Standing in front of the house for the first time, Charlotte studied the classic Colonial-style architecture with a hint of Dutch influence. From Richard’s clothing and the way he carried himself, she almost expected to see French accents as could be found in many of the major cities throughout America, or even the newer Renaissance revival style with a wide, covered front porch. But instead, this home remained true to some of the original settlers in the area. And it blended well with the other homes on the street.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” The footman stood next to her and shared her view. When she looked his way, he took a step back and ducked his head.
“Yes, it is stunning,” she said with a smile.
He seemed surprised she had replied, so he offered a smile in return. Another carriage approached. The footman glanced at it then extended his arm toward Charlotte while signaling another footman to escort Anastasia. But Charlotte remained on the front walk, transfixed by the beauty of the estate.
A handful of elm trees grew tall and protected the home set back about forty feet from the street. Two brick walks wound away from where she stood, one to the home and the other to the carriage house set farther back. It was near the end of June, and the wide variety of flowers planted out front blossomed in an array of colors, shapes, and sizes.
The footman cleared his throat, and Charlotte started.
“Oh! I am terribly sorry. You have other carriages that need your attention. Please forgive me for dawdling.” She placed her hand in the crook of his arm and allowed him to escort her, with Anastasia and her footman close behind.
“It is quite all right, miss. Happens from time to time.”
Many of the guests had likely already arrived, and she didn’t wish to be tardy. They made their way down the brick path and ascended the five marble steps to the front porch where a butler swung wide the door.
“Miss Charlotte Pringle and Miss Anastasia Pringle,” the footman announced. The man bowed and took his leave.
A moment later, the butler ushered them inside. After taking their wraps, he directed Charlotte into the parlor to the right, but pointed Anastasia in another direction. Her sister disappeared with hardly a word, so Charlotte stepped into the other room. A maid wove her way through the other guests and held a tray of glasses filled with punch and various other beverages.
Charlotte took a glass of punch and sipped it as she blended in with the other guests and took time to observe the furnishings of the room. The faint sound of children laughing carried from one of the adjoining rooms. No doubt the pre-dinner fun and games for Grace’s friends, Charlotte mused. That was likely where she’d find Anastasia, too. At least it seemed her sister would be having a great time. And Charlotte might too, once dinner was served. But this party wasn’t for the adults. Most were likely there as chaperones or attending at Richard’s request. So she again focused her attention on the décor.
The sofas and chairs were covered in crimson-and-black satin damask with their ends deeply tufted. The rosewood frames, delicately carved, had been polished until the wood gleamed. A grand piano sat in the corner where a young gentleman played soft strains of a pleasing melody. Even the satin drapes hanging from the doorway at the far end matched the crimson of the carpet under her feet. And the oval end tables were graced with sienna marble instead of the white slab her parents had.
The various decorative items placed here resembled their parlor, but the quality far outshone anything they had. Charlotte could only imagine the expense involved if the entire residence had been decorated in the same manner. The quality alone likely cost Richard’s brother or father twice as much as what her parents had paid to decorate. The only aspects that seemed similar were the wallpaper patterns and the chandelier suspended from the ceiling in the center of the room.
She almost felt like an imposter. Her family had a great deal of wealth, but nothing compared to this. Yet for all the finery and obvious evidence of financial holdings, Richard and his niece remained genuine and approachable. They didn’t allow their social status to affect how they treated others—one of many good points in their favor.
Still, it felt strange: recognizing that Richard’s family must have spent a small fortune on these things, yet knowing he didn’t have access to the money that would give his niece a much-needed operation. In many ways, it seemed unfair.
“It is sad, is it not,” a woman standing next to Charlotte said, “to see such a finely decorated home and know of their struggle to settle the affairs following his brother’s passing.” She took a sip of her champagne and lowered her glass, the base clinking against the brooch pinned to her gown. With her left hand, she fingered the three rings on her right, each piece featuring a precious gemstone of a different color and cut. Even her finely coiffed hair was adorned with a delicate bejeweled tiara. “Why, it is almost as if they have nothing at all and are merely overseeing this home until the real owners return.”
Charlotte wanted to ask why a woman like her didn’t offer to donate something to Richard and his niece in order to help. But she didn’t know the woman, and it would be rather impolite to pose such a question.
“Still,” the woman continued. “I admire Mr. Baxton for seeing his niece receives the proper care and remains with family instead of one of those dreadful institutions in Wilmington or Philadelphia.”
“Yes,” Charlotte replied. “Not many would go to such great lengths. And little Grace is obviously benefiting from it.”
The woman looked at Charlotte as if realizing for the first time she spoke with a stranger. “So, how did you come to meet Grace and her uncle?”
Charlotte hesitated before answering. How much should she tell to this woman? How well did she know the family? “I have had the good fortune of speaking with them on several occasions, but mostly Mr. Baxton. I have only spent a couple of hours with Grace.”
“And what do you do, dear, that has led to your path crossing theirs?”
The woman seemed genuinely interested, and she hadn’t yet given any indication that she might be less than trustworthy, so Charlotte decided to be completely honest.
