by Regina Darcy
Irritated with the train of her thoughts, she admonished herself. What use was there even thinking about it? She had no means of buying boots. She was not paid for her work.
Her parents felt that her labour was a fair exchange for food and lodging. If anything, she supposed they felt that she was in their debt, despite the hours she toiled.
If she were ever free, if she ever married, if she ever had children…so many ifs, but Charlotte vowed, she would love and protect her children and do whatever was in her power to do to ensure their happiness.
Charlotte looked up when she heard the merry tune: the fiddlers were practicing. The fair would be underway soon. Was it better, she wondered, to be close enough to watch everyone else having fun while she worked, excluded from the entertainment? Or was it better to be far from the people who were enjoying themselves so that she didn’t have to endure the sounds of others as they laughed and made merry? She didn’t know. She simply continued walking to the far reach of the estate where she and the hedges would be alone.
She began to work. The estate was known for its impressive gardens, which included a maze in the centre of the estate grounds. A previous Duke had been something of a botanist and he’d indulged his fancy for plants by bringing in seeds from other lands and experimenting with the creation of new varieties. Charlotte knew, because it was her responsibility to do so, every plant on the estate grounds and marvelled that an aristocrat would devote his life and efforts to seeds.
The present Duke and Duchess were proud of their estate and were meticulous in ensuring it was maintained, but they were not personally interested in the plants. Only Lord Davenport, when he was in the care of his tutor, had shown a genuine curiosity for the plants that grew on the grounds he would inherit some day. How much had he remembered, she wondered, of what his tutor had taught him?
Something moved in the bushes, distracting her from her thoughts. She froze, fearful that a wild creature was lurking there. Then her back stiffened. No doubt it was her father, thinking that he would catch her idling. How dare he accuse her of not working when he was wasting his time checking on her to see what she was doing?
“You might as well come out or run the risk of being stabbed as I work!” she called out.
The bushes parted, but it was not her father who stood there, but Davenport himself, looking contrite, a stray twig in his hair, a leaf or two on his coat.
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Forgive me, Your Lordship!” she gasped. “I mistook you for my father, come to make certain I am hard at work.”
“I can see that you are,” he commented, gesturing toward the difference in the area that she’d been trimming, with its neat, orderly symmetry, and the section that he’d emerged from, which had leafy strands of varying lengths swaying above the others. “Hard at work, that is.” Then he looked at her more closely. “Amaryllis Belladonna,” he said solemnly.
“How did you—oh, my birthmark,” she said with sudden realisation. The mark of her punishment, her parents called it. Of course he could see it, and he would know.
“It’s a fearfully convenient way to identify someone,” he commented with a smile. “It’s been years since I laid eyes on you, not since that day when you told us about Amaryllis Belladonna. You see, I still remember.”
His recollection of that day made her smile. “Belladonna,” she said.
“A much more agreeable name for a pretty flower,” he agreed. “But I hope you didn’t get that nasty bruise to your eye from one of the shrubs, or I’ll start to think we should be sending our gardeners for boxing lessons with Gentleman John Jackson.”
“No,” she replied uneasily.
“What happened then?”
“I...my father…”
“Your father hit you?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “Why, pray tell, did he feel the need to lay his hands on you?”
For watching you, she thought, but that was something she could not reveal. “He thought I was idling, my Lord,” she replied, adding, “But I wasn’t, I swear!”
“Idling? I don’t understand. Why are you working outside anyway? Could he not find you a position in the household?”
“I don’t think he tried,” she said.
“Why would a father expect his daughter to work at physical labour of this nature?” he replied as he put his hand under her chin to tilt her face so she was looking up at him. “Someday I hope to have a daughter and I shan’t expect her to do a man’s work.” Abruptly he released her.
“In England a woman belongs to her family and then to her husband. My father can chastise me in any manner he wishes,” she said gently. “Your daughter shall be a fortunate young lady indeed.”
He was kind, and he meant well but he failed to realise that any daughter born to him and the woman he married would lead a completely different life. She would be expected to keep her complexion protected from the sun. She would have soft, unblemished hands and would never know what it was like to fall into bed too weary to think, unless it was from dancing.
Davenport frowned. “My apologies, madam. I was thoughtless. Please forgive me.”
A nobleman, asking her for forgiveness? Addressing her as madam with such consideration?
“There’s no need,” she said. “No offence was taken.”
Lord Davenport looked at her pensively.
“A ball is being organised for the servants tonight before the fair begins tomorrow. I would like you to attend,” he said.
“Begging you pardon, Your Lordship, I cannot attend, it wouldn’t be proper.”
“I am Lord Davenport, the Marquess of Marsfield, son of the Duke of Battington. These are my father’s lands and one day they will be mine. I do not care for artificial propriety nor for being told what I can or cannot do.” As he spoke, he took a step towards her until all she could see were his big blue eyes.
“And right now, I think I would very much like you cleaned up, in Walsingham Hall livery and not out here in the sun.” The authority with which he delivered his declaration had her rooted to the spot.
