Charity Begins at Home (26 page)

The wave of longing that swept over him was answer enough. All he knew about her, and all he didn't know, made her essential to his life. Oh, yes, if he had the chance, he would do it all over again, but only better, treat her more worshipfully, perhaps, recite her poetry, bring her flowers.

He remembered Kenny playing Romeo to Anna's Juliet, and ruefully shook his head. It just wasn't him. And Charity wouldn't accept it anyway. He imagined the ironic glint in her eyes if he suddenly started playing the adoring swain. She would tell him it was too little, too late. He'd had his chance and mucked it up and didn't deserve another.

He wasn't used to speaking his feelings, for he was a painter, not a poet. He had thought she would read his heart as she read his mind. But perhaps she didn't know him well either, or she would never have suggested that he could find a replacement for her. The thought would be laughable if it weren't so painful, that any other woman would quicken his senses and fill his heart as she already did.

But perhaps he'd given her no reason to believe that his regard was deep and true. It had all happened too quickly for him to understand himself. Now, when it would do him no good, he could admit that he wanted her, needed her, cherished her—loved her, although he had never framed that thought until he knew he'd lost her. His feelings had been different from what he thought love would be—they had been peaceful, not tormenting. Well, now he felt tormented enough to be convinced this was indeed love.

But he couldn't tell her that. She wouldn't believe him. She wouldn't want to believe him. She had already made her decision and wouldn't go back on it just because he started declaiming poetry. If she, too, was hurt by this, she wouldn't gamble on him again.

He really should just leave it all behind, go back to Italy, lose himself in his work. Staying here would be to risk rejection again, to renew the pain every time he saw her, to torment himself with regret.

But to leave would be to give her up, and that he could not imagine doing.

Despair made him restless; he rose and walked along the edge of the surf. Ironically, its comforting rhythm reminded him of Charity, of her wisdom, of her strength. He imagined confiding his folly with that other Charity, asking her counsel. He could almost hear her consoling voice, inventing excuses he hadn't thought to offer, analyzing his mistakes.

She would tell him that his first mistake was to assume that he knew her, when he knew only what he wanted to know. His second was to rush his fences, forcing an ultimatum before he had a chance to realize his first mistake. His third was to imagine that his needs were paramount. Now, he could almost hear her chiding, does that sound loverlike?

She would tell him to do what he had never thought to do—to consider whether this proposed marriage would benefit her life nearly as much as him. Could she ever have wanted to marry him?

He stopped to watch the waves smooth away the footprints he had left in the sand. He had never been particularly vain, even about his art, so he dismissed his looks as irrelevant. As an artist, he knew how easy it was to create an Aphrodite or an Adonis either with paint or with cosmetics. But not an evocative expression, an intriguing face, an infectious smile: Those lingered in the imagination but were almost impossible to recreate. Charity—now she had that sort of beauty. Her features weren't at all symmetrical; those dimples unbalanced everything, making her smile a little crooked. But so radiant . . .

He wrenched his thoughts away from his own feelings and back to hers. But he sensed Charity felt the same way, that true beauty shone from within. At least she liked his hands. Often he'd caught her gazing approvingly at them, paint stains and all.

In fact, the paint stains were what attracted her. She admired his art, admired him for being artistic. Such conversations they had about art. He wasn't used to talking about his work, in fact even his exchanges with other artists were mostly technical, not substantive. But Charity genuinely enjoyed discussing his paintings, his education. He closed his eyes, thinking how self-absorbed he must have been. Did they never discuss her work, her education?

Then he imagined what his friend Charity might say to that: She didn't want to talk about her own life. She found yours exotic, enticing, art and Italy and adventure. Think of the guidebook she annotated, for a place she had never been. No one else she knows lived such a life. She was fascinated by you.

Cheered, he retraced his steps to the old pier. Fascinated—she often asked him about Italy, her close questions betraying her hunger for description beyond what guidebooks reported. That was good; he knew Italy far better than he knew England. He had been a tour guide himself one destitute summer after the war, leading a group of aging British tourists through Tuscany. Charity would love that story, and he resolved to tell her if he got the opportunity.

And he would make sure he got that opportunity. Briskly he dusted the sand off his breeches, whistling for Giotti. As he led the chestnut back up the cliff, he reminded himself of her passionate response to his embraces, her intense interest in his work, the laughter they had shared, the exchanges of ironic looks, the sparkling conversations. Sometimes the involuntary intimacy had even frightened her, he thought, recalling how she had withdrawn when he had spoken of little Joey. He had been too intuitive that afternoon, sensing her feelings of having failed the child. She couldn't let him near enough to comfort her.

Without vanity, he concluded that, blind as he had been, no other man could see her as well as he could. And no other man would as well appreciate her—the known and unknown Charity.

Halfway back to Haver, he had determined his course. It would be a courtship with all the proper elements, only surreptitious. He would win her back without her ever realizing she was still in the game. She wouldn't resist his renewed pursuit because she would never recognize it as such.

Chapter Sixteen

For the first time in her life, Charity felt the chill of public disapproval. Those same people who didn't cock an eyebrow when she gave away scandalous Gothic novels to encourage literacy, who contributed uncomplainingly to her fund for parish bastards, who understood when she turned away the proposal of the finest men in the area, shook their heads over this latest event.

Mrs. Hering, Mrs. Dalton, and Mrs. Williams, as representatives of the older and wiser members of the parish, arrived at the Grange ten minutes after the news of the broken engagement got out. Ostensibly they were there for a Midsummer committee meeting, but no matter how often Charity asked for reports of rag dolls and jumble booths or destiny cakes, the ladies could only talk of her folly.

