by Regina Darcy
A young lady of marriageable age, with a respected title and no doubt a generous dowry, caught his smile and assumed it was for her. Emboldened by what she took as an invitation, she approached him. “La, Lord Davenport, here you are, standing alone, all by yourself, when there are so many here who would enjoy your company.”
“I beg your pardon—” he stopped himself. Even the apology, merely a social courtesy in this case, conjured the thought of Charlotte. “I am blue-devilled tonight and not fit company for anyone.”
“I cannot believe it,” she exclaimed, tapping his arm lightly with her fan. “You simply need someone to cheer you.”
She was handsome. She was, in the fashion of the day, charming. His father would approve of her as the next duchess of Walsingham Hall. He could not see himself loving her, or any of those like her. She was not Charlotte. It was that simple, and yet that complex. His heart was destined for a gardener’s daughter and that was how matters stood. Did he have the courage to follow the direction of his heart? Would he defy his father, flout convention, and marry her?
If he married her, it would be an end to tailored suits, intricate cravats, elaborately-styled Hessian boots and the trappings of his class. His father would disinherit him. That much, he knew. There was no challenging the Duke’s sense of order. Marriage was for preservation, not passion. And if he were disinherited, where should they live, how should they feed themselves?
Davenport smiled at her. She was very handsome; it was not her fault that her beauty was something that would only appeal to a looking-glass. He wanted more than beauty; Charlotte had beauty and more. She had spirit. “You must meet my brother,” he told the girl. “He is cheerful and a fit companion for a charming young lady such as yourself.”
At first her expression revealed anger, then hurt. She tossed her hair, her elaborate blonde ringlets flouncing across her shoulders. “Perhaps you are correct, Your Lordship,” she said coldly, opening her fan. “One does prefer a companion who is charming. I leave you to your blue devils, sir. May they provide you with sufficient diversion.”
Across the room, he saw his father’s measuring expression. Did the Duke really expect Davenport to leave Uptrue Hall tonight with his engagement settled? Was that not rash? Was marriage truly no more than an exchange of rings and titles? No, he decided. He could not live that way. He had no money of his own, no belongings that had not come to him through his father and yet, after tonight, he was ready to leave all that he knew, if Charlotte would come with him.
“I say, Davenport, haven’t seen you at one of these for an age; where have you been?” The greeting was from a friend of long standing, Edward, Lord Calverton, who had been a student at Oxford with Davenport until he’d been sent down for incurring unpaid gambling debts to other students.
“I’ve been here and there,” Davenport said vaguely.
“Off on the hunt?”
“Not lately, no.”
Lord Calverton laughed. “You have been out of things. I meant the hunt for Lord Anthony’s missing daughter.”
“Missing daughter? I didn’t know...surely they had no children?”
Calverton showed his disbelief. “You must be the only man in Battington who hasn’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
“Turns out that Lord Anthony had a daughter. Legitimate, no less. But his lady wife, while he was away on that excursion to India nineteen years ago, took a disliking to the baby because of the brat’s birthmark. Gave the child away, don’t you know?”
“Gave away her own child?”
“Quite. She told Lord Anthony on her deathbed. Well, what’s a chap to do? Buries the wife then goes off in search of a child who’s been gone for nineteen years. Talk about a quest. All for the sake of a daughter, which is almost unheard of. But it seems her birthmark is some kind of family sign that seems to skip generations and only shows up in the females. Extraordinary, ain’t it? Who’d conceive of such a thing? The whole country is in an uproar.”
“Harder still to conceive of a woman who would cast off her own flesh and blood because of a birthmark.”
Calverton waved the comment away. “I suppose she thought the girl was marred by it and wouldn’t make a fashionable appearance at Court for her coming out when she was of age. Women set a great deal of store by their husband-hunting, you know. You must have noticed the lovely ladies lining up on the other side of the room so that you’d have the opportunity of admiring them.”
“No, I—surely you jest.”
