by Erica Vetsch
Charlotte’s mind went blank. This was a new twist. Father had occasionally made vague statements as to her future, but nothing this definite … or dire.
Aunt Philomena. She winced.
To be accurate, she was Charlotte’s great-aunt on her father’s side. Having just endured the Christmas holidays with her at the Tiptree estate in Essex, the thought of a life sentence as her companion drained the blood from Charlotte’s head.
Surely this was an idle threat? Her father couldn’t be so unfeeling, could he?
Aunt Philomena complained about everything. Nothing suited or satisfied her, and her voice could crack glass. She must go through a half dozen paid companions every year because none of them could abide her for more than a few weeks—either that or she fired them for any of a hundred petty reasons.
But as a relative, Charlotte would not be allowed to quit, and Aunt Philomena would be delighted to have a servant who couldn’t give her notice no matter how poorly she treated her. No wonder she’d planted the seeds of the notion for Father to consider. And Father would surely jump at the chance to fob Charlotte and the expense of keeping her off on someone else.
But Aunt Philomena?
Philomena smelled perpetually of naphtha soap, vegetable tonic, and ceaseless discontent.
But … Charlotte’s only escape would be to find a husband?
Was there no other answer? No way to avoid either fate?
It wasn’t that she was averse to having a husband and a family, but the men of the ton were all so boring or boorish, or both. Self-absorbed, idle, lightweights … None of them seemed to do anything constructive or important with their lives.
Mother put on a brave, encouraging face. “You’re not unpleasant to look at, you are the daughter of an earl, and you have a proper education and training in deportment. You would be an acceptable bride if you’d only try. All it requires is that you exert yourself, perhaps use a bit of flattery, a bit of coquettishness. Make a man feel good about himself. Show an interest in something other than your books, and perhaps flirt a little.”
Flirt. Act like an empty-headed miss who couldn’t cross a ballroom unless a man gave her directions and lent his arm for her to lean upon.
“Don’t make that face at me, young lady. It’s not wrong to be smart, but it is wrong to assume that everyone else is stupid compared to you. If you continue to make potential suitors look foolish with your sharp tongue, you’re destined for Yorkshire and the life of a lady’s companion, and you might as well forgo this Season and head to Aunt Philomena’s now.” Her mother’s voice had sharpened, and her shaft hit true.
Charlotte nodded, letting her chin drop, knowing she had been guilty of handing out setdowns when she lost her patience with the shallowness of conversations at balls and dinners. But how could she possibly marry a man who bored her to sawdust? If only she could meet someone who actually did something with his life, who could claim to have read any book in the last year, who did more than talk about his haberdashery or his driving skill with a coach-and-four. Someone who wasn’t looking for a bit of fluff to admire him and remind him how wonderful he was. Someone who might actually be capable of fidelity and genuine love and soul-nurturing conversation.
Perhaps someone who could see behind the plain dresses and severe hairstyle, prescribed by her parents, to the person she was inside.
“Now,” her mother said, brisk and businesslike as she rose from her chair. “Put that book away and get your cloak. We’re going to start as we mean to go on. I’ve received an invitation to meet some friends at the Frost Festival. It opens today, and there will be lots of people there with whom to mingle. All the most fashionable persons will turn out for the occasion. I expect you to be polite to those we meet. In fact, say as little as possible, and you’ll be fine. Dress warmly. I can’t remember a winter this cold, and it’s bound to be worse on the river.”
Charlotte had about as much experience holding her tongue as she did flirting. She set her jaw mutinously, but she obeyed, taking the book along with her to her room, lest her father come across it and confiscate it.
An hour later when Charlotte stepped out of the carriage at the top of the steps leading down to the Thames, her mother’s claims of cold seemed an understatement. Icy wind scudded over the cobbles and whipped at her bonnet ties. For the first time in years, the weather had been so bitterly cold that the river had frozen completely. Enterprising souls had used this phenomenon to revive the Frost Festival, and crowds had gathered for the entertainment.
