"No fortune-telling booths then." Charity sighed, as if making a great concession. "But I do worry what Mr. Ashton will say if we not only deprive Margo of her fortune-telling, but we also don't put in our customary order for destiny cakes from his bakery. There's no witchcraft in destiny cakes, surely, only a bit of amusement."
And so it went as they nibbled their biscuits, Charity conceding a little bit and keeping a great deal, the vicar glowering, knowing he was being cheated but too fond of her to point it out. But on one point he stood firm.
"No kissing booth. Absolutely none."
Mrs. Ferris, whose daughters wanted to staff this booth, stopped polishing long enough to hurrumph her agreement, but the vicar was caught up in his righteous wrath and didn't notice.
"I would be the scandal of the diocese if I sanctioned such depravity as the girls of the parish kissing the boys of the parish!"
"But, Mr. Langworth, they are doing it anyway." Charity's thoughts went inevitably to Lord Braden, wondering if he would purchase a kiss at a kissing booth if she were the kisser. With a wrench she forced the picture out of her mind and brought her attention back to the vicar. He was already pink with outrage, but practicality required one last effort. "At least with a kissing booth, the Tower Restoration Fund could benefit from the depravity."
"Not another word, Charity Calder!" The vicar, who was given to theatricality, raised his hand as if warding off temptation. "You'll not persuade me that the tower's foundation is so paltry it needs to be propped up with kisses!"
"Well, kisses will hardly bring it down, either!" Charity had never hoped to win the kissing booth, lucrative as it might have been. Still she sought a concession in return for dropping this demand. "We will need something to keep the young men occupied and peaceable. Sporting endeavors surely during the afternoon. An ale booth also—"
"You think ale will keep them peaceable?" The vicar, of course, had been known to heft a mug of ale on a hot summer afternoon, but in his Old Testament wrathful role, he disregarded this. "More likely it will lead to brawling and tendentiousness!"
"With Mrs. Hering regulating the supply?" Triumphantly she produced this trump card. "You know her own sons and nephews are the likeliest brawlers" That was true; the Hering boys were known for their pugilistic predilections but were all cowed by the family matriarch. "And, Mr. Langworth, you know it might be a conciliatory gesture to ask her to take charge of such an important concession, after your little disagreement with her."
The vicar muttered some annoyance to himself but said nothing more, and Charity knew she'd scored another point. Squire Hering was an important man in their little parish, and Mrs. Hering nearly as integrated into the church benevolence as Charity herself. The vicar could not long be on the outs with them. As Charity knew he would, he nodded grudgingly. But he made one last attempt to divert her.
"You did go out to Haver, didn't you, to help the countess? She is in a sad way, isn't she?"
Charity nodded, wary of his direction.
"Fortunate that her brother has arrived, of course. But I don't know that a man can be a great help in this sort of situation. Another woman, one as gifted in sympathy as you, however, can work miracles." The vicar smiled in what he must have thought was a conspiratorial way. "That is, at least, what I promised Lord Braden!" Somber again, he finally got to his point. "You must not lose sight of what is truly important, Charity. Organizing this Midsummer festival in meaningless compared to perhaps saving Lady Haver from the ultimate despair."
Long adept at controlling her temper, Charity did not object to this cynical use of Lady Haver's grief. She merely smiled sweetly. "You need not worry, sir. I shall have no trouble coordinating the two duties you have assigned me. Indeed, by the Midsummer fair, I promise you, she will be well on the way to health again."
With that bold prediction, she left the vicar to write his Sunday sermon, which would no doubt condemn Midsummer, paganism, revelry, and ale, and include a few barbs about kissing, too.
In the old church hall, Charity found the blond Ferris girls, daughters of the rectory housekeeper, engaged in their monthly task of washing down the whitewashed walls and plank floor. The floor was still slick from its washing, and Charity picked a careful way to the center of the hall. She turned around, imagining how many banquet tables it might hold. It was every bit as large as the church sanctuary, but barren of pews.
If Midsummer arrives wetly, Charity thought, we can hold the entire festival in here. But then the dance circle of twenty-four candles might burn the place down around their heads. She would just have to pray for sunshine, she decided, and hope that the Lord would dismiss the vicar's prayers for a hurricane.
