The Lady of the Lakes

by Josi S. Kilpack

  London, England

  December 1795

  Charlotte’s maid was just finishing with her hair when a footman tapped on the door. The maid answered it while Charlotte inspected the arrangement of raven curls pinned behind a cream-colored ribbon. Très bien, she determined, smiling at her reflection. She and Jane were going shopping despite the cold December sky. Jane wanted a book from the lending library—she was an avid reader—and Charlotte was in need of drawing pencils. She hoped to also purchase a few Christmas gifts: stockings for Jane, handkerchiefs for Lord and Lady Downshire, and some bonbons for the servants. The weather had kept her indoors for days, and she was eager for the outing.

  Mary returned from her whispered conversation at the door. “His lordship would like to see you in his study, Miss Charlotte. Will ye be needin’ me when you return?”

  “Non, merci. You have done well.”

  The maid curtsied and hurried from the room.

  Charlotte stood and shook out the folds of her cream-colored day dress embroidered with green flowers. The sleeves, as well as the hemline, were a matching shade of green, and if the dress looked more fit for springtime, it was only because Charlotte could not wait for kinder weather. London winters were dreary enough without adding a layer of ice to every surface.

  When Charlotte reached Lord Downshire’s study, the door was open. Not wanting to interrupt, she stood on the threshold until he saw her and invited her in.

  “Kindly close the door, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte did so while attempting to stifle her rising anxiety. Lord Downshire did not often speak with her in private. Twice a year she came to London for a month, where they saw one another at mealtimes every few days and engaged in rather banal small talk. He escorted her to events now and again, but for the most part, they kept their own company and their own schedules. There were years during her childhood when she’d had no contact with him in a given year save a letter or two, but even then she’d understood he was a busy man who had given her and John a great service. They’d have been destitute without him.

  Charlotte sat in the upholstered chair across from his large desk and settled her hands in her lap.

  “I understand you and Jane are going shopping today,” Lord Downshire said, still reviewing a paper in front of him.

  “Yes, to Bond Street.”

  “You should stop at Priegel’s for a cider while you are out,” he said, signing the paper before stowing his pen in the stock. He pushed the paper out of the way and met her eye. “I shall tell Jeffries to plan on it. My contribution.”

  Charlotte smiled. It was moments like this when she saw the flash of paternal affection in him. “Merci,” she said softly. “You are very generous, and a cider will be a welcome treat for our afternoon.”

  “Good, good.” Lord Downshire paused—the kind of pause that often preceded bad news.

  Charlotte immediately thought of the day he’d told her that he had secured her younger brother a position with the East India Company and that within the month John would be sailing around Cape Horn. Charlotte had not seen John since their farewell on the Liverpool docks. Then there was the day when Lord Downshire had told her he was getting married and that, perhaps, Charlotte would be more comfortable at the home of his friend, Charles Dumergue, while the new Lady Downshire became familiar with the household. The pauses on both of those days had been like this one, and Charlotte calmed herself by reciting Psalm 23 in her head: L’Eternel est mon berger: je ne manquerai de rien.

  “I have been approached by Mr. Roundy. You remember him, I believe.”

  Charlotte pictured the lanky man with graying sideburns and dark eyes. He was a nabob recently returned from India. “I have met him. I sat next to him at a dinner party a few weeks ago.”

  Lord Downshire nodded. “Yes, a fine man.”

  Charlotte smiled to show a willingness to believe Lord Down­shire’s opinion, but she shared no such feeling. She did not know Mr. Roundy well enough. As far as dinner partners went, he had not been the worst, but nothing about him stood out for her notice either. Now that his name had come up, however, she began reviewing everything said between them that night.

  “He was quite taken by you, Charlotte, and has made an offer.”

  Panic filled her chest, and she forced herself to take a breath. “I do not know him.”

  Lord Downshire smiled as though trying to reassure her, but she knew he understood her reluctance. “Then I hope you can trust in my judgment. He does you a great compliment in his offer, Charlotte, and would treat you well.”

  “He is fifty years old at least—twice my age. Older dan you.”

  “He is a good man who can offer you a good situation.”

  “He has five children!”

  “And adequate help in caring for them. It is not as though you will be swaddling and bathing them yourself.” The edge in his voice reminded Charlotte of her place. She closed her mouth, but did not lower her chin.

  Lord Downshire took a breath, and his tone softened. “I know it is perhaps not the kind of arrangement a girl might fantasize of, but you are not a young girl anymore, Charlotte, and I have been entrusted to ensure both your care and your future. Mr. Roundy can offer you both of these things.”

  Charlotte knew Lord Downshire spoke as kindly as he could, but she extracted the meaning of his words well enough. Lord Downshire had cared for her for many years and was ready to pass on that responsabilité.

  Mr. Roundy did not know her, which meant he saw in her what he needed—a companion and a mother for his children. For her to insist that Lord Downshire continue to bear responsibility for her was ungracious. She blinked back the tears that were rising despite her best efforts to keep them at bay and met Lord Downshire’s eyes.

  “You wish dis for me?” she asked quietly.

