Once Again a Bride

Eight



“I think we should make Callie her own place here in the schoolroom,” Charlotte said. “The dormer would be perfect.”

Lizzy eyed the nook doubtfully. Anne, almost fully recovered now except for regaining lost weight, smiled from a chair by the hearth.

“We can clear it out and make it perfect for her. I’m sure she’d calm down if she had a refuge like that.”

The calico cat, crouched under the other armchair, made no comment. Since being released from the storeroom, she had been even more wary of everyone but Lizzy. “Not like a pen,” said that young lady now.

“Not at all. Very cozy. She can come and go as she likes—around the room.”

“It’s not fair that she must stay shut in here.”

“You are allowed to take her to your bedchamber…” began Anne.

“You know, I think Callie might prefer it,” Charlotte put in. Arguing with Lizzy was always a mistake; she had the cunning and tenacity of a barrister. “Cats need to know every bit of their territories, you know. But this house is too large for Callie to explore, full of unknown corners. I think it makes her uneasy.” That was one way to describe swarming up a curtain and spitting on her host, Charlotte thought.

“How do you know so much about cats?”

“I like to read.”

Lizzy made a face at her. They had had this discussion. “Oh, all right,” the girl said.

Under Anne’s amused gaze, Charlotte and Lizzy cleared out the small bookcase and other bits and pieces that had collected in the dormer. They created a nest from old blankets and a hidey-hole from an upturned hatbox. Lizzy moved the cat’s food and water dishes closer. “Callie can watch the pigeons from the window ledge,” Charlotte pointed out.

When they were finished, Lizzy coaxed her pet from under the chair and carried her to the dormer, plopping down on the blankets with Callie on her lap. “This is your place,” she told her. The cat curled in her lap. “She likes it,” Lizzy pronounced.

Relieved, Charlotte sat in the abandoned chair, her ankles now safe from lashing claws. Anne smiled warmly at her, and Charlotte thought, not for the first time, how agreeable it was to have female companionship. The days had been passing so pleasantly. She had grown very fond of Anne and Lizzy; Frances seemed much more at ease and welcoming. Lucy was happy too, making friends among the staff, greatly admiring its efficiency. The whole household was a delight—well, except for its master.

Alec had gone distant—and mainly absent. Or perhaps this had always been his habit, disrupted by her arrival. Mostly, he was shut in his study, not to be disturbed, or out at his club or… somewhere. Somewhere not lacking in female companionship of a wholly different sort, she suspected. Charlotte and the girls most often ate dinner without him in one of the small parlors rather than the dining room. The meals were lively and enjoyable, but she sometimes missed…

However, Alec obviously found her uninteresting, as well as useless. Why had she offered to help with the pile of correspondence that grew every day on his desk? He’d made it clear he judged her quite incapable, the sort of ignorant chit who simpered over Byron and wasted his precious time. She certainly wouldn’t bother him again.

“Tell us a story from the globe,” Lizzy urged.

Much better not to think of him at all, Charlotte told herself, and searched her mind for one of her father’s tales about far-flung places and exotic peoples. Briefly, her throat grew tight; so many times, she had sat with him just as Lizzy did now, begging for stories. Holding quite a different cat, however, she recalled with smile. “You remember Captain Cook?”

“He sailed all around the Pacific Ocean,” Lizzy answered.

“Very good. Well, when he first arrived at New Zealand in… 1769, I believe it was, he had great difficulties with the Maori tribesmen.” Watching Anne and Lizzy grow attentive, then engrossed, Charlotte felt contentment spread through her. She had always wished for sisters, and it was almost as if she had them now.

***

Lucy crouched by the kitchen hearth, keeping a close eye on the curling iron she was warming over the coals. It was tricky getting the heat just right—hot enough to curl hair well and properly, but never so hot as to singe it. She’d heard awful stories of maids who burnt off the little ringlets ladies liked to wear dangling by their ears. She could so easily imagine the bits of shriveled hair in a row on the dressing table—and the smell! Miss Charlotte would never give her the sack over such a mistake; she’d understand. That made it even more important to get things right.

“I have found that the iron should be touchable,” said a voice from above. “If it burns the fingers badly, it will do the same to hair.”