“Come. I’ve arranged to meet someone on the quay.” Her mother gathered her woolen cloak about her, her cheeks already pink with cold but her eyes bright and eager. Mother, like the rest of the ton, loved any reason to socialize, and the temperature wouldn’t daunt her if it meant a chance to gather with friends.
Charlotte burrowed her hands into her knitted muff and followed Mother down the steps, careful where she placed her feet on the uneven stone. All around her, people laughed and called, vendors hawked their wares, and children wove and dove between the revelers.
Smoke from braziers and campfires whipped around, propelled by the stiff breeze, and the aromas of cooking meat and yeasty ale enticed investigation.
A small city had sprung up on the solid surface of the river—booths, tents, shacks. Straw had been strewn in paths to make impromptu “streets.” Standing as they were above the icy surface on the pier, Charlotte observed a juggler entertaining a crescent of onlookers, and she spied a thin urchin dipping into the pocket of one jovial man while he was distracted.
She checked that her reticule was secured around her wrist and nestled deep into her muff. All summer long she had been saving to purchase a subscription to a lending library for the time she would be in London. Her father rarely turned any money over to her, and she’d had to hoard and scrape to purchase each of the treasured books in her collection. She couldn’t afford to be robbed if she was to have new reading material this Season. A library subscription would allow her to read as much as she wanted of books she could never afford to purchase.
“There they are.” Mother took Charlotte’s elbow and tugged her toward the end of the pier. “And they’ve brought Dudley.”
A groan worked its way up Charlotte’s throat, and her shoulders sagged. They were meeting the Bosworths? Dudley Bosworth? Mother hurried toward her friends while speaking in a low tone. “If you won’t take care of the matter of finding a husband yourself, I’m going to have to intervene. Now, be nice.”
All too soon Dudley was bowing over her hand, his rounded face parting in a reluctant smile. “H … hello, Lady Charlotte.”
Was his face red from cold, or was he blushing?
Remembering her mother’s admonition to keep her mouth shut, Charlotte said nothing, only nodding to him. He’d paid some court to her last Season, probably pushed into it by his mother, for he suffered greatly from awkwardness around girls. Charlotte hadn’t been interested then. She wasn’t interested now. Dudley was nice enough, she supposed, but he was about as exciting as blancmange.
“Charlotte was just telling me how eager she was to see you again. She couldn’t wait to come to the festival, knowing you’d be here,” Mother said, sending a warning glance Charlotte’s way, forbidding any contradiction to this bald-faced lie.
“We were delighted to know you were coming, my dear.” Mrs. Bosworth looked fondly from her son to Charlotte. “Dudley was most anxious to see you too.” She inclined her head a little, as if encouraging Dudley to say something. He shot a startled glance at his mother and then covered it up by nodding vigorously.
So that was the direction in which the land lay. Ambushed by their parents. Charlotte turned away under the guise of dealing with the wind whipping her plain woolen cloak around her, and a bookseller’s stall caught her eye below. If only she could escape to that little oasis in the crowd.
“Let’s take in some of the festivities, shall we?” Mr. Bosworth clapped his gloved hands toge
ther and then rubbed his palms against one another, as if anticipating all he would see and do.
Dudley stood between Charlotte and her mother, shifting his weight. He half offered his arm to Charlotte and the other to her mother, then stilled.
His father solved the dilemma. “You escort Charlotte, my boy.” He held out both elbows to his wife and Mother, and they strolled back along the length of the pier, leaving Dudley and Charlotte to come along behind.
Taking his arm meant removing her hand from her muff, a proposition she didn’t relish. She was more than capable of walking without support, and her hand would freeze through her glove. Still, proprieties. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.
“It … it’s good to see you again,” Dudley said. “I hope you had a pleasant Christmas.”
“Yes, thank you,” she lied, remembering the strident irritation of Aunt Philomena’s petulance. She would be good. She wouldn’t say or do anything to embarrass her mother or Dudley. She would hold her tongue. She would not be packed off to Yorkshire like a naughty child.
She hoped she was up to the task.
People jostled and pushed in around them, and Charlotte felt her muscles tightening. She didn’t like crowds. Her eyes darted, looking for avenues of escape amongst the throng.
