Not Quite a Lady (13 page)

Lizzie’s dark eyebrows went up. “A dispute? Is that what took you so long?”

“I dared not leave,” Charlotte said, and that at least was the absolute truth. “Lizzie, Fewkes was horrible. Mr. Carsington said he was drunk. Thanks to Mr. Carsington, Fewkes lost the argument, but he was furious, and now I’m worried he’ll make the grooms or the horses suffer for it. Papa must be told as soon as he comes home.”

As always, Lizzie understood what was important. “Of course, my love. But have your bath and leave it to me. I’ll tell your father.”

She left then, and Molly went out to order Charlotte’s bath.

Alone at last, Charlotte walked to the looking glass.

It was worse, far worse, than she’d imagined, though she had painted a far from pretty picture in her mind.

Her cap was filthy, some of the lace torn. Her face was as dirty as a London street urchin’s. Her hair hung down in clumps, with bits of hay stuck to it. One of her bodice hooks had torn off, leaving a hole, and the ruffles were soiled and limp. Dirt and grease spotted bodice, sleeves, and skirt. The rows of flounces at the hem hung in tatters.

It was too ridiculous. Even the sharp sting of shame could not withstand the ludicrous sight. She was a fool, yes, but…

“Ye gods,” she whispered. “He kissed…
that?”
And then she began to laugh, helplessly.

Sunday night 23 June

When Colonel Morrell came home after a long evening at Eastham Hall, he found his manservant Kenning awaiting him as usual. The colonel’s faithful attendant was a small, wiry man of nearly forty with a head as round and hairless as a cannonball. He was not, in fact, completely bald. However, being perfectly neat and orderly, he could not abide straggling tufts of hair, and shaved it.

It might be said that Kenning shaved his fellows mighty close as well, down to the minutest speck of information.

Colonel Morrell gave the man his hat and gloves.

“I hope you had an enjoyable evening, sir,” said Kenning.

This was a good deal too much to hope, but his commander did not say so. He didn’t need to. Kenning had been with him since they were very young men. Their minds were as one. “His lordship’s gout is troubling him,” he said.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Kenning. Their minds being as one, he did not have to add that he was sorry because he thought his lordship’s gout did not trouble him nearly enough—to death, for instance.

Colonel Morrell started up the stairs, his manservant following.

“I heard that after church today, Mrs. Badgely was praising Mr. Carsington’s cure for her arthritis,” Kenning said.

The colonel said nothing, merely absorbed this information as he usually did. Carsington was ingratiating himself with the neighborhood. Any reasonably intelligent man would ingratiate himself with Mrs. Badgely. She was disagreeable enough when she liked you.

“Seems like he got a cure for everything,” Kenning said. “Including the trouble at Lithby Hall’s stables.”

Colonel Morrell looked over his shoulder at the servant. “You’re not referring to the coachman?” he said.

“Yes, sir. The one that took a fancy to the lady’s maid Molly, who sent him off with a flea in his ear.”

“I recall very well,” said the colonel. “He’s been treating his wounded feelings with large doses of gin. He should have been sacked before they left London.”

One would have thought the officious Mrs. Badgely would have called Lord Lithby’s attention to the problem. Since she hadn’t—or his lordship had ignored her as he usually did—the colonel would have to find a way to get rid of Fewkes before he killed the future Lady Eastham in a drunken accident.

Bad enough she’d almost killed herself, driving on that abominable road of Carsington’s. Ladies had no business driving vehicles. They ought to be driven. But Lithby let his wife and daughter walk all over him.

“Fewkes is gone now, sir,” Kenning said. “There was some wrangling at the stables Friday after the accident with the dogcart. Mr. Carsington stepped in. Fewkes didn’t like it and went off in a temper. Mr. Carsington told Lady Charlotte the man ought to be sacked and she told Lady Lithby and she told his lordship.”

And now Carsington was the hero.

It shouldn’t matter. He was merely a rake. Colonel Morrell had guessed as much, and his uncle had confirmed his suspicions. Everyone knew the average rake was interested in conquest, not marriage. A rake who did not want to get his head shot off might steal kisses or take certain liberties with a wellborn girl, but he’d do nothing that would force him to the altar. The average rake, then, ought not to be a worry, especially in Lady Charlotte’s case. She was remarkably astute about men.

