“No.” Lady Victoria’s wide mouth twitched at the corners. “He has many good qualities, or at least he assures me he does whenever I show any tendency toward forgetfulness.”
Smiling, the two women picked up their gloves and made their way down the stairs.
As predicted, Mr. Archer already occupied the hallway, pacing to and fro in front of the door. The butler, Suddley, laden with their cloaks, watched him impassively.
When Mr. Archer saw them, he dashed forward to press a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Ravishing, my dear, as always. Are you sure you want to attend this wretched function? Wouldn’t you rather have a cozy evening at home?” His arm snuck its way around Lady Victoria’s slender waist and squeezed.
She giggled breathlessly and pushed him away. “So you can go to the club? No, my dear.”
Then she motioned to Suddley to drape their cloaks over their shoulders. As he approached Lady Victoria, Mr. Archer grabbed a lovely black wrap with swan’s down edging from the butler’s hands. He stepped behind his wife and wrapped it around her, smoothing it over her arms as she threw him a coquettish smile over her shoulder.
Mr. Archer said, “We could—”
“We’re attending, John, and that is all there is to it. Now tell Miss Haywood how elegant she looks and let us go before we’re hopelessly late.”
“I am already hopeless,” Archer replied glumly before releasing his wife. “And we cannot be too late to suit me.”
“You will enjoy yourself,” his wife assured him. “You always do. You can show Miss Haywood what a wonderful dance partner you are.”
“Harrumph.”
“John,” she warned, “you promised to behave and spend the evening with us instead of gambling….”
Mr. Archer shook his head and waited in apparent boredom until Suddley announced that the carriage awaited them at the door.
To Charlotte’s dismay, they arrived at the soirée all too soon. A vague sense of inadequacy shivered through her when they were met at the door by a butler even more imposing than the impressive Suddley. He signaled for a magnificent footman, who deigned to take their cloaks before handing them off to yet another footman wearing a red jacket and powdered wig. He swept them majestically forward into the presence of a dainty, fairy-princess sort of female who made Charlotte feel even more gauche and awkward.
With shock, Charlotte realized she knew this delicate pink-and-white doll: Lady Beatrice Thatcher.
Charlotte stepped back and glanced at the door, letting Mr. Archer and his wife move ahead of her but the magnificent servants blocked the way out. A nervous cramp pinched her stomach but she resolutely straitened her shoulders.
The ball was being given in honor of the woman who had spent several months torturing Charlotte at the last Swiss boarding school she had attended before being expelled from school altogether. In fact, Lady Beatrice had taken extraordinary pains to make Charlotte feel welcomed to the academy by throwing her bedding out the window in the dead of winter. The girl then improved upon her actions by dumping the contents of a water jug out the same window onto both Charlotte and her bedding when she went to retrieve it.
She would never forget staring up at the second story window to see Lady Beatrice’s lovely face, framed by masses of pale blond hair, smiling down at her. Gaping up at her, Charlotte had shivered and clutched her wet blankets to her chest, too shocked to speak.
“Be gone!” Lady Beatrice yelled. “No one wants you here! All anyone wants is your money, you—you filthy Colonial! Everyone knows Americans are nothing but a lot of common criminals and deserters!”
Charlotte had stood there, frozen, until Lady Beatrice threw the empty pitcher. She dodged it just in time. The heavy white china shattered at Charlotte’s feet, followed by the sound of Lady Beatrice slamming the window shut.
After Charlotte had slowly collected her bedding, she found Lady Beatrice had not yet finished welcoming her. One of Lady Beatrice’s friends had thoughtfully locked the outer door behind Charlotte so she could not return to her room. Only her friendship with one of the scullery maids enabled her to sneak inside the school two hours later. She had barely enough time to remake her wet bed and shiver her way into it before the headmistress made her early morning rounds.
Unfortunately, although Charlotte managed to be in her bed before the check, the headmistress had discovered the wet bedding. Charlotte had been given extra duties as punishment for wetting her bed along with a few more months of humiliation.