The descent from the pier to river level brought a new perspective. She now looked up the embankment at the street, a view she’d never had before. Dudley proved useful, guiding her through the shoppers and revelers to one of the straw-strewn paths. Her mother and the Bosworths had stopped at a cart to admire a display of silk shawls, but Charlotte pulled gently on Dudley’s arm in the direction of the bookseller she’d spied from above. If she had to be here, she was going to see something she liked.
The man minding the bookstall doffed his cap and blew on his hands. His gloves had no fingertips, possibly to make him more adept at picking up and leafing through his merchandise, and as a consequence, his fingers were red as cherries.
“Sir, you look like a scholar. Are you hoping to stock your library? I’ve several impressive volumes that would look magnificent on your shelves.” He spoke to Dudley, ignoring Charlotte.
Dudley shook his head, sputtering. “No, no, sir. I’m not looking for books.”
A pity.
Charlotte touched the spines of a tray of books set at an angle to display their titles. She loved everything about books—the beautiful bindings, the mesmeric endpapers, the heft, the smell. And that was not even counting the words and worlds they held. Her own small library of getting on for a dozen volumes was her most precious possession, each book carefully saved for, pored over, and treasured.
“Ma’am, the novels are over here. I’ve a nice selection.” He directed her to a shelf to the right of the booth.
Charlotte enjoyed a good novel, but at the moment she was interested in something more scholarly to sink her teeth into. “Do you have anything on Greek history?” She’d love to read a few pages, snatch a few moments, a few words and paragraphs to savor later.
The bookseller put on a patronizing grin. “Are you buying for a gentleman friend? Surely a mere woman wouldn’t be interested in something as taxing as Greek history?” He shook his head, winking at Dudley. “I have some manuals on home management and a few recipe books here somewhere that might suit a lady like you.”
Frustration burned its way up her chest.
“What utter twaddle. I may be a ‘mere woman,’ but I am certainly capable of comprehending a history book for my own education and enjoyment. Women aren’t relegated to only perusing recipes and fiction, you know.” The words flew out in a torrent, and her voice rose. “Of all the idiotic—” Charlotte broke off when she became aware she was drawing attention.
The merchant held out his hands as if to plead innocence, glancing at the audience that had stopped to see what the fuss was about, and Dudley hunched his shoulders under his many-caped cloak, as if he wanted to disappear.
She pressed her lips together. So much for holding your tongue. When are you going to learn? She should apologize, but righteous indignation clamped her throat tight. It wasn’t the bookseller’s fault, not really. It was society … and the women who played along and perpetuated the notion that no female could have a thought deeper than a finger bowl. The vendor had merely voiced what most people assumed, and by doing so, carried the trope further.
“Charlotte Tiptree.” Her mother’s low voice cut across the ice. “Come with me, please. There’s something I wish to show you.” Her hand came up and clamped on Charlotte’s arm, drawing her away from the books. “Excuse us for a moment, Dudley.”
When they were a few yards away, in a blind alley between two vendors, Mother gripped Charlotte by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “You haven’t heard a word I said today, have you? I leave you for one minute, and you start spouting like a broken vessel. You’re embarrassing yourself. I’ve a mind to send you home so you can do no more damage to the Tiptree reputation. We have generations of prestige and good standing in London society, and I’ll be blessed if I’ll let you and your unblunted tongue ruin it for us.”
If she weren’t so cold, Charlotte would’ve been able to feel the blood rush to her cheeks. She’d done it again. Let her feelings get the better of her and take the restraint off her tongue.
She saw a long future with Aunt Philomena stretching ahead of her.
“Now, you’ll stay close to me, and if I hear you say more than ‘yes, ma’am’ or ‘no, sir’ the rest of the afternoon, I’ll put you on the first coach to Yorkshire myself. I intend to enjoy myself today, and you will do nothing more to prevent that. Do you hear me?” She gave Charlotte one more shake, her voice never rising above a harsh whisper, all the more piercing for it.
“Yes, ma’am,” Charlotte muttered past her clenched teeth.