Lucy scrambled up to face Miss Cole’s high-toned dresser. Jennings’s fabled experience and assurance still overawed her. She couldn’t help dropping a curtsy. It was received with a slight smile.

“You are doing hair now?”

She would not be tongue-tied and awkward like a country bumpkin, Lucy told herself. “No, ma’am. I was just going to practice, like, on Agnes.” The kitchen maid giggled over the pile of potatoes she was peeling.

“Ah.” Under Jennings’s calm, evaluative gaze, Agnes’s smile faded. “Commendable.” Even the housekeeper sometimes deferred to Jennings, who was rumored to be the highest paid of all the staff. She hardly even looked like a servant. Her gowns might be in dark colors, which you would expect to fade into the background, but they were beautifully cut and draped. Lucy had heard that the dresser sold her mistress’s castoffs, a perk of her position, and made her own wardrobe. Tall and thin, with a bony face, Jennings kept her hair drawn back in a tight bun and was somehow more elegant for that. “Come along,” she said to Lucy. Behind her back, Agnes crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, but Lucy didn’t feel the slightest urge to laugh.

Agnes’s eyes bugged when Jennings turned and caught her. “Remove the curling iron from the fire,” the older woman said. Agnes jumped to obey.

Lucy followed Jennings up to the chamber she occupied, next to Miss Cole’s dressing room. She had her own little sitting area in a corner, and Lucy was waved to a chair. “I understand you have a deft hand with a flatiron.”

Lucy flushed with pleasure. “I’ve tried to get it right.”

“You like your work?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You don’t mind being a servant?”

“Mind…?” Lucy wasn’t sure what she meant.

“Some see it as demeaning, you know. My own sister works from dawn to dark on her husband’s farm—exhausting, dirty work and barely feeding them these days—and still thinks herself better than I.”

“Farm labor is dreadful hard.” Lucy remembered the constant toil from her childhood. Her father rose every day stiff and aching and went to his bed tired out.

“So it is. I, on the other hand, am not tied to a scrap of played-out land. I have a valued profession, for which I’m very well paid. If I find I’m not valued, I can leave whenever I like and find a better place. I am not a slave.”

Lucy wondered why Jennings was telling her this. It was interesting, but it made her a little uncomfortable. “No, ma’am. Of course not.”

“Not everyone is in my position, of course. I’ve made sure to acquire the right skills.”

Lucy knew it was true. Fine ladies, duchesses even, fought to hire the best dressers. They stole them from each other and gave them all sorts of privileges to keep them happy.

“The more you know, the more independence you have. I’ve noticed that you like learning things, Lucy.”

Lucy nodded. “That I do.”

“I’m glad you have some ambition. I hate to see a girl with skill waste herself.”

Was liking to learn the same as ambition? Lucy wasn’t sure.

“In time, you might get a post such as mine here in London, at the highest levels.”

Lucy didn’t dare tell her that she longed to go back to country. She was sure Jennings wouldn’t approve.

“Do you have any schooling?”

Lucy nodded proudly. “My mother made sure we all went to the village school every day we could. I can read and write and do some figuring.” She nodded again for emphasis. “I don’t get cheated in the market.”

“That’s good.” Jennings showed one of her thin smiles. “I would be happy to teach you what a superior dresser needs to know, if you like.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Lucy was thrilled at the thought. She had no doubt of one thing—the more you could do, the better off you were likely to be in this world.

Jennings bowed her head magisterially. “I believe learning should be passed along, to give as we have been given to, and in helping others advance themselves. When they deserve it.”

Ignoring the touch of steel in Jennings’s voice, Lucy said, “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much.”

“Is she going to tell Cook I was cheeky?” muttered Agnes when Lucy returned to the kitchen for the curling iron. Clearly this had been worrying her ever since Lucy left.

“Who?” Ethan lifted a luncheon tray ready to go upstairs.

“Jennings. I…” Agnes showed him the face she’d made earlier.

Ethan laughed.

“I don’t think she will,” Lucy assured her. Jennings’s mind had seemed to be on other things.

“Do her good to loosen up a bit.” Giving Lucy one of the smiles that sizzled right through her, Ethan went out.

