Springtime Pleasures (8 page)

If possible, Lady Isabella’s face had turned even paler and more anxious. “I believe my brother referred to duty and honour and… such things.” Her lips trembled. “He told me to come with him and to bear witness as I so obviously d-doubted…” Her voice broke, and tears shimmered in her eyes.

A wave of anger welled up in Charlie. No, she wouldn’t have liked Brother William had she ever met him. Once more, she reached out and covered Lady Isabella’s hand with hers. “Please, you needn’t go on with this. I can see how greatly it disturbs you to talk about these events. It was very wrong of me to ask you—”

“Oh no!” Vehemently, the other girl shook her head and started to rummage in her reticule. “I have never… I feel that
you
… I… Drat, where did I put my handkerchief?” she burst out, then shot a sheepish glance at Charlie. “Oh, you must think me demented!”

“Not at all,” Charlie quickly reassured her. She had meanwhile located her own handkerchief and offered it to Lady Isabella.

“You are very kind,” the girl said, dabbing the corner of her eyes, and sniffed.

Charlie eyed her critically. “You ought to give your nose a good blow. Miss Pinkerton always says that blowing your nose well and good gives your airways a nice airing and unblocks your brain. Apparently that is why gentlemen are so fond of snuff.”

From the box seat came a wheezing noise, followed by an apologetic murmur.

Lady Isabella seemed sceptical as to Miss Pinkerton’s remedies for unblocking noses and brains all at once, but finally gave it a try.

“Very good,” Charlie praised her. “See if you don’t feel better in a trice. And you mustn’t go on with the story if you feel you can’t.”

But the use of the handkerchief seemed to have restored Lady Isabella’s equanimity. “There isn’t much left to tell. As I said, William insisted on me accompanying him—despite George’s protests, I might add. It soon became clear that driving such a high phaeton was indeed a delicate business and that William wasn’t up to it. He handled the horses too roughly, too. It was a pretty pair of greys, but very highstrung, I believe.” She sighed. “Apparently we took a corner too fast and the whole carriage overbalanced. You must understand that I have no memory of the actual accident, which is a blessing, perhaps.” She lifted her shoulders as if she were suddenly cold. “Poor William died, whereas I remained alive. But the carriage landed on me, hence…” She pointed at her legs. “I have no memory of that either. Only of the weeks and months that followed.”

How ghastly! Charlie would have liked nothing more than to dash to Lady Isabella’s side and give her a big, hearty hug. But as this surely would be considered most unseemly here in London, she forced herself to say evenly, “Those weeks must have been… unpleasant.”

“Yes. Yes, they were.” Lady Isabella stared at the trees that slowly rolled by, as they entered a part of the Park where the trees and bushes stood more densely.

For a moment the two girls remained silent.

“Naturally, my parents blamed George,” Lady Isabella finally continued, her voice brisk. “It is beastly unfair; he tried to keep William from taking the phaeton. Still, they can’t forgive him for having become the heir. For some reason, they pretend he did it on purpose when nothing could be further from the truth!”

Too shocked to speak, Charlie stared at her. This was truly monstrous! The poor man! She remembered the lines of strain in his face that evening in those moments when his polite mask had slipped. No wonder he looked like three days of rain! In his situation anybody could be excused if they suffered from an attack of the blue devils. Merely
thinking
about the cross injustice done to him made her feel sick.

Lady Isabella leaned forward. “I hate it!” she whispered fiercely. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I hate how they treat my brother!”

Charlie took her hand and pressed her fingers in sympathy.

“It wasn’t
his
fault,” the girl continued, her voice rising with agitation.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Charlie tried to soothe her. “I am sure—”

Something rustled in the bushes in front of them and their horses whinnied as another equine stepped out of the greenery to block their path. On it sat a shabbily dressed man whose lower face was hidden behind a grimy neckcloth and who was holding a gun in his hand.

“Oh dear,” Charlie said. “Not
again
.”

~*~

Naturally, Randolf Butling had heard all about the accident that had befallen Long John and Short Jimmy up in the north. The two men had become the table-sport in all the dingy taverns up and down the country. Randy But had been among those who had laughed the loudest. Just imagine: two strapping lads, tanned and towelled up by two titters! Yes, he had laughed and laughed until his belly hurt. Those two, Long John and Short Jimmy, must be such damned weaklings that every crook in England ought to be ashamed for them!

