She simply could not face another day in the company of Lady Anne and her friends. The previous afternoon’s musicale had been excruciating – none of the young ladies had any significant musical skill, and at least two of them sang so badly that it had left Charity feeling quite ill. The only advantage had been that her own limited ability at the pianoforte had seemed quite good by comparison.
The day went by peacefully, and she was considering whether she might have a chance to walk again in the morning, should the rain and snow have stopped, when her mother came to inform her that the riding party would occur in the middle of the day, tomorrow, assuming that the day was clear. For a moment, she considered extending her megrim.
But no – that would be to let them win. She would ride, and do so proudly, no matter what spitefulness they might attempt. If the Duke had faith in her abilities, then she should have that same faith herself.
That night, she slept fitfully, dreaming odd dreams of riding amongst a crowd of others, and suddenly being unable to do so with any skill at all, of falling, and being surrounded by the mocking laughter of Lady Anne. She was grateful, when Maggie woke her, that the riding party would not happen until later in the day – it would give her time to shake the sense of doom which the dream had left her with.
She took breakfast in her room, and read for some time, finding that the day dragged, with the prospect of having to ride amongst the other women looming over her. At least the Duke would be there too, even if she would not be able to talk to him in the manner that the morning ride had allowed. Finally, it was time to dress for riding, and just the act of donning the beautiful habit made her feel better, stronger, and more capable.
Her mother came to tell her that most of the ladies had already gathered in the parlour, and Charity rose and went out, ready to join them.
Her mother had asked her, quietly, the night after the incident in the parlour which had created this riding party, for the truth about the habit, her ride with the Duke, and how Lady Anne had heard of it. Charity had answered honestly, as she always did, and her mother had regarded her with a very odd expression, then simply nodded, and left her to sleep. Charity suspected that her mother was nurturing hope that the Duke would choose her – a hope which Charity was certain was in vain.
As soon as she stepped into the parlour, all eyes turned towards her.
Despite feeling most uncertain in the face of the judgemental looks she faced, Charity forced herself to smile. The Duke stood in his usual position near the fireplace. He met her eyes, and gave the tiniest of nods. It was enough to encourage her.
Then he spoke, raising his voice a little so that all could hear.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as we are all gathered and ready, let us proceed to the stables. My grooms should have the horses prepared by now.”
As they began to move, Charity noted that only five of the other young women were attired for riding – some had apparently cried off from this entertainment – for which, she thought with some amusement, the Duke was likely most grateful, for where he might have produced ten or more sidesaddles from, she was not sure – that he could muster six was impressive in itself.
She allowed the crowd to sweep her along, seeking only to keep moving, but somehow, as they stepped out of the front door, she found the Duke beside her. A fact which earned her venomous glances from Lady Anne and Miss Woodfield. She ignored them, confident that they would not do anything outrageous when the Duke walked so close to her.
At the stables, a row of grooms waited, each holding a saddled horse. As soon as they arrived, Simms came to her, leading Sage. She ignored the others, and concentrated on the mare, greeting her with a scratch on the eye ridge, and then checking the girths, and the stirrup. She mounted with her usual ease, Simms handed her the whip, and only then, once comfortably settled on the mare, did she look at what was occurring around her. It was almost, but not quite, chaos. She stifled laughter.
The Duke was going from lady to lady, obviously enquiring after her riding skills and preferences, and then calling forward a groom with a suitable horse in each case. Charity very much suspected that the mares and geldings presented, already bearing sidesaddles, were the oldest and quietest horses which the estate could provide. It was the only way that she could see that he could ensure the safety of all concerned – because she was equally sure that Lady Anne and the like would lie about their degree of competence, to avoid appearing in any way diminished.
They were all fools if they did, for as soon as the horses moved out of the stable yard, that competence, or lack thereof, would be instantly discernable.
Beneath her, Sage sidled, eager to be off, and Charity gentled her, knowing that she might not get a chance to truly let the mare run this day. The Duke finally had the last of the ladies allocated a horse, and the grooms led them to queue at the mounting block – Charity was so very glad that she could mount by herself! She watched as he went to Valiant, swinging into the saddle with an easy grace.
He turned the stallion, and rode to the side of the yard nearest the lane. She urged Sage forward, and joined him there. Once she was very close, he spoke softly.
“I expect this to be a truly terrible experience, Lady Charity. Please do take care, for I would not be surprised if one of them attempted to obstruct your path at some point. Or perhaps that might happen accidentally…”
“Is that, Your Grace, a reflection of your assessment of their… experience…?”
He laughed quietly.
“Yes, Lady Charity, you could express it that way.”
They were then joined by the other gentlemen, and they lapsed into companionable silence, watching as the grooms finally got the ladies onto their horses. Once they were mounted, they all looked at least mildly capable, which Charity found a relief – if any of them had been completely useless, then the entire ride would have been, by necessity, at a walk.