“I own a bookshop in Brandywine, and Mr. Baxton has visited more than once to purchase books for Grace.”
Recognition dawned in the woman’s eyes. “Ah, so you’re the bookshop owner I’ve heard so much about!” She set her near-empty glass on the tray as the maid walked by, then grabbed both of Charlotte’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “I am very pleased to meet you, my dear. My name is Florence Lewis, but those who know me call me Flo.” A twinkle entered her eyes as she released Charlotte’s hands and leaned in close. “I used to be Richard and Elliott’s nursemaid from the time they were in diapers to when they grew up on me and started their first jobs.”
A woman who used to care for Richard and his brother as young lads certainly had to be honorable. “Charlotte Pringle, ma’am. I am pleased to meet you as well.” But if she used to be a nursemaid, how was she now adorned with fine jewelry and able to afford an expensive gown?
“You are no doubt curious about my appearance,” she said, laughing when Charlotte attempted to protest. “It is quite all right. I am often asked that very question. And the answer is that once the lads no longer needed me, I remarried and gained a rather substantial fortune.” She waved her hand. “But enough about me. You say you own a bookshop in Brandywine?”
“Yes. Cobblestone Books. It is directly across from the east entrance to the park.”
“I might just have to take a carriage ride out your way sometime.” She gave Charlotte a conspiratorial wink. “See what all the fuss is about. Although after meeting you, I have a feeling it’s about more than the books you sell.”
Warmth stole into Charlotte’s cheeks at the telling remark. Hearing this woman talk did make Charlotte wonder just what Richard—or possibly Grace—had said about her. She hadn’t considered the possibility anyone would speak of her out here in Ashbourne Hills. Then again, why not? Any word spread would be
good for business.
“Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen,” the butler announced. “Please make your way to the dining room.”
Charlotte joined the flow of guests as they moved from the parlor and headed toward the dining room. If the first room had been impressive, this one was extraordinary. Several large mirrors with gilded frames flanked two of the walls. Large portraits of two rather distinguished gentlemen—who appeared to be Richard’s father and grandfather—adorned the wall behind the head of the table, and three stately windows with brocade curtains were spaced a few feet apart on the fourth wall.
The polished mahogany table in the center of the room gleamed, and Charlotte could see the reflection of those already gathered around the table in its surface. More guests filtered in, but she held back. She seemed to be the only one unaccompanied.
“Miss Pringle!”
Grace’s delighted voice rang out across the room, and all heads turned. Charlotte looked up to see the young girl wheeling herself in through a door opposite where she stood, her young friends trailing close behind. The adult guests followed the girl’s line of focus and landed on her. Charlotte tried not to notice and kept her eyes on Grace.
“You came!” She maneuvered to the head of the table and pointed at two empty chairs to her left. “These seats are for you and Anastasia. I made a special request when I received your reply saying you would come tonight.”
In the most unassuming manner she could manage, Charlotte made her way to the table and stood by her seat, making sure to put her sister directly to Grace’s left. Grace beamed. Her reaction made the entire evening worthwhile. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder about the other guests. How had she and Anastasia earned such a place of honor above everyone else? Surely someone like Flo or one of Grace’s friends or even another family member should be sitting there. Then again, it seemed as if Grace’s family occupied the seats on the other side of the table. A woman who had to be Grace’s grandmother sat to Grace’s right, putting Richard directly across from Charlotte. Flo was next in line. Not the order Charlotte would have expected, but who was she to be critical?
Her thoughts were once again interrupted by the arrival of their host, resplendent in dark trousers, a white ruffled shirt and black bow tie, and a dark coat with tails. Richard stood behind Grace and rested his hands on the back of her chair, then quickly scanned the faces of everyone seated at the table. When his gaze landed on Charlotte, he gave her a quick wink. She tried to keep the blush at bay, but she’d never seen him look so handsome.
“I’d like to thank everyone for coming this evening. You all know we are here to celebrate the joyous occasion of Grace’s birthday.” He moved his hands to his niece’s shoulders. “All of you offered your support to us when we needed it most. Thanks to that support, we are able to share together a special day for a very special girl.” He looked down the table, his gaze resting on each guest on both sides of the table. “I couldn’t think of a better way to thank you than to invite you and your families here to enjoy a delicious meal.”
“Uncle Richard?” Grace twisted her neck and looked up at Richard. “Can I say a prayer before we begin?”
He squeezed her shoulders and smiled. “Of course. Would everyone please bow their heads?”
It was more a command than a request, but every guest complied. Charlotte added another quality to the growing list of desirable traits: Richard made no attempts to hide his faith from his guests, whether they believed or not.
“Dear Jesus, thank You for all these friends who came tonight to celebrate with me. Every one of them is special to me and to You. Thank You for putting them in my life and for their help after my accident. Please bless our dinner and this entire evening. In Your name, amen.”
