Lisbon

by Valerie Sherwood

  The tall gentleman in the center, who occupied Charlotte’s complete attention, was doubtless the fourth voice she had heard in that sunny room, and certainly the only voice that had expressed any interest at all in her welfare.

  Charlotte stared at him breathlessly.

  He was a man worthy of being stared at—and used to it, she guessed, from the amused expression that now crossed his sardonic features.

  He was of a swarthy complexion, lean and tall with very black hair and a face that Charlotte supposed would be considered handsome; she was not disposed to consider it so, for she judged him to be in a minor way one of the conspirators against her, and she gave him her attention only to annoy Lord Pimmerston, whose pointy countenance was now covered with an angry flush.

  But the effect of this tall fellow before her was indeed impressive. He wore his white cambric Steinkirk cravat with an air, pulled loosely through a buttonhole of the dark riding coat that matched his trousers. Under his coat, which was open, could be glimpsed a light gray brocade waistcoat with silver buttons.

  “And who might you be, sir?” she wondered. “Since my uncle does not choose to introduce us.”

  His dark eyes had widened at the sight of her floating into the room like a graceful white moth. Conscious that he had the young lady’s full attention, he made her an elegant leg, sweeping the floor with his dark tricorne alight with silver braid.

  At her words a twitch of amusement altered the expression on what Charlotte considered to be a stern mouth, and he shot a quick glance at Lord Pimmerston, seething beside him, but his reply was grave enough.

  “Rowan Keynes, at your service.”

  “Lord Pimmerston.” Slightly disconcerted that Charlotte had so far managed to ignore that elegant bird of plumage in gold-encrusted green satin, who preened, discomfited, to her left, her uncle quickly seized Charlotte by the elbow and turned her about to face his lordship. “My niece, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte’s cool violet gaze swept over his lordship completely without interest and she gave him only the barest shadow of a curtsy before turning back to the tall gentleman in the center. At this snub, his lordship’s face drained of color save for two spots that remained on his sallow cheeks as a badge of the indignity he felt he was suffering from this wench.

  The wench appeared already to have forgotten him. “Have you traveled far, sir?” Charlotte again addressed Rowan Keynes.

  “From Lord Pimmerston’s estate north of Sheffield,” was the lazy reply.

  “And Arthur Bodine,” said her uncle doggedly, again turning Charlotte about so that she might not ignore his other guest. “I believe you’ve met my niece, Charlotte."

  At her stare that denied recognition, Bodine’s brown eyes narrowed.

  “I believe I selected that gown you’re wearing,” he said in a slightly threatening voice.

  "Did you indeed?” Charlotte managed to sound so completely indifferent that a flash of amusement again flashed over Rowan Keynes’ dark features. "I had rather selected my own.”

  "Come now, Charlotte,” sputtered her uncle. "Bodine chose well, admit it!” It was not lost on him that all three gentlemen—although the tall dark-haired one was not so obvious about it—had let their gazes rest lingeringly on Charlotte’s white bosom and the tops of her pearly breasts, exposed to view in the low-cut white gown.

  Charlotte too had noticed, and under the pretext of toying with her hair, she lifted her arm to hide that pale expanse from three pairs of questing eyes.

  "We have been awaiting your return,” her uncle told her jovially. "Lord Pimmerston is opening up Castle Stroud for a brief stay, and since word of his arrival has already spread along our way here, he is expecting callers throughout the evening. We are invited to be his guests for dinner, and there will be dancing afterward.”

  "How nice,” said Charlotte, speaking up clearly. "It is unfortunate that I will not be able to attend.”

  "Eh, how is that?” Lord Pimmerston leaned forward, perplexed.

  "Yes, what do you mean, girl?” demanded her uncle.

  "I mean that this is my only decent dress.” Charlotte indicated her new white voile gown. "And I am afraid I may have gotten the back of it badly stained—from lying on the grass.” She drawled those last words and gave the company about her a challenging look. She hoped they would put the worst construction on it. Let them think she’d been lying on a grassy bank with some chance-met swain!

  Rowan Keynes was the only person in the room who looked amused, but her uncle roughly brushed her remark aside.

