Once Again a Bride

Five



Stepping down from the carriage before a town house that made Henry’s—hers—look pinched and mean, Charlotte was acutely conscious of her appearance. In Hampshire she’d had only the dressmaker who sewed for her mother, with very outmoded ideas of fashion. She’d turned to her for mourning gowns when her father died, partly out of foolish sentiment, she supposed, but mostly because Henry had been so beastly about anything she needed. She had no doubt that her clothes would be despised in such a modish house. Sir Alexander obviously despised her already. Not that she cared. Straightening her spine, she stepped up from the pavement. It was just that she had been mocked and belittled for so long she really didn’t think she could bear any more. As they passed through the front door, held for them by a smart young footman, she was near tears.

Something small and mottled black hurtled down the beautiful curving stair, trailing shreds of white. Footsteps pounded above. A housemaid emerged on the landing, followed by a superior manservant who roused unwelcome memories of Holcombe. “That… that creature is possessed by the devil!” the manservant exclaimed.

The black thing turned out to be a large calico cat. It crouched in the back corner of the hall guarding what looked like the mangled remains of a neckcloth.

“It attacked me as I came up the back stairs,” the man added. He held up a bleeding hand. “It was lying in wait! Six freshly pressed neckcloths spoiled and one”—he pointed a shaking finger at the cat—“destroyed.”

The footman took a reluctant step toward the cat. A pretty brunette girl of perhaps twelve came running down the steps. “Lizzy!” said Sir Alexander. Charlotte waited for her to cringe at the annoyance in his voice, but the girl merely disentangled the cat and scooped it up into her arms. The animal’s ferocity vanished at her touch. It lolled in the girl’s arms. “I told you that beast was to be confined…”

“Frances left the schoolroom door open. I told her not to.”

A tall, aristocratic-looking woman with the same dark hair had joined the servants above. “Alec. I cannot… I simply cannot…” The sentence trailed off as if she couldn’t even define what she was not able to do. She walked slowly down the stairs. She had the upright posture of a grand dame.

Sir Alexander sighed, and Charlotte turned to examine him. His lean face showed impatience, perplexity, resignation—but none of the cold anger Charlotte had expected. The girl—Lizzy, apparently, arms overflowing with cat—turned to her. “Hello,” she said brightly.

“Frances, Lizzy, this is Mrs. Wylde,” Sir Alexander said. “I told…”

“You are not to call me that!” It burst out, unthinking, and caused a startled pause. Charlotte flushed with embarrassment. Yet she couldn’t bear to hear that name over and over again. “My name is Charlotte.”

“Shall I call you Aunt Charlotte?” said the girl, and giggled. “You don’t look at all like an aunt, I must say.”

She didn’t sound mocking, just amused. But the really interesting thing was her brother. Charlotte kept waiting for the sarcastic scold, the threats of punishment. Instead, when the manservant had said the cat was possessed, she had almost thought his lips twitched. But that couldn’t be.

“This is my incorrigible sister Elizabeth,” he continued.

“Lizzy,” the girl interjected.

“And our cousin, Frances Cole.”

“Such a way to greet a visitor,” the older woman murmured. She pressed a handkerchief to her lips.

“Welcome to the Wylde household.”

Now he sounded… not sarcastic exactly, but exceedingly dry. Charlotte felt as if she’d taken a step in the dark and found the floor several inches lower than anticipated. “Thank you, Sir Alexander,” was all she could find to say.

“Oh, you can’t call him that,” said Lizzy. “It sounds so odd. Come upstairs. I’ll show you your room, and you must meet Anne.” She peeked around Charlotte. “Who are you?”

“Lucy, miss.” She bobbed a curtsy.

“Hello, Lucy. I’ll introduce you to my maid, Susan. You’ll like her.” She turned and started up the stairs. When Charlotte and Lucy hesitated, she repeated, “Come on then.”