In the meantime, the stage under the rose window, where the choir practiced, would make a good rehearsal place for the children's play. Over by the entry there was room to store the lumber for the booths; she would have to order the wood from Mr. Milton's yard after lunch. Perhaps he would see fit to donate the nails and lend the tools and even help out with the building, if she promised him one of their new retriever pups.
The Ferris girls were still scrubbing the west wall, one kneeling, one standing, one on tiptoe, all glancing over their shoulders at her. When she finally said, "Hullo, Polly. Molly, Dolly," they halted in their labors and turned eagerly to her.
"So," the eldest and boldest inquired with bright interest, propping her mop against the door, "do we get to do our kissing or no?"
"Polly, do you think me a miracle worker? I couldn't even get the words out before he thundered that he would never allow it. Your mother was quite in agreement, to judge by her expression."
Dolly, the youngest girl, giggled, but then, when Polly shot her a stern glance, she hushed and backed away into a pail of soapy water. Her apologetic murmur was barely audible in the clanging echoes the collision set up.
"Dolly, you are such a gawk." Polly dismissed her sister with a wave of her hand and turned back to Charity. "St. Ann's Parish, I hear, earned forty pounds from its kissing booth. Did you tell the vicar that?"
"No," Charity replied dryly. She picked up the discarded mop and used it to sop up the spill of soapy water before it stained the oak. "I thought he might come back with the amount the resulting parish bastards cost St. Ann's. It was never more than a gamble, Polly, you knew that. And—" She cast a knowing look at the other girl. "I shouldn't think any girl needs to shill for the Tower Restoration Fund to get a man to kiss her at Midsummer."
"But it's more fun in a booth with everyone looking!" Molly, the middle girl, had dreams of a stage career, and Charity, fresh from her aunt's box at Drury Lane, had to agree that kissing practice would probably further that ambition.
"Molly, you will just have to audition for the role of the princess in St. George and the Dragon! In the end, when you are saved by the brave St. George, you can throw your arms around him in a demonstration of gratitude."
Molly was pleased enough with the picture, but Polly, more discriminating, broke in. "Who's to be St. George then? If it's Malachi Morgan, Molly may have him. But I might give her a bit of a contest, if St. George is. . .. mmmm—" She glanced mischievously at Charity. "Crispin Hering, perhaps."
"I'm sure he'd love to be fought over." Charity kept her tone neutral. Crispin had always been one of her best friends, even after she rejected his marriage proposal.
"Or that new lord in the neighborhood. Him I'd kiss for free! Lady Haver's brother, what's his name?"
"Lord Braden," Molly supplied. "I hear he's ever so handsome. Could he be St. George?"
"I don't know." A vision of Lord Braden in armor flashed in Charity's mind, bringing with it the glimmer of an idea—two ideas, really. "What would you think, girls, of a St. George competition? Among the young men?"
All three of her advisors looked blankly back at her, and Charity sighed inwardly, wishing her tongue could keep up with her mind. "I mean, of course, what would you think of a contest, let me see, of swordplay and dragon-killing? A S
t. George sort of endeavor. The young men of the parish could demonstrate their skill, and the most proficient would be chosen St. George in the mummery play. No, Polly," she added, guessing the question hovering on the girl's full lips, "kissing will not be the skill tested."
Polly shrugged her disappointment, then brightened. "It's a thought, Miss Charity. All them young men gathered, stripped to the waist for the boxing—"
"No boxing," Charity said faintly, imagining the vicar's reaction. "Just fencing. St. George kills the dragon with his sword, after all. What do you think?"
"When will it be held?"
"Say a fortnight. That would give us time to get the word round. We could do it in an evening, and all the men—bachelors, only, of course—would be invited to compete."