They set off down the lane, the Duke providing commentary on the lands around them. The winter sun was pleasant, if not particularly warm, and the ground underfoot rather muddy and slippery in places, where the sun had melted the previous day’s light snow. Sage was surefooted, and Charity gave herself over to enjoying the ride, despite the chattering flock of young women who surrounded her.
Ignoring them became remarkably challenging, however, when Lady Anne rode up alongside her.
“You match so well, Lady Charity… your hair, your habit, and your horse’s coat – one might almost think that you had planned it that way…”
Not I, but the Duchess…
The thought slipped into her mind, but she did not voice it. Instead, she smiled faintly and shrugged.
“Simply a lucky circumstance, Lady Anne.”
The woman tilted her chin up, and sniffed, as if she did not believe a word of it. Charity said nothing, and simply rode on, surreptitiously watching the manner in which the other ladies rode. None of them showed any sign of great skill, nor of any sensitivity towards their mounts.
They reached the gate in the lane, and the Duke opened it.
Charity rode through, reflecting on just how different it was from their ride that early morning. Sage stepped forward eagerly, a spring in her step, obviously hoping to be allowed to gallop across the fields again. Charity held her back, waiting to see what would happen. Once everyone was through the gate, the Duke spoke up.
“Shall we essay a canter across the fields, ladies and gentlemen?”
Lady Anne immediately agreed, but Charity thought that Miss Woodfield looked rather unsure. Still, they all nodded, and the Duke turned, and sent Valiant forward without a further word. Charity allowed Sage to move into a smooth, ground eating canter – but one which was nowhere near as fast as a gallop might have been. She glanced back to see Miss Woodfield clutch at her horse’s mane, looking rather unstable as the stolid gelding launched into a rolling gait, following the other horses. The others fared only a little better, and Charity was hard put not to laugh.
Then, as she turned to look forward again, a thunder of hooves approached her on her right. Even as her mind was recognising the sound, and wondering who it was moving at such a pace, another horse slammed into Sage’s shoulder. The mare staggered, then gathered herself, leaping forward. Charity stayed with her, trusting her to rebalance herself. As she did, the other horse charged past her, and Charity saw that it was Lady Anne, her face white, clutching desperately at the horse’s mane and the saddle pommel, trying to keep her balance. Whatever had happened – and Charity suspected that it had been done on purpose - it had not achieved Lady Anne’s aim – for now, her horse was out of control, bolting towards the cliffs. As Charity watched, one of the Duke’s gentlemen friends went after her.
Charity urged Sage forward until she came up beside the Duke, who met her eyes, then raised an eyebrow.
“For whatever purpose, she rode right into me. But Sage is sensible, and surefooted. I do believe that Lady Anne overestimated her own abilities, and rather than her actions making me look bad, she seems to have quite clearly illustrated her own skill level.”
“I see. I will make sure that Sage is thoroughly checked when we return – and you – you are not harmed in any way?”
“I am not. A little shaken, for it took me by surprise – but it takes far more than that to unseat me.”
“Good, I thought as much – but I would not wish you to be harmed.”
There was something in the way that he said it which made her feel suddenly heated. She looked away, towards the cliffs, where the gentleman had come level with Lady Anne’s horse, and was even now bringing it back to a sedate pace, leaning across to hold its bridle and force it to slow.
When they all reached that point, they paused for some time – to look at the view, the Duke said, but Charity knew that he meant to give them time to recover their equanimity. The other young ladies clustered around Lady Anne, twittering away at her – from what Charity could tell, they were proclaiming how brave she had been. She shook her head, disgusted, and simply sat beside the Duke, and looked out over the sea.
Chapter Ten
Rafe watched Lady Charity from under lowered lashes as she stared out over the waves. She seemed so composed, and he admired her – for that steadiness, when she had just been effectively attacked, as well as for her superlative riding, which had seen her stay in the saddle and keep well in control throughout. Which was far more than could be said for Lady Anne.
Now, more than ever, he could see how much better a person Lady Charity was than all of the rest. But – what did she think of him? What did she truly want, in her life? He did not know, and the more he came to see that she was the only woman here he might contemplate choosing, the more worried he was that by doing so, he might be forcing her to something she did not want.
He still had some days until he must make that decision – days in which he might spend more time with her, if he could arrange it, and attempt to discover her thoughts. He reached out, without thought, and touched her arm gently. She turned those deep violet eyes to him.
Then she glanced down to where his hand still rested on her arm. He removed it. She frowned.
“Lady Charity, should we start back now, do you think?”
She looked around, taking in the others of their party, and then nodded.
“I think so. And at a very sedate pace, I believe. I am of the opinion that the ladies are more used to rides which are a walk up and down Rotten Row, for the sake of being seen, rather than a ride to actually move at any speed at all.”
“That is most likely correct.”
He turned away from her, and went to the others where they clustered, still, around Lady Anne.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for us to start back to the house. We will go via the home farm lane – over this way, if you will follow me.”
Miss Woodfield spoke, her voice hesitant and shaky.
“Might we… might we only proceed slowly, Your Grace?”
Rafe gave a half bow in the saddle.
