by Regina Darcy
“You know, madam, I’ve never seen his lordship so happy as he is this morning. Finding you has made his life complete, I do declare. It’s all any of us can talk about below stairs, if you’ll excuse me saying so, madam. His Grace is waiting downstairs for you. And so,” said the girl with a meaningful smile, “is Lord Davenport.”
“Lord Davenport is here?” Charlotte repeated.
Katie smiled. “Been here since before breakfast, my lady.”
“Thank you for your help, Katie. And your information.”
Charlotte left her room and walked down the stairs. The dainty slippers that had been brought for her to put on were a perfect fit and, with those on her feet and the lovely dress, she felt as elegant as a queen as she descended the staircase. Lord Davenport and Lord Anthony, who were talking together quietly in the hall, looked up as they heard her approach.
“Charlotte! How beautiful you are!” Davenport said, his eyes fixed on her as she drew near.
“Thank you,” she said, suddenly shy in front of him. She had been more at ease in her faded, torn dress and bare feet.
“Did you sleep well, my dear?” her father asked, coming forward to kiss her cheek and hug her tightly. Taking her arm as if he never wanted to let her go again, he said, “Let’s go into the morning room, Davenport and I have so much we wish to acquaint you with.”
Over a vast breakfast table that held more food than Charlotte had ever seen in one place at one time, Lord Anthony and Lord Davenport pieced together the puzzle for her. After she had been given away, she had been taken to an orphanage, where she had spent the first ten years of her life, where she had received a rudimentary education and was treated, from what Lord Anthony had learned, decently if not with affection. The orphanage closed its doors when she was ten years old and the children were sent to work for local farmers and labourers. The Smiths, perceiving an opportunity to gain a labourer, had told her that she was their daughter, but there was no genuine relationship. Why she remembered nothing of her years before the Smiths, no one could say, although the doctor informed them that in cases of such terrible treatment, he’d heard of other children who had simply closed an inner door on their pasts.
“You were little more than a slave,” Davenport raged. “It’s monstrous that children should be treated in such a manner.”
“I quite agree,” Lord Anthony said. “And Davenport and I intend to do something about it. We sit on many boards of directors and through our contacts there and in Parliament, we hope to bring about many changes. But that’s business for another day. Today, my dear, you must attend to your social engagements.”
Charlotte laughed at the thought. “I have no social engagements,” she said.
“I believe that you do. Davenport?”
Davenport looked at Charlotte anxiously. “You’re invited to dine tonight at Walsingham Hall. You and your father. I told my father that I’ve met the girl I wish to marry. He and my mother are eager to make your acquaintance. I hope you don’t mind? I realise I haven’t even formally asked you,” he apologised. “I beg your pardon for that omission.” He grinned. “Once again, I seek your pardon for my transgressions.”
“I hope that you will forgive the boy,” her father said benevolently. “He has done the proper thing by asking me for your hand in marriage.”
Charlotte stared at the two men smiling at her. “And you said?”
“I said that whatever makes my daughter happy will make me even happier. But I don’t wish to lose you so quickly to another man. I’ve urged Davenport that a long engagement would suit us best. There is no one more suitable for a son-in-law than Davenport and if you love him, my dear, I will not stand in your way.”
“You were kind to me when I was dirty and ill-dressed,” Charlotte said. “I fell in love with you then.”
“I shall leave the room for a few minutes so that the two of you may seal this bargain in the traditional manner,” Lord Anthony said, standing up and looking at his pocket watch. “I shall return in time for a second cup of coffee. I trust that upon my return there will be some happy tidings. And then we shall have much to discuss.”
The door closed behind him and they were alone. Charlotte’s heart beat faster.
Davenport got up from his chair, and knelt before her, taking her hand in his. “I know we haven’t had a long courtship, and you don’t know me very well. I know we have never danced or even dined together. But we have walked together, you and I. We have talked of flowers, of the beauty of nature. Will you be my wife, dearest Belladonna?”
The End
BONUS CHAPTER 1:
CAPTIVATED BY THE EARL
ONE
The young woman who was briskly walking to her destination did not notice the interest of the men—not all of them gentlemen—who paused in their labours and conversations to admire her impeccable posture, resplendent hair the colour of cinnamon, and her straightforward gaze which did not employ the coy habits of other women of marriageable age. Had any of them wished to engage her interest, they would have failed in their attempts if they chose to praise her for her beauty, or to strike a sonnet in tribute to her carriage. But if any of them had the inspiration to talk of ships, of ports in other countries or the products that sailed upon the ships populating the oceans of the world, or the unassailable legacy of seafaring London, they would have had no trouble in attracting her attention.
Unlike others of her sex, who had been reared to regard themselves as matrimonial quarry, Elizabeth Hargrave had been raised by a widowed father who, a novice in the upbringing of daughters, had treated his only child like a beloved apprentice. Henry Hargrave was a merchant, a very successful one, and his faith in the East India Company was unswerving. The bustle of the docks, the crowds made up of merchants, ship-owners and shipbuilders in many ways had been her formal schooling. Her father had become a widower and a father in the same moment Elizabeth’s mother died in childbirth. But he had accepted God’s will and brought up his daughter with a reverence for England’s commerce that probably, if he considered it at all, rivalled his sense of duty to the Almighty. He was proud of his reputation and his business prowess and his daughter was an integral part of what he had built.
