The narrowed eyes widened, the heavy brows lifted.
“Charlotte!”
Mama’s pinch on her arm snapped her attention away, as if a spell had broken. Feeling a little dazed, she returned to study the front of the church, forcing her heart and mind to steady, to still. Inhaling deeply, she focused on the altar, which lacked much of the ornamentation or the beautiful stained glass windows that made visiting Westminster Abbey preferable to this much smaller, newer church.
As the minister moved to the pulpit and praised the congregation for their attendance at such a difficult time, a quiver of embarrassment trembled through her. How sad to think people attended services more for gossip than for instruction. And she … was no better. An urgency to leave swelled within, to leave this farce of worship, even if Mama would have an apoplectic fit.
The organ began the first hymn, prompting the congregation to stand. As she mouthed the words the restlessness gradually abated. Just because Mama might insist they attend today from motives other than worshipping God did not mean Charlotte need follow. The minister prayed, and her heart rippled with something deep, and she resolved not to be like one of today’s shallow spectators.
And she’d begin by praying for the man across the aisle whose soul seemed as dark as his clothes.
William barely heard a word intoned by the minister, so conscious was he of what was being left unsaid. He went through the motions mechanically: Stand. Sing. Sit. Kneel. Sit. Listen. Try not to yawn. Stand. Sing. Sit. Pray.
His skin prickled at the eyes of the ton staring at his back. He knew what they said. Knew their gossip. Knew he was being mocked in the clubs, the cuckolded Duke of Hartington with the baseborn child—gossip mitigated only by the fact that Wrotham had fled the country, as he’d promised.
His throat clamped. While he could barely stand to think of the misbegotten child’s antecedents, justice demanded he not hold her parents’ sins against her. That and Jensen’s pleas had transformed his initial reaction to something less dramatic, permitting the child to stay in the room farthest from him, where he wouldn’t hear it, wouldn’t see it. The wet-nurse his wife had previously engaged had been installed there, too, and Jensen assured him all was well. But he had yet to see her. Couldn’t bear to see her, reminder as she was of his wife’s failings—and his own.
God?
Silence.
His lips twisted. Even here in church, God seemed so very far away.
As he mouthed along to the last hymn, William found himself bracing for the crush of people. He nearly hadn’t come today, but the knowledge his absence would result in all the more gossip had kept him to his regular practice.
The minister prayed, then released the congregation with a blessing: “Go forth into the world in peace, holding fast to that which is good. Strengthen the fainthearted, support the weak, help the afflicted, honor everyone. Love and serve the Lord, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit, and the blessing of the Lord be amongst you, both now and forevermore.”
“Amen.”
His voice agreed, even though his heart doubted. How could he hold to what was good, how could he rejoice in the power of the Holy Spirit, how could he help anyone?
He was the one needing strengthening; he was the one afflicted. The next few days would be torture; the last three had been hell. So many decisions to be made, decisions pertaining not just to the funeral of his wife, but also to closing up the London town house, travel arrangements for the procession back to Hartwell Abbey, let alone all the arrangements required for the child. And then there were the visits, visits from the well-meaning, from the undertakers, the reverend, even the occasional call from the few who considered themselves his friends.
He’d barely slept since Thursday, the fog menacing the corners of his mind gradually massing, until reason and clarity of thought, so long his friends, seemed impossibly far away. At times he felt nearly dizzy with the weight of it all. Jensen urged him to rest, but he could not. Too much churned inside, begging release.
“Hartington?”
He blinked. Forced the whirring thoughts to slow. Forced his head to turn.
“May I say how sorry we were to hear of your loss?”
William forced himself to nod. Who was that? Remembering names had always been Pamela’s forte. He joined the recessional, following in the wake of the reverend. If he hurried his escape, there would be fewer people to talk to.
“Duke?”
Good manners halted his steps, bade him turn, stay.
“May we offer our condolences.”
People could offer all the condolences they liked; it didn’t mean he believed them. Their eyes were too hard, glinting with latent amusement as they stored up their encounter for the latest on-dit, their mouths speaking sympathetic nothings while he searched their faces for anything of true compassion.
Not that he deserved compassion. He’d never been able to effectively hide his hatred of his wife’s affairs, never been able to shrug off infidelity as so many others seemed able. His marriage vows had meant something, hence his devastation when he’d realized how little they’d meant to the woman he’d promised his life to. Yet despite the pain she had put him through, in these darkest hours of the past few days, her death had made him realize that underneath his anger, he’d never really given up every vestige of hope.
Not really.
Yes, perhaps he’d treated her unwisely—some would say badly—and didn’t deserve people’s compassion. But some twisted, bitter corner of his heart desired pity anyway.
It seemed the only ones who truly showed sympathy were those he barely knew. Hawkesbury’s new wife, accompanying the earl on his visit of condolence yesterday, had seemed to hold something like sympathy in her glistening-eyed expression and soft words, her husband’s words seeming more heartfelt than trite …
“Hartington?”
His attention jerked back to the present, the jostling crowd, the slightly plump marquess standing before him. They exchanged bows. “Exeter.”
“Dreadful business, this.”
“Yes.”
