by Cach, Lisa
Evelina sank, her shoulders slumping, and looked again at Charles. His eyes met hers, and they exchanged a silent cry of helplessness. Their mamas had won.
Chapter Two
Charles marched down the pavement, barely conscious of the scene around him, having no destination in mind but that he get himself far from the house on Queen Square, where his mother still sat with her coconspirator, Mrs. Johnson.
Damn her! Damn her for knowing how to manipulate him, and damn her for treating him as if he were yet a child, unable to decide what was best for himself.
And damn his own self, for having assumed that what was his, was truly his. A gentleman was not supposed to work—that had been drilled into him by Mother his entire life—and yet that very circumstance left him at the financial mercy of his parents. The fact that Papa had earned most of his fortune through trade was Mother's deepest shame, although she obviously was not above using the fruits of his labor to get what she wished.
Damn, damn, damn.
It was the realization of his own powerlessness that made him furious, far more than what was being demanded of him. Although that alone was bad enough: parties and dances, and the constant company of a gaudy butterfly of a girl. A Spanish inquisitor could have devised nothing worse.
"Charles! God's bodkin, will you slow down?"
The voice startled him out of his self-absorption, and he stopped. Evelina Johnson trotted up beside him, the wide hoops of her skirt bouncing, the ridiculous moon in the middle of her forehead peeling up. Her maid remained several respectful steps behind.
He had forgotten they were with him, and he realized Evelina must have been nearly running to keep up with him. His error came as no surprise; he knew he was hopeless when it came to polite behavior, and especially to behaving with ease among women. He had an innate talent for saying exactly the wrong thing, and over the years his embarrassment over his ineptitude had caused him to avoid more and more the situations where he was likely to humiliate himself.
"My apologies," he said, and then resumed walking at a slower pace.
She made a noise in her throat, and when he looked at her she was bobbing her head around as if trying to convey some sort of message.
He stopped again. "What?"
She sighed and stepped around him so that she was on the side of the pavement nearest the buildings, while he was by the road. A dim memory stirred in his mind that this was how a gentleman and a lady were supposed to walk together.
"My apologies again," he said. He glanced at her, checking to see if there were any other basic rules he was forgetting, and when she gave him a little smile he flushed and resumed walking.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"I don't know." The sound of hammers and shouting workmen seemed to follow him wherever he went, pounding at his head; on almost every street there were new houses going up, and walking toward the edge of the city meant walking through a morass of construction, as Bath spread into the surrounding fields.
"If you have no destination, then would you mind if in our wanderings we passed by the Blue Ball, in Stall Street?"
"What is the Blue Ball?"
"A marvelous shop. They have all manner of ointments and perfumes, and excellent hair powders from France. Maybe you would like to buy some?"
He snorted. "I have no wish to turn my head into a powder puff, trailing dust wherever I go."
"It would be better than looking like a medieval serf, Charles."
She used his first name the same way his mother did, as if he were a small boy in need of correction. He should have been Mr. Highcroft to her, and no matter the dullness of his social skills, he recognized her use of his name as an insult rather than a sign of cozy familiarity. "Is that why you bury your own head in talc, Evelina, to avoid being mistaken for a peasant?"
"What a rude boy you are! I knew you would not recognize fine taste when you saw it; I knew it even before I met you!"
"I do not see what is such fine taste about turning your hair the color of my grandmother's."
"I wear my hair as the French do, and you would do well to follow my example. At least I do not look like a common country bumpkin."
"The country girls I've seen look far fresher for wearing their own hair, clean and shining in the sun."
"So you do notice the fairer sex, then? Your mama would be happy to hear it."
He felt his face go hot. "My mother knows little about me."
"She knew well enough how to manipulate you. What are these horses for which you are willing to endure my company?"
"You would not understand." He was in no mood to explain anything to this twittering little bird.
"Dear me, no, I probably wouldn't. I haven't a brain in my head, you know. I have to have dear Sally tell me if it is morning or night when I wake, I am so easily confused."
Despite his bad temper, he felt his lips curl in the hint of a smile. He'd managed to rile her. He glanced at her and suppressed a laugh. She could have no notion of how silly she looked, being cross while that crescent moon fluttered in the breeze, attached now to her forehead by only a single point. He noticed the red blemish she had been trying to conceal, and felt a bit of his usual bashfulness with women fade away. She had her vulnerabilities, just as he did.
"I had the good fortune to gain possession of a granddaughter of the Godolphin Arabian. You've heard of him?" he asked, feeling the familiar stir of excitement that came whenever he thought about the line he was trying to create.
"No. I do not know much about horses."
"Ah, well. Never mind."
She laid her hand on his arm, and her dark eyes looked up at him with amusement. "Sometimes the point of conversation is to impart new information. Some even find the unfamiliar to be interesting. Tell me, what is the Godolphin Arabian?"
He hesitated. She did not look like someone who would care a halfpenny about his breeding ambitions. "I do not wish to bore you."
"That's very gallant of you! Most young men are content to blither on whether their companion shows true interest or not. If you decide to listen to my advice about the hair powder and allow me to do something about those dreadful clothes you're wearing, we'll have you charming the garters off any number of young ladies."