“As you wish, Miss Woodfield. Please follow me. Petersham – I’ll leave you to continue assisting Lady Anne, if you will?”
Lord Petersham nodded, and Rafe set off, pleased that he did not have to deal with the obnoxious Lady Anne himself. The ride back seemed interminable, and he made certain to stay near the other men, rather than any of the ladies, even though he would have preferred to ride with Lady Charity – he could not allow the others to think that he favoured her – even if he did.
That thought gave him pause. He did favour her – there was no longer any question of it. But did she favour him, at all?
*****
The remainder of that day, after the rather eventful riding party, Charity avoided everyone. She sat through dinner quietly, only speaking to her mother, and then claimed that her megrim had returned, and went to her room. The Duke met her eyes as she turned to leave, concern etched on his features for just a moment. It made her heart thunder, but she steadfastly chided herself not to hope. He was simply concerned for his guest – there was nothing more to it than that.
But when she went upstairs, she paused outside the door to her guest suite. Either side of the door, an arrangement of dried flowers stood in matching elegant vases. But something seemed different – and then she saw it – a feather, tucked in amongst the dried leaves. A feather in graduated shades of brown, like those found in pheasant’s tails. She plucked it out with a smile, and went inside the room, feeling, just from that simple thing, immensely better.
The next morning, she had thought to rise early and walk again, but was greeted by the sound of steady rain. So she lay in bed for another luxurious hour, then called for breakfast in her room. Today, no matter what, she did not intend to allow Lady Anne to disrupt her life. Quite why Lady Anne and her friends felt the need to harass her, Charity did not know – for she could not imagine that they truly thought her competition for the Duke’s attention. She was, however, beginning to think that the Duke was unlikely to choose a bride from amongst them. None of them seemed the sort of person whom he could be comfortable with, could find affection with, long term. She shook her head – that was not hers to worry about – what the Duke chose to do was his own private business.
After she had dressed and eaten, she took her basket, with her sewing materials and all of the feathers she had left neatly packed into it, and went down the servants’ stairs, then slipped along the rear hallway to the conservatory. She hoped that no one would find her there, amongst the plants, and it was warm, and a pleasant place to work. Perhaps, by mid-afternoon, she might finish the brooch she was working on, and perhaps another hat piece.
The conservatory was empty, and to one side there was a small table and two chairs, placed so that the plants surrounded them, making it almost seem as if one was outdoors. Even with the steady rain running down the glass panes, the light was good, and the sense of the place peaceful.
She settled in to work, her materials laid out around her – the basket on the other chair, and the feathers lined up by colour and type across one side of the table, the pieces in progress in front of her. It was, perhaps, rash of her to work on them outside her rooms, but the location was more pleasant and the light better. Besides – she had seen no sign that the other women had ever gone much further in this house than the parlour and the dining room.
More than an hour passed – she had no true sense of the time, and there was no clock in the room – as she became completely absorbed in her work. Creating things which were beautiful was most satisfying, and distracted her from all of the demands of daily life – including the fact that her mother had asked her, again, this morning, if she thought that the Duke was developing an interest in her.
The feather which had been in the arrangement at her door was the perfect piece for the latest hat decoration, layered with stronger coloured feathers, and held in place by a string of tiny pearls.
The pearls she had reused from a broken necklace which she h
ad found in her grandmother’s old trinket box – they were too small for the fashions of today’s necklaces, but perfect to accentuate the hat piece. They were also fiddly and tedious to sew on, and required her complete attention to get right.
“Lady Charity! Whatever are you doing?”
The voice broke her concentration, and she looked up, annoyed, and answered without pausing to think.
“What does it look like I am doing? I am constructing a decoration for a hat, from feathers and pearls.”
There was a gasp, and Charity realised, far too late, what she had done. Lady Anne stood before her, her face a picture of horror.
“You… are you telling me that you make things to wear… like a milliner, or a seamstress? You… work…?
Charity swallowed. This was a nightmare come true. Lady Anne would not be able to resist sharing gossip like this – and the word would no doubt run through the house party in a flash – that Lady Charity Pemberton stooped so low as to do the work of a commoner. And with that, every previous whisper about their family’s financial situation would resurface too.
But it was too late – Lady Anne had seen, and Charity had admitted it. All she could do was attempt to mitigate it, at least a little.
“I create things for my own pleasure. I would hardly call it work.”
Lady Anne regarded her as she might a cockroach.
“Ladies do not make things for themselves, when there are milliners and the like to do it for them.”
And with that, the woman simply turned on her heel and exited the room, leaving Charity sitting there, torn between near hysterical laughter and tears. Well, apart from anything else, this would guarantee that the Duke would never be interested in her – a woman who made things like this was definitely not the ton’s opinion of Duchess material!
Slowly, she packed all of her things away into the basket. Now, the steady beat of the rain on the glass panes of the conservatory seemed most appropriate – like tears for all that she had lost, for her inability to be the woman she should be, again.
The Duke's Christmas Vow: Regency Romance Page 8