Charlotte couldn’t quite believe that no one would object, but no one did. She walked upstairs at Lizzy’s side, Lucy trailing behind them. The cat gave a soft hiss. “Please don’t be offended,” the girl said. “She does that with everyone. She’s still getting accustomed to the house, you see.” On the landing, the servants backed as far away from the cat as they could.

“Accustomed to…?” Charlotte thought the cat was rather getting the house accustomed to her. Or perhaps subjugated was the better word.

“She’s just come. I found her outside the garden gate. Frances says she has the manners of a street urchin.” Lizzy grinned, and Charlotte found herself grinning back. They started up a second flight of stairs.

“I had a cat when I was small,” Charlotte offered. “He slept by the fire and sat on my lap.”

“Callie is a more independent sort.”

“I can see that.”

“I know she is untrained. She just needs a little more time. Here is Anne’s room.” Reaching around the cat, Lizzy opened a door. “Anne, here is Aunt Charlotte!” she announced, and giggled.

She led the way into a pretty bedchamber, hung with floral chintz and warm from a large fire. The soft colors made Charlotte think of her old home. A girl who seemed a few years younger than Charlotte lay in the big four-poster. Her wheaten hair and green eyes made her kinship to Sir Alexander obvious. Her skin was far paler, however, and the form under the coverlet looked very thin. “Hello.” She coughed on the word, and kept coughing.

“Anne has been ill, but she is much better now,” said Lizzy, as if it had to be true.

“Yes, I am,” declared Anne, and gasped. Her midsection quivered as she struggled to control the coughing.

Charlotte knew it wasn’t true. She’d heard that sort of cough most winters through her childhood.

“I see you’ve met Callie,” Anne added. “What did she do now, Lizzy? I heard shouting.”

“She chewed up one of Alec’s neckcloths. Ames was so angry, he said she is possessed by the devil.” She smiled, revealing a fetching set of dimples.

“Oh, Lizzy.” Her tone was rather like Sir Alexander’s. It mystified Charlotte, who had no brothers or sisters. They didn’t seem to excuse Lizzy; they weren’t precisely angry. Was it worry?

“It is only a neckcloth, and Ames is always so stiff and proper.”

“That does not excuse Callie. You promised to keep her up here…”

“And so I shall, if people will not leave the doors open everywhere.” Lizzy turned away from her sister’s skeptical gaze. “I’m taking Aunt Charlotte to her room.”

“It seems odd to call you aunt,” Anne said with a tired smile.

“Just Charlotte would suit me.” She hesitated, but she had to speak. “You know… my father was troubled by a cough almost every winter. There is an herbal mixture that helped him be rid of it.”

Anne looked surprised, then interested. “Really?”

“We must get some right away!” exclaimed Lizzy.

“I would be happy to try it,” her sister agreed. She coughed again. “This is so very tiresome.” For a moment, her face looked pinched and worn. “Tell Alec the name; he will send someone out to ransack London.”

Charlotte nodded and followed Lizzy back to the hall, then along it to an equally pretty bedchamber papered and hung in blue. “This is yours,” Lizzy said. She went over and rang the bell. The cat squirmed, and she tightened her grip. “I need to take Callie back to the schoolroom. She wants to get down.”

“I can see that she does.”

“And I don’t want her getting loose again… just now.”

“Very wise.”

“Susan will be right up.” Lizzy turned to Lucy. “She can show you…” The cat writhed, nearly escaping her arms. “I must go.” Lizzy ran.

“Seems a funny sort of house,” said Lucy.

“Doesn’t it?” Charlotte agreed.

Once Lucy had been taken under Susan’s wing and gone off to explore her own quarters, Charlotte shed her cloak and bonnet and sat in the armchair by the fire. Everything in this room was lovely—the veined marble hearth, the blue wallpaper subtly striped with cream, the silver candlesticks and Dresden figurine on the mantle. The crackle of the fire soothed in a chamber without drafts; the air was scented with potpourri. She felt her senses open and expand. Her room in Hampshire had been rather like this. She had made her own potpourri, from her mother’s recipe. She had gathered beautiful things around her. Over these past months, it had been easier—imperative—to be shut down, to feel less, and then less still. Now her being stirred, eager to come back to life. And why not?