  "Nonsense, of course you’ll go! Turn around. ’’ And when she did half-turn reluctantly, "Why, there’s naught amiss with the dress! Stop this missishness, you are accompanying me to Castle Stroud!’

  "Well, at least I must comb my hair first,” Charlotte insisted stubbornly. "I certainly cannot go out looking like this!” She gave her golden hair a shake, and three appreciative pairs of eyes followed its golden shimmer.

  "‘You may comb your hair but you will be back downstairs and ready to accompany us in fifteen minutes,” her uncle told her in a voice of menace.

  "Very well.” Charlotte left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her, and leaned for a moment against the doorjamb in the empty hall. She felt weak from the encounter.

  Behind her she heard her uncle’s complacent, "Well, now, Lord Pimmerston, is Charlotte not everything Bodine told you—and more?”

  And his lordship’s petulant rejoinder. "Aye, she’s a beautiful thing—though she’s obviously in need of taming. ”

  "Ah, you’ll enjoy that, won’t you?” Bodine’s voice, accompanied by an evil chuckle.

  But his lordship was not to be so easily mollified. The wench had publicly slighted him, and she should pay dearly for it!

  "What’s this about grass stains on her back?” he added in a disgruntled voice. "She seemed to be making a point of it. I warn you, Russ, if when I’ve married her she turns out not to be a virgin ...”

  "Why, then I’ll make you a widower myself—with my own hand,” promised her uncle in so cold a voice that Charlotte shivered.

  Oh, they were vile, vile! Sitting there discussing the ruin of her young life as if she were of no account!

  The front door was closed now and she had little doubt that if she tried to run away she would be ridden down and dragged to Lord Pimmerston’s dinner party by force. Oh, if only she could ride! Then she might fling herself on the most likely mount available and thunder away. But by now the grooms, who had probably been enjoying a tankard or two in the kitchen, would be gathering out front to await their masters. There was no chance of immediate escape; she would have to make plans for later. She must get word to Tom.

  With that in mind she turned away from the stairway, intending to head for the kitchen, when a large woman in indigo linen, who seemed to appear from nowhere, interrupted her progress. The woman must have stood all of six feet in her striped stockings, and she was built like a wrestler. Her ample bosom and hennaed hair swayed toward Charlotte.

  “Mistress Charlotte?” said the woman with a smirk. “I’m Semple, your new lady’s maid brought by your uncle to serve you.”

  “Well, then serve me upstairs,” said Charlotte briskly with a nod toward the stairway. “I’ll be right up.”

  “No, Mistress Charlotte.” The formidable newcomer stood her ground. “I’ve been told that you’re in my charge and I’m not to let you out of my sight. ”

  So this was what Bodine had meant when he told Rowan Keynes that they had “taken care of ” any attempt she might make to escape: Semple was to take her in tow. Charlotte gave the huge woman a hopeless look.

  “Very well, Semple. I will require a basin of water to wash my face and hands.”

  Semple did not move. Her expression was suspicious. “There is no need for you to bring it yourself, Semple. ” Charlotte sighed. “Wend can bring it. Wend!” she called loudly over Semple’s shoulder, hoping the girl was within earshot. “Wend
, bring a basin of water to my bedchamber —at once!”

  She hoped too, as she preceded Semple up the stairs like an animal being herded, that Wend would not take offense at her peremptory tone, which had been intended only to impress Semple, and sulk in the kitchen and send Ivy instead—for the carrying of the water would indeed have been Ivy’s job and not Wend s. To her enormous relief, Wend appeared shortly with a pitcher of water that she slopped angrily into the porcelain washbowl in Charlotte’s bedchamber.

  “Will that be all, my lady?” Wend asked with elaborate deference. Charlotte half-expected her to back from the room bowing idiotically.

  “Semple,” said Charlotte sharply, “bring me a cake of soap—you’ll find the one I want in the chest right over there.” And when Semple’s back was turned she reached out and caught hold of Wend's skirt as the girl was about to leave and pulled her back. Wend turned with an angry look and Charlotte put a finger to her lips.