***

After luncheon, Frances Cole invited Charlotte to join her in the drawing room. Lizzy and Anne exchanged speaking glances and disappeared up the stairs, but Charlotte was happy to accept. As she’d discovered on her third day in the house, Frances was engaged in a mammoth embroidery project—a wall hanging for the Wyldes’ Derbyshire home—and always looking for additional hands. The sisters saw it as a penance, but Charlotte enjoyed short doses of fancy work. She and Frances had already spent several pleasant hours in this way, and they had shown Charlotte another side of the older woman. Embroidering, Frances was relaxed and happy, full of stories about her childhood doing needlework with her mother.

She had narrated several such anecdotes, and Charlotte was just finishing a rose petal when Frances said, “I wrote to my cousin Amelia Earnton to tell her that Anne will be able to join the dancing class she has arranged after all. I’m so glad. I feared she would be too ill.”

After a moment, Charlotte remembered the name. This was the aunt married to an earl. “Dancing class?”

“It’s often done. They’ve gathered a group of young people who will be making their bow to society next year.”

“To teach them to dance?”

Frances smiled. In this peaceful mood, she seemed almost another person. “If they need it, but more to introduce them to each other, so they have some acquaintances when they are thrown into the whirl of their first London Season.”

“That is a very good idea.” How she would have loved to have a readymade circle of friends in town, Charlotte thought.

Frances set a complex knot stitch. “Amelia will be taking over supervision of Anne more and more, of course. I suppose I shall hardly see her at this time next year.” She sighed. “It will be just Lizzy and me left. Lizzy will not like that.”

“I don’t think she will…”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me. We are quite fond of each other—despite what I may say in the heat of the moment.” Frances smiled again. “But Lizzy requires so much activity! She really should go to school.”

“Perhaps she will reconsider once Anne is busy elsewhere.”

“Perhaps.” Frances didn’t sound as if she believed it. They sewed in silence for a while. “In a few years they will all be off to lives of their own. Alec will marry, naturally, and I shall not be needed in his household.”

Remembering stories she had heard of the ill treatment of poor relations, Charlotte grew concerned. “You would not be turned out?”

“Oh no. Alec would never do that. And in any case James, his father, left me a tidy sum in his will. I am quite independent. It just seems that my… work… the work I was given to do fourteen years ago is nearly over. It’s odd to think of.”

“You have been a very busy person.”

“Too busy sometimes,” Frances laughed. “But I am less and less so. I used to help James a good deal with the estate work, but Alec prefers to handle it himself.”

Charlotte was well aware of that!

“Richard is at Oxford; Anne is nearly out.” She shook her head.

“What would you most like to do?”

“What?”

“It is a subject I have been thinking and thinking about myself. For some reason, I never considered it much before. But we need to, don’t we? If we don’t, who will?”

“Will…?”

“Think about what we want—ourselves, separate from what others may need or plan.”

“Ah.” Frances said nothing more for such a long time that Charlotte wondered if she had overstepped her bounds. At last, however, she spoke very quietly, eyes on her sewing. “There was a time when I thought… hoped, perhaps, that James… He was twenty years older, of course. But I was about the age of his wife—my cousin Elizabeth. It seemed no impediment. However, he did not… there was never any approach to…” She stopped, pulled dark green threads through the cloth several times, then added, “He talked to me quite frankly, you know, trusted me. We were good friends, and I believe I was a comfort to him in many ways. And I had the children; I loved… love the children as if they were my own. I had less than many women have, but also more than a great many.” She glanced briefly at Charlotte, then dropped her gaze to the needlework again.

“Since he’s been gone, I feel just a little… lost. Everything is so different.”

Moved, Charlotte leaned forward and put a hand on one of hers. She had no words to offer. Frances’s story made her feel young and inexperienced. But she could show how much she sympathized.

Frances gave her a warm smile. She turned her hand up and squeezed Charlotte’s. “It has been so short a time, but you feel like one of the family,” she said.

Charlotte’s eyes pricked with tears. Nothing she could have said would have been more welcome than this. Frances patted her hand and went back to her needle. The moment passed; the conversation retreated to more general subjects. But Charlotte would hold it close in her heart ever after.

***

With a quick knock on the drawing room door, Ethan came in. He presented a silver tray holding a visiting card. Frances picked it up. “Edward?”

