The Affectionate Adversary (21 page)

Charles had permitted himself the journey to Bamberfield only because of his certainty that Sarah needed him. Her sister had penned a letter filled with dire warnings. Sarah was consumed with dark moods, melancholy musings, and long hours of solitude, Prudence wrote. Nothing good could come of this bleak humor, and no one could cheer Sarah. None save Charles, whose recent visit had filled the young lady with joy and had brought about her resolution to stay in England at least until the new year. Would Charles please set aside his misgivings and come to Bamberfield? Prudence had pleaded. If he did not, she truly feared for her sister’s health.

The letter had achieved its intended result, but now that Charles was seated across the carriage from the two women, he began to doubt his decision. Prudence Watson was surely the most determined flirt in the realm. Too young and silly to be taken seriously, she fluttered her long dark lashes at him, pouted her full lips, and made such laughable attempts to attract his attention that Charles could hardly keep a straight face.

Sarah was another matter. Wearing a simple white gown with puffed sleeves and a high waistline, she appeared almost angelic. So innocent and pure as to make his chest ache, she gazed out the carriage windows, her brown eyes soft and luminous. Her chestnut hair was swept up in a knot, leaving her neck bare except for the curled tendrils that floated like feathers against her silken skin. White kid slippers and white stockings seemed too delicate and fragile for the muddy floor of the old carriage, and Charles fretted that she might take offense.

He could hardly keep his thoughts on the matter at hand, for Sarah’s presence distracted him from all his high-minded intentions. He had come to Bamberfield to talk sense into her. Now he wished for nothing more than to take her in his arms and shield her from every sensible and harsh reality the world had already laid upon her. He had hoped to make her smile and to occupy her hours with productive tasks. Now he longed merely to sit beside her and listen to the burdens of her heart.

In debating whether to make the journey, Charles had even gone so far as to imagine that Delacroix might make Sarah a good husband. Perhaps the golden-haired young man could bring her pleasure and ease. And perhaps Charles would, after all, attempt to incline her in that man’s direction.

Though he found Delacroix’s offer of financial support in exchange for matchmaking distasteful, Charles could not quite bring himself to deny the obvious. He needed money, and Sarah needed the security and stability of marriage. He had traveled to Bamberfield confident that he could help accomplish both.

Or so he had supposed until the moment he stepped into the drawing room and saw the young lady seated at a table, her easel and paints before her, and her lovely eyes settled upon him. He knew instantly that he could never urge her into any man’s arms but his own. That he would support another match was impossible. Unthinkable.

“I declare that you are teasing us, Mr. Locke,” Prudence said, lightly touching his arm. The girl had kept up such a chatter since leaving the house that her words took a moment to register.

“How do I tease you, madam?” he inquired.

“The carriage takes us to no known destination, and you speak not a single word along the way. Indeed, I begin to fear for my safety, for we are completely at your mercy.”

“Nonsense, Pru,” Sarah responded in a low voice. “Mr. Locke is a respectable man. I am sure his purpose in this journey is honorable.”

“But of course,” he concurred. “I keep our destination a secret merely that I may prepare you for it before our arrival. I sit in silence that I may ponder how best to reveal my purpose. At your request, Miss Watson, I shall now begin that task.”

Lest he dismay Sarah by disclosing any of his most private thoughts, Charles turned his attention to the practical matter at hand. “From our conversations aboard the
Queen Elinor
, Lady Delacroix, I understood you to say you had been away from England for two years.”

“Aye, traveling in the Orient.”

“And in all that time, you received only a few letters from England?”

“I had a letter from Mary and two from Prudence. My solicitor wrote to me once, and on occasion I heard from various female acquaintances.”

“I cannot believe that such correspondence gave much news of the political or economic situation of your homeland.”

She smiled at this. “I became more familiar with the current fashion for sleeves than with British politics, Mr. Locke.”