“The son of a duke is bait for the marriage bond, Davenport. Don’t you know that? And the heir of the duke…” Calverton shook his head. “Beyond measure. Not many heirs here tonight, you see. I’m a second son. Not much of a catch.”
“That’s a sad way to think of it.”
“Not really. I’ll marry well enough. Got a title, and a decent inheritance, although nothing like what my brother Charles will bring in the marriage market. I say, if they do manage to find the missing heiress, she’ll find herself positively swamped with suitors. Might give her a try myself, if she’s reasonably pretty, and if that horseshoe mark ain’t too unsightly…”
“What did you say?”
“Horseshoe mark. That’s the birthmark. Personally, if she’s rich enough, I don’t much care what kind of mark she’s got on her neck. Her purse will look pretty enough—what the devil, Davenport, where are you going?”
Davenport was aware of his father’s lowered brows and frown as he bolted for the door. There was no time to waste. “Calverton, please tell my father that I had an urgent errand to run and that I will return to Walsingham Hall later tonight.”
“Tell him yourself, he’s right across the room, and he’s your father…”
But Calverton found himself talking to the empty air. Davenport had gone.
NINE
Unaware of what was transpiring some miles away, Charlotte had gone to bed without crying for the first time in memory. She had spent a pleasurable day with Lord Davenport and he had effectively warned her father against preventing the two of them from meeting. She knew that the Duke would not permit his heir to pay court to a humble girl who worked on his land, but today had been magical and she would not let harsh reality spoil her lovely day. Mr Smith was sullen at supper, muttering about arrogant young pups and shameless girls, but for once he dared not strike her. Her mother Martha, mystified by the change in atmosphere, tried to provoke a quarrel with Charlotte, but her daughter was impervious to her mother’s efforts. When they sent her to bed, she left the table with a smile, noticing that they were too irate with her presence even to insist that she stayed to wash and clean up after the meal.
She had been asleep for several hours when she became aware of noises outside. She heard the clatter of horses galloping fast up the rough road only to be reined in right outside the cottage. Immediately there came the sound of men’s voices talking followed by a pounding on the door. Startled, she crept from her bed to peer out the window. She saw Lord Davenport and another man, someone in his forties, she guessed, standing at the door, pounding. There was another man with them; she recognised Dr. Pendring, the local physician, although he had never treated any of the Smiths. When they ailed, they doctored themselves, and when Charlotte was ill, she was expected to ignore her malady and continue to work. She was fortunate to have been blessed with very good health, her illnesses nothing that a concoction of herbs from the gardens couldn’t treat.
“Who’s there, awaking honest people from their beds?” her father’s voice cried out. “Nothing but robbers and brigands come at night to accost an honest man. What do you want? Who do you seek?”
“Open the door, Smith!” That was Davenport, using a tone of voice that she’d never heard from him before.
Hurriedly, Charlotte put on her dress and tidied her hair the best she was able in the darkness of her room. She remained inside, however, reluctant to appear without knowing the reason for this nocturnal visit.
“I
’m coming, I say, but I have a right to know what it is you’re about!”
“You know well enough why we’re here. Let us in before I call for an axe.”
She heard the bar taken down and the door creaking open.
“Where is Charlotte?” Davenport demanded.
“In bed, where she should be, and not for the likes of you to be asking about,” was the surly reply.
“See here, Smith, Bring your daughter out immediately, before I have you whipped for you impudence.”
That voice was unknown to her. She leaned close to the door with her ear pressed against it so that she could hear everything that was said. However, in truth, everyone was speaking so loudly that she hardly needed to eavesdrop.
“You’ve got no cause to see a young woman at this hour of night,” her mother voiced, supporting Mr Smith in his protestations against their intrusion.
Charlotte heard her parents continue to argue. Finally, the gentleman whose voice was unfamiliar to her shouted, “Curse you, you ruffian, I demand to see her and if you object, I’ll have the constable out!”
