Once Again a Bride (19 page)

They left soon after, embarking on the long drive to Charlotte’s neighborhood. “I was wondering about Henry,” she ventured. She’d been considering this topic all morning, and now she had the opportunity.

Lady Isabella turned to her with raised brows. “Henry?”

Sir Alexander had advised her not to talk about what they’d found in Henry’s rooms, but surely Henry’s sister must know things about him. They’d spent the first ten years of Henry’s life in the same house, and school holidays for years after that. “He wasn’t very… communicative, you know. And since he died, I’ve been wondering… oh, why he never married before he met me.” The earrings in his hidden cupboard showed that other women had figured in his life. “Was he never attached or engaged when he was young?”

“Henry?” Lady Isabella repeated.

“Young men are… susceptible. Surely when he was first presented to society, he…”

“Henry never attended a
ton
party in his life,” Lady Isabella interrupted. She said it as if the idea was ludicrous. “Or any other sorts. He was such a… morose person.”

“Even when he was young?”

“He wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t…?”

“Young. He seemed fussy and old even when he was a child. At university, they say he spent all his time buried in the library. Everyone knows that young men get up to all kinds of mischief at college, but not Henry.”

“And then he came down to London,” Charlotte said.

“He leased that house—close to the British Museum, can you imagine?—and then bought it with his inheritance after Father died, I suppose.”

“So he never mentioned anyone…”

“My dear, he didn’t even tell us when he married you!” Lady Isabella looked as if her nose for gossip had been roused. “Why do you ask?”

Charlotte thought of telling her about the earrings, but Sir Alexander had been so adamant. “It’s just strange, knowing so little about a man one was married to.”

“Husbands are always a mystery, my dear,” was the airy reply. “Now, in the much more important matter of your wardrobe…”

“I really cannot spend any more, Lady Isabella. I’m sorry. If you feel my… appearance reflects poorly on you, I would not blame you…”

She waved this aside. “If you were to sell some small things from…”

“I can’t…”

“Because of Henry’s
ridiculous
will, I know. But you might easily find a way around that. You must know that people from the very highest rungs of society occasionally need to… exchange items they have inherited for… cash. Which they do not want known, of course. So embarrassing. There are people who manage such transactions and would never breathe a word of the sale…”

“It isn’t that. Well, it is. But I don’t think such people would be interested, you see. Henry’s collection is practically worthless.”

“What?”

“We had a man in from the museum to evaluate it, and he said one or two pieces are authentic and worth something, but the rest is just… well, more or less clutter.”

Lady Isabella seemed stunned. “But… nothing?”

“Henry spent thousands of pounds on objects that are good for nothing but paperweights.” Charlotte couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.

“Thousands of…” Lady Isabella looked devastated.

Charlotte was touched by her concern. She hadn’t realized that Lady Isabella had taken her situation so to heart. She tried to lighten the mood. “The burglar would have been quite disappointed if he’d managed to steal anything.”

“The… yes. Quite a joke on him.” Lady Isabella recovered herself. She gave a trilling laugh. “Well, I am very sorry, my dear. I had hoped to be of some help.”

“And I appreciate your kindness.” The carriage pulled up, and she prepared to get down. “Thank you for a… lovely morning.”

“Of course.”

Charlotte used her key to enter as the carriage moved off and was startled to find Callie sitting in the front hall, tail curled around her front paws, as if waiting for her. “Hello, Callie.” Two heads popped over the banister above her, and Lucy and Tess came hurrying down. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, Miss Charlotte, the cat had a… a relapse, like,” replied Lucy.

“She tore a fine linen dishtowel to shreds,” added Tess. “Mrs. Trask said it ain… isn’t even good for rags.”

They both stared accusingly at Callie, who ignored them. She was gazing so steadily at a bit of wall behind Charlotte that she had to turn and look. There was nothing visible but paneling. “That is very disappointing to hear,” she told the cat. “I thought you were a… a reformed animal.” She was trying not to laugh, and Lucy saw it.

“It was one of the
new
dishtowels, Miss Charlotte.”

It was true that they couldn’t afford to replace many household items. “Very bad. You are a bad cat.”

Callie remained oblivious. Lucy sniffed.

“Mrs. Trask must have scolded her at the time,” Charlotte said.

“She did, miss, but…”

“Well, we shall hope it doesn’t happen again.” What else did they think she could do? Charlotte was just deeply grateful that Callie had not turned her destructive attention to the “exhibits” on this floor. She started up the stairs. The two maids headed for the kitchen. The cat slipped past her and when she reached her bedchamber, Charlotte found Callie already there. “You miss Anne and Lizzy, don’t you?” she said as she took off her hat. “I do, too.”