Charlotte’s hand closed on air. She would not be hemmed in any longer. She was free now—to savor, to expand, to make her own decisions. Nothing could make her return to the cramped, stunted life that Henry had forced upon her. Nothing would.

***

On their way to the top floor, Lucy and Susan passed a housemaid carrying a stack of clean laundry. Her dark blue dress and white apron were neat as a pin, and she gave Lucy a cheerful smile when Susan introduced her. She didn’t stop her work to gossip, however, which raised the household in Lucy’s estimation. When she found her bag already in the cozy chamber she’d been allotted at the top of the house, her opinion rose further. But still she had to say, “Odd sort of pet for a young lady.”

Susan laughed. Stocky, blond, and talkative, she had an infectious laugh. “Miss Lizzy took that cat in off the street, and a right argy-bargy it’s been, I can tell you.”

“I wonder she was allowed.” Lucy did more than wonder, after months in a house where it seemed nothing was allowed. She’d been braced for an explosion of masculine wrath in the entry hall and was surprised when it didn’t come.

“Miss Lizzy has a way of getting what she wants. That child can wheedle the birds from the trees. Do you want to unpack? Or come along down and meet everyone?”

“I’ll come.” Lucy had had more than her fill of solitude.

As was proper, Susan took her first to the housekeeper. In the tall, correct, cordial Mrs. Wright, Lucy recognized the sort of authority and experience she’d admired in the senior staff of the Rutherford house. Cook had it, too, in a more approachable way. She was plying the bitten manservant, who turned out to be the master’s valet, Ames, with tea and cake at the kitchen table. The sticking plaster on his hand seemed no hindrance to his appetite, though Ames moaned artistically now and then round a mouthful. From the amused glances exchanged, Lucy gathered that he had a taste for drama. When he held out his cup for a refill, his tragic expression set the kitchen maid—Agnes, Lucy reminded herself—giggling. She didn’t stop chopping carrots, though.

Something deep inside Lucy eased. The rich scent of simmering broth filled the air. The fire crackled in the hearth. The whitewashed walls and brick floor were spotless. The Wylde servants chatted easily with each other, clearly on good terms. She was settled with her own cup and plate during a round of welcomes. Another part of her relaxed, and then another. This was how it was meant to be. Every detail showed the rhythms of a well-run household, and to her that meant safety, respect, companionship, and a sense of possibility.

She’d been horridly alone even before all Miss Charlotte’s servants left, she understood now. No one in that house had given her credit for her skills, or advice about her difficulties, or a laugh to lighten a hard day. They hadn’t offered those things to each other, either. Bleak; it had been purely bleak. Back in a place full of life and energy, she knew she never wanted to be in such a situation again.

The footman who’d been at the front door earlier came in—Ethan, they named him. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, listening with a lazy smile and exhibiting his fine broad-shouldered figure. Lucy ignored him. She knew his type—the kind they warned you about—full of himself, with his well-turned leg and handsome face. Expecting every female he met to fall at his feet, and most likely deep as a puddle. Footmen were hired more for looks than brains. One of his sort—the servant of a visitor in Hampshire—had broken the heart of Lucy’s best friend, and nearly cost her her place. Lucy wasn’t about to be taken in.

That jet-black hair and those warm brown eyes did draw the eye, though, much as she wanted to deny it. Lucy found hers straying, and he managed to catch her gaze. “The cat bit me too,” he told her, raising one shapely leg in a smooth white stocking that showed no sign of a bite. Then he smiled at her. It was a flat-out beautiful smile. Lucy felt it all the way to her toes, felt her own lips automatically start to curve in response. She looked away.

“And haven’t you made the most of it,” Cook replied.

“A bit more gravy, Mrs. Wright, I’m wounded. Best have James lift the keg, Agnes—my leg, you know.”

“You scamp.”

