A Passionate Endeavor

by Sophia Nash

  The skeleton of the sluice house stood on the small rise in front of him. Owen Roberts walked up as Nicholas’s horse began to paw the ground.

  “We’re on schedule, actually ahead of plan, Lord Nick.”

  “Thanks to your oversight, Owen.” Nicholas knew from experience that praise always worked wonders with men, contrary to the popular opinion of officers in most regiments, where daily abuse reigned supreme.

  “Begging your pardon, but it’s the men. They’re a hardworking lot, desperate to keep their pride and put more food on their tables,” Owen said, squinting toward the men.

  “I’m sorry Wyndhurst failed you, and them.”

  “But you won’t fail us,” Owen said, reaching up to pat Nicholas’s hand. “I have no doubt at all about that.”

  “Well, that makes one of us, at least,” Nicholas responded with a self-deprecating laugh. “I am counting on you to continue my plans and maintain the running of all this when I leave.”

  Owen scratched his head. “I still don’t understand it. Why’re you leaving when your father is so sick? The war is over.”

  “I’ll explain it all before I leave,” Nicholas said, skirting the subject. “Tell me, did you find the old orchard I remember from my youth? Made myself sick many a day from eating all those apples.…”

  Chapter Ten

  “.… it requires uncommon steadiness of reason to

  resist the attraction of being called the most

  charming girl in the world.”

  —Northanger Abbey

  THE sweet cacophony of birdsong filled Charlotte’s bedroom. The vibrant symphony stopped long enough for a thrush to mock the nightingale’s beautiful song. But it was the comforting sound of the ringdove that beckoned Charlotte out of her warm bed.

  “Good morning, Miss Dove. I wish I could stay here and listen to your song all day,” she said, fully opening the sash. “But I must spend the day cooing at Father’s patients.”

  A cool morning greeted her senses and brushed the last of the dream cobwebs from her mind. If only she could fly to the highest trees and do nothing but stretch her wings and chirp all day. The thought of worms for breakfast dampened her zeal.

  Breakfast… she must go down straight away to intercede between the daily machinations of Doro and Alexandre. Yesterday’s morning ritual had seen new heights, with voices at such a level as would have blown off the roof of a lesser dwelling. Before tearing herself away from her window reveries, she spied a liveried footman’s approach. Perhaps she was needed at the abbey… but he carried a large parcel of some sort.

  Charlotte dressed with haste and descended below stairs to find Doro flustered, package in hand. A French curse describing the maid’s undergarments floated from the direction of the small dining salon. Thank God Doro could not understand French.

  “This be for you, miss.” Doro shoved the parcel into her hands and reentered the fray with the Frenchman. Charlotte took the package to the front salon, curiosity adding a quickness to her step.

  She unwrapped the parcel with care, saving the soft, fine paper for reuse. A bright ray of sunshine seemed to emanate from the last piece of tissue. She sucked in her breath when a beautiful dress was revealed in all its yellow glory. A cornflower and burgundy braided ribbon decorated the middle of the low neckline, while a hint of white lace provided some security for a modest female. It was altogether the most beautiful gown Charlotte had ever seen. She plucked out a card from the paper.

  “My dear Miss Kittridge,

  It is my great pleasure to gift you with this small token of my family’s esteem. Your gown was ruined beyond salvation while attending to my horse, Phoenix, and it has been many weeks since I have promised my family to provide restitution.

  I do hope you approve of the color. My brother suggested you might enjoy borrowing the hues of a goldfinch. His reasoning is beyond my understanding, but I do agree that it will suit your graceful form. But, I would not press this upon you. If you had rather a different pattern or material, please do not hesitate to return it with ideas for its replacement…”

  Charlotte glanced at the gown. Replacement? Replacement? Why, she would cherish this gift to the end of her days. It was perfection.

  “If you are partial to the gown, I would beg of you to wear it tonight. We would be most obliged if you and your family, as well as your guest, would join us for dinner this evening.

  Thank you again for all your gentle ministrations to my father, my brother, and to my beloved Phoenix.