***

Lucy yawned and folded up her mending. “I’m off to bed,” she said to the rest of the staff. She kept her voice casual, but Mrs. Trask gave her a glance that made Lucy nervous. No one was better than Mrs. Trask at putting two and two together. Still, Ethan had said his good-byes a good quarter hour ago.

She paused a moment outside the room, but nothing was said about her departure, so she hurried up the stairs and slipped out the back door. Ethan was waiting at what she now thought of as “their” bench. He rose as soon as she appeared, a large dark shape with open arms. Lucy could do nothing but walk into them.

Enfolded, held against him like a treasure, she couldn’t keep hold of her doubts and worries. The feel of his coat against her cheek, the heady smell of him, drowned out everything else. She rested there for a needful bit of time, then raised her head and laced her arms around his neck.

The kiss enflamed every inch of her. Heat blossomed from deep in her belly and ran out to her finger ends, and then farther still, as if her soul touched his where their lips met. This couldn’t be wrong. It was meant to be. Ethan’s big hands slid up her sides. His thumbs grazed her breasts under the stuff gown, and Lucy heard herself groan softly. She pressed closer. One of Ethan’s hands dropped to cup her body and pull her closer still. The other continued its circling, circling, until she thought he’d drive her mad with wanting him.

Abruptly, he pulled away. A wordless sound of protest escaped her.

“Ah, Lucy.” He was breathing hard. So was she, Lucy noticed, and her knees seemed about to buckle under her. “We’d best stop before I do something I oughtn’t.” He pulled her down onto the bench, keeping hold of her hand. “Ah, Lucy,” he said again.

For a brief while they simply sat there, breathing.

“I asked about the job,” Ethan said finally. “It’ll be all right, seemingly. The cottage and all, for us to live in.”

Lucy’s mood soared and then came crashing down, weighted by all the worries his touch had erased. “That’s fine then… for you. Just what you wanted.” He’d leave London at the end of the season, and he’d never come back.

“For us.”

Tears clogged her throat. “I want to go; most all of me wants to go. Maybe I should be able to just take off… But I can’t. It’s stupid!”

“No, it isn’t. It’s the way you are.” He squeezed her hand. “Look, we all know there’s lots of servants who’re nothing but that. They come and go, and nobody cares much except those as have to find replacements. Then there’s some who’re more like family. It can’t be just them that thinks so, of course. That’ll get you into trouble, and no mistake. But your Miss Charlotte feels the same. Anyone can tell that.”

Lucy took a shaky breath. “You say that even though you want me to give notice?”

“I want you to come away and marry me and be with me all my life long. But I want you to do it freely and gladly. I want you to be happy and not regret one thing.”

Lucy’s tears escaped. He was just the man for her. Couldn’t she marry him and never look back? Shouldn’t she—and he—be happy? If she spoke to Miss Charlotte… Miss Charlotte would tell her to go and not look back. Then the Trasks would leave, and there’d be just young Tess and whatever town-bred strangers she found to take the other positions. Miss Charlotte would be unhappy—not as unhappy as she’d been this last year, maybe, but sad and alone. And she wouldn’t begrudge a bit of it.

Lucy thought of herself married to Ethan, snug in her neat country cottage. She longed for it with her whole being. But to sit at the hearth knowing Miss Charlotte was here without any tie to her old happier life in Hampshire…

She’d do it, Lucy realized. She’d go. She couldn’t give him up. But her heart would be sore at the way of it.

Ethan’s arm had gone round her shoulders. “Don’t cry, Lucy. I can’t stand it. Look… I have an idea how things might all come out right.”

She sniffed, looking up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking… that is, I have a notion that Sir Alexander is… fond of Miss Charlotte. Interested in her, like.”

Lucy frowned, trying to take this in.

“And maybe she likes him as well. If they was to get together…”

“Marry, you mean? Miss Charlotte’s just got out of a horrible marriage. She won’t be wanting another one.”

“Now, who’s to say that? Sir Alexander is nothing like this Henry Wylde seems to have been.”

“No…”

“He’s well-liked in the servants’ hall and at home among the tenants. He’s right good to his sisters. According to Jennings, he’s a prime match as well.”

“Are you selling him to me then?” asked Lucy, a thread of amusement running through her.

“Just saying he’s a different kettle of fish entirely from his uncle.”

“Maybe so.” Lucy thoughts ran back over the last few weeks. Was Miss Charlotte sweet on Ethan’s master? It might explain some oddities she’d noticed. It was possible. Then again… was she just being swayed by selfish hopes? “Even if there is some… something between them, what’s it to do with us?”

