THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1794 - CHARLOTTE

by Karen Hawkins

  Famished, Marco ate, his gaze wandering to the statues. Today he would begin smoothing the lines made by his chisel. He would smooth those, and then polish them until they were silky and shiny. Where should be begin, he wondered. On the arms, perhaps. They provided the most movement in both pieces. Eager to begin, he pushed his empty plate aside and found his tools.

  He worked for several hours, and slowly, slowly, the lines of his chisel were erased, leaving only the sheen of milky white, polished marble. It was laborious, but the beauty of the end result pushed him onward.

  Still, the blank faces irked him. What are they supposed to look like? He tried to imagine them, but his stubborn muse wouldn’t answer his call.

  Muttering to himself, he set aside his tools and repaired to his worktable. He found some foolscap and a stick of charcoal, and began to sketch, trying various shapes for the faces, different noses and lips, different curves for the cheek. Anything to unlock his imagination.

  He’d just sketched a series of eyes when the stable door was thrown open. He looked up, expecting to see Pietro, but instead, Charlotte rushed inside, a blanket held over her bonneted head, water dripping from every surface. “Goodness, it’s coming down!” She threw off the blanket and tossed it over a barrel sitting near the door and grinned. “It’s raining hard. The drops are splashing like marbles in a tea cup.”

  She was here, and he was painfully glad to see her. But that same happiness was tinged with a cold whisper of despair. He’d been living in a dream, ignoring reality. He wondered bleakly how he’d allowed such a thing to happen.

  She wore a yellow gown decorated with a spill of frothy white lace at her neckline and from each elbow, and she glowed as if lit by a thousand candles in a room darkened by the rainy gray of the outside sky. Her wet hem dragged on the ground, and mud had spattered over her boots, yet she managed to still look like what she was – a beautiful young lady of the best birth, rich in heritage, destined to carry on an ancient family name.

  She untied her bonnet to reveal slightly mussy hair. “I hope you don’t mind my stopping in, but I was out taking a walk and it began to sprinkle, so I was forced to take refuge here.”

  “It’s been raining for hours.”

  “It was a long walk,” she replied smoothly, as if she’d expected his comment.

  Damn it, why did she have to make him laugh? It made it impossible to stay cross, and he needed his anger. “Fortunately for you,” he said in a pointed tone, “it is a short distance to the Hall. If you leave now, you will be there in time for lunch.”

  “I don’t want to return to Nimway. I want to be here.” She untied the ribbons of her bonnet and tugged it free, shaking her head to loosen her curls. “I love rainy weather, don’t you?”

  “I prefer sunshine.”

  “I like sunshine, too. Just not all the time.”

  He pushed himself from the worktable and faced her, his arms crossed to keep himself from reaching for her. “Charlotte, we must talk.”

  Her smile faltered. “Why?”

  She already knew, then. He could see it in her eyes, in the faint quiver of her bottom lip. “Our time in the woods yesterday was . . . I will never forget it. But it doesn’t change anything.”

  “Did I say it had?” Her voice was defiant.

  “No, but you came here today and are acting as if everything is well and good, and you know it isn’t.”

  “You’ve been thinking. And thinking too much, in my opinion.”

  “You had the same thoughts. Don’t deny it. I can tell. I’ve been trying to pretend that we’re just playing a game. But it could easily be more than that for both of us. Charlotte, I’m on the verge of falling in love with you. I think you’re feeling the same.”

  She bit back a sign, her eyes searching his face. “You’re worried.”

  He did worry; he worried about how enraptured he was over her already, and it had only been a few short weeks. He worried about how much more enthralled he’d be if he continued to see her.

  But most of all, he worried about her, and how she would survive the weight of another loss.

  He sent her a bleary look. “We can’t do this.”

  She placed her bonnet on his worktable, making sure she didn’t set it on any papers that might absorb the dampness. “I didn’t come here to talk about any of this. I came to see your work."

  He swallowed a frustrated sigh. “It’s not finished yet. Now please, go back to Nimway Hall. I can’t—"

  “Yes, yes. You’re shy about sharing your accomplishments. That’s very commendable of you, but I—Ah!” Her gaze found the statues, and she was there before he could stop her.

  Damn it, I should have covered those blasted things.

  She stood before them, a note of awe in her voice. “I’d heard you’ve been hard at work, but this . . . You will finish them early if you continue at this pace.”

  “Who told you I’d been hard at work?”

  “Pietro told Cook, who told Simmons, who told me, but not before he’d complained about the amount of time Pietro has spent in the kitchens and how Simmons is certain the missing ham is now residing in Pietro’s rather large belly.” She frowned. “There was also something about pickled eggs, too, but I didn’t quite catch it all.”

  “Good God. I’m going to skin Pietro alive.”

  “Not if Simmons gets to him first.” She bent and picked up a marble chip and turned it over in her hands, smoothing it as she did so. “To think that something so beautiful came from a plain block of stone.”

  He tried not to watch her, but he couldn’t help himself. Her hands were as beautiful as the rest of her, slender and narrow, and as graceful as the fall of water over a smooth rock.