  With fondness,

  Rosamunde Knightly”

  Charlotte lowered the card and reached for the soft silk, crushing it to her body. Her heart raced as she again glanced at the letter. This was the best, most wonderful present she had ever received.

  As she whisked herself back upstairs, she wondered if it was quite proper to accept such an extravagant gift. One essayage of the beautiful golden gown was enough to force the small grain of vanity that Charlotte possessed into a veritable pebble. And instead of finding herself agreeing to her father’s stubborn insistence to return the object of her struggling shoot of pride, she found herself arguing with her father for the first time in her life.

  “But, Papa—”

  “There will be no further discussion about this unsuitable gift. We are not peasants in need of finery. It is inconceivable.”

  When Alexandre took her part, she was even more sure that she had chosen the evil course.

  “But, my dear sir, you will not find it out of place for me to tell you that it is not at all out of the common way for your daughter to accept this gown. In fact, it would be considered the height of rudeness, très imprudent aussi, to reject this simple act of kindness.” Alexandre ruined the softening she could see in her father’s eyes by continuing, “And besides, I cannot deny myself the joy in seeing her dressed prettily. Those rags she wears are pure torture on the cultivated eye,” he said, using a toothpick discreetly after nuncheon.

  “Papa, you must see that Lady Rosamunde will be very hurt if I return her present. It is far better to accept it with grace,” she said as forcefully as she dared.

  “And as I see it, it is Lord Huntington who had a hand in it. I’ll not have a daughter of mine accepting gowns from a gentleman. It smells of, of, of… well, of actions unbecoming a lady,” he said, turning beet-red. “And furthermore, I wish to understand these newfound attentions he is paying you. I understand that his lordship has been known to skulk about this residence while I have been at His Grace’s bedside. What is the meaning of this?” he asked. “Charlotte?”

  Charlotte noticed a smile Alexandre was trying to hide behind a napkin without success. He found vastly amusing the idea of his lordship fording any interest in a plain little nurse with little conversation.

  “Charlotte, cherie, you have not given your heart to this man, have you? He will undoubtedly dash all your hopes without the smallest hesitation. And what is to become of my sensibilities for my dearest cousine?” Alexandre displayed the dimples that seemed to have been inherited by every branch of her family. But they looked so attractive on his bronzed cheeks that set off his white teeth to perfection.

  “We’ll have enough of that, Alexandre. Charlotte is a sensible female. She is beyond all nonsense of love. She has long cherished the joys of duty and science.”

  Charlotte was close enough to catch Alexandre’s sigh and whisper, “Ah, yes, a pity that.”

  The subject had run its course with no firm conclusion, and therefore she approached her appearance before everyone that evening with not a little trepidation. Charlotte had no way to judge her overall appearance as she had only a small mirror that reflected her form above her bosom. But she could see that the delicate lace, ribbon, and yellow hue made her appear glowing and bright-eyed. She ran down the stairs when she heard her father’s insistent call, stopping long enough to accept the shawl from Doro, who looked well pleased. Her father just stared at her, saying not another word about the gift.
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  To Charlotte’s embarrassment, all eyes were upon her as the group from the cottage entered the duchess’s magnificent drawing room filled with more gold leaf—encrusted surfaces than Versailles. She was acutely aware of his presence, but dared not glance in his direction until she knew without looking that he was in front of her. She glimpsed at Lord Huntington for the briefest moment, during which he tipped his head silently, acknowledging her presence.

  “Miss Kittridge.”

  “My lord.” Charlotte curtsied.

  He had an unreadable expression, neither approving nor the opposite.

  Charlotte stopped herself from tugging at the low bodice. She was very much on display, a feeling she had avoided her entire life. She retained her faculties enough to speak to the lady responsible for her present happiness.

  “Lady Rosamunde, how can I thank you for this gift?” Charlotte accepted a glass of ratafia from a servant. “It is the most beautiful gown I have ever possessed.” Charlotte felt Lord Huntington’s shadow fall away from beside her and shivered.