“Mr. Danforth is below, Madame.”

“Oh. Well… I don’t… I suppose he should come up.”

What was it about the Danforths, Charlotte wondered? Frances didn’t seem to dislike them; it was more as if they confused her so much that she didn’t know what to do.

Alec’s cousin strolled into the room looking more handsome than ever in a many-caped driving coat—the essence of a fashionable man about town. “Afternoon, ladies.” He smiled at Charlotte. “We finally got a warmer day in this blasted icy spring, and I dared pull out my curricle.” He made it sound like an adventure. “Care to take a drive… Aunt?” His blue eyes glinted with humor at the ridiculous title.

“Now?” said Charlotte, then berated herself for sounding childish.

“Well, if you are not particularly occupied.” Edward looked at the vast piece of embroidery as if he pitied her.

“I don’t know whether…” Frances began. At an amused glance from Edward, she trailed off into silence.

She didn’t need anyone’s permission, Charlotte thought. A burst of excitement went through her at the idea, and at the prospect of glimpsing some of London society at last. She had dreamed of it on leaving home, and been so bitterly disappointed. She slipped from under the embroidery canvas. “I’ll get my things.”

In her bedchamber, however, she nearly balked. All she had to wear was the cloak she’d gotten when she attained her full height at sixteen. It was dark green, not black, and utterly utilitarian. Her bonnet was black, but hopelessly outmoded; even her gloves were unfashionable. Edward Danforth would take one look at her and withdraw his invitation, ashamed to be seen with such a dowd. Charlotte peered into the mirror in despair, and then, with an effort, threw it off. He would not dare to be so rude. She would grasp her chance at a real outing, think what he would.

In fact, he did not show by the flicker of an eyelid any condemnation of her dreadful ensemble. He handed her into the kind of shining equipage she’d only seen from afar, laid a rug over her knees, and raised a finger to his groom, who left the horses’ heads and swung up behind. “A turn through the park?” he said, and Charlotte smiled up at him.

It wasn’t far. She admired Edward’s driving skill as they negotiated some narrow turns on the way. Their swift passage in the open carriage, feet above the street, was thrilling. Everything seemed different from up here.

The lanes of Hyde Park were sparsely populated; Charlotte put it down to the chilly temperatures until she remembered that morning was the fashionable time for riding. Had Edward planned it this way? He nodded to a few passersby but didn’t stop. “Not much going on in town as yet, though people are trickling back.”

By “people,” he meant the ton, Charlotte understood. There were, of course, hordes of unfashionable people all over the streets of London. “The Season hasn’t started,” she replied, trying to sound knowledgeable. He smiled at her, and Charlotte felt as if her ignorance was perfectly transparent, and yet somehow charming. She flushed.

“No. But the bad weather has spoiled the hunting, which will bring everyone back in short order. Do you hunt?”

Charlotte merely shook her head.

“What do you do, auntie?”

The glimmer in his eyes made it a joke, but she still smarted at this reminder of her lamentable history. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Your wish is my command, Mrs.…”

“Not that either!”

Edward laughed. “What am I to call you then?” Her flush deepened; she could not ask a young man she barely knew—and such a very attractive one—to use her first name. “How about ‘ma’am’?” he suggested. “Bit of a regal touch, dash of deference. That’s the ticket.”

“You’re making fun, but…”

“Not at all, ma’am. Perfectly serious.”

She couldn’t resist his smile, the glint in his blue eyes—and the fact that she had no alternative. She didn’t want to hear anyone call her “Mrs. Wylde” ever again. “Oh, very well.”

“Yes, ma’am; thank you, ma’am.” Before the jest could turn annoying, he added, “They say this art exhibit ’round the corner will be all the rage once the Season gets under way. Care to take a peek?”

Charlotte gathered the scraps of her dignity. “That sounds pleasant.”

With the good sense not to repeat the word “ma’am,” Edward turned his team toward the park gates. Their destination was not quite around the corner, but it was nearby. He pulled up before an imposing redbrick building and handed the reins to his groom. “Walk them, Sam,” he said as he jumped down and offered Charlotte a hand.

