A mere painting wouldn't frighten her. No. This was something else, something personal.

He left the painting to dry there on the easel and, musing, went downstairs to breakfast. He had been making a great point of starting the day with his sister. She was much improved but still likely to lie abed till noon and arise feeling dizzy and useless. So her new maid—the eldest Ferris girl—had been ordered to roust her out of bed and into clothing by nine.

Tristan had grown used to sullen, silent breakfasts, so Anna's blithe humming this morning made him suspicious. "What plot are you hatching?"

Anna looked up guiltily from her egg cup. "Plot? No plot. I just had a pleasant time yesterday on our excursion. 'Tis true, that folly is a blight on the landscape and entirely out of place."

"That sounds like a direct quote from Sir Francis Calder."

She shrugged. "Well, he's right. I've given him permission to have it pulled down. I hadn't realized it was in such a state of disrepair." She glanced around her as if the pleasant breakfast room were gray with cobwebs and neglect. "Like everything else around here."

"Oh, it's not so bad now," Tristan said defensively. "All the work and money we've spent have had some effect, certainly."

"But not enough to counteract years of neglect." Her mouth tightened and Tristan knew she was thinking about her husband, who had seen Haver as a source of income and nothing more. "The tenants' cottages need a great deal of work, and their common land gets flooded too easily. I never noticed such things before. I never knew that the church tower's masonry was in such poor repair, and it's of the Norman era, Sir Francis says, and part of the national heritage. The vicar said it won't take too great a contribution to restore it."

A bit dryly, Tristan said, "You needn't borrow against the harvest for the tower, Anna. That's what the Midsummer fair is to pay for. If that is not enough, we will make up the difference. But the Calders, I think, have it well in hand."

"That's just it, isn't it? The Calders have been carrying their own burden, and ours, too, all this time. It's the earl's duty to maintain the vicarage, but I think Sir Francis must be paying for it."

And probably for the vicar's salary, Tristan noted silently, having seen no outlay for that in the Haver account books.

His sister continued, "And Charity does all the church poor work for this side of the parish and organizes so many of the activities. I know Mrs. Hering helps, too, but some of this should be my responsibility."

"Miss Calder seems to enjoy it, you know. She certainly needs an outlet for all that energy of hers."

Anna nodded slowly. "Yes, you're right, of course. But all her duties have also confined her. You know she cut her season in London short because she was needed here. I wonder if that is why she didn't accept any of the men who offered for her, because she didn't think the village could do without her.”

Tristan preferred to think that none of the men that offered for her intrigued her enough, but he agreed that there was something in what Anna said.

"I would not have even known that the church ladies made rag dolls if Charity hadn't told me. I suppose I thought that the church just—just contracted with a dollmaker for a couple of dozen dolls. Do you know," she added thoughtfully, "that poor girls must cuddle sticks bundled up in rags if they haven't any dolls? Charity says that's why so many of them have children at an early age, because they never had a chance to love a little doll."

Tristan laughed, choking on his hot coffee. It sounded like something Charity would say, a little outrageous, a little preposterous, yet somehow insightful. "Well, as many rag dolls as you have made, I predict a population decline in a decade or so. All the girls in the neighborhood will now have their own dolls to cuddle."

"Don't scoff, Tristan. When I think of how many dolls I had, the finest china dolls from Milan—"

"I remember. They filled your room. I wondered how you could sleep with a hundred eyes focused on you."

"And you know, not one of them was special to me. But if a girl hasn't anything else, she cherishes the simplest rag doll. And they are so simple to craft! Still I try to make each one unique in some way, especially the expression. I change the eye color or plait the yam hair differently, something to give each a bit of individuality. I recalled how annoyed I was at the Gilder ball last year when Emily Mainsell wore the identical dress, and I thought that a little girl would want her doll to be different from her friend's."

This was the longest speech Anna had strung together in quite some time that didn't detail her woes, and Tristan found himself touched by her compassion for the unknown girls. "Superior to her friend's, even. Or so she will believe."

They were doing so well together, better than he might have imagined two weeks ago. They had not been close for a long while, since long before her marriage. Anna was always very much the girl, with no interest in art or horses, the only things he cared about as a boy. But those endless voyages back and forth from Italy must have built up a well of affection which, untapped for years, was available now that they needed it.

And so they could fall right back into that sibling rapport, full of teasing and familiarity, knowing that their relationship had started at birth and would last till death, no matter how they mistreated each other.

He saw the same dynamic between Lawrence and Jeremy when, well-scrubbed and well-mannered, they were brought in by Mrs. Cameron after their own breakfast. Their piping voices as they recited their spelling words were almost identical. Once, when Jeremy hesitated over the consonant cluster in
church
, Lawrence prompted in what he thought was a whisper, "C-H, clunch!"

"C-H. I did real good, Mama."

"Yes, you did, dearest." Anna bent to kiss his dark head and extended her hand to draw Lawrence into the embrace.