“Well, we could… encourage it, like.”

“How?” Before he could answer, she added, “Anyway, we’ve got no right to interfere.”

“We wouldn’t be interfering. Just helping things along.”

“I don’t know.” As Lucy tried to state her doubts, the lamplight went off in a basement window.

“It’s late,” Ethan said. “They’re locking up. You’ve got to go. You’re coming with the others to my aunt’s house tomorrow evening?”

Lucy had been invited to a celebration for Ethan’s cousin, home on leave from the navy. The Trasks were going, of course, and she and Tess had been invited as well. “Miss Charlotte said I should, but it’ll leave her all alone here.”

“Just for a few hours. She could go visit Miss Anne and Miss Lizzy.”

“That’s a good thought. I’ll tell her.” Ethan stood. “I worry about you walking in the streets at this time of night.”

“I know how to go, and I’ve got a stick,” he assured her, hefting a large cudgel he’d leaned against the garden wall. He swept her up for a last kiss, and Lucy forgot everything else in the dazzle of it. Then he was gone, and Lucy was slipping through the back door just ahead of Mr. Trask locking up. At the foot of the stairs to the upper floors, she found Callie sitting like a guard dog. She edged past her, followed by the stare of two yellow eyes, thanking her lucky stars that cats couldn’t talk.

Since Charlotte had been watching for Margaret Billings’ arrival, she was able to admire the way her new acquaintance pulled up in front of the house—as if she’d handled horses all her life. She had her own lady’s phaeton, and she held the reins of a beautiful chestnut pair. “You really do live quite out of the way, don’t you?” she said when Charlotte emerged.

So here was another fashionable person who saw any venture outside a certain area of London as a wilderness trek. “I would have been happy to take a cab to meet…”

“Nonsense. Hop in.”

Margaret’s groom offered a hand up, and Charlotte climbed into the seat beside her. He swung onto the perch at the back as Margaret eased the reins, and they clattered off. Margaret looked very dashing in a long-sleeved blue gown with military frogging and a hat with a feather tilted over one eye. Charlotte was grateful for the warmth of the June morning, so that she didn’t even need a shawl. To sit in this modish equipage wearing her fusty old cloak was unthinkable.

She liked this wiry, dark-haired woman and was glad to have a chance to talk to her alone. Margaret’s eyes often danced with laughter, and her wit was a byword among Edward’s group of friends. Now, there was this new skill. She turned and guided her horses as well as any man Charlotte had ridden with—not that there were many of those. When she said so, Margaret gave her a broad smile. “I watched my father teach my brothers and begged and begged for lessons until I wore him down.” She glanced at Charlotte, eyes sparkling. “He finally admitted, just last year, that I had more natural talent than either of the boys. Not that he would ever tell
them
that.”

Charlotte laughed.

“I knew William was the one for me when he promised me my own phaeton,” she added of her husband, laughing too.

“How did you meet?”

“Celia and I were schoolmates. She is Richard’s sister, you know. He and William and the others were all at Harrow together, and they came up to town about the same time. I tease William sometimes that I might have chosen Tony instead of him. It’s not true, of course, though he offered for me.”

“Doesn’t that make things awkward between you?” wondered Charlotte.

“Oh no. He didn’t really mean it. And I’m very glad it wasn’t serious, because he drinks far too much.”

Her candid ease, as well as her obvious enjoyment of life, was enviable. Charlotte risked a touchy question. “It seems girls are often… ah… removed from the group at evening parties.”

Margaret didn’t seem surprised or the least embarrassed. “Well, we aren’t a circle for fresh-hatched debs. What’s the fun of being married if you have to keep behaving like a chit just out of the schoolroom?” She turned the horses into Hyde Park. With the season in full swing, it was full of carriages, showy mounts, and beautifully dressed members of the
ton
walking the flower-bordered paths. Everybody was looking at everybody else, bowing and stopping to chat, flirting and gossiping; the grassy expanse was like a giant drawing room. She was part of a London Season, Charlotte thought. Not a central part, not a giddy, head-turning Season, but far more than she’d dreamed of just a few months ago. It seemed too good to be true.

They drove slowly along a graveled lane, stopping often as those ahead paused to converse. Margaret nodded now and then and greeted some people, but there was no opportunity to introduce Charlotte. Not that she cared; she was fascinated by the social interplay going on all around them. It was like watching a play.

They were nearly to the other side of the park when she finally recognized a face. Edward Danforth rode toward them on a spirited black horse that seemed to object to the presence of other riders. He brought his mount up beside them and tipped his hat. “Well met, fair damsels.”

“Poseur,” replied Margaret. “I can’t believe you’ve brought Dancer into this melee.”