Obviously, Randy But had never heard of any such wisdoms that pertained to
Tempting Fate
and
Pride cometh before the fall
.

So this morning Fate decided to teach Randy But a lesson.

When he nudged his horse to step out of the bushes, he didn’t yet know that Lady Fortuna was turning her wheel (smiling) and that he was bound on a downspin. But he was soon to find out. His fall would be steep. And it would hurt.

A lot.

For now, he pointed his pistol at the lad on the box seat. “No funny stuff, eh?”

One of the chits, a tall, bony gal, stood up. “And what do you think you are doing?” she asked loudly. She had a nerve! But her lofty, nobbish ways wouldn’t help her now. The Park was deserted, as he well knew, and if she thought she could call for help, she was mistaken, oh yes, missy, she was!

He sneered behind his mask. “Your money and jewels, tutt-switt.”

“You want to rob us?” The bony chit’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “You want to
rob
us?”

The other chit tugged at the sleeve of her dainty jacket thing. “Miss Stanton, I beg you–”

Yet apparently, the stupid bony chit was bent on her destruction.

Randy But nudged his horse and steered it to the side of the carriage so he could level the pistol directly at her. “Don’t make me repeat meself,” he growled.

“You
cannot
rob us!” Her arms moved through the air. “This is outrageous!” She bent to retrieve something from the bottom of the carriage.

“Eh!” Randy shouted. “No funny stuff, I said!”

She must be hard of hearing because she straightened and held up what looked like a crutch. “See? My friend is an
invalid
. So you simply cannot rob us!”

The chit thought…? The mind boggled.

“Oh Miss Stanton,” the other one whispered. Beet-red she was.

The cork-brained chit turned to her. “Was it wrong of me to have said that? I am so sorry. I didn’t want to embarrass you, but he simply cannot–”

At that point Randy had had enough. Clearly, the stupid girl was a lunatic. “Your money!” he yelled, loud enough to startled the horses. “
Now
!”

She turned to him. “Didn’t you hear a word of what I said?” She waved the crutch. “Poor Lady Isabella is an invalid and you want to rob her?”

“What do I care ‘bout a damned nob?” he snarled—menacingly enough to shut the stupid chit up, he saw with satisfaction. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for long.

“That’s… that’s…” she spluttered. With her free hand she righted her spectacles. “You
pig
!”

At first sight a wooden crutch might look like no match for a dangerous firearm. Indeed, in most cases it
is
no match for a dangerous firearm. But thrown with a degree of force and a measure of accuracy, it can do a certain amount of damage, alright.

Especially if it hits a person right between the eyes.

Even more so if the person in question is sitting on a horse at the moment of impact.

With a dull thud, Randy But hit the ground.

His poor, confused horse took a nervous step to the side—and stepped on his hand. The pain of a myriad of small bones breaking was enough to rip Randy out of blessed semi-unconsciousness.

He howled.

Not for long, though.

“That will teach you!” somebody said. It was the dreadful, bony chit. No, two of them. They had doubled… tripled, even… ‘Arpies, all of them.

Gritting his teeth, Randy fumbled for his pistol. “You bloody…” he panted. “…damned…”

“Oh no, you don’t!” And with these words the ‘arpy kicked his privates.

The world went dark around Randy.

~*~

The comfortable sound of crunching gravel in her ear, Charlie used a corner of her blanket to rub a smudge of dirt off the pistol. “It’s a pretty little thing.” She glanced up at Lady Isabella, who still wore an alarmingly stunned look. “I haven’t damaged the crutch, have I? I would hate if that had happened. You see,” she said earnestly, “I acted
instinctively
. It’s because of the song.”

“The song,” Lady Isabella echoed faintly.

“Our school song. It’s
very
uplifting. And instructive. See?” And she began to sing in a loud, lusty voice as became a student of Miss Pinkerton’s Academy for Young Ladies. “Maidens of St. Cuthbert’s” was a most uplifting song and contained much useful advice in regard to Grabbing the Nearest Weapon as well as a detailed elaboration on The Importance of Getting One’s Blow in First. The song ended triumphantly on “St. Cuthbert’s, St. Cuthbert’s, will live forever ever more!"—in forte fortissimo, of course.

Lost in reminiscences, Charlie gave a happy sigh. “Miss Pinkerton was always so careful that we should learn for
life
. That is so important, don’t you think so?”