Inside, the walls of large rooms were crowded with pictures right up to the ceiling. Here and there, people wandered; most seemed more interested in each other than in the artworks. Charlotte examined a portrait of a fat man in full court dress and wondered what in the world to say about it. It seemed very ugly to her.

“My dears, hello, hello!” trilled a voice, and she turned to find Edward’s mother bearing down on them. “How lovely to see you again.” Lady Isabella enveloped Charlotte in a quick embrace, scented by violets, then took her arm. Her fur-trimmed cloak, with matching hat and muff, made Charlotte’s look like a candidate for the ragbag. “I couldn’t induce Edward to come to this exhibit. Now I see what is required—more attractive company than his mother.” She laughed and pulled Charlotte along. Arm in arm they strolled through the rooms, Edward trailing behind.

“That landscape is pretty,” Charlotte ventured, feeling that she must express some opinion if this exhibit was so important.

“There’s Cecily Harcourt,” was Lady Isabella’s reply. “She still looks rather plump, doesn’t she? She delivered Seton’s child only a month ago. They say her husband hasn’t the least idea that the boy isn’t his. I suppose Cecily is quite adroit with her… timing.”

Charlotte glanced at the woman in question, then away. She tried not to look shocked. It was the first time anyone had treated her as a married woman, not a girl who must be sheltered from scandalous gossip.

“Isn’t that Helen Trent?” Lady Isabella went on. “I’m surprised she dares show her face in town with all those gambling debts unpaid. Three thousand pounds or more, I heard. I know she can’t be blackballed from the clubs the way a gentleman can, but you’d think she’d be ashamed.”

“She’s barred from all the decent gaming houses,” Edward put in.

“Really?” Lady Isabella relished the tidbit. “What will she do, I wonder? They say she cannot live without cards or dice.”

“Find another ‘patron,’ I expect,” answered Edward carelessly.

His mother’s laugh trilled out. “She’s hardly the beauty she once was, darling. I don’t think any rich man will be lured in to cover her sort of losses.” Seeing Charlotte’s expression, she added, “Poor Helen generally loses.”

“No head for it at all,” Edward agreed. “If she can’t get anyone to frank her, it’ll have to be the moneylenders.”

“Edward, shame on you! What a shocking idea.” In fact, his mother appeared to find it delicious. “Let’s sit. Looking at art is so tiring.”

She hadn’t actually looked at any, Charlotte thought. But she was happy to sit on one of the cushioned benches. This glance under the shiny surface of society had left her a bit dazed.

“Dear Charlotte.” Lady Isabella’s gloved hand patted one of hers. “I am so glad to have this opportunity. Ever since we met I’ve wanted to talk to you about Henry’s will. It is just so very unfair to you.”

Charlotte had to nod. Whenever she focused on her true situation—which she did as little as possible—she was stung by the injustice of it all. It was much more pleasant not to think about it.

“I feel for you because the same thing happened to me.”

“Really?”

Edward had drifted away. He stood, hands behind his back, gazing at a huge historical painting of Lot’s wife turning to a pillar of salt.

“When my father died,” Lady Isabella explained. “He left me next to nothing. Henry as well. Everything went to James.” Seeing Charlotte’s frown, she took it to be confusion. “Our elder brother; Alec’s father, you know. It was outrageous. I took the matter to court.”

Charlotte remembered a vague mention of something like this. “To challenge the will?”

“Yes, indeed. I was the one who stayed at home to care for Mama, you know. It always falls to the daughter, does it not? James and Henry were off to school, town, wherever they liked. Do you know I was thirty-one before I broke away to marry? Can you imagine?” Her laugh was less musical this time.

Charlotte didn’t know what to say. Lady Isabella seemed to expect a response. “Your suit in court was successful?”

Lady Isabella looked away, her thin shoulders stiff. “Well… no. Except, I made my point, you see. I told them all exactly what I thought.”

Which accounted for her reception at Sir Alexander’s house, Charlotte concluded. “I’m told that Henry’s will is quite legal. He was free to do as he pleased with the house and estate; I have no grounds to dispute it.”