  “You must call me Rosamunde. I would be honored by your friendship,” the striking young lady replied. “But, I wish I deserved your heartfelt appreciation. It is my brother who merits your gratitude. He is the one who insisted that you must have a new dress. He requested that my modiste work on the design he specified before commencing my long list of needs.”

  Charlotte turned to glance at Lord Huntington again when Rosamunde nodded in his direction. She found herself staring into unfathomable green eyes that made her long to escape to the wilderness beyond the winding gardens of Wyndhurst and feel his broad shoulders and long arms cover her with an overpowering embrace.

  She was intensely aware of him. An aura of natural dominance and integrity radiated from him. Charlotte was powerless to look away.

  The touch of Lady Rosamunde’s hand broke the moment. “Mother is looking your way. I think we are to go in now.” Rosamunde tugged Charlotte away to the group gathering before the massive oak doors.

  Her Grace was pursing her lips in disapproval.

  It was obvious that Rosamunde changed the subject to distract her. “Your brother is to take orders very soon, no?”

  Charlotte tried to recover her equilibrium. “Yes, I am afraid that despite all his dillydallying and attempts to dissuade our father, his days as a gentleman in white stock and colored coat will soon be history. Although,” she continued, “he would much prefer the army life, as you must know. He would… how do those young gentlemen in town describe it? ‘Boil his lobster’ is the term, I think, at a moment’s notice if ever a military opportunity presented itself.”

  Charlotte dared not look at Lord Huntington again. She would not make a cake of herself. The dress was a mere pittance to a man like Lord Huntington, a simple gift because she had helped him on several occasions. He was staring at her because he had only ever seen her with dirt, blood, straw, or clay covering her.

  Charlotte wondered if she was asked to go in to dinner on the arm of the vicar as punishment, or if Her Grace had decided that the best method to keep both of the elderly ladies’ claws sheathed was to remove the so-called mouse, or rather vicar, from play. Due to the low status of the Kittridge family, Her Grace indicated to Charlotte a chair at the remote end of the table next to one of the grandmothers. As far away from Lord Huntington as was possible. At least she could be thankful that it was not Lady Susan’s grandmother, whose constant screeching could produce the headache within minutes.

  Delicate porcelain platters and bowls arrived by many liveried servants dressed in the finest satin. The chef displayed the enormity of his talents with quail eggs in aspic followed by fish, pheasant, and lamb prepared a la francaise. But the piece de resistance was the turtle steaks served with butter and Seville oranges.

  Unfortunately, Charlotte’s appetite had left her the few precious minutes she had been in Lord Huntington’s presence. She doubted his stepmother would allow her to speak to him at all. And she was right. He had been seated between Lady Rosamunde and the duchess.

  The vast display of extravagant food sickened her. Did not the family realize that there were entire families starving within a five-mile radius of the estate? It was shameful.

  “Miss Kittridge, may 1 be allowed to compliment you on your beautiful gown this evening?” The vicar regarded her with kind eyes. “The color becomes your perpetually sunny disposition.”

  Before she could offer her thanks, the dowager duchess took up the bait. “Yes, yes, my dear. So nice to see you in bright colors for a change. When I was younger, I had a particular yellow gown that was my favorite. I do believe there was a time that Mr. Llewellyn thought it rather pretty too.” She gave as coy a look as possible for a lady with eighty-two years on her dish.

  “My dearest Margarita, that color would look ghastly on you. It would bring out the sallow tones of your complexion,” said Lady Elltrope. “What can you be thinking? I am sure the vicar prefers more refined color such as this purple I am wearing… truly a royal color, do you not agree, Mr. Llewellyn?” Lady Elltrope batted her eyes at the vicar.

  “Well, I am, I am—” stuttered the vicar.

  “Do you have something in your eye, Hortense?” inquired Her Grace Margarita before the poor beleaguered man could finish.

  “Why, you have the audacity…” Lady Elltrope began and then stopped, as if unwilling to stoop to unladylike behavior. Both women looked fit to cast off their jewels for the catfight of a lifetime.