“You saved our lives,” Lady Isabella said, her voice still trembling.

Charlie felt a blush rise in her face. “Nonsense,” she said briskly in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. “It was all a matter of getting one’s blow in first. It wouldn’t have been necessary, of course, if that pig-person had had better manners. Or at least, if he hadn’t been so stubborn. A most unpleasant man, I have to say. How unfortunate that such unsavoury characters seem to abound in England. I trust it is advisable to be armed when going out and about in these regions.”

“Armed?” If possible, Lady Isabella’s voice had become even fainter.

A new difficulty occurred to Charlie. “Or would it be considered
unladylike
to carry a blunderbuss on one’s person?” She leaned forward and whispered confidingly, “I have the most awful time to sort such things out if you must know. My friend Emma-Lee thinks me a hopeless case.”

“Ah,” Lady Isabella breathed, and fainted.

Charlie blinked. “Oh dear. Whatever have I done wrong this time?—Eh, groom?
Groom
!?”

~*~

Miss Carlotta Stanton to Miss Emma-Louise Brockwin, by Two-penny Post

My dearest Emma-Lee,

are you in need of a pistol? I obtained another one when some ruffian tried to rob Lady I. and me in the Park this morning. But never fear: I taught him the Error of His Ways. Still, the number of ruffians in this part of the country is
shocking
, I find. I have decided to carry my blunderbuss with me
at all times
& thus must needs sew myself a larger reticule.—Lady I. told me the most shocking story about Lord Chanderley, her brother (whom I met at the F’ham ball), & the older Chanderley, who, it w’d seem, was too stupid to drive a phaeton & got himself killed. I think it is
monstrous
that poor Chanderley (current) is blamed for his brother’s idiotishness. No wonder the poor man’s complexion is already marred by lines! He told me he was an Indifferent Dancer, but I daresay it’s the Ghastly Treatment he receives from his family that has thrown him into a Blue Funk. For who
doesn’t
like Balls & Assemblies?

Yours most affectionally, C.

PS: Do you know where to obtain ammunition for firearms?

PPS: Do you know whether wild boars are considered a fitting topic for Conversation in Polite Society? Lady I. looked at me most strangely when I mentioned them. I hope I did not disconcert her.

Chapter 5

in which our heroine receives a call

& resolves to take dire measures

The next morning, Miss Carlotta Stanton received a call. It was the first ever caller who had come for her in her London Season, and Aunt Dolmore was suitably confused when he asked to see Carlotta instead of her own daughter. Whatever could Viscount Chanderley want from
Charlotte
of all people?

True, he had danced with the girl at the Featheringham ball, but then many other young gentlemen had danced with her as well, and so far none of them had deemed it necessary to call on her. And why would they, when the girl was afflicted with such unfashionable tallness? Truly, she must seem like a giantess to the gentlemen! And to everybody else, of course, too. It was only to be hoped that the girl’s embarrassing height would not have an adverse impact on Caroline’s chances, especially as Mr Clarke, the future Baron Moreton, had shown some interest in her.

All things considered, it was
imperative
that nothing stood in the way of Caroline’s chances this Season, so it was most heartless of Mr Dolmore to insist they launch the girl that had resulted from his sister’s embarrassing
mésalliance
into society. What would people think? More importantly, what would Mr Clarke think? Only because Mr Dolmore had promised his sister—a most ungracious and impertinent young woman—to look after the girl? It was preposterous!

But of course, Mr Dolmore refused to see sense, even though she had impressed upon him in the strongest possible sense how very important this Season was for his own daughter. Men so often didn’t understand such delicate situations. She was almost certain that Mr Dolmore didn’t understand this one. But—oh!—once the bloom had vanished from poor Caroline’s cheeks and she was past the first blush of youth and bound to… to…
spinsterhood
, the poor, poor girl, because her suitors had been frightened away, Mr Dolmore would be sorry. He would be sorry indeed.

So when Viscount Chanderley called to see Charlotte, Mrs Dolmore might be puzzled, yet at the same time she knew when to grab a chance that was thrown her, or rather, Caroline’s, way. True, Chanderley was not the best catch of the Season—not even the third, fourth or fifth best, if truth be told, for even if he was heir to an earldom, he had as good as killed his brother, who had been the
true
heir. The present Chanderley was nothing but an upstart spare.