“I suspected as much.” Her sweet expression lifting his spirits, Charles plunged ahead. “I wonder, madam, if you have heard of the Corn Laws—legislation that raised taxes on foreign grains. In order to stifle their competition, wealthy landowners supported the enactment of the Corn Laws. Sadly, these laws have penalized the poor of this country, who relied on less expensive imported grain for their sustenance.”

“I am sorry to inform you, Mr. Locke,” Sarah said, “that I heard nothing of this.”

“Why should we write to our sister about the Corn Laws?” Prudence spoke up. “Such a dull subject would be a great waste of ink and paper. No, I had much better send Sarah copies of Lord Byron’s darkly romantic poetry—and then tell my sister that Lady Caroline Lamb had openly pursued him for so long a time. Miss Pickworth wrote about it very often in her column in
The Tattler
. Do you read Miss Pickworth, sir?”

“I am acquainted with the piece.”

“Miss Pickworth informed her readers that Lady Caroline cavorted with Lord Byron until the moment she published
Glenarvon
. That scathing novel satirized his poems as well as his relationship with Lady Melbourne and her husband! The book scandalized the whole of the
ton
.”

“Scandal?” Charles turned to Sarah again. “Is this what interests you, Lady Delacroix? I had thought it was the plight of the less fortunate.”

Prudence gave a sniff of disgust. “While Parliament was enacting the Corn Laws, Mr. Locke, my sister was visiting the needy and making plans to join their ranks. I should rather she learn that Percy Shelley—who is yet another poet and nearly as infamous a cad as Lord Byron—abandoned his wife to run off with Mary Godwin, who is the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft. Miss Pickworth has written that Mr. Shelley and the young lady went away to the Continent and will probably never be seen in England again.”

“Thank you, Prudence,” Sarah said. “I am sure I could not have been happier to receive such news.”

“Miss Watson,” Charles addressed the young lady, “I wonder if you have told your sister about Miss Pickworth’s columns regarding the duke of Devonshire’s renovations to his estate, Chatsworth, in Derbyshire.”

Prudence’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Sarah, he has spent thousands of pounds on Chatsworth. Miss Pickworth says that house now rivals the royal palace in majestic appointments. The duke is a most eligible bachelor, to be sure, and a favorite in our society. Mr. Locke, did you see him at the Marston reception? He was accompanied by—”

“But what of the fortune the prince regent has spent refurbishing the Royal Pavilion in Brighton and Carleton House in London?” Charles went on, determined to drown Miss Watson’s gossip with his own more pertinent line of reasoning. “Parliament is outraged at the excessive expenditure, of course. Yet they stand in support of the construction of Regent Street and Regent’s Park, which are merely the beginning of a grand plan for transforming that part of London.”

“Oh, lovely Brighton,” Prudence sighed. “Sarah, we must go down soon. There is little I like better than sea bathing. And as for Regent Street, let me tell you that Miss Pickworth writes—”

“May I ask the purpose of all these accounts, Mr. Locke?” Sarah cut in, her dark eyes pinning him. “Elopements and scandals mean nothing to me. And you surely know I am opposed to the expenditure of fortunes on grand houses.”

“Then may we return to a discussion of the effects that these and other events have had upon England?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I should like very much to inform you that while you were touring the Orient, Lady Delacroix, the gap between the aristocracy and the masses in this country widened. Our recent war with America and our ongoing troubles with the French have led to soaring prices and increased poverty. England now faces an enormous national debt that we have no way of repaying.”

“Upon my word,” Sarah exclaimed. “I am shocked. Can this be so?”

“Truly, it is so. Three hundred thousand soldiers have returned from the Napoleonic wars to find that their king is mad, and his obese and profligate sinner of a son has been made our prince regent. These thousands of soldiers seeking jobs have discovered that while they were away defending their country, many businesses closed or brought in machines to replace them.”

“I do know something of this,” Sarah said, “for my lady’s maid hails from Nottingham, and she has told me that city is greatly affected by lace machines. In fact, her father—a minister—was imprisoned with his parishioners for attempting to destroy the machines.”