  He paused, his expression showing both hesitation and weariness. “I wish to see you cared for, Charlotte. I worry for your future; I worry about the day when I can no longer watch over you. Being the wife of a good man would secure your future in ways that I cannot. Lady Downshire and I feel that this is a blessing for all of us.”

  “Lady Downshire?” Charlotte repeated, her tears drying in an instant. “You have already spoken with her of dis?” Lady Downshire was at the Hillsborough estate in Northern Ireland, which meant Lord Downshire had taken the time to correspond with her about Charlotte’s future before he’d talked to Charlotte.

  Lord Downshire shifted in his chair and focused on the paper on his desk. “She and I share the same mind on this, Charlotte.”

  So perhaps it was not Lord Downshire who wanted to free himself of Charlotte’s care so much as it was his wife. Lady Downshire had tolerated her husband’s charges in the beginning, but her tolerance had dwindled with each passing year. Charlotte thought of the gossip she’d overheard at the theater some weeks ago regarding her relationship to Lord Downshire. Mr. Roundy’s offer must feel like a godsend for Lady Downshire. For Lord Downshire too, quite likely.

  “Did you accept his offer?” Charlotte asked, trying to keep her voice level.

  “Of course not. I told him I would speak with you about it. If you are willing, he would like to escort you to the opera on Friday evening.”

  If it were any other event, Charlotte would have an easier time justifying an excuse not to go, but she was seduced by the stage. “I accept his invitation to de opera, but I will reserve my decision on his offer of marriage until after de evening. I cannot marry a man I do not know beyond a single dinner conversation.”

  Lord Downshire’s expression softened, and his smile created lines beside his eyes. “I will inform him.”

  Charlotte hurried back to her room, thoughts and emotions swirling in her head and chest. She closed the door behind her and turned, startled to see Jane sitting beside her fire with a book in hand.

  Jane rose to
her feet when she saw Charlotte’s distress. “Goodness, Charlotte, what’s wrong?”

  Charlotte blinked, trying to reorient herself to the day she’d anticipated before she’d talked with Lord Downshire and seen her future rolled out like a scroll—black and white, duty and expectation, an old man and five children. She would tell Jane, of course, but not today. Not until she could sort it out in her own mind first. Perhaps in a day or two, her concerns about a future and a family—two things she often pined for—would ease.

  “Nothing is wrong,” she said, hoping her tone was convincing. She walked to her mirror and adjusted the ribbon around her curls. “Is the carriage ready?”

  “I expect so,” Jane said, watching her closely. “Shall I tell Jeffries you’ll be down in five minutes?”

  “Two minutes,” Charlotte said. She knew Jane sensed something was wrong, but her friend would wait for Charlotte to confide in her.

  If Charlotte married, Jane would not come with her. She imagined herself standing on a shoreline of a gray-black sea while watching Jane, and everything else familiar, fade away from her.

  Jane nodded. “Very good, I will meet you in the foyer in two minutes.”

  “Merci,” Charlotte said.

  Charlotte knew she was not a great beauty—her features too dark, her face too round, her nose too small. She did not have a heritage that would attract an Englishman nor did she have claim in the country of her birth any longer. She dreamed of a place to belong. Was she a fool to predetermine that Mr. Roundy could not provide her such a place?

  She moved to the small table beside her bed, opened the drawer, and removed the velvet pouch. After loosening the strings, she poured the contents into her hand and rubbed her thumb over the ebony cross of the rosary left to her by her Catholic mother after Elisé had died.

  Charlotte was no longer a Catholic, not since her baptism into the Church of England when she was fifteen years old. Lord Downshire had explained that conversion was necessary—he did not want England to fault the Charpentier children for their religious conviction, after all.

  Charlotte slipped the rosary, with its carved cross, smooth beads, and accompanying prayers, into her reticule and pulled the strings tight. Perhaps she was not a Catholic anymore, but she needed to feel connected to . . . something. Perhaps to the ritual of her childhood. Perhaps to her mother. Perhaps to something bigger than either of those things. It would be far easier to accept Mr. Roundy’s offer if she believed that God played a hand in it.

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  December 1795

  Walter shifted his weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to stay warm outside the Edinburgh Theatre Royal in Shakespeare Square. December in Edinburgh was dark and cold, and even hardened Scots like Walter remained indoors as much as possible. When they had to venture outside, they hunkered down into their coats and scarves, saving their love for the outdoors until spring. Tonight, though, Walter was waiting for Mina outside the theater so she would see how eager he was for her company.

  Unfortunately, Mina was late.

  Fifteen minutes late.

  Walter could no longer feel his fingers or toes.

  Ten minutes ago, he had sent his brother John, who was home on leave from his military responsibilities, and his sister Anne inside the theater to find their seats; there was no reason for the lot of them to turn into blocks of ice. While Walter found the idea of freezing to death for the sake of one’s beloved a great romantic gesture, he hoped it would not come to that.

  Surely if Mina had changed her mind about accepting his invitation she would have sent a note. He hoped nothing unfortunate had happened and then wondered how much longer he dared wait. He shifted his weight to his right leg and nearly lost his balance; he could not feel that foot at all.