She followed her mother over to the Bosworths, keeping her head bent, determined to walk small. Before they moved on, she stopped before the bookseller. He stiffened, as if bracing for her next onslaught.
“My apologies, sir.” She kept her voice low, but she met his eyes. “I spoke out of turn. You have beautiful books here. I hope the festival brings you great success.”
He nodded sharply but said nothing, no doubt fearful of incurring her wrath once again.
With a weight in her chest, she hurried to catch up to her mother before her absence was noted.
Booth after booth, stall after stall, they moved up and down, watching the entertainers, listening to music, admiring the wares. Dudley bought Charlotte a cup of hot chocolate and a Scotch egg served in heavy paper to catch the grease. The chocolate warmed her temporarily, but her toes were numb, and her cheeks stung in the stiff breeze. If only her clothing allowance would stretch to a fur-lined cloak like those other women in society wore … How long must they stay?
At last Mother declared they would have to depart, and Charlotte barely stifled an exclamation of relief. She’d adhered strictly to her mother’s mandate and said nothing most of the afternoon. Being so vigilant exhausted her.
At the base of the embankment stairs, Mrs. Bosworth embraced Mother, kissing her cheek. “Verona, it was a pleasure, as always.” She looked over Mother’s shoulder at Charlotte, her eyes clouded with indecision. Perhaps she was rethinking trying to matchmake for her son, at least where Charlotte was concerned.
Dudley shook Charlotte’s hand, formal and stiff, and Mr. Bosworth did the same. “Very nice to see you, Lady Charlotte. Lady Tiptree.”
“Lady Tiptree?” A woman in several layers of shabby clothing nearly stumbled to a halt on the ice near them. “Are you the countess?”
She must’ve been a handsome woman in her prime, but now she looked gaunt and thin. A streak of dirt decorated her cheek, and she clutched her cloak about her, no gloves on her hands. Her head was bare, her raven hair streaked with silver and clutched into a knot, drawing attention to her sharp cheekbones and her dark-brown eyes.
Mother frowned.
“Yes, I am the countess. My husband is the Earl of Tiptree. Who are you?”
The woman reared up, her eyes sparking. “Who am I? Who am I?” Her voice ricocheted off the stone steps leading up to street level, and it seemed everyone in a wide radius stopped to hear. “I’m the woman who kept your husband satisfied and happy for twenty years before he abandoned me. I’m the woman who bore Joseph Tiptree, the earl himself, a daughter only to see him turn his back on us and put us out on the street—that’s who I am.” Her hands came up, bare fingers curled like claws, and fisted at her temples, as if her outrage consumed her.
Charlotte inhaled icy air that froze her lungs. The woman swayed, and people drew back, as if getting too close might contaminate them. Mother stood rooted to the spot, the color draining from her face.
A whirl of questions roared through Charlotte’s mind. Was this woman telling the truth? Her father had kept a mistress? Or was she a lunatic, raving nonsense? But the woman had known her father’s name. His name and his title. Of course she could’ve learned them from anywhere. Was she only looking to force money from the Tiptrees? Or was she being honest?
“Aye, that’s right.” The woman spun around to glare, spitting the words to the onlookers. “Back away. Act like I’m not good enough to wipe your shoes.”
“Madam, this is neither the time nor the place.” Mr. Bosworth frowned at her, his side-whiskers bristling.
“When is the time then? Joe dumped me in the street, after I was loyal to him for years. Turned me out of the house he kept me in. He won’t see me. He won’t return my letters. And now Pippa, our daughter, is forced to make her own way.” Her body quivered as a gasp went up from the onlookers and many heads bent to whisper behind their gloves. “After he promised me he’d take care of us forever. That he’d see Pippa had a good life. I’m trapped in St. Giles trying to keep body and soul together, and my daughter is … has become …” She covered her face for a moment, but then her chin rose. “I just wanted you to know what kind of man you are married to. You have everything you need, and your daughter here will never have to worry about having food or warmth or a roof over her head, thanks to her father. But my girl, his second daughter, is forced to sell herself, something I vowed she would never have to do—” A sob cut off her voice.