  Wend caught on at once. She leaned closer.

  “Find Tom, he’s on the way to Carlisle.” Charlotte’s whisper was a mere breath in Wend's ear. “They’re marrying me off to Lord Pimmerston to ‘cleanse’ him of the gallant’s disease, and Semple’s here to guard me lest I try to escape.”

  Wend gave her a shocked look, and as Semple rummaged about for the nonexistent soap, Charlotte complained petulantly about the water being too cold.

  “I’ll get some more water,” promised Wend, about to scurry from the room.

  “No, there isn’t time.” Charlotte’s voice followed her. “I must hurry, so I’ll use it as it is. We are leaving for Castle Stroud in ten minutes. Well, don’t stand there, Wend. Be off with you. I’m sure Cook must have need of your services in the kitchen.”

  Wend was off with alacrity—but not to the kitchen. She hurried out the garden door and was off on the run along the lake path, looking for Tom. Later, when Lord Pimmer-ston’s party, which now included Charlotte, passed her, she hid in the bushes.

  Rowan Keynes, upon learning that Charlotte was afraid of horses and had never learned to ride, suggested that it was a pity that she must bounce all the way to Castle Stroud on a cart. He offered to take her up before him on his beautiful chestnut horse, and before Charlotte could refuse, her uncle accepted for her—doubtless, Charlotte thought bitterly, to prevent her from leaping from the cart at some likely spot and trying to escape.

  With her uncle giving her protesting body a boost, she found herself taken up before Rowan Keynes, her back brushing the dark cloth of his smart riding coat with its stiffened skirts slit at back and sides, the better to fit to the saddle. As the party moved off toward Castle Stroud, Charlotte found herself leaning back against his hard masculine figure to avoid the occasional brushing against her breasts of his arm that held the reins, although sometimes when the way was rough the horse s step threw her forward against his arm or hand. She also found herself brought into intimate contact with his muscular thighs. She felt embarrassed and tried to move about to get into a less intimate position, but that only made matters worse. She felt his arm steady her, tighten suddenly, and behind her his breathing seemed to change, grow heavier.

  "Have you always lived here in the north country?” he asked as his horse, which had been dancing sideways to Charlotte s discomfiture, for it tipped her this way and that in his arms, changed pace and moved along sedately behind her uncle and Lord Pimmerston and Bodine, who rode in a little cluster ahead.

  "No, I am from St. Marys.” Charlotte was a little breathless.

  "In the Scillies? A flower of the south, then. ”

  "And I wish I were back there,” added Charlotte bitterly.

  "You do not like the cold winters?” he hazarded. "I must admit I am not fond of them either. I spend most of my time in London, where I have a house, but I am fond of the Continent—particularly Portugal in winter.”

  Charlotte did not care where he spent his winters—or his summers either, for that matter. Between bouts of trying not to sit so close to this disturbing stranger, she was desperately hoping that Wend would find Tom. He would find a way to rescue her, of that she had no doubt. She was scarcely aware of her surroundings as the impressive gray battlements of Castle Stroud loomed up before them.

  "From Pimmerston’s description, I hadn’t expected the place to be so beautiful,” murmured Rowan appreciatively.

  “It’s too far from town for him to appreciate it!” was her tart response.

  “No doubt.” He had detected that protective note in her voice when she spoke of it. “Do you know the castle well?”

  “Very well—and I think Lord Pimmerston is right, he doesn’t belong here!”

  “Oh, I doubt Pimmerston ever plans to live here,” was Rowan’s murmured comment.

  Just wed here! was Charlotte’s unspoken rejoinder.

  8

  Castle Stroud

  Although the servants had done wonders in the short time they had been there, Castle Stroud could not really be said to have been “opened.” True, the dining room had been rendered habitable, with fresh white linen cloths and polished silver. And a cook and her helpers had hastily prepared quite a creditable dinner. But the dinner was late, and dusk was upon them when at last they sat down at the long board.

  To Charlotte it seemed interminable. All she could think of was Tom, and whether Wend, sprinting up the lakeshore toward Carlisle, had been able to reach him. She gave disjointed answers when spoken to, and sometimes no answer at all.