The colonel recalled what Lord Eastham had said:
Them younger sons of Hargate’s have a knack for marrying fortunes.

The wise officer never underestimates the enemy.

Colonel Morrell had devoted much time and care to the challenge of winning Lady Charlotte. He wouldn’t lose her to a worthless libertine.

He entered his bedroom. He thought the matter over as he undressed.

As Kenning helped him into his dressing gown, the colonel said, “Fewkes was with them for a long time, I believe.”

“More than twenty years,” said Kenning.

“He’ll feel ill-used,” said the colonel. “He’ll want a sympathetic ear.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kenning. “And I’ve got two of ’em.”

During his Monday morning meeting with his agent, Quested, Darius learned that Lady Lithby had hired plasterers, carpenters, plumbers, stonemasons, slaters, and the devil only knew who else.

The devil knew, too, that it was necessary. The ornamental plasterwork in some places was crumbling, and on Sunday, a large section had fallen in his bedroom, narrowly missing Goodbody.

Though the house had been sealed against intruding wildlife, someone had missed a leak in the kitchen scullery. Over the winter—or perhaps several winters—water had seeped in, rotting the floorboards in a corner of the room.

The good news was, Beechwood had abundant timber and underwood that, according to Quested, would bring in a significant sum. Whether the profit would cover all of Lady Lithby’s “improvements” was another matter.

But Darius could hardly tell her to stop. She had so far limited herself only to the most urgent repairs and refurbishments. It was up to him to find the funds.

For the first time in his life.

He’d had years of experience with country estates, at his father’s as well as his brother’s place in Derbyshire. But someone else always paid for Darius’s experiments and improvements. He’d never had to think about money.

His ignorance about costs was perhaps the most humbling aspect of this devil’s bargain he’d made with his father.

Not that Darius would ever admit it.

He spent Tuesday and Wednesday searching the property for potential sources of income. This would have been easier could he have put Lady Charlotte completely out of his mind, but she plagued him, despite his staying far, far away from her.

On Wednesday, he was riding to Altrincham to look over the local timber merchants when he met up with Colonel Morrell.

They exchanged the usual civilities.

“I was on my way to call upon you,” said the colonel. “I heard you had need of milk cows. I thought you would wish to know that Lattersley is selling his herd. It’s a good lot, a dozen in all. I should take them myself had I room or use for them.”

This was the first Darius had heard of his needing milk cows. He would rather be hanged, however, than appear not to know anything this man knew.

“A dozen?” said Darius. “Well, well.”

“Not a moment too soon, I believe,” said Morrell with a thin smile. “Lady Charlotte is hard at work upon your dairy.”

Darius could easily imagine what Lady Charlotte was hard at work doing to his dairy. Digging a viper pit, perhaps. Planting explosive devices.

He was frantic to run to the dairy and make her stop whatever she was doing. He made himself look nonchalant, and said, “I’m much obliged to you for the information. I’ll send Purchase to see about those cows.”

“A good man, your land steward,” said Morrell. “I was glad to see that your road improves daily.”

Being a man of reason, Darius could not knock the colonel from his horse, jump down from his own, and pound the fellow senseless as he fantasized doing.

No one—especially a dark and dashing war hero who was idling about waiting for his uncle to die and leave him a title and fortune—needed to tell Darius his road was a disgrace. A letter would come all too soon from Lord Hargate, who’d have more than enough to say on the subject.

Since Morrell had said nothing overtly insulting, Darius had to answer calmly, “I wished to avoid any more accidents.”

Morrell nodded wisely. “Naturally you would. Lady Charlotte was much distressed about the cob. But the wound is healing quickly.”

Had she confided her anxieties to Morrell? Had she wept over her horse with him? Had the great war hero comforted her? Not that Darius cared.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Darius said stiffly.