Suddenly his name was called and the intensity of the moment was broken He flashed her a mischievous smile and turned to leave. “Dash it, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you again, Amaryllis Belladonna!”
She laughed. “Belladonna.”
“It’s the more agreeable name,” he said over his shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Charlotte.”
“Very agreeable indeed,” he declared. “The name and its bearer.”
And just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.
FOUR
Charlotte wore her smile the rest of the day, although there was no one to see it. She thought of Lord Davenport as she continued to work through the rest of the afternoon. Somehow working alone without her father’s angry presence was easier, even though the work was not. But the memory of her conversation with Lord Davenport and his kindness lifted her spirits so that by the time she headed back home, she felt almost light-hearted.
Her mother glared at her suspiciously as Charlotte entered the house. “What have you been up to, grinning like that?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s the smile for, then?”
“Can’t I smile?”
“What cause have you to smile? What mischief did you get into, working on your own without your father to keep a watch over you? Don’t lie, girl, or he’ll get the truth out of you with the strap.”
“I wasn’t up to any mischief!” Charlotte protested.
“How dare you answer me so! Mr Smith! She’s been up to something! I know a scheming slattern of a girl when I see one.”
Mr Smith’s hand came flying across her cheek before she realised that he was about to strike her. Tears sprang to her eyes and she pressed her hand to her cheek.
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong!” she cried. “I was working. Lord Davenport came out of the bushes and we spoke, that’s all.”
“Oh, Lord Davenport, was it?”
Mr Smith sat down in his chair and began to eat. “You understand, Mrs Smith, it was Lord Davenport put that smile on her face. And no doubt put grand thoughts in her fool’s head as well.”
“Did he invite you to a ball?” jeered her mother. “Did he ask you for all the dances?”
“No doubt he asked her if she’d honour him with the first dance. She’s dressed in the very height of fashion, don’t you see? All the ladies will be asking her who made her gown so they can have one just like it.”
“The mud is extra,” cackled Mrs Smith. “Mud is only for the very, very fashionable. Everyone at the ball will be so envious that they haven’t the same colour of mud as Charlotte.”
“Walsingham Hall mud is not to be confused with the mud of lesser estates,” her father George jested. “Not everyone can wear it with such airs. He must have been fairly dazzled by your beauty. At the ball, all the fine ladies will be wishing they had birthmarks like yours.”
“It’ll start a fashion,” her mother Martha predicted. “All the aristocrats will be wanting one, but they won’t have it natural like Charlotte has it.”
“Why are you saying such horrid things to me?” Charlotte burst out, her jubilant mood banished, and replaced by tears by their mockery. “I enjoyed speaking with him, that’s all. He was kind to me. No one is ever kind to me, and I find less kindness here than I find anywhere else.”
“You stupid girl,” Mr Smith said to her, the entertainment over. “He’s the son of a Duke and you’re the daughter of—you’re lowborn, that’s what you are, and a gentleman isn’t looking to wed a girl with no title to her name and no dowry to bring, do you understand? You’d best let go of any foolish notions you have about talking to Davenport. I’ll tell you something about the highborn, my girl, and you heed my words. The gentry don’t have nought to do with the likes of you unless they want their chamber-pots emptied, their food prepared, their gardens tended, or their manly needs answered. You’re a lowborn, worthless girl, but if you ever, ever, let a gentleman use you for his own ends, you’re out on the street, do you hear me? There will be no vice in this house. I may not have a title and I might not be living in the lap of luxury, but I’m an honourable man and no lazy slattern of a useless girl is going to bring shame to this house. Do you hear me?”
“It wasn’t like that. We just talked,” she protested, humiliated and furious that her mother and father had taken an innocent exchange and turned it into something sordid.
“Do you hear me, girl?”
“How can I not hear you?” she yelled back. “Of course I hear you! I wish you would hear me. I did nothing wrong. Nor did he.”
“Nor will you,” her father George said to her, his small cruel eyes fixing her with a hard stare.
She should have been expecting the slap that seemed to come from nowhere, but his palm made contact with her without warning.
“I guess you’ll be learning it now,” he said with satisfaction. “That’ll teach you to look down on us and give yourself airs. Go to bed; I’m weary of the sight of you.”
She hadn’t eaten all day. Even the unappetising bowl in front of her would at least have offered some nourishment.
“Do you not hear me?” George roared. “Go off to bed! I hate the very sight of you!”
She stumbled from her chair and went into her room unable to staunch the flood of tears that poured from her eyes. In bed, she sobbed for hours. Her pleasant day, the conversation that she had enjoyed with Lord Davenport, the brief respite from the drudgery of her life, all tainted by her father’s ugly words and her mother’s scorn. Could they not have allowed her that small episode of joy in a life corroded by misery, with nothing to look forward to? Was she so despicable that they could not allow her that mere morsel of pleasure?
