The Lady of the Lakes

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Soon, he told himself, thinking of the money he had saved toward a home of his own and of the career he was building to support a family. Within a year, he would be ready to make a proper offer for her hand and then they would have the rest of their lives to find time alone together. Mina had a dowry, of course, and a fine one if the rumors were to be believed. So long as she did not mind using some of it to furnish the house he hoped to secure, they would have a good start—better than many.

  The creak of a stair kept him from revealing to Mina those future hopes, but he sensed she was thinking along those lines since she had looked away and now shifted uncomfortably. A modest girl like herself would be embarrassed by his reminder of their kiss, but surely her embarrassment did not lend itself to regret.

  Mother appeared at the base of the stairs, and Walter stood as she came into the parlor. “How is she?” he asked.

  Mother forced a smile though Walter knew she was flustered.

  “Aye, she is restin’,” Mother said, clasping her hands. “Thank ya for seein’ her back. I gave her a draught.”

  “I hope she will be much improved by morning.” He gestured toward Mina. “You remember Miss Stuart.”

  “Aye, ’tis guid to see you again,” Mother said, giving a quick bob of her head. She tucked some wayward strands of gray hair beneath her lace cap. “I’d have tidied up if I’d a known we was having comp’ny, and such fine comp’ny at that.”

  “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Scott,” Mina said with a smile that filled Walter with gratitude. “And a very cheery fire.”

  “Thank ya, dear. How is yer mother?” Mrs. Scott asked.

  “She is well, thank you.”

  “You’ll tell her I asked after her.”

  Mina inclined her head. “Of course.”

  “John went to check the kettle,” Walter said, waving toward the kitchen. They had a cook and a housemaid, but both returned to their own homes and families in the evening.

  “And I found it!” John hollered from the back room. “Mind there be a place to set the tray. There’s cake here too.”

  Mother hurried forward and cleared her sewing basket and a newspaper from the table, her movements anxious and quick while she muttered apologies for the smell of stew in the air and the crumpled plaid at the edge of her chair.

  The sound of measured steps came down the stairs, and Walter looked up to see Tom, properly outfitted in coat and shoes this time with his neck cloth reasonably tied.

  “Where’s your brother?” Mother asked Tom. Walter knew she was talking about Daniel, the youngest and laziest of the Scott children.

  “He doesn’t want to present himself,” Tom said formally, glancing quickly at Mina.

  “Then we’re all here,” John said as he emerged from the hallway. “Make yerself useful, Tom, and pull a chair from the kitchen. I don’t have four hands after all.”

  By the time they extracted themselves from the house sometime later, Walter estimated that the play was nearly over, but he’d had an evening in Mina’s company and he would not be ungrateful. John and Tom walked behind them to keep things proper but private, and this time, despite it being even colder than before, both Walter and Mina kept their scarves away from their faces so they could talk.

  “You had said you’d had a chaotic evening at home, and I fear we only increased that triple-fold,” Walter said. His face was already numb.

  “I enjoyed myself,” Mina said. “You have a good family. I envy it.”

  Walter cast her a sidelong look. “Do you?”

  She nodded, but kept her eyes on the ground in front of them.

  Walter smiled to himself. She envied parts of his more simple life, did she? More than one person had pointed out how her family’s change in situation might affect Walter’s suit, but he’d refused to believe it. Seems he had good reason to keep the faith.

  “I would like to see you before you go to Invermay for Christmas. Perhaps just the two of us, as we did before.” They had arranged for private moments four times last winter. Twice at parties when they escaped their friends and met in a room away from the other guests, once at the Princes Street Gardens on a day when Mina’s parents were occupied away from the city, and once at the college where Mina had gone to borrow from the lending library. The stolen moments had been as exciting as anything Walter had ever done in his life—especially the last one that had ended in a sweet kiss he had carried in his heart ever since.