The wooden crack of that window slamming shut lingered in Charlotte’s memory. She realized then that Lady Beatrice was right. The British aristocracy would never find her acceptable. They had closed their minds and hearts to her just as surely as Lady Beatrice had closed that window, and England would never be home to her.
So it was up to Charlotte to find her own path and her own place in the sun.
Now, standing in front of Lady Beatrice again, Charlotte was hard-pressed to nod civilly.
“Lady Victoria and Mr. Archer! How delightful!” Lady Beatrice exclaimed. She held out her elegantly gloved hands to her guest and stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss through the air next to Lady Victoria’s ear. “And who is this?”
As if you don’t remember me. Charlotte smiled demurely.
“My ward, Miss Haywood,” Archer said. “Lady Beatrice, may I introduce Miss Haywood?”
Trying to suppress her dismay, Charlotte stared down at the petite blond, barely managing to keep her bland smile in place. “How do you do, Lady Beatrice?”
“Lovely,” Lady Beatrice murmured. Not even the smallest trace of recognition sparkled in her cold eyes. She gazed over Charlotte’s shoulder, apparently trying to see who had come in after the Archers.
Charlotte stared at her, deliberating if Lady Beatrice meant she, herself, was lovely as she undoubtedly was or if she meant it was lovely to meet Charlotte. Again. Charlotte rather doubted it was the latter considering their previous acquaintance.
Glancing into the crowded room beyond her hostess, Charlotte’s apprehension deepened. The laughing throng made her feel ungainly and self-conscious as she towered several inches above her delicate hostess.
Charlotte touched her hair, only to remember its shocking red color. Why had not she worn a concealing turban to hide her garish curls instead of the black bandeau? She dropped her hand and almost rubbed her nose before she remembered the sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. Her hands gripped the sides of her dress in her effort to keep them from calling attention to her most unflattering features.
Then, as she gazed out over Lady Beatrice’s head, Charlotte realized that she stood next to the three shortest people in the room. Fate seemed determined to plague her with embarrassment.
Lady Beatrice barely acknowledged Charlotte’s presence as she spoke to Lady Victoria. Her large, luminous eyes, as blue and empty as unused Wedgewood plates, showed no interest in the Archers although she smiled and laughed at all the appropriate times. Her beautiful, pale-gold hair was curled and piled up in an elaborate confection adorned by a diamond clip and drooping egret feather. One long curl dangled down to caress her milky white neck and shoulders.
Over the years while Charlotte had grown taller, Lady Beatrice had grown in other ways. She had developed an impressive bosom for one so dainty, and she must have been fairly proud of this accomplishment because her dress displayed a great deal of it.
Charlotte resolutely refused to glance down at her own accomplishments. Although she had a bosom, in combination with her great height it seemed insignificant.
When Lady Beatrice flicked her a coldly dismissive glance, Charlotte’s tongue trembled to tell the truth about just how lovely it really was to be here in jolly old England with Lady Beatrice and all her delightful friends. Comments such as the one edging toward her lips got her sent down three times from the best ladies academies in Switzerland.
She had to exert some self-control: the Archers still believed she was a nice young woman.
“I
s my nephew here yet?” Mr. Archer asked before Charlotte could open her mouth and say something dreadful.
She gazed at him in gratitude.
Lady Beatrice must have caught her expression and misinterpreted the gratitude for interest in the Archer’s nephew. She suddenly smiled wickedly and tapped her fan on Mr. Archer’s black sleeve.
“Why of course! He’s been here for ages. I vow he spends so much time here of late he’s almost like one of the family already.”
“Really,” Lady Victoria replied, her tone brittle.
Charlotte caught the glance shared by the Archers and remembered Lady Victoria’s remarks about Lady Beatrice. It seemed Lady Victoria knew her husband’s nephew better than he did.
A pretty face and extravagant bosom were amazingly attractive to young men. Most males were only, at most, vaguely aware of a woman’s intelligence. Charlotte had observed this many times while standing around in the corners of various ballrooms trying not to look too tall, too redheaded, too American, or too unacceptably intelligent.