She fell asleep still sobbing. But she awoke a few hours later; the moonlight was streaming into her room through. Captivated, Charlotte slipped from her kitchen cot to the window, the shutters open as always to allow the cool air in so that it could freshen her dress. She leaned on the ledge and looked out. All was quiet and peaceful. In the distance, she could make out the shadowy mass of the hall house, dark and still. In the night, rich and poor alike slept. Highborn and lowborn were abed, regardless of whether they slumbered on featherbeds or on a sack over straw. They slept or dreamt or snored, or perhaps, like her, they were at their windows, admiring the benevolent moon which shone down on all regardless of their birth.
She went back to bed comforted by nature which during the daylight was her master, and sometimes a cruel one. But the cool night, with the moon aglow, reminded her that it was not nature that was her opponent. And though she was not born to wealth or pedigree, she was here, and she could enjoy the moon regardless.
FIVE
The next morning found her calmer than she’d been when she went to bed. Her tears had dried, the moon had shone upon her, and Lord Davenport had been kind. It would, perhaps, not have been much to others, but it was a different morning than yesterday had been. She might see him again and in spite of her father’s warning, he could speak to her. He seemed indifferent to the social conventions that barred the nobility from doing so. She couldn’t guess where that open-mindedness came from; his father was an autocratic peer, one who held rigidly to the rules of society. His mother was twenty years younger than her husband, born to an aristocratic family but not from quite the same ancient cultivated stock as the Duke. But the Duke, a widower since the death of his first wife, needed an heir and not a dowry, so he’d married the younger woman and she’d fulfilled his hopes; Lord Davenport had been their firstborn, followed by another son and then two daughters. The family was well-regarded in the village, and indeed the whole county, the Duke was respected for his unbending views on class. It was the way things were; the rich were above the rest. The ordinary people were seemingly content with this philosophy and nothing was likely to change.
But even the rich could have a conversation. Charlotte left her bedroom with a feeling of hopefulness.
This was soon dashed.
“You’re not to go to the grounds,” Mrs Smith told her.
“What am I to do?” Charlotte refused to let her mother know how disappointed she was by her father’s edict. Her mother would enjoy signs that Charlotte had been hopeful of seeing Lord Davenport again and Charlotte refused to give her the satisfaction.
“You’re to go to the village. I need you to go to the baker’s, and the butcher’s, before they close midday. Don’t dawdle, come straight home. You remember what your father told you.”
Disconsolate, Charlotte left the house and headed to the village. She was seldom permitted to go anywhere on her own and in other circumstances, she would have cherished this opportunity. She was among other people, she would escape the labour of the gardening on a hot summer’s day, and she was not in her father’s company. She should have been delighted. But despite her father’s words of warning, she had hoped to see Lord Davenport again.
The village was crowded with shoppers. Charlotte was very conscious of her dirty, torn dress and her boots in need of repair. She saw passers-by give her an assessing look; some showed their scorn, their thoughts plain to see. She walked with her head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
She made the purchases her mother had ordered and left the shop. She chose to walk around the back of the shops so that she would not be seen by others. The stares of the shoppers had made her realise how her torn, dirty dress and unkempt appearance led them to think of her.
She had to stop at one point because she tripped on the loose sole of her boot, scraping her toes. She halted behind the tavern to sit on the stone wall that encircled the village, resting her feet before continuing on her journey.
She could overhear the conversation of two men who were talking together. They were discussing the death of Lady Elizabeth Anthony.
Charlotte started to listen to what they were saying, even though she knew she shouldn’t. But she recalled that her parents had
spoken of the lady’s ill health the other night at supper. Apparently, the inevitable had happened and she had succumbed to her illness.
“His lordship is combing the area to find out more about his daughter,” said one man. “When he found out what Lady Anthony had done, he was in a terrible rage. Her ladyship was dead, nothing to be done there.”
“Nothing to be done anywhere,” said the other man. “How is anyone to find a baby born nineteen years ago, even if the child does bear a distinctive mark? Who will see it?”
“How did her ladyship get away with it? And why did she do it? The child was surely Lord Anthony’s.”
“Oh, no question of that. Her ladyship was virtuous. But, you will allow, she was a dreadful snob. It pains me to speak ill of the dead, but it’s true. When her child was born, His Lordship was away. He was away over a year; something to do with a property settlement in India. He didn’t even know that she was to have a confinement. And so, when she had the child taken away because it had some kind of mark on it, his lordship was unaware of it. But she couldn’t go to her grave with her secret and she told him before she died. Now he’s desperately hoping to find the child, turning the county upside down to find a trace of the baby.”
“Good luck to him. The child is likely dead.”
“Perhaps not,” said the other. “But Lord Anthony will find the answer. For all his gentle ways, he’s determined.”
Charlotte was transfixed by the sad story. What a terrible thing to have done, she thought. No wonder Lady Anthony had confessed before she died: who would dare to face God on Judgment Day with such an act on her conscience. How on earth would Lord Anthony be able to find his missing child on the basis of a birthmark that might or might not be visible? True, her own birthmark was plain to see, but she was certainly not the missing daughter of a local lord. She could just imagine what her parents would say if they heard the news about the search for a child with a mysterious birthmark. She wondered if the mark was a particular shape, as hers was, or if it was just a mark like a large mole.