It was said with affection, and everyone laughed, Ethan included. It seemed he was well liked. But that didn’t mean he could be trusted, Lucy told herself. She wouldn’t make that mistake. Hadn’t she just spent months watching the misery menfolk could bring to your life?

***

Ethan watched the new girl refusing to laugh. He saw a small female with a sharp chin, glossy brown hair, and wary blue eyes. Unless he was mistaken, a very neat figure lurked under her countrified gown. And he wasn’t ever mistaken about that sort of thing. Her gaze shifted from person to person, observing carefully, and clearly not trusting things to be as they seemed, which was interesting. Ethan was a dedicated observer himself. You learned a lot by being quiet and watching, particularly in the place he loved most in all the world—the forest. For him, in fact, observing was the only way to learn. Reading was no good. Little black marks on a page never penetrated his thick skull. Unlike his brother Sam, who loved figuring so much he got the parson to teach him “mathematics.” Now apprenticed to the estate steward, Sam was likely to make a big success of himself. You’d think that would be enough for their dad, but no…

The point was: Ethan got new skills by watching them done. Watching had taught him all kinds of things that people didn’t even know he knew.

Agnes said something that made Lucy really smile, and Ethan straightened. She lit up like a Christmas tree when she smiled. Ethan hadn’t thought she was pretty, but when her face filled with life and light, she was something better. She was a dazzler. And he’d bet she didn’t even know it. She didn’t strike him as one of those girls who posed in front of mirrors and tried out their charms.

It was an irresistible combination. A vastly appealing girl he hadn’t known all his life, who was also nothing like the pert London misses he’d encountered, who put him right off. He tried to catch her eye again, but she wasn’t having any. Hah, a challenge; he purely loved a challenge.

***

When he was in town, Alec read his newspaper over breakfast. Even this year, with his sisters along, he’d had no qualms about maintaining that habit. Anne was the only other early riser in the family, and her illness kept her abed. But he’d barely begun the following morning when their houseguest appeared. She paused in the doorway as if startled. “Good morning…” he began, and stopped. This name business was awkward. He couldn’t use her first name. But he’d been forbidden to call her Mrs. Wylde, which admittedly felt strange on the tongue. Perhaps she felt the same; she murmured something unintelligible, eyes on her feet. “I trust you slept well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Why was she hovering half out of the room? “The tea is still hot, I believe. If you would care to ring for a fresh…”

“No, no.”

She practically scuttled into the breakfast room, quickly helped herself from the dishes on the sideboard, and slipped into the chair farthest from him. Alec wondered if something had frightened her in the night.

“Please continue with your newspaper,” she said. The teapot wavered a little in her hand. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

It finally occurred to him that his Uncle Henry had been a bear at the breakfast table. He couldn’t imagine anything more likely. She wasn’t accusing him of a wish to be rude. He watched her add milk to her tea. This girl’s association with his irascible relative still seemed like a wild tale that couldn’t be true. Alec ate a bit of ham, spread butter on a piece of toast. When he judged that she’d had time to settle, he said, “I understand you know of a possible remedy for Anne’s cough?”

Again, she started. “How did you…?”

“Lizzy told her maid Susan, who mentioned it to the housekeeper, who immediately informed me. If you wish to keep secrets, do not tell my little sister.”

“It wasn’t a…”

“Of course.” Was there no way to put this girl at ease? “The remedy?”

“It is an herbal mixture. A doctor in Bath recommended it when my father was visiting there, and we ordered it at once. It was very helpful to him.”

“In curing his cough?” She nodded. “Tell me the name, and I will send out for a supply.”

Finally, she smiled a little. “Anne said you would have London ransacked for it.”

“Of course.” Now she looked startled again, and he couldn’t fathom why. It seemed she was odd. Of course, she would have to be, to have married Henry Wylde.

Silence fell over the table. Alec missed Anne more than ever. Even when they didn’t talk, their morning silences were companionable, not stiff and empty like this one. He examined Charlotte Wylde. She hunched over her plate, head down, eyes on her breakfast. She wore a shapeless black thing that he thought he’d seen before. Her coppery hair was pulled up too tight. She was pale, the very definition of subdued.