There was always something new to discover on the docks and Elizabeth had grown up with London as her classroom. To see London through its ships was to witness the true England, the nation which had become an empire because its fleet was bold, its sailors experienced, and its seafaring identity one which had been constant throughout the country’s existence. The new century that was just two years old seemed so very modern compared to the previous one. While it was true that Great Britain’s King George III was regrettably mad, English eyes kept their focus on the goings-on across the Channel. There, the French bloodbath of the previous years had seemingly been staunched by the rise to power of a man named Napoleon; his ambitions kept politicians and military leaders throughout Europe and Russia vigilant. She thought of Napoleon often, as did most British, but Great Britain itself seemed to go on as it always had. Napoleon had been heard to dismiss the British as a nation of shopkeepers, but Elizabeth’s father, instead of being insulted by the reputed remark, had applauded it. Britain, he told Elizabeth, would continue to thrive as long as its shopkeepers, merchants, and the East India Company continued to be the backbone of the Empire.
It seemed to Elizabeth that surely all the world passed through London by way of the docks. When she was a child, she had thought of the docks as London’s doors, opening wide to let in the ships of all nations and their products. She remembered her father laughing at her words, but with pride, as if she had happened upon knowledge beyond her years.
As she made her way to her father’s office, it was the building, not the eyes of male admirers, along the dock that held her in rapt attention. The West India docks, now nearing the end of their construction, would soon be bearing the wealth of the world as it was unloaded from the ships; the docks would showcase the sugar, tea, grain
and the other products of other places. They were a new mercantile adventure, one which bore close observation. Her father was a vigorous supporter of the enterprise and his hard work and advocacy were poised to enrich the commercial fortunes of London and also make Henry Hargrave a wealthy man.
Having reached her father’s office, a three-storey building located in the pulsing heart of the commercial sector of the docks, Elizabeth opened the door and disappeared from view, unaware that one keen pair of eyes in particular had been following her closely. The gentleman looked at the sign above the entrance way. His eyebrows rose. Hargrave and Daughter, East India Company, was neatly lettered, boldly announcing to all who passed by that here, on England’s newest docks, was a man of business who apparently did not know that women’s brains were not suited for the intricate workings of commerce. The Earl of Strathmore, intrigued by this revelation, bade farewell to his companions and continued on his way, his thoughts spinning like the silken strands of a spider’s web as he pondered the potential of this development.
Inside the office, Elizabeth went directly to her desk. Mr George had already arrived and had brewed tea.
“Good morning, Miss Hargrave,” he said, formal as always as he poured her a cup.
“Good morning, Mr George,” she replied. Mr George was her father’s right-hand man, assisting him in the many aspects of his work as a merchant. There was nothing that Henry Hargrave could request of him that Mr George would not accede to and her father trusted his assistant completely. Mr George had come into the business by a most curious process. Henry Hargrave regarded slavery as an abomination; he was a vigorous supporter of Wilberforce’s campaign to abolish the institution but for a few days in the late 1790s, he had been a slave-owner. That was when he had seen Mr George on the auction block, the proud black man with the accent of Jamaica, bearing the scars of past whippings, offered for sale to whomever had the price. Offended by the practice, Henry Hargrave had outbid every man there. He had brought Mr George to his place of business and offered him his freedom and a job. The dignified young man had been wary at first but he soon realised, when his manumission papers were in his hand, that Henry Hargrave had been serious.
Mr George soon learned the business of the docks and he had an advantage that another assistant would have lacked. Mr George knew commerce from its seamy underbelly. He was aware of the graft and corruption, the evil and greed that ruled many of London’s merchants and nowhere was this side of the city more visible than in the transactions that took place within the naval outposts of Great Britain. If Mr George regarded his former owner as naïve, he never said so, but Elizabeth knew that Mr George, unlike her father, had no illusions about his fellow man. He had seen too much.
“Is Papa already out?” she asked, sipping her tea and appreciating the generous serving of sugar which Mr George had added. Sugar was not merely a sweetener that added flavour to the beverage; it was another of the products of the docks which travelled from ship to port to customer, expanding the profits of the canny merchants who sold it. Elizabeth had learned to her sums upon receipts and bills of lading; geography had been a lesson taught according to the flags under which the world’s ships sailed; she perfected her French, mastered German, and acquired Spanish as a result of the business which passed through her father’s office. She was less adept at embroidery, watercolours, and playing the harp than other young ladies of genteel upbringing who sought to impress their prospective suitors with their feminine accomplishments, but adding a column of numbers in her head, arguing costs in a merchant’s native tongue, and knowing which ship carried which cargo were attributes prized by her father. Henry Hargrave had no notion of how he should rear a marriageable daughter, and there was no woman at home to guide him in these arcane concepts, so he did the best he could.