  He watched her examining the stone and he realized how much she’d changed in the few weeks he’d been here. When he’d first met her, she’d had a tight, frozen exterior. Over the last few weeks, her facade had given way and the real Charlotte had been revealed. And that is the Charlotte I am falling in love with, the one tightly tucked away, afraid to be seen.

  She picked up more chips of marble, holding them to the light.

  His fingers, still wrapped around a stick of charcoal, itched to sketch her. He wouldn’t sketch her the daughter of a wealthy scion, a maid of virtue and the utmost respectability as her blood demanded. No, he’d follow instead the wildness he sometimes caught in her gaze, the sensual line of her mouth that bespoke the carefully protected life she’d led. He would capture the fullness of her breasts, and the delicate hollows of her shoulders, both of which begged to be explored and tasted. He would have her reclined on a chaise, nude except for a silk shawl, which he’d drape over her bared thighs—

  Snap. The charcoal stick broke between his fingers. He stared at the splintered charcoal, his mind still spinning with the image he’d captured.

  The marble chips clattered as she returned them to the pile. She nodded at the half-carved pillars. “These are quite tall. Almost my height.”

  “Almost.” Marco tossed the broken charcoal onto the table. “The fireplace is to be the focal point for the room, after all.”

  “That will be is a lot of marble.”

  “It’s a big fireplace.”

  Her lips twitched. “True.” She turned from the marble and walked toward him, her gaze flickering past him to his work table. “So many sketches! What were you working on these when I came in?”

  He stepped between her and the table, even though it put him far too close to her for his comfort.

  She smiled up at him, and he was surprised to see flecks of gold in her blue eyes, reflected from the gray, rainy light. Overhead, the rain thrummed, while the scent of lavender filled the space between them.

  His heart thudded harder and he rammed his hands into his pockets. “You can’t—”

  She darted around him, grabbed a handful of sketches from the table, and dashed away before he could do more than curse.

  He yanked his hands from his pockets and sta
lked after her, but she sprinted around a pole in the center of the room, her skirts fluttering as she whisked herself to the farthest corner where she stopped near a window and looked at the pages she’d stolen.

  “I don’t like people to see my sketches!”

  “I don’t know why,” she said, her gaze still on the pages. “They’re wonderfully done.”

  “They’re not wonderfully done when your father is a world-famous painter.”

  She looked up from the papers. “Ah. A critic, is he?”

  Marco shrugged. “He has standards. As an artist must.”

  “I can’t imagine he’d have anything negative to say about these. They’re beautiful.” She held up the sketches he’d made of several different types of mouths. “I never knew there were so many types of lips, and they’re all beautifully drawn.”

  He tried to drag his attention from her mouth and failed. There may be a hundred different types of lips, but only one set beckoned him, tormented him, bewitched him.

  She lowered the pages. “You’re trying to design the faces for your pillars.”

  “I’m trying, yes.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  He held out his hand. “If you’re done with those?”

  She made a face, but brought him the pages.

  He carried them back to his worktable and slid them back into the folio before he turned to her. “Why are you here?”

  She shrugged, and he thought she lost a little of her color. “I came to see you. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Isn’t there?” he said grimly.

  She lifted her chin. “No, there isn’t.”

  He sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

  “Fine. If you must know, I came to see you and for no other reason.” Her gaze met his. “Marco, please,” she said softly. “We only have a week or so left, if that. We’d be foolish not to enjoy what time we do have.”

  “We’d be more foolish to expose ourselves to more pain. For us, a few weeks would be too many.”

  “Perhaps. But I’d rather say I had the best week of my life, than the worst.”

  Dio, he hated it when she made sense. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know if I can just—stop. And that’s what you’re asking me to do. To continue seeing you, talking to you, being with you. And then, I am to just walk away and pretend I can continue as if nothing happened?”

  She wet her lips nervously, and he had to bite back a moan. “You . . . you think we’re falling in love. Maybe it’s just passion.”

  “I don’t know what it is,” he answered honestly. “I only know that every time I see you, it’s not enough. I know that I think about you constantly when I’m awake and when I’m asleep. I know that I’m already aching with wanting you and aching at the thought of leaving you. I don’t know if this is love or passion, or if it will last to the end of the month or carry us forever.” He spread his hands wide. “All I know is that seeing you more and then leaving you will cut my soul until it begs for release.”

  “No, no, don’t say that! I—” She rubbed her temples, and took a short walk around the room, returning to where she began. “It’s so confusing! Right this instant, I want to kiss you and to run away at the same time.”

  “Which is why we should end this now, before it’s too late.” He took a deep breath. “If it’s not already. Charlotte, we can’t fall in love. My career . . . but worse than that, your family would not approve. You could lose them. We would have to give up more than we have to give. And I fear, if we made that decision, we’d regret it. I think—” He took a deep breath. “No, I know it would be best to end this now.”

  “But—”

  “No, listen to me. As hard as this is, we can do it. We can stop this now. But we cannot see each other again, because every time we talk, every time we touch or kiss or just sit beside each other and watch sunshine playing on the surface of a pool, we’re making it that much more difficult.”