"It's a lovely idea, it is." Dolly spoke up for the first time. "Men like to compete, they do, and if you charge an entry fee—"
"Dolly, you are a genius." Charity smiled warmly on the abashed girl. "An entry fee. Just a few shillings, but that will pay for supplies to build the dragon. Now which do you think will want to compete?" She considered her brothers: Francis would never risk winning and then having to dress up in costume—he was so very stuffy. Barry, if he could get down from Oxford, would think it a great lark, but he was too gangly to be much of a swordsman. Ned, now Ned would have loved it, competing with his friends, garnering the congratulatory kisses of the ladies afterwards
"Crispin Hering would never turn down a dare," Polly remarked. She smiled in such a way to suggest that she had dared him once and he hadn't failed her, and Charity wondered just what form that challenge had taken.
"His cousins, too," Molly put in. "All the Herings love to fight. Who else?"
"Malachi." Dolly's voice dropped into gloom at that last syllable; the innkeeper's son was obnoxiously competitive.
"What about Lord Braden? Is he adept at swordplay?"
Polly looked archly over, and Charity realized that she had been designated expert on the elusive artist, having met the man once already. "I don't know," she snapped, turning to leave and colliding with Dolly's bucket. Then she recalled her second brilliant idea. She turned slowly back to the girls. "Why don't you ask him yourself? You can, if you go up to Haver Hall and help me put it to rights. It needs—oh, just a bit of cleaning."
"Just a bit?" Polly picked up tier mop and turned back to stretch for the cobweb in the corner above the doorframe. "How long's it been since the housekeeper left? Two months?"
"Perhaps more than a bit," Charity admitted. "But if they haven't paid a housekeeper in two months, the pay is likely to be more than a bit. In fact—" She clapped her hands as if she had just been struck with a joyous thought. "Lady Haver's going to be in mourning dress forever. I wonder . . . she has no lady's maid to be given her old gowns. I might persuade her to give you a few silk dresses in time for the Midsummer Banquet."
This last incentive swept away all of Polly's unspoken objections, and she tossed her mop to Molly, who caught it and gazed at her with scant comprehension. "You finish the floor. I'll get the wall done, and then we'll go earn our silks."
"I never had nothing silk," Molly said, wistfully ducking her mop into the bucket of water. "Does it feel lovely?"
Charity moved back into the doorway before Polly's energetic swiping splashed dirty water on her new dress. "Silk feels exquisite. Especially to men. They just love to let silk run through their hands."
"And they call me wicked." Polly looked back, laughing. "Is that silk you're wearing now? Is some man going to run his hands through it? Her ladyship's brother maybe?"
"It's only muslin, worse luck." Charity glanced deprecatingly down at her peach gown strewn with violet knots, refusing to let Polly discompose her anymore. After all, they had known each other all their lives and compared notes about the kisses of every one of the squire's boys. So she answered back in the same teasing way. "I couldn't justify silk for a picnic. Not in Kent. In London, of course, a picnic calls for a satin court gown, near enough!"
She made a last survey of the hall, then went out the door, calling back over her shoulder, "You'll be up this afternoon, then? I'll tell them to expect you. Silk, remember. You must do an impeccable job to deserve it!"
Cammie, the Calder governess, was waiting as arranged by the front gate of the churchyard, sitting on the wall, her round face raised to the sun, a carpetbag at her feet. Charity felt a moment's unease, seeing that carpetbag. It seemed so permanent, as if Cammie were leaving them forever. And perhaps she would leave, for once Charlie went off to school there would be little for her to do. If Joey were still at home, of course, she'd have stayed for him.
But Haver needed her more now, Charity told herself firmly. "Cammie, let's go!" she cried, and the old governess rose and gathered up her bag.
"Yes, we'd best get on."
And so they set off at a goodly pace down High Road. At the west end of it, a quarter-mile away, Haver Hall rose in a great block like a sphinx crouched over the village. But Cammie wasn't cowed, not by the hall or its inhabitants. Indeed, when Charity paused to tug up a clump of weeds from around the signpost that announced "Entering Village of Calder," Cammie snorted with some impatience.
"Come, girl, if we linger much longer, we might not be in time to save the ancestral legacies from the new earl's mischief!"
Chapter Five
In fact, they arrived just in time to preserve the suit of armor in the munitions gallery. Mrs. Cameron took one look at Lawrence hanging on the handle of the mace and said, "Off. This instant."