“It’s good training for him.”

“Nonsense. It’s a chance to show off your riding skills.”

Edward gave them one of his dazzling smiles. “May as well let the young sprigs see how it’s done.”

“You’ll look all nohow if he bolts and throws you.”

“He has better manners than
that.
” The barouche in front of them stopped suddenly and then backed a little. Margaret reacted immediately, narrowly avoiding a collision. “Bravo, Margaret,” said Edward. “I believe you’ve come to equal my mother at the ribbons.”

“Lady Isabella drives?” said Charlotte, surprised.

“Oh yes, she’s a notable whip. She’s even handled a team, in the country. Though she’s gone off it in the last few years.” The line of carriages moved forward again, and Edward stayed beside them. “You said the other night that you’ve never been to the opera,” he said to Charlotte. “Would you care to go on Friday? With my mother and me?”

“Oh. That would be pleasant.” It was a little odd that he was inviting her for Lady Isabella, but they were well acquainted by this time, after all.

“I’m sitting right here and yet not invited,” commented Margaret.

“Because I am well aware that you hate the opera.”

She grinned. “True. William’s mother despairs that I have no ear. It all sounds like stray cats bawling in an alley to me.”

“Do not be influenced by this philistine,” Edward told Charlotte. “She cares more for horses than art.”

“So I do,” said Margaret cheerfully. “And now I am ready to turn my horses, Edward, so please get out of my way.”

He bowed from the saddle and moved off. Charlotte admired the neat way Margaret maneuvered the pair around a tight corner and set them crossing the park in the opposite direction. “Quite a charmer, our Edward,” Margaret commented then.

“He’s very good company.”

“Famous for it.”

Charlotte wondered yet again why she did not find Edward more exciting. He was strikingly handsome, amusing, attentive. And yet she merely liked him—no more than that. Why should one man—with less extraordinary looks and manners—be riveting and Edward only pleasant? There was no explaining it.

Margaret shot her a sidelong glance. “Not a marrying man, of course. At least not yet.”

For a moment, Charlotte was confused. “Oh, Edward? No, I shouldn’t think so.”

“So if anyone was hoping for an offer from that direction…?”

“Me, you mean? Of course not.” She was suddenly certain, even though she had never considered the matter before, that Edward would only marry for a fortune. One larger than she had ever possessed.

“He’s not nearly as great a catch as his cousin,” Margaret added.

“His…?”

“Oh, come, don’t be missish. Sir Alexander Wylde has been rather attentive.”

“He’s been kind enough to…”

“My dear, he shows up wherever you are, hovers and glowers in the best style!”

“Glowers?”

“You must have noticed the way he scowls at Edward whenever he is near you.”

“I haven’t… does he?” The idea sent a thrill through Charlotte.

“He certainly does.” Margaret laughed. “I would say if you play your hand with any skill at all,
he
might make an offer.”

Charlotte sat very still. She’d enjoyed observing the lively social scene. She’d seen how everyone gossiped. But she hadn’t imagined that the obsession with others’ doings would be turned on her. She’d thought of herself as invisible, a nobody. The idea of being under such scrutiny made her squirm. And yet she longed to hear more about Sir Alexander’s interest in her. “It could be just politeness.”

“This is my fifth London Season, my dear. I can tell the difference. Why do you think Edward is paying such…” She pressed her lips together, looking chagrined.

“What?” When Margaret just shook her head, Charlotte put the pieces together. “Edward is singling me out to annoy Sir Alexander?”

“I beg your pardon, Charlotte. I did not mean…”

“It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t—much. A little sting, perhaps. She hadn’t imagined that Edward felt any real regard for her.

“Ah… well, as a friend, I advise you to grasp the opportunity. You don’t dislike Sir Alexander?”

“No!” The fierce denial escaped her lips before she could clamp them shut. Charlotte closed her fists in her lap and looked away. She was so far from disliking him… She thought of him constantly; memories of his hands on her set her aflame. “But there is no chance of… what you mean.”

“Whyever not?”

Because she was penniless, had been married to his wretched uncle, and was suspected of murdering her own husband. Because Sir Alexander meant to contract a brilliant, “suitable” marriage with no complications of love. He would never offer for her. He only held her in a way that melted her bones.

She would have given anything he asked, Charlotte acknowledged. She would have tossed propriety to the four winds. But he hadn’t asked. She’d thought he hadn’t been interested enough to ask, but what if she was wrong? Margaret said she was. If he cared for her as she did for him…?

“If you need someone to give him a hint,” Margaret suggested. “I could play the matchmaking ‘mama.’”