  She nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Damn you.”

  Surprised, he waited.

  “You’re right,” she whispered. Her eyes shiny with tears, she looked about the room as if trying to remember where she was. “I should go.”

  His throat ached with tightness, but he nodded.

  She collected her things, leaving her bonnet untied, the strings trailing over her shoulders, the blanket hanging over her arm.

  He watched her, the lump in his throat growing until he couldn’t breathe. His heart begged him to stop her, to say something and say it quickly, while his head reminded him of the life he’d be condemning both her and his family to if he stole away with her. No love could survive that. Not even this one.

  Lightning flashed, followed by a boom of thunder that made the ground tremble. Rain roared down.

  “Wait!” He took a step forward. “You shouldn’t go out in that. Stay here until—”

  He spoke to an empty room. With a final teary-eyed look, she’d whisked her blanket over her head and left, the empty doorway standing open behind her.

  Chapter 11

  Charlotte crossed her arms behind her head and stared up at the blue sky. This, she decided, just might be her favorite place in the world. She was in the field near the lake, stretched out on her back, hidden away by a wall of golden wheat. She’d made a bed for herself by walking in a circle until the wheat had flattened. Then, for comfort and to keep the still-damp ground from seeping into her gown, she’d thrown her cloak over the crushed stalks. Now she had a secret, cozy nest with nothing but blue sky overhead.

  When she’d been younger, she used to make these nests all of the time. But it had been years since she’d bothered. She crossed her bared feet at the ankles and brushed away an errant ant she’d caught climbing up her sleeve.

  It was lovely today, and warm, and so long as she didn’t think about Marco, the tears rarely came. She had better things to do than think about him, anyway.

  She plucked a stalk of wheat and ran the stalk through her finger, the prickly seeds scattering, drops of gold that glistened in the sun as they fell. Some grains disappeared on the ground, while others clung to her skirts like so many seed pearls. It was nice to be alone, truly alone, with no dark, disturbing eyes watching her and making her feel things she shouldn’t.

  A lazy cloud drifted past, and the hum of bees grew sleepy as the sun rose. It was such a beautiful day, the sun-kissed air sweetened by the smell of the crushed stalks. She should have been blissfully happy to be here, but she wasn’t. Her mind was too caught up in all of the things Marco had said to her.

  Blast him for so arrogantly deciding that he was the one to make decisions for them. She hated being told what to do, as anyone who knew her could have told him. She was just beginning to realize that in the months after Caroline’s death, Charlotte had gone to sleep, or rather her spirit had. A part of her soul had ceased breathing and was only now gasping back to life.

  Of course, with it came her familiar desires. The urge to break every code of behavior society forced upon her. To laugh louder, dance faster, and talk more than was permitted. It was a fire she’d fought her entire life, and had, at times, lost to, much to her parent’s chagrin and disappointment. No one had understood how hard it was for Charlotte to do the ‘right’ thing. No one except Caroline. She’d known the truth, that Charlotte’s happiness would never be encased in silks and satins. Her happiness lay in the stream of sunshine on her shoulders, the feel of grass beneath her bare toes. And now her happiness lay in the deep brown eyes of a forbidden man.

  “But why must he be so bossy?” Charlotte asked a butterfly as it flittered softly overhead. “Why can’t he—”

  Somewhere in the distance, Charlotte heard Simmons calling her name. Aunt Verity must be looking for her as the modiste was due back to deliver her gowns and to make some last-minute adjustments. Charlotte knew she should get up, but she was held in place by the comforting buzz of bees and the mesmerizing sway of the grass, and t
he desire to never again be pinned or poked by a modiste with a fake French accent.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t go, Charlotte decided. She didn’t need a trousseau, anyway. She’d stay here, safe in her nest, and someone else could get pinned and prodded. Charlotte smiled sleepily, and let her eyes flutter close, just for a moment . . .

  She awoke to the sound of dripping water. Confused, she looked around her and her memory came flooding back. Ah yes, she was in her nest.

  She shaded her eyes and glanced up at the sun, and realized it was much later. Charlotte sighed and then stretched, freezing in place as the slow drip sound became a splash. What is that?

  She sat up, peering over the grass to the lake – and there he was. Marco was thigh deep in the lake. Bold, beautiful, and as naked as the day he was born, he washed his chest with a cake of soap, the sun glistening off his wet shoulders as suds slid down his broad, defined chest.

  Charlotte blinked, unable to look away and suddenly too afraid to move. Dear God, if he sees me, he will think I’m spying on him. Nothing could be as humiliating as that.

  She’d just have to stay in her nest for a few more minutes. She really had no choice.

  Of course, she did have a choice whether or not to keep watching him. She should look away. Perhaps hunker down behind the tall wheat and wait for him to leave.

  He lifted the wet clothe over his head and squeezed it, water dropping onto his head and down his face. He had such a fascinating face, all hard planes and straight lines. His jaw was as marked as they came, his nose bold, his mouth hard. She wondered what it would be like to be there in the water with him, to feel – at the same time – the coolness of the water and the heat of his skin.