Murmurs of agreement and other rumblings sounded all the way down the table. Grace’s words had clearly touched almost everyone there. Charlotte shifted her gaze to Richard. After pulling out his chair and taking a seat, he extended his arms toward his guests.
“Let’s get this dinner under way.”
Several footmen attended to the ladies present, reaching for the napkins on the table and fanning them out before placing them in the ladies’ laps.
In a matter of moments, the soft din of voices rose from the table. Flo pressed against the table.
“My dear, I am quite pleased at the company in which I find myself. I cannot imagine a more enjoyable dinner companion.” The woman shifted her attention to her left. “Richard, you have done a fine job in assigning the seats here at this end. I had the fortune of meeting Miss Pringle in the parlor just prior to being called to dine. And now I can not only discover more about her”—she cast a glance at Charlotte—“but I can also divulge some amusing stories about when this gentleman was a boy.”
Richard raised one eyebrow in Flo’s direction. “Now, now, Miss Flo.” His amused tone belied the warning in his words. “Don’t you go telling tales and destroying my carefully constructed respectable image. I shall never forgive you.”
“Oh fiddlesticks.” Flo waved off his protest. “You know very well I mean no harm. It shall all be in good fun.”
“And I would love to hear stories again of Uncle Richard when he was my age,” Grace chimed in.
Flo gave a single succinct nod, the mass of hair atop her head wobbling with the action. “And so you shall, sweet girl. So you shall.”
Salads were placed in front of them, and they halted their conversation for a few moments. After waiting for everyone to be served, the guests looked to Grace to take her first bite. She did and Richard waved his fork in the air to encourage everyone else to do the same.
After eating her first forkful, Flo picked up where she left off. “Now, where shall I begin? Should it be with the time when your uncle and father painted one of the carriage horses a healthy shade of pink? Or perhaps the story of how they managed to escape their father at the shipyard in Wilmington and wound up dousing several torches along the main street.”
Charlotte pressed her lips closed against the laughter. How embarrassing it would be if she spit out some of her food before she had a chance to swallow it.
Richard swallowed his recent bite and placed his right hand on his chest, fork held between his fingers. “In my defense, the painted horse was in honor of our mother who had read us a story about colorful animals. Elliott and I decided to give her a live one.” He gave Flo a mock angry glare, but the twitching at the corner of his lips gave him away. “As for the torches, just be grateful the lamps still ran on fire or gas. By this time next year, we’ll likely have electric street lamps in all the major cities and towns here in Delaware.”
“Electric lights? Really?” a young lad spoke up from Charlotte’s left. He must be a friend of Grace’s, or at least a friend of the family to be sitting in such close proximity to Grace.
“Clarence! Mind your manners. You speak only when spoken to.” The petite woman who must be Clarence’s mother spoke in a firm hush then looked at Richard. “I am sorry, Mr. Baxton.”
He dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Fillmore. Young Clarence here is merely excited. . .as we all are, no doubt. Electric lights will bring an air of distinction to our priLaura city and nearby towns.” He glanced at Flo. “And mischievous boys won’t be able to douse them out quite so easily.”
Their salads were removed and replaced by steaming bowls of French onion soup. Charlotte eagerly sampled the delicious broth. Silence fell upon the table as many took their initial fill of the second course. A few minutes later, Flo resumed the conversation.
“Yes, but electric lights might present an entirely different level of temptation.”
A man Charlotte assumed to be Mr. Fillmore made quick order of his soup and laid his spoon in the empty bowl, then rested his forearms on the edge of the table. “No more than the dynamite and nitroglycerin being manufactured by at least one of the Du Pont Company factories. If young lads succumb to the lure of mischief, they
may be more fascinated by explosions than the buzz and hum of electric lamps.”
“What do you think, Clarence?” Grace asked between sips of soup. “Would you prefer the electric lights or the dynamite?”
An impish grin played on his lips, matching perfectly with his unkempt and tousled hair. “I would definitely prefer the dynamite.” He glanced across the table at his parents and composed himself like a dutiful son should. “But I would never play with something that dangerous. Besides,” he said as he looked back at Grace, “there are more than enough ways to cause a little mischief right here in Ashbourne Hills.”
Mr. and Mrs. Fillmore both shook their heads. Charlotte smiled down at Clarence and winked. He winked right back.
“You know,” Richard spoke up. “Why don’t we move Clarence here to the end of the table next to Grace.” He looked at the two women who flanked his sides. “Mother? Would you ladies mind shifting down one seat to allow this young lad to be closer to the girls?”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Baxton replied.
He smiled at his former nursemaid. “And Miss Flo? You could move to sit next to Charlotte.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Flo said with a mischievous grin as she, Clarence, Richard, and his mother played musical chairs.
“Clarence,” Charlotte said once everyone was settled again, “you might consider reading The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County by Mark Twain. I believe you will like it.”
“Is that the same author who wrote about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn?”
“The very same.” Charlotte finished her soup and patted her mouth with her napkin. “I have a copy in my bookshop in Brandywine, but you can likely find it right here in Ashbourne Hills at one of the shops in town.”
Bound By Grace Page 10