  Mina did not answer right away, and when she did, there was regret in her voice. “I do not think we can see one another as we did before. Last year things were . . . different.”

  A chill coursed through Walter that had nothing to do with the temperature. “Different?” he repeated, his breath fogging before him. “Different how?”

  “My father was a Belsches, not a Stuart,” she said, giving him a meaningful glance. “There was more excitement than risk to our meetings the last time I was in Edinburgh, but it is the opposite now. Father has threatened to send me back to Fettercairn if I do anything to upset him. I hope you can understand.”

  Relief washed through Walter to know that the difficulty was not between the two of them. In light of her father’s threat, what she said was sensible. “So we must be more proper, then,” he said, not letting her see his disappointment.

  She smiled, seemingly equal in her relief. “Yes, Mr. Scott. Propriety at all costs.”

  He attempted to rally his spirits. “Then might I see you properly before you leave for Christmas?”

  They turned the final corner, allowing them their first view of the theater. Only a few people still lingered outside and exactly two carriages—one of which belonged to Mina’s father.

  “It’s finished already?” she said and quickened her pace. “How long has Awlson been waiting?”

  Walter hurried to keep up with her, but his cursed leg made it difficult. “I did not think the performance would be finished until ten.” He pulled out his watch to confirm that it was still a few minutes until the hour.

  “Perhaps I can persuade Awlson to keep quiet,” Mina said. She was several feet ahead of Walter and looked over her shoulder at him. Her irritation turned to understanding when she realized the reason he was falling behind. She paused and waited for him to catch up, which he did in a few more steps. At least the heat of his embarrassment helped relieve the numbing cold.

  “I should say good-bye here,” Mina said, her breath clouding in front of her face. “I am sorry.”

  “I should have returned you sooner.”

  She shook her head, then shifted her weight to one foot. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Walter,” she said. “I enjoyed myself.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” he said, choosing to believe it. “My moments are never finer than when I spend them with you. I’m only sorry you didn’t get to see the play.”

  “Oh, I have never been much for theater,” she said, waving away his apology. “But I thought your family very entertaining.”

  Walter felt a sting in his chest. She didn’t care for the theater? One of his great loves? And she thought his family was entertaining? He was unsure whether or not that was a compliment.

  Mina extracted her hand from her muff and gave his fingers a quick squeeze he could barely feel through his thick gloves. He met her eyes and, as usual, his doubts were carried away as easily as his breath dissipated into the night air.

  “I hope to see you again soon, Walter.” She placed a light kiss upon his frozen cheek. It burned like summer, and he closed his eyes to savor it. “Good night,” she said before letting go of his hand and turning to the carriage.

  “Good night, mo chroí,” he said too quietly for her to hear—Good night, my heart. He hoped she would forgive the oddities of this night and hold on to the pleasant memory of it as closely as he would.

  London, England


  December 1795

  Charlotte heard a carriage come to a stop in front of the London town house Friday evening and exchanged a look with Jane across the parlor. She had told Jane of Mr. Roundy’s offer, though Jane had not shared her opinion, which Charlotte found rather irritating. When pressed, Jane said she wanted no part in influencing Charlotte’s decision. More companion than friend, Charlotte had realized. At least in this.

  “Ah, excellent, Mr. Roundy is here.” Lord Downshire put down the newspaper he’d been reading and stood.

  Charlotte put away her sketching and Jane put down her book. Charlotte had convinced Lord Downshire to make tonight’s outing to the opera a full party by pointing out that it was unseemly for her to be thrust into the sole company of a man she did not know. Lord Downshire had acquiesced, and the four of them would share a box, but tonight Charlotte would be seated by Mr. Roundy instead of Jane.

  On their way to the parlor door, Jane gave Charlotte’s arm a squeeze. “You look lovely tonight,” she whispered.