“Of course they tell you that.” Lady Isabella leaned forward. “Those who benefit will always discourage…”

“The thing is… I beg your pardon, Lady Isabella, but it seems to me that no one benefits from Henry’s will. Unless you count being allowed to live in that house…” Which she did not. In her mind, the will was a mirror of Henry Wylde’s character—slyly spiteful. She didn’t want to think of him, still less spend months grappling with legalities. “I don’t wish to go to court.”

The older woman leaned tensely toward her for another moment, then sat back. “Well, of course it’s your choice, my dear.” She rose. “Shall we see some other paintings?”

They walked into a further room and found Edward there. He looked bored. Lady Isabella barely glanced at the pictures before moving on. It was impossible to take in so much at one time, Charlotte thought. There must be at least fifty paintings in every room. By the time they had made the circuit of the building, colors and images were blurred together in her mind.

“Very striking,” Lady Isabella said as they returned to the entrance. “Don’t you think, Charlotte?”

“Uh, yes. It was lovely to have an outing.” That was certainly true. She smiled at both the Danforths.

“Poor dear. I should be delighted to take you about London this Season, but… please don’t be offended…”

Charlotte had no doubt what was coming. “I need some decent clothes!”

Lady Isabella cocked her head in agreement. “Of course, with blacks… your wedding clothes are much smarter, I imagine?”

Charlotte hesitated, then decided to throw herself on Lady Isabella’s mercy. Wardrobe was clearly her area of expertise. “I… my father thought I should have my trousseau made in London. The marriage… came about rather quickly, and… my seamstress in Hampshire…” Charlotte fingered the folds of her old-fashioned cloak. “Then, when I got here, Henry would not allow me to spend…”

“My dear, say no more. Men have no notion of these things.”

Henry had known very well, Charlotte thought. He’d wanted every penny for his own purchases.

“My own dressmaker is a genius with the needle and very quick as well. I would be happy to recommend you to her.”

A sternly suppressed longing surged up in Charlotte and crashed. “I don’t want a wardrobe full of black gowns.” It was excruciating, not to mention hypocritical, that she had to appear to mourn Henry.

“Well, yes. Hmm. Such a brief marriage, and really unknown, after all. There can scarcely be gossip… Henry was not exactly a member of society. No, I don’t think black is necessary. You cannot wear bright colors, of course.” Lady Isabella surveyed her. “That dark green becomes you, and perhaps a bronze—yes, that would be very striking for evening.”

Charlotte knew that some people expected mourning dress for months and months. The idea was hateful. Rebellion rose in her. She would not wear widow’s weeds for Henry Wylde; she did not care who objected. “I should like to see a bit of society.”

“Of course you would, dear.”

“I hate black!”

Lady Isabella considered her. “It is very becoming on some, but with your coloring…”

“I won’t buy it!”

“Very wise.”

“But you think I could attend… that is, you would be willing to…”

“Evening parties would be acceptable. Not balls, I’m afraid.”

It was more than she’d dared hope for. Charlotte determined to write Wycliffe immediately and ask about drawing funds from the estate. Surely something could be spared.

And so, a surprisingly few days later, she stood before the mirror in her bedchamber in the first truly modish gown she’d ever owned. Lady Isabella’s dressmaker had been a marvel. She’d altered two gowns she had on hand to fit Charlotte, in particular a midnight blue—nearly black—velvet evening dress more beautiful than any garment she’d ever worn. And two more were being sewn especially for her. The woman had given her a special price as a friend of a longtime customer.

“Ooh, Miss Charlotte,” said Lucy, adjusting a flounce of the lavender morning gown trimmed with bunches of purple ribbon. “That’s gorgeous, that is!”

Charlotte was almost tearful at the vision in the mirror. She hoped she wasn’t vain or frivolous. It had just been so long since she had anything so pretty.

“I was thinking, miss.” Lucy hesitated.

“What?” Charlotte turned to admire the fall of the skirt in back.

“Jennings, Miss Cole’s dresser, has ever so much experience. She’s up on everything to do with fashion. I was thinking I might ask her to do your hair once, to show me, like.” As if afraid of objections, Lucy rushed on. “She’s been very kind to me, says I have a dab hand with an iron. If I saw her doing it, then I’d get the knack.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Lucy. If you think she really would.”

“I do, miss. She’s offered to help me learn.”

“Then please ask her.”

Lucy beamed.