The marchioness stepped forward, her black bombazine marking her as in mourning, though her face wore no ravages of grief. “Pamela was such a beauty. I still remember her come-out …”
As she gabbled on in reminisces he did not share, he fought the curl of his lip. Yes, his wife had been a beauty, some would say a nonpareil, but that was the problem. If she hadn’t been so lovely, men would have paid her less heed, her head would not have been so easily turned, her feet would not have strayed …
“I don’t believe you have met our daughter.” She drew forth a young lady, similarly dark clothed, who’d been laughing with a tall, handsome gentleman standing behind her mother.
Breath whooshed from his chest. Her.
“Charlotte, meet His Grace, the Duke of Hartington.”
The light in the young face drained away, replaced by a startled look in those wide eyes. She curtsied.
“Lady Charlotte,” he managed to rasp.
Her gaze connected with his, blue eyes, as clear as the spring sky, holding him prisoner.
Like hers had once done.
He schooled his expression to neutral, but perhaps hadn’t successfully wiped away all thought of his wife, as he noticed the pink lips falling open a fraction. “Duke.”
A shaft of sunlight highlighted the faintest trail of saltwater on her cheek. His heart thudded. She at least did not seem to find his situation pathetically amusing, seemed rather to regard him with sympathy, just as the Hawkesburys had done.
But … truly? Desiring pity from a schoolgirl? What measure of fool had he become?
He nodded, made his excuses before moving swiftly through the throng to where his recently promoted coachman, Barrack, waited with his carriage and matched grays. He hurried inside, the door was closed, and within seconds they were away.
He leaned back, sagging against the squabs, closing his eyes as hooves clattered on cobblesto
nes. The dim interior gave him precious moments to think.
Still so much to do.
So much to arrange.
Thank God it was Sunday; the house might be a little quieter than usual.
But the day of rest would not prove a respite for the servants, many of whom would travel back to Northamptonshire with him tomorrow. His man of business would follow in a few days, once the banks had been sorted. But Hapgood was trustworthy, as faithful in his parents’ day as he’d proved in William’s own.
Another pang squeezed his heart. Thank God his parents hadn’t lived to see the mess he’d made of their line. Hadn’t seen the young lady they’d selected as his bride years ago become the talk of society, nor he become society’s joke. Despite the thorny past, he missed them. Their deaths had come too soon, although he couldn’t but be glad they’d been spared such opened eyes.
His thoughts turned to Hartwell Abbey. His home all his life. His haven. His escape.
Perhaps now, as they neared the end of this session of Parliament, he could escape. Now that he wasn’t expected to grace social functions he had no care for, nor attend the events his wife had insisted they appear at which inevitably turned into a mockery of marriage, he could finally invest in what he’d always wanted: Hartwell’s experimental farm.
Hope flickered in his heart, tempering the heaviness of past days. Yes, one day soon he could devote his full attention to something he’d always dreamed. Surely recent progress in agricultural practices that had transformed the countryside and villages could be helped by the methods he and his men had labored over. He drew in a deep breath. He’d always had money. Now he had time. The ability to focus.
“Your Grace?”
He shook off the reverie, descended the carriage’s step, and eyed the hatchment on the door, the mourning wreath marking a death, then strode up the shallow steps and entered the house.
A thin wail came from upstairs.
His spirits sank again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vauxhall Gardens, London
May
IT WAS ENTIRELY possible that the excitement of last month’s come-out ball was about to be surpassed. Charlotte clutched Henry’s arm as they slowly walked through the entryway. Ever since she’d woken this morning, through getting dressed, the trip across the Thames in a scull, then walking up the shallow steps to the entrance, she’d been awash with thrills. How delightful, how romantic tonight would be!
She smiled at her brother and squeezed his arm affectionately. “Thank you for convincing them. I cannot believe I’m finally here.”
“Truth be told, neither can I. Father had his reservations, and Mama has never been particularly fond of the out-of-doors.”
As if on cue, Mama’s voice came behind them, “It is a little warm, is it not?”
Charlotte sighed. Henry grinned and turned. “It will cool, and we are near the river, so that will help.”
“But there are such nasty odors,” Mama complained, fluttering her chicken-skin fan.
“Don’t know why you insisted on coming if you’re just going to moan,” Father grumbled, his expression hinting this evening’s expedition would offer him little pleasure.
“Well, I’m pleased we’re here,” Charlotte said. “I think tonight will be wonderful!”
Henry gave Charlotte’s hand a squeeze, saying in an undertone as they waited for the queue to clear, “Never mind her. You know she’s always anxious about anything out of the ordinary.”
“Henry?” Mama turned, eyeing them. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing of importance, Mama.”
“Hmph. If it’s of no importance, then why must it be said at all?”
“Believe me, Mama, I wish it did not.”
She frowned as they finally moved forward, and Charlotte’s stifled giggle escaped in a gasp. “Oh, how lovely!”