“Oh, yes,” Lady Beatrice said. “But I do hope you will enjoy yourselves. There’ll be a light buffet in the grand saloon at nine and in the meantime, there is dancing and a few games of chance to entertain you. If you will excuse me, I see Lady Howard has arrived. I simply must speak with her.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Charlotte said with complete insincerity. “I hope we have a chance to speak later.”
The Archers made some polite statements, and the three of them wandered off in the general direction of the music.
The evening soon turned into the same grindingly boring experience Charlotte suffered through at every other social function she had attended. She spent a great deal of time murmuring vague replies to any man who decided he could ignore her physical appearance for the sake of her fortune. None of them wished to take a giantess out on the dance floor, however, and particularly not a red-haired one. Nonetheless, they were all discretely fascinated by exactly what property she owned and where it was located.
On the other hand, the ladies didn’t mind standing nearby. Charlotte made them all appear amazingly fragile and pretty in comparison. Another young lady taking advantage of this eventually leaned over to speak to Charlotte.
“You are Miss Haywood, aren’t you? I was so pleased to meet you earlier.” Despite her friendly comment, her eyes remained fixed on the dance floor. “These large balls can be quite tedious, cannot they?”
“Yes, they can.” Charlotte dredged her memory and found the girl’s name. “Miss Mooreland?”
Miss Mooreland flung a smile at Charlotte. “Is this your first ball?”
“No. Unfortunately, it is not.”
This caught the girl’s attention. She gazed at Charlotte, her brown eyes wide with shock. To Charlotte’s surprise, she was actually quite pretty with a soft, round face and large, doe-like eyes. Perhaps she wasn’t trying to look good in comparison to Charlotte after all.
“Don’t you like balls?” Miss Mooreland asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Oh.” She seemed to consider this statement. “Is that why you are not dancing? You don’t wish to?”
“Yes. That’s the reason. Precisely.”
“Oh.” Miss Mooreland’s attention wandered back to the floor. “I adore dancing.” She sighed and fluttered her fan. Her gaze followed one of the couples in the center of the floor. “He is so…impressive, is he not?”
“Who?” Charlotte asked, tapping her toe. She eyed the terrace door and soft darkness outside. Freedom lay twenty yards way at the most, perhaps closer.
“Why, His Grace, of course!” Miss Mooreland’s rapt gaze followed a tall man as he moved through the intricate steps of the dance. “Alas, he is expected to make an offer for Lady Beatrice…perhaps this very evening!”
Charlotte’s brow rose. “Alas?”
The girl missed the sarcasm in Charlotte’s voice and nodded vigorously. “Yes. I do hope he decides not to—at least not this evening. He is so…masculine, is he not? While I sincerely admire Lady Beatrice, I could almost wish he does not make her an offer. When he danced with me, it was as if I were embraced by a god! I simply knew we were two halves of a perfect whole!”
The girl proved oblivious to Charlotte’s smothered laugh. Miss Mooreland’s attention was fully engaged in watching her “other half” step through a quadrille with his current partner.
Charlotte watched the very tall, well-built young man and the diminutive brunette lady with him. He was one of the taller men and had very broad shoulders. She bit her lower lip and remembered seeing him before, watching him with a sort of longing, although he had never glanced her way. He was one of the few men in the room who wouldn’t be eye-level with her bosom if he stood next to her.
She studied him for a moment, and then resolutely shut her mouth. She refused to ruin Miss Mooreland’s evening by pointing out that the couple had been out on the floor before and this was their second dance. There seemed to be a good many ladies swooning after His Grace Whatever-his-name-was.
At least the Archers would doubtless be delighted to learn that their nephew had another man competing with him for Lady Beatrice’s dainty hand. Maybe their nephew was safe from the viper, after all.
Miss Mooreland continued to gaze adoringly at him with her plump mouth hanging partially open. A soft sigh escaped her.