  After being roundly snubbed by her at Aldershot Grange, Lord Pimmerston had chosen not to seat Charlotte beside him, but instead sat with Russ on his right and Bodine on his left. Down the table Charlotte sat across from Rowan Keynes, who watched her with sympathetic eyes.

  As the endless dinner progressed from course to course, a sprinkling of guests—alerted along the route of his lordship’s impending visit—began to arrive, and Charlotte was duly introduced to them. She realized that for the county this was a great event, the arrival of Lord Pimmerston at his northern estate, and homage was considered due. Her mind in turmoil, Charlotte managed to acknowledge their greetings, but she did not really hear what they had to say.

  Due to the lateness of the hour, the few ladies did not withdraw to the withdrawing room, but his lordship announced that there would presently be dancing in the great chamber above, for he had brought with him musicians from Sheffield.

  There was a delighted flurry among the ladies at that announcement, for there was not one among them who had ever danced a measure at Castle Stroud. Then Charlotte’s uncle spoke quickly to Lord Pimmerston, who ordered everybody’s wineglass to be refilled —Charlotte thought her uncle was about to propose a toast to their host, when to her horror he made the ringing announcement that his ward was to be joined in marriage to their host and the banns would be cried on Sunday next—which brought forth a clamor of voices over which her uncle’s voice rose in a bellow:

  “Let us drink to the health of the happy couple!’’

  The happy couple! Charlotte choked and dropped her glass with a small crash. Some of the wine spilled on her dress, and she dabbed at it with a linen napkin.

  As they left the table, a flurry of well-wishers surrounded her. Charlotte felt suddenly that she might faint. On the pretext that she must wash out the wine stain, she burst out of the group and headed blindly toward the door. Her uncle saw that and sprinted across the room to head her off into the cushioned alcove where heavy velvet hangings would muffle their voices. He caught hold of her and half-dragged her there.

  Charlotte had lost all sense of diplomacy. “How dared you make such an announcement?’’ she panted. “And without asking me my feelings in the matter?’’

  He looked thunderstruck. “I’d no need to ask your permission! You’ll do as I think best. ” His grip on her arm tightened cruelly.

  “You are hurting my arm!” She struggled with him, feeling her feet slide across the floor under his urging. “And there is no point in your draggi
ng me about. I will never marry that diseased popinjay!’’ White with fury, she was speaking through her teeth.

  Her uncle gave her arm a cruel twist and almost threw her into the alcove.

  “You’ll marry him or I’ll be ruined,” he snarled. “And unless you want to be tied to a stone and sunk in the Derwent Water, you’ll marry him with a smile on your face!”

  Charlotte’s arm ached from this manhandling, and pain laced her voice with desperation. “You mean you’ve spent all of my mother’s money as well as your own?” she shot at him bitterly. “I don’t doubt there are magistrates about who’d be interested in that!”

  Her uncle turned on her such a look of menace that she felt chilled, as if touched by a cold metal blade. “Keep a civil tongue in your head,” he warned, “or I’ll stripe that dainty back of yours where it won’t show!”

  “Lord Pimmerston will object to your ruining my beauty!” she said sarcastically.

  He glowered at her. “I’ve no doubt he’ll stripe it himself,” he said softly. “On your wedding night, like as not!” He turned to Semple, who had witnessed this display and now loomed over them both like a giant shadow of a woman against the candlelight.

  “Semple, keep an eye on this wench,” he instructed sharply. “Do as Bodine told you—use whatever force you must, but do not let her out of your sight except when she is with one of us.” A remark which both Charlotte and Semple understood to include Rowan Keynes.

  He turned on his heel and left them, Charlotte leaning against the wall to catch an angry breath, Semple hovering watchfully nearby.

  Across the room Rowan Keynes too had noticed this display. With a frown he quickly detached himself from the pack and made for Charlotte and the alcove. On the way to the alcove he encountered Lord Pimmerston, who at sight of Charlotte’s violent reaction to the betrothal announcement had spilled wine on his cravat and had returned to his guests wearing a miraculous creation decorated with tasseled beads.