  Charlotte glanced down at her dress which was a dark blue velvet, open in front to show a white skirt shot with silver. The elbow-length sleeves trimmed in lace, square neck, and brocade bodice gave the overall ensemble an elegant look. Not too overstated for the opera, but showing a good presentation. Two white ostrich feathers floated above Charlotte’s head, and seed pearls had been woven into the elaborate hairstyle Mary had spent hours creating. Charlotte had smiled at her own reflection until she began to fear that Mr. Roundy would interpret her display as an attempt to draw his interest. Still, she enjoyed feeling beautiful—it was not a feeling she was used to—and she thanked Jane for the compliment.

  Mr. Roundy waited in the entrance hall, and they greeted one another politely while the footman helped Charlotte with her cape. Charlotte was seated beside Jane in the carriage—dieu merci. The men talked almost exclusively between themselves until arriving at the opera house, where Lord Downshire escorted Jane, and Charlotte took Mr. Roundy’s arm.

  When they reached the private box, it was nearly time for the raising of the curtain, and Charlotte only had time to thank Mr. Roundy for showing her to her seat before the performance began. As she’d expected, the story being played out on stage took over Charlotte’s senses. Love and betrayal, joy and tragedy. The whole of it swallowed her so completely that when the curtain fell for intermission, she felt an odd moment of reawakening. She looked around as though having forgotten where she was and, most especially, who she was with.

  “I shall escort Miss Nicholson to the coffee room,” Lord Downshire said as he stood and extended his arm to Jane. He did not need to add that Charlotte and Mr. Roundy should remain in the box to become acquainted.

  Too soon they were alone. Mr. Roundy scooted closer to Charlotte, and she forced herself not to move away. He smiled at her; she smiled back. He was not handsome. Then again, she was not beautiful, nor did she have prospects. She thought of the rosary hidden in the bag that hung from her wrist and said a prayer in her heart.

  God’s hand.

  “You like the theater?” Mr. Roundy said in tones less cultured than what Charlotte was used to from Lord Downshire’s society. She didn’t hold his lower class against him necessarily, but wondered if there was more about his lifestyle she was unaccustomed to.

  “Very much,” Charlotte said, determined to be light in her manner and kind in her thoughts toward this man. “Few tings delight me more than the stage.”

  “Th-ings,” Mr. Roundy corrected. “You must not say the d sound in place of the t-h. People will think you’re French.”

  Charlotte’s face heated up in an instant, but then he winked. Was he teasing her? Or warning her? “I am French,” she said. “And I will always sound French.”

  Mr. Roundy waved her words away. “Don’t worry yourself over your place of birth, I surely don’t, and I am determined to help you sound like an Englishwoman. In India, I taught a parrot to speak Latin. If I can teach a bird to speak like the Pope, I can help you.”

  Charlotte looked toward the heavy curtain on the stage and took a deep breath, her lightness gone and her embarrassment moving sharply into anger. She gathered her confidence and faced the man who wanted to fix her. “What if I don’t want to speak like an Englishwoman?”

  He smiled indulgently. “There are times when your accent will be most welcome, Miss Carpenter. Only in public do you need to act the part of a proper lady.” He reached out his hand and stroked her gloved forearm up to the base of her sleeve, then over the lace cuff to the neckline of her dress where he ran a finger across her collarbone.

  She shuddered and drew away under the guise of fixing her glove while giving him as polite a smile as she was able. Though his forwardness was unwelcome, the offense she felt quickly turned to relief. His behavior in just the few minutes they’d been together made her decision on whether or not to accept his suit an easy choice.

  When Charlotte spoke, she made no attempt to hide her accent. “Could we take rafraîchissements as well, s’il vous plaît?” She stood before he had a chance to answer. “I tink I should love a petit glass of champagne, monsieur.”

  She began moving toward the back of the box before he could put out his arm, and she stayed two steps ahead until they neared the entrance of the coffee room. Only then did she slow enough to take his arm. “We must keep up appearances, n’est-ce pas?”