“You can’t summon the law when a man is protecting his own daughter from your wicked intentions.”
“My intentions are anything but wicked. I know of your behaviour; Lord Davenport has enlightened me, and I tell you this, Smith, if you don’t bring your daughter out, I’ll have such charges brought against you that you’ll pray for transportation to Van Diemen's Land.”
She heard her father grumble. Then, “Charlotte! Get your worthless self out here. These gentlemen seem to have a reason to see you. If you’ve been doing anything you shouldn’t have with either of these gentlemen, I’ll lay a strap to you, law or no law. The law can’t…”
Whatever George Smith was going to say was interrupted by what sounded to Charlotte like a fist striking him. Upon hearing her mother scream, Charlotte opened the door and beheld a scene of confusion. Her father, his nose bloodied, was being tended to by his wife. A tall man who towered over Mr Smith was repeating his demand to see Charlotte.
“I’m here, sir,” Charlotte said quietly from the doorway of her bedroom.
“Charlotte!” Davenport came forward. “Charlotte, the most incredible thing is happening, you’ll scarcely believe it. This is Lord Anthony. Charlotte, I-I pray you prepare yourself for a shock. I believe this is your father.”
His words were like a gong, striking the inhabitants of the room into silence.
“My father is there,” Charlotte said, pointing to the man with the swelling nose bleeding over his nightshirt.
“My dearest, show Lord Anthony the mark on your neck.”
“Why?”
“Please do as I ask. I have a reason for it, I promise you.”
Hesitantly, Charlotte came forward. “I don’t understand,” she said faintly.
“My good lady, may I see your birthmark?” His voice was kind, his manner gentle. Without another word, Charlotte lifted up her hair from her neck, revealing the birthmark that was exposed when she bound her thick dark locks with string.
Over by the fireplace, George and Martha Smith watched as Lord Anthony stared at the mark for what seemed like a very long time. In astonishment, Charlotte realised there were tears in his lordship’s eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Smith demanded. “Never seen a birthmark before? It’s the mark of her punishment from God.”
“It’s the mark,” said Lord Anthony, hardly above a whisper, “of her true birth. That mark has shown itself in the female members of my lineage since my family has lived here. It’s not a punishment from God and I would fain throttle you for suggesting such a thing. Charlotte, my dearest child, this is Doctor Pendring. He attended my wife when you were born, and he recalls the event clearly. He believed that you died, and that Lady Elizabeth was so overcome with grief that my child—you, my dear—was buried without ceremony. I questioned him when I learned what happened that night. My wife, your mother, not knowing of the family mark, thought it disfiguring and had you sent away. I was away, in India, and I knew nothing of this until the night she lay dying when she unburdened her conscience and told me what she had done. Can you ever forgive her?”
“I didn’t know her, Your Lordship,” Charlotte said honestly. “I hardly know what to say.” She looked about her in bewilderment.
“Simply say that you will allow me to make up for the years I’d lost you but now, let me reclaim my daughter. Let me take you home.”
“Home?” she repeated.
“This here’s her home,” Smith spoke up, the filthy rag he held to his nose stained red from the blood that had spilled onto it. “Who’s fed her and clothed her and given her shelter if not for us, her parents.”
“Parents?” Davenport said angrily. “Jailers, more likely.”
“Charlotte? Please, gather up your belongings and come home with me. My carriage is outside, waiting to take you home.”
Without another word, with not the slightest hesitation, Charlotte allowed him to led her out the door. “I have no other belongings, Your Grace,” she answered.
He smiled. “Father. Can you learn to call me that?”
She smiled back. “With pleasure.”
‘You ungrateful wretch of a girl!” Mrs Smith snivelled. “After all we’ve done for you, to be treated this way.” She wrung her hands. “Don’t you forget all we’ve done for you.”
No one was paying attention. The Doctor and Lord Anthony helped her walk barefoot and step into the carriage. Lord Davenport, astride his horse, followed along the carriage as it made its way to Weatherly Hall.