They accepted tea and cream biscuits but not Charity's decision. "I was not surprised when you refused my boys," Mrs. Hering conceded. "They are boys, and you grew up with them, and Crispin especially must seem almost a brother to you. But Lord Braden—why, what objection could you have to him? So handsome, so talented, with that lovely estate only a few miles away!"

Charity didn't know how to defend herself, except to say once again that she had realized they would not suit. Mrs. Hering set down her teacup with a decisive rattle. "Nonsense. You'd suit well enough eventually. You grow to suit, don't you see? You can't expect perfection straight off, especially in a man!"

"Especially in a man!" Mrs. Williams echoed, and Mrs. Dalton nodded sagely in agreement.

"Men never do get perfect, no matter how we nag! So don't go expecting it, or you'll only be disappointed."

Charity was hard-pressed to hold her temper in check, but she managed to get a consensus on the banquet menu before the ladies left, trailing advice behind them.

"It's none of their business, after all," she told Cammie, who had come by to support her during the onslaught.

"Of course it is." Cammie peered calmly out the window at the puddled courtyard, finally empty of visitors. "The Grange is the center of the village, and the Calder family is central to its welfare. So your welfare, my dear, is central to every villager."

"I can make my own decisions, and they are likely to be sensible ones, even if—"

"Even if not a single soul understands why." Cammie turned away from the dreary vista and regarded Charity soberly. "Explain to me why this is so sensible."

Charity poured herself another cup of tea, but no compelling answer appeared in the meantime. "It is sensible, it is. Tristan's a good man, but he doesn't really know me. And I don't know him."

"A long engagement would have solved that. In fact, a short engagement and a long marriage would have been an even better solution."

Abandoning her fresh cup, Charity rose from her defensive position behind the serving tray. In a napkin, she gathered up the biscuits to deliver to the children at the play rehearsal later. "No. I knew right away I'd made a mistake. I didn't feel properly."

"What do you mean, properly?"

Charity tied the ends of the napkin into a square knot before she replied. "I was unsettled. I didn't want to see him or be with him. And that doesn't augur well for a life with him, does it?"

"You'd be surprised." Cammie didn't explain this cryptic comment, adding gently, "You have the right to be happy, you know."

"I am happy. Oh, not right at the moment, but I would be if everyone would just leave me be. I wasn't happy, not at all, when we were—" The word stuck in her throat but she forced it out. "Betrothed. Oh, no, is that the vicar?" She squeezed past Cammie to peek out from behind the curtains. Head down, Mr. Langworth was picking his way among the puddles in the lane. In his black greatcoat, the vicar looked rather ominous. "Oh, I can't talk to him as well. He'll just shake his head and say that all this Midsummer foolishness has overset me. I'm going to the church hall to build a few more booths."

"Take your umbrella!" Cammie called as Charity escaped through the drawing-room door. "And wear your pattens. It's dreadfully muddy out there."

Charity did not need this estimable advice, only replacing her slippers with a pair of walking boots before entering the misty afternoon. The rain had stopped finally. A few shafts of sun poked bravely through the clouds as she wriggled through a space in the high hedges, yanking the basket of biscuits and peppermints after her. Then she was in the meadow, free from any chance encounter with concerned neighbors, free from disapproval and interference.

The run across the long grass overheated her, and she knelt to splash her fevered cheeks in the deep pool formed where beavers dammed up the spring. This was the best fishing hole at Calder, rocky and cool, shaded by willows and wych elm. Drinking in the clean wet scent, she recalled other damp afternoons spent here with her brothers, fishing or just listening to the deep throb of the bullfrog and the trickling of water through the dam. She could almost hear Ned's bouncy step behind her.

It wasn't Ned at all, but Crispin Hering. A fishing rod balanced on his shoulder, he walked into the grove, whistling softly. He stopped when he saw Charity. Then, insolently, he took up whistling again, settling himself not far away and pulling a live worm from his shirt pocket. His tune trailed off finally. "'Hullo."

"Hullo."

"I've decided to marry someone else." Contemplatively Crispin watched the worm wriggle at the end of his hook, then glanced back at Charity. "I haven't decided whom yet, but someone else. So you'd best not count on me to make you another offer."

"I hadn't the least intention of counting on you." Charity's tone was lofty, but she bent her head so her hair fell forward to hide her face. She was ridiculously hurt. She had never meant to marry Crispin, but she had also never meant to earn his scorn.

"Don't you want to know why?"

It was apparent that he had a set-down speech planned, so she didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. He didn't need one. Casually dropping his line into the water, he jiggled it a few times before he said. "Because we have enough stupidity in the family with my brothers. And you, my girl, are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid." He jerked his fishing rod with each repetition until Charity wanted to seize it out of his hands and break it in two.

"I am not stupid."

"Of course you are. Here you are, almost of age, still in your brother's house, still taking care of others' children. Oh, I know why you wouldn't take one of us. Dickon is hopeless, and Davey's younger 'n you, and I—well, I'd've done you well enough, but I—"

He broke off, swallowed hard, and went on, "Oh, I know you look at me and think of Ned, and I reckon you shouldn't think of sad times, or your brother either, when you look at your husband. I understand that. But none of that signifies with Braden. He ain't the man I would've chosen for you—well, I'm the man I would've chosen for you—but he'll do. He's artistic, and you like that, and he'd talk to you of all those bluestocking subjects you enjoy, and he doesn't seem likely to beat you. He'd probably even be good to you. Hell, I did my best. Told him all about Polly Ferris's predilection for haystack romance. I even told her he was hers for the asking."

Charity actually thought Crispin's machinations sweet, if ineffective. At least she hoped they had been ineffective.

"Didn't even notice her, 's far as I can tell. Only had eyes for you and all that tripe. And you know, Charity, I've always meant to marry you, at least until today, and I still had at least one eye for the likes of Polly. Of course," he added with an illustrative wink, "I would've closed it, had we married."