Her father did not know that there were times when Elizabeth wondered if her zeal for business should have been muted in favour of the quest for a husband. At twenty-five, well past the age when most Englishwomen were married and had started a family, she was aware that she was decidedly a spinster in the ‘old maid’ category, on the shelf and unlikely to entice matrimonial prospects. Any young gentlemen she knew, such as Nathaniel Woodstock, she counted as friends or colleagues in business, wholly separate from the work of Love. But it was not something she could discuss with her father, who saw her as the heir to his business, and not as someone’s potential wife.
The door opened. Elizabeth looked up from her ledger and Mr George’s head turned from the teapot.
“Good day to you both,” said the gentleman who had entered. He brought with him a sense of action rather than leisure and his complexion gave evidence of an active life spent outdoors that seemed at odds with his exquisitely-tailored garments, the cut of his coat, and his aristocratic bearing, which bespoke, even before he gave his name, of a lineage that was familiar to Debrett’s New Peerage. “Might I have a word with Mr Hargrave?”
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BONUS CHAPTER 2:
FALLING FOR THE EARL
ONE
Alden Haddington, the Earl of Beckton, cleared his throat nervously, wishing he were anywhere but here, in the assembly rooms of the Bookman Arms. He had come to visit Nathaniel Hughes, Viscount of Wiltshire, his dearest friend since boyhood. Both had served in the same regiment under the Duke of Staffordshire.
Lord Wiltshire had invited him to attend the annual Mariners’ Ball. Whilst their views on the fairer sex differed wildly, since the Earl had particularly strong, disapproving views on Lord Wiltshire’s recent string of heartbroken mistresses, a night in the Viscount’s company always proved anything but boring. The irony was that the Earl was known to have left an equal trail of heartbroken beauties behind him. The only difference being, he had never touched them.
The Viscount was one of the few people who knew Beckton found the challenge of conversing with the fairer sex, insurmountable. He had yet to finish a sensible conversation with any eligible young woman he had actual designs on. Half the broken hearts he left behind him were due to disinterest, and the rest due to an inability to approach the lady in question.
One woman in particular made this infirmity even more pronounced, because he did more than find her eye-catching. The Earl was completely enamoured with her.
As he had watched her blossom into an accomplished young woman, he found himself incapable of either declaring his intentions or commencing a courtship.
Yes, Phoebe Alexander had stolen his heart even before her very first debutant ball.
Ever since her outing, he had been dreading that her affections would soon belong to another. He sighed deeply and sipped on his drink.
No doubt, he should be looking for Wiltshire, whom he now suspected had brought him here because he knew of Beckton’s affections for Miss Alexander and was playing Cupid.
It had been four years since he had first become smitten by the lovely Phoebe, and a year since he had been informed by his father, on his deathbed, of the agreement which he had reached with Phoebe’s father, Mr Percival Alexander. It was a gentlemen’s agreement, betrothing him to Phoebe. And if his father were to be believed, this arrangement had been made when several years ago. Both parents had hoped that their children would naturally gravitate towards each other, eventually.
He sidestepped a tipsy gentleman who was arguing rather loudly with a friend as they walked by. The man stumbled, jostling the Earl’s hand and spilling the drink he held in it. Shaking his head in annoyance, he went to put down the now almost empty glass and wipe himself off with his kerchief. He did not want to reek like a drunkard. In a few minutes, the dancing would begin, and he would hold the woman he loved in his arms for the first time.
His skin grew warm as he thought of all that he would like to say to her, because he knew none of it would be said. The very thought of holding her, even at the distance demanded by good manners, and with as little actual touching as there would be, tied him up in knots. He hated that he was so weak in this o
ne respect, the one where he most wished to be strong. He did not wish to drive her away, but long experience had taught him that unless he could find a way to utter more than a few monosyllables, he was doomed to lose her.
She was his betrothed…but he needed to win her affections. What sort of marriage would he otherwise have? The thought of being tied to a woman who despised him made his head hurt.
The musicians began to tune their instruments, and he turned to search the room for Phoebe. He spied her standing with her parents on the other side of the room, looking as uncomfortable and unsure as he felt. Their eyes met, and she offered a polite smile. He did not return it.
He could not make his lips spread, or his cheeks crease, and he saw with a sinking heart that a frown replaced her smile. He looked away for a moment, to gather himself, and then he walked over to where she was standing and extended his hand.
“Miss Alexander, I would be honoured if you were to grace me with your consent to this first dance.”
“It’s very kind of you, Lord Beckton, however—” she began, but was interrupted by her mother, who spoke effusively.
“It is certainly an honour for our dear Phoebe, my lord,” she said. She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder for a second until Phoebe accepted his extended arm, and walked with the Earl to the dance floor. They danced a set together in almost complete silence, after the required pleasantries had been spoken between them.
Her “How do you do, Lord Beckton?” had been prettily said, her smile gracing the words with an extra touch of beauty.