"You are the most beautiful mother in the whole world." Lawrence's vow was no doubt sincere, but showed he had inherited more than his looks from the silver-tongued Haver.

Anna rewarded him with kisses and coos, and with a brother's disdain, Tristan wondered if she would ever get over her weakness for flattery.

Lawrence, his duty done, pulled Jeremy away. "Come on, Jerry. Cammie's waiting."

Mrs. Cameron, too dignified to be deferential, announced, "I told the boys I would walk them to the Grange if they spelled all their words for you. We are just on our way out."

"We're going to see Charity!"

Tristan put a protective hand on his coffee cup as Jeremy, unable to contain his glee, gave a few bounces.

Lawrence tugged at Mrs. Cameron's hand, trying to pull her to the door. "Charity said she'd teach us how to do the three-legged race before Saturday so we can try out for the Midsummer games. Her and Ned won it every year for four years!"

"She and Ned. Make your bows, boys." Mrs. Cameron detached her hand from Lawrence's and gave him a subtle shove. Lawrence bobbed a bow, Jeremy followed suit, and they ran off ahead to learn all the tricks from Charity.

Tristan glanced at his sister, wondering if she weren't the least bit jealous to see her sons so enthusiastic about visiting another woman. But Anna, he realized, was content with the boys' performance and kisses and just as glad to cede this particular charge to someone else. At least this affectionate detachment was healthier than their own mother's alternate smothering and neglect. Lawrence and Jeremy would recall their mother as something of a goddess, whose embrace was always scented with perfume and soft with silk. They could worship her, for she'd never spoil her image by sitting down on a dusty floor to tell them a story or get muddy joining in their games.

"Isn't Charity a very good sort of girl?"

He was startled to hear the name that had just appeared in his mind. "So I keep hearing."

"Don't you think she would make a very good wife for you?"

"Subtle, Anna, very subtle. But don't be so obscure. Stop hinting and say what you mean."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Tristan. Which means, of course, that it's entirely appropriate for you." Anna preened a bit at getting this insult off, then added severely, "And this is no time for subtlety. Mrs. Hering told me her son was set to ask Charity for her hand any day now."

Tristan used his butter knife to slash a piece of toast into strips. "She won't have him. She's already turned him down."

"Perhaps she values persistence. And if he isn't successful, some other man will be. You're not the only one who recognizes her virtues."

Anna was so positive that he felt a moment's unease. "She does seem to receive offers every week or so. Turns 'em all down though. Oh, I wasn't supposed to tell you that."

"I know all about her offers. Sir Francis told me."

Anna blushed a bit as she spoke of Calder, and Tristan wondered if their conversation had gone beyond conspiracy. Then he dismissed it. She was still in mourning, after all, deeply so. Besides, a good man like Calder would never have a chance with her. He couldn't spin a pretty compliment to save his life. "What makes you think I'd be any more successful than the others?"

Anna dismissed this with a wave of her white hand. "Oh, Tristan, come now. Girls have always thought you handsome. Why, some of my school friends used to talk about stealing kisses from you—and you three years our junior!"

"I wish I'd known that then. They wouldn't have had to steal them."

"And you are an artist. Sir Francis said that's a source of fascination to Charity. Arid only think how capable she is. Think of how she will enjoy helping you with your work."

Tristan could just imagine Charity ordering his supplies, negotiating with dealers. He'd get the best commissions in the country did Charity make the deals. She would like that, too, he knew, remembering her honest appreciation of his work. "We've known each other scarcely a fortnight."

"Nonsense. Her virtues are immediately apparent. And, dearest, you do need a wife. You live such an aimless life."

"It's hardly aimless," he said stiffly. "My aim is to paint." She shook her head, and he knew she was right. That wasn't enough, not for a life.

Her voice was gentle but chiding. "You don't even have a posting address much of the year. And you haven't any ties that I know of, except to me, and we neither of us have done well at keeping those tight."

He covered her trembling hand with his own. As difficult as this last fortnight had been and as bitterly as he had resented the responsibility, Tristan knew he owed more to his family than an occasional letter or visit. "Agreed. But that doesn't require a wife."

"Oh, but it does in a way. You've got in the habit of avoiding connections, and a wife like Charity wouldn't let you do that. Oh, I know I'm no one to talk of the benefits of marriage—" She broke off, staring out the window at the newly neat garden. "But you know Charity would be a true helpmeet, and make you a home. You've never had one, so I suppose you think you don't need one. But only think how homey she could make Braden. Why, you'd be eager to come back from Italy every year then."

Tristan studied his sister's slender white hand, with its manicured nails and diamond ring. He wondered if siblings ever grew old enough to see each other as adults. He would ever see Anna as that delicate, passionate girl who always got her way, even when it was clear she had lost her way. And, to Anna, he would always be that restless, obsessive boy who spent too much time alone.