Charlotte nearly echoed her sigh—in exasperation— before she caught herself. She had been good so far, polite. She could not ruin it now by some injudicious comment. Her attention wandered back to the dancers.
The lady clasping His Grace’s hand tipped her head back to gaze up at him, fluttering her lashes. She said something with a smile before they turned and separated in time to the music. His Grace laughed, or at least his shoulders shook.
Charlotte’s gaze followed the woman, and after a few minutes, dredged up her name: Lady Anne. Charlotte had been introduced to so many this evening that she had difficulties remembering their names. The ladies littered the dance floor, twirling in dresses of creamy white or dove gray, edged with black out of respect for the death of Princess Charlotte. No one wore any jewels except jet or pearls.
The monochromatic effect of all the swirling white and gray was rather soothing initially. But after standing on the sidelines for several dances, Charlotte grew restive.
She couldn’t help but notice a change as the evening progressed. The festive atmosphere had grown brittle and sour under a thin veneer of forced gaiety. The women’s beautiful dresses had wilted in the heat from the candles and crowded dance floor, and most of the men’s starched neckcloths drooped like wattles around their necks.
Many ladies now stood tiredly along the walls, their eyes following the remaining dancers with a kind of glazed desperation. The beauty of the room with its magnificent high ceilings, long flowing drapes in rich gold damask, and expanses of gilt-edged mirrors only seemed to drain the life out of the weary faces, reflected as pale, featureless blurs.
Young women who had arrived tonight smiling and hoping to meet the man of their dreams were slowly realizing they might not.
Unable to bear it any longer, Charlotte turned away and strode through the French doors.
Chapter Four
If a person annoys another by abusive language or constantly following him, […] such person can be proceeded against and summoned by the party aggrieved. —Constable’s Pocket Guide
Escaping from the soirée, Charlotte stepped with relief onto a small, flagstone terrace. Paper lanterns in blue, red, and gold swung above her head, suspended on thin ropes running along the edges of the patio. Another arc of lights ran through the trees, creating twinkling patterns of color softening the darkness.
A few moths, drawn to the beauty of the flames, desperately sought to immolate themselves out of love for the colored lights. The patter of their wings hitting the thin lantern paper sounded like soft, unhappy whispers.
After a few moments,
Charlotte moved closer to a lantern made of gold paper chased with green dragons. It hung at the farthest edge of the terrace where a few shallow steps lead down to the gravel path which wound through the misty gardens. She watched the fluttering insects, using the challenge of identification to temporarily forget about Lady Beatrice and the cream of glittering Society dancing inside.
One careless moth fluttered drunkenly toward her, attracted by the sheen of her dress. With a laugh, she gently waved it away. The moths here were so different from the ones she remembered watching as a child in the long, fragrant summer nights in Charleston. She loved the muted grays and browns of their fragile wings and watched for a few minutes before noticing one bold creature had shocking red underwings.
She edged closer, trying to get a better look.
Unhappily, she startled it, and the moth fluttered erratically away into the darkness. When she glanced back, a new moth appeared. Its brown wings were boldly patterned with bright white: a Garden Tiger, Arctia caja, perhaps, and the first of that variety she had seen in England.
“What are you doing out here alone?” a man’s deep voice asked. He strode out of the shadows and climbed the shallow stone steps to the terrace.
Her brief, good mood disappeared along with the moth.
Why was it so difficult to find even one short moment of peace? It did not take great sensitivity to see that she preferred to be ignored out here rather than suffer the public humiliation of standing around in ballroom corners, trapped behind insufferably short women.
Giving him a quick glance, Charlotte noted his long shadow and the broad shoulders beneath his dark jacket and embroidered waistcoat.
A movement caught her eye, and she looked up at the paper lantern. The moth had flittered off. Now, she would never be sure if it was her first Garden Tiger or not. She sighed and gave up. It was a little early in the year, anyway, for Garden Tigers so perhaps she had not missed anything.
“Can you speak?” he prompted her with a smile, climbing the last step. He towered above her by several inches.
Love Regency Style Page 145