The voice that had cowed six lion-hearted Calder children had a predictable effect on young Lawrence. His hands opened slightly and he dropped to his feet, his shoulders hunching around his dirty face. Jeremy sidled toward the door, where Charity stood laughing silently. "Who's that?" Jeremy asked, in what he supposed was a confidential whisper.
"That is my governess, Mrs. Cameron. Mrs. Cameron, Cammie, we always called her, this is Jeremy, and that miscreant is Lawrence."
"What's a miscreant?" Jeremy asked.
"Something we'll have no more of." Cammie was a round, comfortable woman with plump arms and a welcoming bosom under her crisp white apron. But her face was as austere as a nun's now, the full mouth pursed as she stared down at Lawrence. "I don't believe in bad boys."
"You don't believe in them?" Jeremy repeated, for Lawrence seemed to have been struck dumb by this new acquaintance.
"No, I don't. I only believe in boys who need healthy outlets for their energy. Like schoolwork."
Lawrence's mouth opened and closed in wordless protest. But Cammie continued inexorably, "And chores. And—" she added when Lawrence started to speak, "dogs. Puppies, to be precise. I do value precision, don't you, Lawrence?"
"Puppies?" Lawrence looked wary, for he'd spent most of his life in London, where puppies did not thrive.
"Yes, puppies. Sir Francis's retriever had eight. He's sent two over for your birthday."
"My birthday was last month." Lawrence's eyes filled with tears, and Charity knew that he was the only one who had remembered.
But Cammie only shrugged. "Master Lawrence, they weren't three weeks old then! We could hardly give them to you before they were weaned!"
"No, I suppose not." Lawrence rubbed away his tears with the heel of his hand, leaving dirty stripes behind. "What about Jeremy? His birthday's in August."
"He has to get his present early, for his new pets must meet their new master before they become too enamored of Calder Grange. Puppies form attachments very early, you know. You don't mind, do you, Jeremy, getting your gifts early?"
Jeremy said promptly, "No, ma'am. What about the others?"
"Oh, two are for sale, I think, and two are staying with our young Charlie. He's right fond of them already. And he's already fulfilled the first duty of ownership for them, which you'll have to do straightaway. You must give your pets names."
"Now, Cammie," Charity interposed. After a decade together, she and her g
overness worked in perfect tandem. "Lawrence's and Jeremy's puppies already have very fine names. The boys needn't go to the trouble of coming up with new ones."
Jeremy nodded, for he was a deliberate boy, and coming up with two puppy names might take him all day. But Lawrence was more adventuresome. "What are they named now?"
"The first is named A, and the second B, and the third C, and the fourth—"
"D!" Jeremy shouted triumphantly. "And then there's E and F!"
He might have gone through the whole alphabet if Lawrence hadn't broken in. "Those are stupid names! I won't call my puppies A and B!"
Charity looked doubtful. "Well, they sounded fine to me. Here, A! Sit, B! Don't you think that sounds fine?"
Cammie ignored her former charge and turned to the young earl. "I am in entire agreement with you, Lawrence. A and B are perfectly good letters but lamentable names. We shall get out an atlas, and a dictionary, and a book of constellations, and find some proper names for your puppies. Let's go meet them and see if inspiration strikes or whether we shall have to make a search for just the right appellation."
The boys trooped off obediently after Cammie, Jeremy asking, "What's an appellation?"
Charity went back out to the carriage yard, wondering if Jeremy would grow up to be a lexicographer or merely obnoxious. Having loosed the puppies in the empty stable yard, Jem, the Calder coachman, was waiting near the gig with the rest of Cammie's luggage and Charity's luncheon things. She asked him to take the luggage up to the schoolroom. "Do be careful on the staircase," she added. "Those boys have probably greased the treads."
Alone again, she hauled the picnic basket out of the gig and carried it around the east wing of the hall to the weed-choked gardens. She skirted the stagnant lily pond, enjoying the flutter of her heart as she thought of Lord Braden somewhere in the house. It was altogether too wonderful that the artist of the paintings she so admired would become a neighbor, and that he would turn out to be so very attractive. Perhaps
Charity Begins at Home Page 6