Alec was suddenly reminded of a thoroughbred he’d come across in a neighbor’s stable, a roan with exquisite lines and a lovely delicacy of movement. The minute they approached, the mare had shied and cowered, backing as far away from them as she could and shivering at any touch. It was obvious she’d been mistreated, even ruined. Alec had bought her on the spot, paying the man’s exorbitant price because he could barely speak through his fury. It had taken long patient months to convince that mare that her high spirits were permissible, even welcome, and his opinion of that particular neighbor was forever changed.

Alec caught himself. He was being ridiculous—probably offensive—comparing the girl to a horse. She looked up, caught him watching her, and dropped her eyes. Her cheeks reddened, and he felt his do the same as he looked away.

“What is going on at my house?” she blurted out, as if she must say something, however random.

Alec found he had to clear his throat. “As planned, I have two stout men stationed there. They will take it in turn to watch for intruders. Wycliffe is making a report to the authorities, at this moment, probably.”

“But you can’t just leave these men there forever. Where am I to…?”

“Exactly. That is why I think it best that we engage an investigator. You have heard of the Bow Street Runners?”

“No.”

“It is an organization that hunts down criminals, with a good record of success.”

“Engage…?” She frowned. “For pay?” When he nodded, she added, “Are they very expensive?”

“They are well worth the money, I understand.”

“But where is it to come from?”

“This is certainly a proper use of my uncle’s estate…”

“Further reducing what I am left with. I should have some say in the decision.”

“There is no reasonable alternative.” Her head was up now; back straight, her eyes glittered with emotion. It was an attractive change, even if she had no idea what she was talking about.

“That’s not true. The… the burglar might come back, and be caught by your ‘men.’”

“Highly unlikely.”

“You can’t be so sure of…”

“We are faced here with an extremely serious situation,” Alec pointed out. “First, my uncle is killed, and then his house is broken into. Surely, you would not wish to live there continually wondering if you are in danger?”

“No! Of course not. That’s not what I…”

“The Runners know the criminal underworld. You do not. I do not. Turning the matter over to them is the only sensible choice.”

She glared at him, cheeks glowing, her pale complexion positively transformed by their exchange. She had no argument, of course, because there wasn’t one. His plan was the only sensible course of action. Satisfied that he had convinced her, Alec rose. “If you will excuse me, I have a good deal of work to get through this morning.”

She merely shrugged, but Alec didn’t hold it against her. He knew it was difficult to be bested in a dispute. Lizzy would have tossed a slice of toast in his face.

***

She could have said “Work?” in a sarcastic, disbelieving tone, Charlotte fumed. She hadn’t thought of it until he was gone. With obvious wealth and a house full of servants, what could he know about real work? Of course, dictating to everyone around him probably took a great deal of time. It must be such a burden to always know better! He had talked to her as if she were a child or a fool.

The worst of it was—an investigator was a good idea. If she’d known about such people, she would have hired one herself. She was perfectly capable of doing that.

Charlotte sighed and sat back in her chair. She could have; she would have. But she had to admit it was pleasant not to need to make the arrangements, to have the matter decisively and intelligently handled by someone else. Whenever she thought back to the stealthy footsteps in the night, she couldn’t help but tremble. A weakness, no doubt, which just made her angrier.

She turned back to her breakfast. Her eggs were cold, but she could go to the sideboard and replace them if she wished to. The tea was delicious—better than she’d brewed for Henry, she supposed! There were sausages and crisp toast and homemade marmalade—all of it much nicer than the meals she and Lucy had been scraping together. It was a very comfortable house. The servants seemed cheerful, and the sisters happy, aside from Anne’s illness. It reminded her of home. She closed her hands on her napkin. The past was past; she must stop being melancholy and get on with life.

