Unconvinced she was skilled enough for such a piece, she bit her lip, looked around to ascertain she was alone, and gave it her best.
As she played, her heart wrenched. No piece she had ever played resembled this, the passion infused in the notes. Such music should be outlawed! Before she had reached the third page, tears fell from her cheeks onto her hands, blurring her vision and wetting the keys. The music relied more on rhythm than melody, creating a melody out of the rhythm itself, a rhythm that guided the beat of her heart, much as the beat of drums encouraged the feet of soldiers, driving them forward, setting the pace of their march.
Whoever had composed this knew the rawness of emotion, knew even how she felt when she lay in bed alone at night, wondering if anyone could possibly feel so isolated in a house full of people. As vulgar as the display of emotion in the music, Charlotte was drawn to it, a butterfly to nectar, her soul aching for the sweetness to sustain her through dark days.
This would never be suitable for drawing rooms nor would the pianoforte. Where had Drake found this piece? Was there more music like this? Why had he left it for her to play? He couldn’t possibly relate to the music, not when he had so many friends and lovers. He could never know what it was like to feel so alone.
Knowing she couldn’t let her mother-in-law hear such music, she stopped playing after only half an hour, clutching the pages to her breast until she reached her bedchamber where she could hide the sheets. She wanted to play this again. She wanted to play it every day and release her emotional turmoil through the music.
On the eighth day, she discovered a more practical gift in her dressing room, a new dress with matching parasol and boots. The ensemble would be perfect for the bazaar, too perfect not to wear, even if they did come from him. If he was so determined to gift her, why shouldn’t she take advantage of the gifts?
Keeping them didn’t mean concession, merely acquiescence, an accepting of gifts but not attention. After all, it seemed a shame to consign such lovely gifts to the dust bin. Yes, this ensemble would be perfect for the bazaar, regardless of the gift giver’s intentions.
The eighth day came with even more surprises, though not all from her wayward husband. She met with the steward alone to discuss the family accounts. The discussion was enlightening, to say the least, though she left the meeting with more questions than answers.
There was a genius behind the Annick name. The family was proud with a reputation for wealth and condescension. Such a reputation held them in the highest esteem by the aristocracy and favored by the royal family. While none of that was in itself surprising, though intimidating since she didn’t think she could uphold such high standards, the accounts were what shocked her. The profits from the multitude of titles and estates held by the Mowbrah family went to charities, supported local communities, and created jobs and apprenticeships. It was, the steward said, an Annick tradition, not part of the entail, but an expectation of those holding the title.
All was done, however, behind the guise of wealth and condescension. When she asked the steward why these generosities couldn’t be done openly, he made a vague remark to say no one wants to be pitied. Using the footmen as an example, he explained it was far better for the family name, community, and staff esteem for the servants to think they were honored to be hired to work for such a noble family known to showcase status than to think a useless and unnecessary job had been created out of pity for their poverty.
After some thought, Charlotte decided the open show of softness would also lead to ridicule by Society, and given how proud the family, they would go out of their way to be anonymous benefactors rather than risk tainting the image.
The two things she couldn’t sort out was where she fit and where Catherine fit. Charlotte could never be so grand or austere as her mother-in-law, but she did realize the importance of maintaining the image of Annick pride. She was now the public face of the name, and it rested on her shoulders to uphold it. And what of Catherine? The woman was a mystery to Charlotte.
What had Catherine been like when she first became duchess at only sixteen? Had she been prepared for it, or had she felt similarly to Charlotte—an imposter with too big of shoes to fill. Had Catherine always been a cold fish? It shocked Charlotte that the marble dragon would use profits for kindness. There wasn’t a kind bone in the woman’s body!
The ninth day after the incident, she returned home from hosting her first bazaar feeling victorious. At least, she felt victorious until she walked into the Gray Parlor to find not a new gift, but rather Mrs. Fisk ordering footmen to rearrange the room. All the success of her first event drained along with the blood from her cheeks.
The furniture had stayed untouched since she’d rearranged it with the help of Mary and Stella. How appropriate for Lady Annick to wait until Charlotte’s first successful day as a hostess to reassert her authority and dash all Charlotte’s hopes.
Raging inside after all she’d suffered, she screeched over the din of footmen.
“Stop! What is the meaning of this?” Charlotte stomped her foot, fists coiled at her sides.
Mrs. Fisk turned with a vicious, tight-lipped scowl.
“You rearranged this room without approval. I would have rectified the problem sooner, but I do have a house to run,” the housekeeper scolded.
“Without approval?” Charlotte snarled the question. “This is my house. What approval do I need in my own home?”
“You’re mistaken. This is the Dowager Duchess of Annick’s home, and I answer only to her. She prefers the original arrangement of the room. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must direct the furniture placement.”
The housekeeper turned back to the footmen, the two holding the settee looking relieved not to have to hold it much longer.
“Stop!” Charlotte cried, ready to rip out the housekeeper’s throat. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” She repeated, at her wit’s end.
The footmen carrying the settee stopped midway across the room again, slumping at the strain.