  Catching himself with the column, he looked up and down North Bridge toward Old Town again. The road was empty save for a few straggling patrons who cast him confused glances when they passed him for the door; the curtain would rise any minute. It was as if he could hear the people’s thoughts as they passed him: “What kind of bampot stays outside in this cold?” He comforted himself with the answer he knew to be true: “A bampot who is in love and who is loved in return.”

  Sunshine in winter

  a warm breeze in spring

  Mina, my Mina,

  improves every thing

  But his worry increased as the latecomers thinned. Mina had accepted his invitation two weeks ago and confirmed when he walked her home after kirk on Sunday; he always attended Greyfriars when she was in town. Surely she would not stand him up. Surely she would not be so unfeeling as to—

  The sound of a carriage came from his left. He turned and breathed a sigh of relief into his woolen scarf when he saw the Stuart coat of arms painted on the side. The carriage stopped in front of the registrar’s office across from the theater. Walter immediately moved forward, but the driver jumped down from his seat and opened the door before Walter reached it.

  The woman stepping out from the carriage was bundled in a long wool coat and wore a fur hat that matched her fur muff—probably white fox. He could just see her eyes above the wrappings of her scarf, the ends of which trailed behind her as she hurried to meet him in the middle of the road. Even without the carriage to identify her, he would know Mina anywhere. The driver followed a few steps behind her but then slowed once he saw Walter.

  Walter pulled down his scarf so she could see his smile. The bitter cold immediately attacked his cheeks and nose, which thus far had been spared from the assault.

  “I am so sorry, Walter,” she said, though he could barely hear her through the wool of her scarf. “My parents had company and my leaving was delayed.”

  “All is well now that you’re here.” Walter glanced at the driver, who nodded and returned to the carriage. Walter suspected he would find a place to leave the carriage and then wait in a pub until it was time to return Mina home.

  “Let us not waste another minute.” He put a hand at Mina’s elbow and steered her through the front doors, past the desk—with a nod at the clerk he knew well—and to the main door that would lead them to their seats. Just as he feared, the curtain lifted when they were no more than two steps into the theater. He had never been late to a play in his life and was horribly embarrassed to cause a distraction. He steered Mina toward John and Anne, having to step past half a dozen other patrons in the row to reach their seats. The foursome exchanged hushed greetings as Walter and Mina settled themselves. Only then did Walter feel as though he could breathe evenly, but he kept his coat on, still feeling half frozen.

  As usual, the production demanded his attention and inspired his senses, and he watched with delight as the friendship of Damon and Pythias unfolded. Ah, he loved the way theater brought stories to life. The characters became real and carried him away with their tales. So much was said through a gesture or the way a line was spoken, it was magical and mesmerizing and confirmed his growing passion to tell such stories of his own. Perhaps one day they might even be played upon a stage like this one. The idea that his own creations might capture an audience the way he was captured by performances like this was always heady, always exciting, always—

  “Walter?” Mina whispered, pulling him back to reality.

  Walter leaned toward her without taking his eyes from the stage. He did not want to miss a moment.

  “I am roasting in my coat.”

  Walter shook himself back to the present. “Oh, of course,” he said, embarrassed not to have considered that she had not been standing outside in the cold for twenty minutes. “Let me show you to the coatroom.”

  He cast a longing glance at the stage as they stood, and he offered hasty apologies as they stepped past the people sitting between them and the aisle. As they made their way toward the main doors, the audience burst into laughter, and Walter winced at missing the acti
on. He pushed through the doors and led Mina to the coatroom, the magic of the play ebbing away the further he got from the auditorium.

  Though not completely thawed, Walter did not want to risk a second trip before intermission so he stuffed his hat and scarf into the pockets of his coat and handed it to the clerk. Mina couldn’t secure her fine fur muff and hat as he had his knitted ones, however. He turned to the attendant. “Do you have preferred storage?”

  “Yes, sir, for a shilling.”

  Walter did not visibly flinch though the fee was outrageous—the seats already cost three shillings apiece. He wished he dared offer to hold Mina’s things in his lap, but he didn’t want to appear a skinflint, so he reached into his pocket, extracted the correct coin, and handed over Mina’s items.

  “Thank you, Walter,” she said, smoothing her pale blue dress and adjusting her elbow-length white gloves. “Do you mind if I freshen up a moment? I fear the cap may have mussed my hair.”

  Mind? They were missing the play! But he smiled politely and shook his head. “Of course not. I’ll wait for you here in the foyer.”

  Mina smiled and entered the retiring room. Walter took a deep breath and began pacing, both to ease his anxiety and to help restore circulation to his still-numb feet. It was nearly ten minutes before Mina rejoined him, looking as lovely as she had before.

  “Thank you for waiting,” she said, taking his arm. “It’s been a chaotic evening. Father said I should send my regrets but I refused.” She looked up at Walter with adoration. “I hope you feel I took the right course.”

  He smiled and patted her hand, in full spirit of forgiveness. “You have made this evening spectacular.” And she had. As disappointed as he was to miss the play, he was perfectly thrilled to be missing it on behalf of Mina.