No one else had appeared by the time Charlotte finished breakfast. Returning to the front hall, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She didn’t feel like sitting in her bedchamber. She had no duties. In the flurry of packing, she’d forgotten to put in her sewing or her book. Tentatively, she began to explore. She discovered the dining room, a formal parlor, and a butler’s pantry before coming upon the library at the back of the house. Going in, closing the door behind her, she felt suddenly much more at ease. The room was smaller than her father’s library, but also much tidier. Shelves covered every bit of wall not needed for the door, fireplace, and two windows; the books on them looked handled, not merely decorative. The bright fire and comfortable chairs showed that the room was often used. She trailed her fingers along a row of bindings, chose a book, and curled into an armchair to read. Contentment settled over her like a warm blanket. For the first time in days, weeks, Charlotte relaxed.

Sleet spattered the windows; the fire popped. She drifted a thousand miles away on an account of travel in the wilds of Turkey and was aware of nothing nearer until a female voice said, “There you are.” Charlotte started, dropped the book, and came to her feet. The older woman she had barely met yesterday stood in the doorway. “Forgive me for startling you. You must enjoy reading, Mrs.…”

“Charlotte. Please.”

She inclined her head. “And I am Frances.”

She looked far more composed this morning, her dark hair fashionably dressed, her lilac gown immaculate. Charlotte envied her air of refinement and grace. “I love to read, yes.”

“I suppose Henry has… had a great many books.”

“Not really. He collected other things, and the volumes he had were too rare to be touched.”

Frances looked surprised, and Charlotte immediately wished she hadn’t answered so honestly. She had held things pent up for so long, now they just came tumbling out. She couldn’t seem to stop it.

“Come up to the drawing room. We’ve had no opportunity to get acquainted.”

Following the lady of the house up the stairs and into an elegant room hung with green brocade, Charlotte was again aware of her stuffy black gown, her unusual situation. What must Frances Cole think of her?

“I hope you found your room comfortable?”

“Perfectly.” Charlotte sat on the delicate sofa beside her. “Thank you so much for allowing me to visit without warning in this…”

Frances waved this aside. “We’re delighted to have you.”

She said it; she smiled; but Charlotte didn’t believe her. “I hope not to put you to any trouble. I would be glad to…”

“Oh, trouble.” Frances gestured again, and Charlotte glimpsed something beneath her polished demeanor. Was it weariness? Anxiety? She wasn’t sure. “You are no trouble at all.”

The emphasis suggested that others were more troubling. Charlotte didn’t know what to reply.

“It is a relief to have another woman in the house,” Frances added. “It has always been just me, you know, ever since Elizabeth died.”

“Eliz…”

“My cousin Elizabeth—the children’s mother.”

“Ah, yes.” Frances gazed across the room as if looking into another time. Charlotte wondered if she had forgotten who she was talking to.

“The family chose me, you know, to help out when she died. Well, there I was—no money and I hadn’t found a match in the two seasons Papa could afford. Living at home; twenty-nine years old. Clearly an old maid. I had to go; there was no choice. And then, of course, James…” She blinked and seemed to return from wherever her thoughts had taken her. “I beg your pardon. I… I had meant to ask if there was anything else you needed?”

“Nothing at all,” Charlotte assured her. She felt an impulse to say more—but what? The door burst open, and Lizzy danced in.

Frances’s expression tightened. “Lizzy, you are supposed to be doing your schoolwork.”

“I’ve finished.”

“All of it?”

“Every bit.”

Frances’s smile was strained. “She stays ahead of me on all points.” The bell rang downstairs. “Who could be… where is the cat?”

“I shut Callie in the schoolroom, as ordered.” Lizzy pouted.

“Good.” Frances turned back to Charlotte. “I am not at home to callers this morning, but best to be…”

An imperious voice penetrated from the stairs. “Nonsense, of course she will receive me.”

“Drat!” exclaimed Lizzy, and bolted from the room.

She was replaced by a nervous young footman, not the one Charlotte had seen yesterday. A woman somewhat older than Frances and a younger man who might have been her son were right on his heels. “Er, Lady Isabella Danforth and Mr. Edward Danforth,” he said.

“Oh dear,” breathed Frances, not quite inaudibly, as she stood up.