TEN
There was so much to say, and all the way home, Charlotte had marvelled at the odd turn of fortune, and her new-found father would not let go of her arm except to wipe away tears of joy. But when they arrived at Weatherly Hall, Lord Anthony insisted that she must eat. “Davenport has told me how you were treated by that beast Smith,” he said.
She blushed to hear him referred to by his last name only, and had to remind herself it was perfectly proper, as Lord Davenport was a friend of her father’s. Her father’s! It seemed to Charlotte all too strange, as if she moved through a sumptuous dream. How terrible it would be to wake from this and find it was not real!
Lord Anthony took her arm once again, and led her into the drawing room. The room was quite simply magnificent. The furniture, cushioned in red and gold brocade, was like nothing she had ever seen. She feared to sit on it in case her dress should soil it, but her father laughed her hesitation away.
“No cushion is as important to me as your comfort, my darling daughter,” he told her, patting her hand. “After you eat, you shall sleep in a feather bed. Tomorrow we shall need to send for the dressmaker, but in the meantime, there are clothes of your mother’s that will fit you. She was as slender as you are and I’ve no doubt her gowns will fit you adequately enough for now. No doubt we shall need the milliner, and the hairdresser, and of course you shall have shoes, and any trinket your heart desires.”
“Sir…” Charlotte spoke with trepidation. “May I—could I ask one thing? Before food or sleep?”
“Name it, my dear,” her father said without hesitation. “And it shall be yours.”
“I should so like a bath. A nice, hot bath.”
“A bath? But of course you may have a bath, my dear. I’ll send for the maids and they’ll prepare one for you.”
As she washed away the dirt, some of the burden of the pain she had endured over the years seemed to wash away as well. She had been missing from her real family and hadn’t even known it. Now she was found and the Smiths and their abuse would no longer be hers to suffer.
On the dainty wooden stand by her bed was a tray with bread and tea. She sampled a bite of the bread. It was delicious, and she ate another slice. She spread honey on one slice, and butter on the other, and as she ate each one, she was sure that nothing in the world had ever tasted so delicious. She drank several cups of sweet tea. Finally, her appetite a
ppeased and her thirst quenched, she realised that she was exhausted.
She crawled into the magnificent four-poster bed, her maid had left the bed curtains drawn back so that she could enter.
Lord Anthony, her father—how strange that was to say and yet, how much more believable than the lie she had credited for all those past years, that the Smiths were her parents—had told her that she should sleep late the next morning, that she need not rise until she was entirely rested. Lord Davenport would be over later in the day.
After, Lord Anthony told her with a wink, he had a talk with his father.
She slept deeply and dreamlessly that night, the bed was so comfortable that she thought she would surely never want to rise from it. But when she awoke the next morning and saw the lovely gown at the end of her bed, she eagerly got up. The gown was peach-coloured. The bodice was trimmed with tiny pearls. The gown fastened at the back with what seemed like an endless row of buttons, and just as Charlotte was pondering how on earth she would dress herself, there was a knock at the bedroom door, followed by the entrance of a smiling young maid.
“Good morning, madam,” the girl said and dropped a curtsey. Charlotte almost looked about her to see who was being addressed with such politeness, then realised it was herself. The maid continued,
“His lordship Anthony said we was to let you sleep as long as need be, but I thought I heard you stirring, so I came in. If you please, madam, I’ll bring you your breakfast.”
“Oh, no need. I was planning to rise. But I’ll need your help. I’ve never worn such a gown and all these buttons are more than I can manage.”
The maid, whose name was Katie, helped her dress. Dressing was not the brief, careless business it had been when she had only one garment to her name. There was a delicately fashioned corset and a shift to be put on before the dress even went over her shoulders. Once she was dressed, Katie combed and arranged her hair. When she had finished, Charlotte looked in the glass and saw a stylishly dressed, elegantly coiffed stranger smiling radiantly back at her.