The door to the parlor swung open, the dragon herself thumping into the room. Charlotte wanted to crawl into the wallpaper and hide. This was too much to bear.
“What’s the meaning of this ruckus?” Catherine questioned airily, her voice not rising above a whisper.
Mrs. Fisk smugly turned to Catherine.
“I am rectifying the problem, Your Grace.” The housekeeper reassured the dowager duchess before she turned back to the footmen to signal them to set down the settee.
Catherine held a staying hand to the increasingly weary footmen. “What problem would that be, Mrs. Fisk?”
The housekeeper pulled back her shoulders and clasped her hands in front of her.
“The new duchess ordered a parlor maid to rearrange the parlor without your approval, Your Grace. I will be seeing to the dismissal of the maid, long overdue. I am now setting the furniture back to your preferences, as I did with the portraits,” answered the housekeeper.
“What portraits?” Catherine’s eyes narrowed.
Charlotte’s eyes volleyed from Mrs. Fisk to Catherine. If Catherine questioned which portraits, did that mean she hadn’t requested their replacement? Such made no sense. The housekeeper wouldn’t make decisions of her own volition.
“The portraits in the lady’s chamber, Your Grace. The duchess had them removed without permission, and so I replaced them on your behalf. She has seen fit to remove them again, and as soon as I find where she’s hidden them, I will replace them once more,” said Mrs. Fisk, attempting again to indicate to the footmen where they should place the settee.
“And what makes you think, Mrs. Fisk, you have the right to disobey the Duchess of Annick?” Catherine raised a single black eyebrow, arching it high on her porcelain forehead.
Mrs. Fisk replied confidently, “I answer only to you, Your Grace.”
“And in that you are sorely mistaken.”
Charlotte slinked herself against the wall, hoping to blend into the wallpaper. Even Captain Henry stood still on his tree. The poor footmen continued to hold the settee, sweat dotting their brows.
“Pardon me, Your Grace, but I don’t understand.” Mrs. Fisk stiffened but held her proud pose.
“I’ll not pardon you. I’ll dismiss you. I may be the long-standing lady of this manor, but no one will disobey the Duchess of Annick, regardless who holds the title. How dare you openly defy the holder of that title. When I instructed you to bring her decisions to me, that was a matter of training, not permission to disregard her. No one disobeys the Duchess of Annick, least of all a servant.” With her cane pointing at the door, Catherine instructed, “Go to Mr. Taylor’s office. You are not to leave the office until I arrive.”
The housekeeper held her head high as she curtsied to the dowager duchess, ignoring Charlotte, then ambled from the room.
“You there.” She pointed to the footmen, their arms visibly quivering under the weight of the settee. “Put that back. Rearrange the room to however it was when you first entered.”
Her coal black eyes turned to Charlotte.
“I demand to know why you’re rearranging the house,” Catherine said.
Charlotte’s hands trembling, she stepped forward with a deep breath.
“I hated the portraits watching me sleep. And I hated that the arrangement of this room didn’t take best advantage of the garden. In fact, I want to rearrange and redecorate most of the rooms in the manor to make the most of the space and be more inviting to guests.” Charlotte hoped she wouldn’t be struck down by the gold handled cane.
“And you decided not to mention any of this to me.” Catherine stared. “Why?”
“I thought you wouldn’t approve.” This was it. She would be cast out of the house before her family ever arrived.
“Doubting my approval, you rearranged and redecorated anyway.” Catherine snorted in what might have been a laugh if Charlotte knew what the woman’s laugh sounded like. “You have some nerves, gel. I’m pleased to find you have a backbone after all. The Duchess of Annick cannot be a spineless, simpering simpleton. Do as you wish with the rooms, but don’t alter the Red Drawing Room until I move to the dower house, which will not be until you’re ready to serve without my tutelage.”
Charlotte exhaled, her head throbbing from holding her breath.
Continuing, Catherine said, “I will arrange interviews with new housekeepers. Though you’ll choose, I will conduct the interviews so you see how it’s done and receive the benefit of my recommendations. Is all understood?” Catherine waited for Charlotte to nod. “You are a silly child. I can only assume that comes from low breeding. Thankfully, I see in you strength and power, but you must first overcome silliness. I am your mother-in-law, not your enemy. Join me in one hour in the Red Drawing Room. I wish to discuss the qualifications of the new housekeeper.”
Charlotte hardly knew what to make of the exchange. Neither her mother-in-law nor her husband behaved as they ought. Were they villains? Were they allies? Were they both selfish liars or generous benefactors who hid behind masks? The woman’s actions today gave Charlotte a glimmer of hope that she had misjudged her mother-in-law and perhaps the entire family.
“And you insist she used no coercion?” Drake asked the line-up of staff, consisting of James the coachman, Stella the parlor maid, Philip the tiger, and Algie the footman. “She didn’t threaten to dismiss you if you didn’t comply?”
“No, Your Grace,” claimed Philip for the third time in the past half hour of questioning. “It were my idea.”