Before them stretched the pleasure gardens. A grand avenue, intersected at right angles by several other gravel walks, stretched toward a gilded statue. Lofty sycamores, limes, and elms lined the promenades. Exotic structures hinting of Arabia and the Orient competed for attention with lantern-draped trees, lamps that also festooned the cast-iron pillars of the colonnades. Fruit bushes and perfumed flowers tickled her senses, while the strains of music promised further delight. And everywhere, everywhere, beautifully dressed people strolled, their smiles suggesting she wasn’t the only one finding enjoyment in a place she never thought she’d see—until Henry’s support for her birthday plans.
“Come, we must find our box if we wish to eat something before the concert begins.”
At Father’s impatient gesture, they followed him down the gravel path. Minstrels drew near, a piper on a pan flute meeting Charlotte’s gaze, seeming to take that as an invitation to follow their party.
“I see you’ve made another conquest,” Henry murmured.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Whatever will Markham say, now that you’re being pursued by such a fellow?”
Heat rose in her cheeks, even as her insides curled with joy. “Do you think he will come tonight?”
“I cannot tell if that is a serious question or not.”
“Henry!”
“Do you really think he would dare miss such an evening?”
His words—though uttered in a wry tone—gave courage to her hopes. Ever since the magical night of her come-out ball, she had been the delighted recipient of Lord Markham’s attention. Nothing ever overt, nothing to which Mama might take exception, but the “accidental” meetings had kept her in a delightful daze these past weeks, fueling hope his notice might be leading to something more permanent.
She studied the people strolling by: elegant lords and ladies dressed in the height of fashion, next to those whose clothes proclaimed them as having lesser means—but none so poor they could not afford the shilling entrance fee.
“It is as though half the world is here!”
Everywhere the eye turned was another delight: fountains, statues, elegant arches, temples, and Chinese-styled pagodas, golden orbs of light radiating in a twinkling spectacular. She glanced up at the large bouquets of red, blue, yellow, and violet flowers hanging in the trees. “Oh!” She peered more closely. “They’re lamps!”
“Not everything is as it appears.”
They continued their promenade along the main walk, which was bounded either side with small pavilions housing tables and chairs. Henry nudged her. “We’ll have supper there soon.”
They strolled toward a large octagonal rotunda in which an orchestra performed. Beyond, just in front of the southern row of supper boxes, stood a white marble statue of a seated man holding a lyre. The familiar melodies made Charlotte long to join the couples pirouetting. She smiled, stifling the inclination. Mama would never live that down.
Before too long a whistle was blown, and a waiter drew forward, bowing to her father before gesturing to a large box along one of the colonnades. “My lord, I trust you shall find everything as required.”
“I hope so, too,” he muttered, before escorting them inside.
The small enclosure afforded a commanding view across the principal grove. Paintings adorned three sides: scenes of musicians, elegant ladies dancing, and rural idyll. “How lovely!”
“Charlotte, sit here.” Mama motioned to a seat at the small table. With space for twice as many as their family numbered, she hoped the extra places meant the guests she had suggested would arrive soon.
A waiter drew near, bowed, then offered the selections: chicken cooked in a chafing dish in front of them, wafer-thin slices of ham, salad, custards, cheese cakes, fresh fruits, and punch. As a concession to her birthday, a large cake was placed on the center of the table.
“Charlotte!”
She turned. “Lavinia! Lord Hawkesbury, you made it!”
After a round of bows, curtsies, and kissed cheeks, Lavinia said with an apologetic smile, “Forgive us, we were inadvertently delayed.”
“We h
ead north tomorrow,” the earl said.
“To your estate?”
“Yes, but Lavinia was determined not to miss her favorite cousin’s birthday.”
“Favorite?” Henry said, with a mock glare at the countess. “You always told me I was your favorite.”
“Not all is as it appears, brother dear.”
He chuckled.
Lavinia and the earl were seated, the conversation soon picking up in pace and volume. Lavinia smiled across the table. “Does Vauxhall live up to your expectations?”
“It is like a dream!”
Lavinia laughed. “Have you seen the statue of Handel?”
“Trust my wife to notice the musicians.” The earl kissed Lavinia’s hand. “I’m afraid, Lady Charlotte, we shall be most fortunate if we can get her to leave, she loves her music so.”
“I have only been here once before,” Lavinia confided.
Sounds of merriment rippled from the boxes nearby, as waiters rushed from one party to the next. Beyond the supper box strolled a myriad of people, all intent on enjoying themselves, if their smiles and laughter were any indication. Charlotte soaked it in: so many different people from so many different walks of life. At a distance, the sounds of the orchestra continued, familiar English melodies such as “Sally in our Alley” and “Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill.”
“I know another sweet lass who might be described as a rose without a thorn,” a deep voice drawled.
Charlotte turned, joy coiling within. “Lord Markham!”
“The very same.” He bowed to her parents, the earl, Lavinia, and Henry, before picking up her hand. “May I say how lovely you appear tonight?”
Heat shivered at his touch. Words refused to form. She hoped her smile said enough.
He chuckled. “Never tell me I have robbed the beautiful maiden of her tongue?”
“Markham, if you are joining us, sit down. If not, then please return my sister’s vocal cords to their rightful owner.”
Lord Markham sat beside her, then offered a small posy of pink roses. “I trust this offering will appease and return your powers of speech?”
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 4