“You’re a hero at the Lithby Hall stables, it seems,” said Morrell. “The coachman gave his notice before Lord Lithby could dismiss him. The rest of the stablemen are celebrating.” Another thin smile. “Rumor has it that Fewkes has been crossed in love. Men can be strangely unforgiving when that happens.”

Was the fellow warning him off? Did he think Darius needed to be warned off or that the warning would set him all atremble?

“I thought his trouble was spleen,” Darius said. “He could do with bleeding. And sobriety.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Morrell. “It is all servants’ gossip, at any rate. My valet Kenning is too talkative, I daresay, but he was my batman, and accustomed to using his eyes and ears. His information saved me a good deal of trouble on more than one occasion. But I keep you from your errand.”

They took a rigidly polite leave of each other, and Darius rode on toward Altrincham for a while. Though he told himself not to let the obnoxious colonel make him uneasy, he could not shake off the image of Lady Charlotte doing mischief in his dairy.

Never mind that the dairy was a ruin, its interior as gloomy as anything in Matthew Lewis’s
The Monk
or Mrs. Shelley’s
Frankenstein.

Darius waited until Morrell was out of sight before turning into a lane. There was more than one route back to Beechwood and no reason for Colonel Busybody to know Darius took it at a gallop.

Cautiously Darius opened the dairy door. To his surprise, it opened smoothly and silently.

The last time he’d looked in—shortly after he decided to move into Beechwood House—he’d promptly shut the sticky, creaking door and gone elsewhere. He would not require much in the way of milk, cream, butter, and cheese, he reasoned. He could easily buy these commodities. Many families, including great ones, did so. Lady Margaret must have bought hers, certainly, given the state of the dairy.

What he’d found the first time he looked in was a dark, dank place, filled with broken furniture and other rubbish, and apparently untouched by human hands since sometime in the last century.

What he found now, first, was Lady Charlotte Hayward.

She stood in the center of the room, turning about, surveying the place, her hands clasped upon her bosom. When her circuit brought her round to face him, she jumped and let out a little shriek.

He would have laughed at the sound, so typically female, but his attention had swung from her to their surroundings, and for a moment he was dumbstruck.

He came inside and found himself turning in a circle, too. “Great Zeus!” he said at last. “What have you done?”

Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. He would have been less astonished had he found the dairy filled with unicorns.

He stood in an airy and elegant room. A yellow and green flower design bordered sparkling white tile walls. A checkerboard of black and white marble covered the floor. Light filtered through stained-glass windows whose design and color complemented the tiles’ flowers. A broad marble shelf ran round the room. A square table with a matching marble top stood in the center.

Upon the table lay a bonnet, carelessly tossed there, he could see, for it lay on its side, the ribbons dangling over the table’s edge.

From ceiling to floor, not a speck of dirt or dust or mold or rust remained. Everything about him glistened and gleamed.

“What have you done to my dairy?” he said. “What happened to the Black Hole of Calcutta I was saving for the setting of the Gothic horror play I was going to write one of these days? Where are all my beautiful spiders? Where are my gloomy corners, where ghoulies might lurk? What have you done with the six inches of dirt on the floor? That was good dirt. I was saving it.”

Her lips quivered and a small sound escaped. She made her face blank but not quickly enough.

What she tried to hide was mirth. He’d made her laugh.

She was happy, too, he thought. This was not the sly grin he’d seen when she’d delivered him to the talkative Mrs. Steepleton or the badgering Mrs. Badgely or when she’d made chaos of his library. This time she was truly pleased.

A truly pleased Lady Charlotte was a sight to behold. She seemed to glow from within. At this moment she was so beautiful—almost ethereally so—that it hurt to look at her.

There was another hurt as well, one he chose not to investigate too closely. He tried to persuade himself that he was…surprised, and it was the overall effect that struck him so forcibly.

Today she did not look at all disreputable, as she’d done the last time he’d seen her.

Kissed her.

Don’t think about that.

It was nigh impossible not to, when she might as well have been wearing a nightgown. Yes, it was a pristine white dress garnished with layers of lace and ruffles, nothing like the plain gowns that respectable women wore to bed. All the same, it made him think of beds, and the thought made him want to muss her and make her look disreputable again.

What a sapskull he’d been to come here!