Stella nodded in agreement and added, “She needn’t force us, Your Grace. I would happily follow her anywhere. She’s the kindest lady I know.”
Drake looked to James and Algie, both staring at their feet. “And the two of you share this opinion?”
They nodded.
The coachman augmented their story by saying, “I dinna’ like the plan from the start, but Ah’d be doin’ anything for Her Grace. I’ve not had dealings with her meself, but I trust me family. She’s been naught but kind to Stella and the others. A kinder heart I’ve never known. I dinna’ want her tae see what she mighta seen neither, but I canna’ say no to her. Ah’d follow Her Grace to the land’s end if she asked.”
Drake harrumphed then waved them all to return to their duties. He had delayed questioning them when he should have done so immediately, but now that he finally had, it would seem they had designed the plan amongst themselves as a means of helping Charlotte rather than Charlotte herself planning a raid of Maggie’s house and forcing her servants to comply in the process.
Charlotte—a leader of the staff? A lady worth following to the land’s end? He had long suspected she possessed the poise and social inclinations of a duchess, but he hadn’t imagined her a particularly charismatic person. Even in London she had appeared meek, despite her talkativeness, potentially passionate, but otherwise a follower rather than a leader. He had relied on his mother to pull out whatever confidence she might possess, but it would seem he had misjudged his young wife. After what happened the night of the rout, he knew he’d misjudged her on a great many things, not the least of which was her motivation for marrying him.
If he could bury his head in the sand, he would. He’d spent days wallowing in mortification that he’d tossed her aside based only on her initial skittish and prudish behavior. What did he know of young women? His only experiences had been with Maggie and her friends, all women of some experience. The more he tried to justify his actions, the more wretched he felt for how he’d treated her.
All too clearly, he recalled their wedding night. Before entering the room, he’d assumed she didn’t want anything to do with him other than the obligatory consummation. He’d be damned if he was going to force himself on an unwilling girl, especially when he’d married her under the impression she was as heated for him as he was for her. He recalled asking her why she’d married him and not being satisfied with the answer. Ah, it was all muck.
He’d misread every sign. For years, women threw themselves at him, all making it abundantly clear what they wanted and why they wanted it. Hell, if the women in London were to be believed, he’d slept with half the beau monde. He never dared call out a woman on such a lie—that wouldn’t be gentlemanly, after all—but there were women he’d never met who claimed a liaison with him. With such a life, how was he to read her nervousness and translate it to mean she wanted him?
Ah, it was all rubbish. He’d made a royal mess of it from start to finish.
All his wallowing fueled his desire to woo her. He must right this mess.
From the start, he’d wanted passion in his marriage, yet he hadn’t given much thought to the hidden qualities of the woman on the other end of that marriage. Charlotte had a personality all her own, dreams and goals, fears and failures. What had he done to learn about these aspects of his wife? Nothing.
He wanted passion in his marriage so much, yet what had he done to deserve her passion? How stupid of him not to think of her as a person, only as a beautiful woman who might love him. So obsessed with being loved, he’d forgotten there were two in that equation. How could they love each other when they knew nothing about each other?
The only love he had ever known was in the arms of a false woman, a one-sided love that grew solely from physical affection, not tenderness of personality or shared interests. Truthfully, he and Maggie had shared no interests whatsoever other than sexual gratification.
He had only expressed love through physical coupling, channeling his ardor into sensual articulation. Exploring another person’s body and feeling a shared rhythm was his way of learning a person. How does one get to know another through conversation? People lie. The body doesn’t lie. How does one share affection without bodily contact?
Charlotte, quite clearly, would not be wooed by
physical affection, which was just as well since he didn’t want to repeat that life again. No, he wanted his wife to know him and fall for him just as much as the other way around. It seemed fitting she should know the real him, for she might not like what she saw. Would she think of him as his mother thought of him?
Chapter 17
The afternoon after the bazaar, Drake sat at a table befitting a king, waiting for Mr. Taylor to bring Charlotte. The autumn air was chilly after the previous week’s rain, but the sun was bright, smiling on an extravagant fare. Drake’s brilliant idea was an al fresco nuncheon, only he got a tad carried away with a feast more in keeping with a full luncheon. What did he know of arranging such an affair?
Admittedly, covering nearly every square inch of the grotto with the remaining roses from the walled garden might have been overdoing it.
The tea was hot, his brandy sweet, and the bread warm when the butler announced Charlotte. Drake fumbled his way out of the chair, too eager to make a good impression. With a bow and a flourish of his hand, he offered the duchess a seat.
Before she could say something snotty, as he expected her to do, he readied a cuppa for her and laid cold cuts on a plate with a sizable side of bread. She took her seat, eyeing him askance.
“Did you enjoy the bazaar?” he inquired, hoping to direct the conversation to her right away.
With a taste of her tea, she raised her chin and stared out at the landscape, ignoring his question.
“I wager,” Drake continued, “you were a superb hostess, and I imagine the local tenants were pleased to see you rather than Mother. A far more pleasing sight.” He winked at her profile.
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