  For once in his life the vicar seemed unable to resolve the situation in a pious manner befitting his station without chastising the ladies and causing more damage.

  Charlotte felt sorry for him. “You are quite right, Lady Elltrope. Purple suits you very well, especially with the lovely gray of your beautiful hair.” She turned to the dowager duchess. “And this beautiful dress, for which I owe your family much gratitude, I believe, is very similar in color to the exquisite portrait I spied of you in the gallery. Was it not by Jean-Honore Fragonard? Perhaps the style and fashion has changed, but the colors are very much the same. I could only wish to be half as well-looking as Your Grace is in that portrait of you reading.”

  Both ladies looked well pleased. However, her long speech had interrupted the various pockets of conversation at the table. What had she been thinking? This gown must have empowering properties, she thought with mischief.

  “I say, we must have some dancing after supper to see the superior qualities of Miss Kittridge’s gown,” said Lord Edwin, “and of course those of the other charming ladies.”

  “A brilliant idea,” seconded the viscount with a twinkle in his eye. “I have it on good authority that all the ladies are dying for a romp.”

  Lady Susan tittered. Louisa Nichols looked hopeful. Her Grace, the Duchess of Cavendish, remained silent.

  “I am sorry to suggest otherwise,” Lord Huntington said in his deep voice. “However, while my father lies ill, I cannot think of dancing.”

  His sister looked pale.

  “Oh, my dear brother,” replied Lord Edwin. “Father would want us to make merry. It has been nothing but gloom and doom for weeks. I’m afraid your nature has not allowed for the necessity of entertaining our guests.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Edwin. But I still do not like it.”

  “Perhaps you would prefer that we sit about the fire and read? That is a favorite pastime of yours, is it not?”

  Charlotte sucked in her breath and couldn’t bear to hear a retort.

  James, ignorant of the situation, and always ready to smooth over any awkwardness, stepped in. “I would enjoy that a great deal. I have just finished reading last year’s Annual Register to fill in the gaps of my knowledge of events. I suppose you have already read it, Lord Huntington?”

  He shook his head, and Charlotte grabbed her hands under the table to control the shaking.

  Edwin chortled. “Why ever not, Nicholas?”

  All the eyes at the table were focused o
n Lord Huntington—most perplexed, some knowing, all waiting. Lady Rosamunde committed the unpardonable act of excusing herself from the room, and left, tears in her eyes.

  Charlotte forced the full powers of the gown into action. She had to raise her voice to be noticed by the other end of the table. “Lord Huntington, did you, by chance, read more of the novel you were reading to me this afternoon?” She was not lying, precisely. He had made remarkable progress ever since they had unlocked a door in his mind with the clay letters. He had been reading longer passages, of more complex words each day with fewer faults and less rest for head pains, though she doubted he had attempted Mansfield Park on his own.

  “I confess to reading ahead a few pages, Miss Kittridge,” he said, staring at his brother.

  Her heart swelled with vicarious pride.

  “What? You dare to tell falsehoods with a vicar in the room, Brother? You go too far,” said Lord Edwin, slapping his napkin down at the side of his plate. “We all know you cannot read. You are an ignorant.”

  A chorus of shocked sounds filled the room.

  “Perhaps, I am,” Lord Huntington said, his face like granite. “But that is not to the point. What is relevant is that no revelry should occur until our good father has recovered his health.”

  Charlotte shivered. He’d sounded as if he were addressing soldiers under his command. She did not doubt the troops in the 95th Rifleman would have instantly obeyed and respected such a man.

  “However, Edwin, fear not, you will not have me to force you to attend to social strictures much longer. I have promised Father I would stay only as long as is necessary for his peace of mind. I have had a letter from headquarters requiring me in Paris as soon as it is convenient.”

  Charlotte could keep silent no longer. “But, you have not recovered.…”

  Her heart lurched when she encountered his piercing gaze. He had turned into the battle-hardened warrior.