  He took her arm but did not look pleased. That made two of them.

  Charlotte was not surprised to receive a summons to Lord Downshire’s office the next morning. In fact, she had gotten ready early and worn her rose-colored day dress—Lord Downshire’s favorite color on her . . . or so he had told her when she was twelve.

  Jane had been in Charlotte’s room when a maid delivered the message, but she only glanced at Charlotte before returning to her book. She knew Charlotte’s feelings regarding Mr. Roundy, but she did not know the content of the upcoming conversation.

  Charlotte had been thinking of an alternate plan for her future ever since first agreeing to attend the opera with Mr. Roundy, knowing she would need a secondary plan if she were going to reject his offer. As she made her way to Lord Downshire’s office, she sent a prayer heavenward that her guardian would agree to her alternative. If Lord Downshire did not agree to support her idea or tried to force her to accept Mr. Roundy’s suit, she didn’t know what she would do. She wished she could have hidden her mother’s rosary in the bodice of her gown.

  As with the last meeting, Charlotte stopped in the doorway of the study—full of dark wood furniture—until Lord Downshire invited her in. It was a bright morning, and sunlight fell on the rug in front of his desk.

  He pushed aside his ledger and looked at her with a smile. “I thought it a fine evening,” he said with enough enthusiasm to make Charlotte feel badly for having such a different experience. “Share with me your impressions?”

  “The performance was very good.”

  Lord Downshire paused. “And . . .”

  Charlotte sat straighter in her chair. “And I cannot marry Mr. Roundy.”

  Lord Downshire leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “He was very attentive to you, Charlotte.”

  “Yes, he was,” she agreed, but felt her shoulders and her tone tighten as she remembered the time spent in Mr. Roundy’s company. “He also claimed to be able to fix my accent; he has trained a parrot, you know, so a Frenchwoman should not be difficult. And he attempted to seduce me in de box.”

  “Oh, Charlotte, certainly he did not.”

  She explained, in detail, what he had said and done while they had been alone, swallowing her embarrassment at the memory. It was important for Lord Downshire to understand why she completely and absolutely objected to Mr. Roundy’s interest in her. “I feel no affection for him, milord, and I have no respect for him. I cannot be dis man’s wife. I cannot.”

  Lord Do
wnshire let out another heavy breath, and she imagined he was anticipating how he would tell Lady Downshire this news.

  Charlotte allowed him a few seconds before she spoke again. “But I believe I have another solution.”

  He met her eyes with caution and slightly furrowed brows.

  Charlotte swallowed and rubbed her fingers together as though they held her mother’s cross. “I am very grateful for all you have done for me, Lord Downshire, and I know dat everything I have—my education, my comfort, and my acceptance in England—is because of your influence and your care. In addition to giving me a home all dese years, you have managed the income John has extended to me and seen to my financial matters, for which I am very grateful. I feel, however, in light of my rejecting an offer dat would relieve your responsibility, perhaps it would be better for me to make a life of my own.”

  For the space of three ticks on the mantel clock there was silence in the room. Charlotte braced herself for Lord Downshire’s answer. Would he be offended that she was turning away from him or relieved that she was willing to take responsibility for herself?

  “You are only twenty and five years old,” Lord Downshire said in a tone so neutral that Charlotte could not interpret his feelings. “Too young to be an independent woman.”

  “If I were English, yes,” she said. “But I am not English, and I feel, in dis situation, I do not need to follow the English rules. You have done me great service, but I have become a burden to you and to Lady Downshire.”

  Lord Downshire’s jaw flexed, but he did not argue her point.

  “John’s income for me is enough that I believe I can find a comfortable situation.”

  “Charlotte,” he said, letting out a breath that sounded completely hopeless. “You cannot possibly understand the difficulties of managing a life of your own. You have never managed a household, nor balanced a ledger. You do not know the cost of a single one of your gowns. To allow you to try would be setting you up to fail.”