Charles nodded in sympathy. “Other firms stay profitable by hiring children, who are paid only a fraction of a man’s salary. Wages of tenant farmers have fallen to half what they once were, while poor harvests have led to hunger and riots.”

“Oh, dear,” Sarah whispered. Even her sister appeared somewhat distressed by this information.

“Not only have the Corn Laws penalized the poor,” Charles continued, “but other legislation now makes public gatherings illegal. Since you went away, madam, England has suspended habeas corpus and has made great efforts to curtail freedom of speech.”

“Impossible.”

“Yet all too true. Even as Parliament clamps down on liberties, our population is exploding. Of more than twelve million who now reside in this country, fewer than a quarter may be said to live above poverty.”

“But Parliament must be addressing such problems,” Sarah said.

“Our leaders protect their own, my lady. The landowners who control Parliament have little interest in easing the plight of the lower classes. They have actually raised taxes on tea, candles, paper, soap, and sugar. Newspapers are heavily taxed in order to restrict what is viewed as dangerous propaganda.”

“This is dreadful!” Sarah exclaimed. “Pru, did you know of it?”

“I knew about the wars. But what have they to do with me?”

“You live here!”

“I did not cause the wars or raise the taxes. Honestly, sister, you turn on me as though all this is my fault—but I have done nothing.”

“That is just it, Pru. You have done nothing. Nothing but flirt and shop and go to balls.”

“Well, you sailed off to China and gave your money to blind girls! Why should they have it when people are starving here in England?”

“And just in time, we arrive at our destination,” Charles announced. “Shepton.”

Through the carriage window, he could see the small village that nestled at the edge of the Bamberfield estate. From whitewashed wattle-and-daub cottages with thatched roofs rose thin wisps of pale gray smoke. Tiny windows covered with soot revealed nothing within the houses, but Charles knew what awaited him and his lovely companions.

As a boy, he had often raced Ruel and Alexander Chouteau down to this village that supplied their father’s manor with produce grown by tenant farmers. For many years, he had thought the little hamlet was no more than houses, streets, and shops. The green featured a tiered marketplace, and the sun often shone brightly on the chestnut trees that surrounded it. And then one day, a little boy had invited the duke’s sons and their companion to his house for tea. As Charles had stepped into this new friend’s cottage, he was introduced to a foreign world, one he was eager to escape at the first opportunity.

“I have been to Shepton many times already,” Prudence was lamenting as Charles stepped out of the carriage into the muddy street. He donned his top hat while his footman put up an umbrella for the ladies.

“Shepton has little to recommend it—a milliner’s shop, a bakery, and the market,” Prudence continued. “I am prodigiously chilled in this rain, Mr. Locke. I do hope we mean to stay only a few minutes, for I can guess your purpose.”

“Can you indeed?” he asked.

“You mean to encourage my sister to use her money here—to help these villagers.”

Charles smiled as he helped Sarah down from the carriage. “Miss Watson, I am of the opinion that your sister may give her money to whomever she wishes, as I have told her already.”

“And you, sir?” Sarah asked as Prudence made a dash for the umbrella. “When you have earned your fortune, who will benefit from it?”

“My wife and children. I have told you that already, also.”

“Your wife and children—and yourself, of course. You believe wealth will bring you happiness.”

“It cannot harm my chances, can it?”

“It certainly can.”

“I believe my only hope for great happiness was lost aboard the
Queen Elinor
,” he said, speaking near her ear. Her eyes darted up at him, but he continued forward, instructing his footman as he led the ladies toward the nearest cottage.

“Bring the baskets, please, Rochester. Three will be enough for now, I should think.”

The footman handed large baskets to Charles and to both women. They were filled with items Charles had purchased that morning before setting out from London. His father had thought him mad, of course. The journey to Bamberfield was a good idea, James Locke had agreed. But its object ought to be securing the affections of Lady Delacroix—or, failing that, those of her younger sister. Charles had a different aim in mind, and now he rapped on the door of the nearest cottage.