“No!” Margaret knew nothing of his family history, of his determination not to make a love match. Sir Alexander Wylde’s wife would be suitable in all the ways Charlotte was not—prominent family, heaps of money, serene and expert in the ways of society. She could almost picture her, in all her polished, hateful glory. Most of all, she would be a woman who did not love him. That was what he intended. He had made it clear. She fell short on all counts, because… Charlotte had to swallow a rush of emotion. If she was honest with herself, she had to acknowledge that she had fallen in love with him over these weeks. Perhaps she could have gone on denying her feelings without Margaret’s prodding. Now, they crashed over her like a summer squall. He was everything she wanted.

“You needn’t feel shy,” Margaret added. “It’s done all the time. Just a little push, nothing…”

“Can we talk of something else?”

Her tone drew a frown. “Very well.” Margaret’s voice had gone cool. She’d offended her, Charlotte thought—this woman she’d hoped to make a friend. But that regret was overwhelmed by the turmoil in her mind. The conventional sequence of events that Margaret proposed was impossible. Yet the older woman, far more versed in the subtle signals of society, was convinced that Sir Alexander had shown a clear attraction to her. So perhaps he had been driven to those kisses they shared as strongly as she. He hadn’t spoken of it directly. He was too much a gentleman. What if… what if she did?

The remainder of the drive was nearly silent. Charlotte tried to make conversation, to mend her fences with Margaret, and she made some progress. But the rhythm of easy comradeship they’d begun to develop did not resume. There was no mention of another outing when she climbed down from the phaeton and bade her good-bye.

Inside, Charlotte found Lizzy, Anne, and Frances all awaiting her in the drawing room, cozy around a tray of tea and Mrs. Trask’s mouthwatering scones. Callie’s variegated fur overflowed Lizzy’s lap. “Lucy said you’d be back soon, so we waited,” the youngest Wylde told her.

“Insisted on waiting,” said Frances, with an ironic look at her youngest charge. Lizzy wrinkled her nose and concentrated on the cat.

“I’m so glad you did. Just let me take off my hat. I’ll be right back.” It soothed Charlotte’s spirit, five minutes later, to return to them, at ease in her home as if they were family. “Georgiana says that no one goes to Ranelagh any more,” Lizzy was declaring when Charlotte re-entered the drawing room. “It is utterly passé.” Frances and Anne exchanged an amused glance. Charlotte already knew that “Georgiana says” had become a refrain in Lizzy’s conversation since she’d begun the visits organized by her Aunt Earnton. She learned herself, during Lizzy’s increasingly rare calls, not to dispute any maxim of the omniscient Georgiana, at the risk of scorn heaped upon her head by her faithful acolyte. Charlotte imagined Georgiana Harrington as one of those sturdy, horse-mad girls, with pale hair, slightly bulging blue eyes, and a nerve-scraping laugh. She had no idea if this vision was correct and no desire to find out. She’d gently discouraged all Lizzy’s offers to bring her for a visit.

At last, Georgiana’s latest maxims were exhausted. “Oh!” continued Lizzy, sitting up straighter and eliciting a protest from the cat. “Anne’s beau has jilted her!”

“He was not my…” Anne began.

“He turned out to be nothing but a heartless flirt. He has begun standing up three times or more with a horrid freckled redhead at every dancing class.”

“Lizzy!” admonished Frances.

“You should take up novel writing, because nearly every word you just spoke is pure fabrication.” Her sister’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp.

Lizzy showed her unrepentant dimples. “But it doesn’t matter a whit, because Anne is always besieged with partners, and he is just an idiot!”

Her older sister sighed. “Promise me
again
that you do not say such things to Georgiana and the other girls. It would be disastrous to have your outrageous flights of fancy circulating in society. As if they came from me!”

“I wouldn’t,” Lizzy protested. But she looked away, meeting no one’s eyes.

“If you have,” Frances chimed in sternly, “then you must stop. Such stories really could make it much more difficult for Anne when she comes out.”

Her dark blue eyes large and serious at last, Lizzy nodded.

Anne turned to Charlotte. “How are you? You have made this room look quite lovely.”

She accepted the compliment with a smile, and they talked for a while of inconsequential things. Then, Anne and Lizzy went down to visit the Trasks, whom they knew well from Derbyshire, and Callie followed them. “I am glad to have a moment alone,” Frances said then. “I wanted to thank you.”

“Me? For what?”

“Do you remember, soon after we met, you asked me what it was that
I
wanted out of life? I must tell you, that question has been an immense help to me.” She smiled at Charlotte’s look of surprise. “Perhaps it sounds simple and obvious to you. But if one has never looked at things from that perspective, it can make a great difference. I have been acting on it.”