He didn't know if she was joking or serious. And what was wrong with his clothes? Whatever momentary comfort in her company he had gained was gone, replaced by the familiar queasy anxiety.
She was still talking. "But to return to the topic: what is the Godolphin Arabian?"
This, at least, was one subject on which he could converse. If she became bored, he decided, she would have no one but herself to blame. "He is one of the three pure Arabians to appear in England over a quarter century ago. The Earl of Godolphin purchased him from a Quaker who had found the stallion in Paris, pulling a water cart. The horse had originally been a gift to Louis the Fourteenth by the sultan of Morocco."
"How did the Quaker know the stallion was special?"
"The Arabian is a distinctive horse, and the Barb is an extraordinary example of his breed. The story goes that it was the abuse the animal was suffering at the hands of its owner that prompted the Quaker to buy him, and that it was the former slave who had come with the stallion from Morocco who told the Quaker of the horse's history."
"Where was the slave while the horse was pulling the water cart?"
"Lurking nearby, I take it. He had been doing his best to watch over his beloved stallion, and after hearing the slave's tale the Quaker brought him to England along with the horse."
"What a dramatic story! Who would have thought a horse could have led such an interesting life? It’s worthy of a romantic novel."
He saw her sincere smile, and felt a bit of confidence return.
"And your mare? How did you obtain her?" she asked.
"She belonged to an acquaintance at Oxford, who got into debt. He was afraid to ask his father for money—it had gone badly for him the last time he had done so—and he k
new I was enamored of the horse. He sold her to me for a painfully large sum."
"Why are you smiling like that?"
"I was just remembering. His father was more furious that the mare, Desert Rose, had been sold than he likely would have been about the debts. My Oxford friend tried to buy her back, but I will never let her go. Never! She's mine now."
Evelina sighed and gave him a look he did not understand. "I think your mother may be correct, and you are in need of a wife."
What had that to do with the horse? "I don’t want a wife."
Which was, to some degree, a lie. He did not know what he would do with a wife during the day, but he had more than enough thoughts on how they would spend their nights. There were times it seemed he could think of nothing but that. His friends had often paid for the favors of women, but he had been too embarrassed to do the same. And then, just as frustrated desires had finally been enough to win over native shyness, one of his friends had become infected with syphilis. The thought not only of carrying such a burden, but of possibly passing it on to a future wife was too horrific for him to accept, and he had made the difficult choice of chastity over pleasure, promising himself that once married he would make up for missed opportunities.
Perhaps he did know what he would do with a wife during the days. Why limit lovemaking to nights?
"Of course you need a wife,” Evelina said. “Every man does.”
He didn't know what to say to that—how could he engage in any argument without treading upon topics unfit for discussion with a young lady?—so he turned the conversation back to her. "I should think that you need a husband more than I need a wife. I don't know why your parents don’t marry you off rather than take the trouble to set me as a watchdog upon you."
"I am certain they plan to, once they find a suitable fellow. Since I am their only child, they are cautious in their selection. Papa wants to know that his family's lands will be cared for after he’s gone."
"You must be giving them nightmares, worrying you'll end up carrying a fortune hunter's child." The comment slipped out before he had time to think better of it.
"I have my virtue, sir! I may dance and flirt and steal kisses, but I know my value and do not give myself freely, not to anyone!"
"Why steal the kisses? Why let others think you a strumpet? You make it more difficult for your parents to find a match for you. Or is that your intention?"
"Of course not! I am the one who will have to live with my husband; I should hope he is the best they can find."
"Then you are doing nothing to help. I should not want a wife with such a reputation as your mother claims you are building for yourself."
"And I would not want a husband who wears his stockings over his breeches and gets along better with horses than with people!"
An angry silence descended between them, and though they still walked side by side he felt as if there were a stone wall between them. He had no notion of how to bridge it, or even if he wished to. Got along better with horses than with people, did he?
Well, perhaps so, but she needn't throw it in his face like that. And what was so terrible about how he wore his stockings?
Did he do nothing right?
Their route had taken them to the bridge over the river Avon, where they stopped to take in the prospect, and where he briefly considered the joy that might be had from tossing Evelina over the rail. Likely he would lose his horses for certain, if he did.
From the bridge's span he could see a stone yard and wharf across the water, and the horse-drawn rail carts that went up the hill to Prior Park, and the quarries. His father was growing even wealthier by investing in the buildings those stones would construct, but all Charles saw when he looked at the stone yard was noise and disruption.
"The wharf spoils the view," Evelina said. She had her arms crossed and a petulant look on her face. Her maid stood silent and watchful, a few feet away.
He knew that he was likely more the target of her mood than the wharf, but he was relieved that she had broken the silence. He would try to be agreeable, to make up for his own comment on her apparent strumpethood. "You enjoy the countryside?"
"It has its beauties."
"I always wished I had grown up in the country rather than in London."
"And I wished the opposite. Although I do admit, when I was away at school, I missed our fields and woods terribly."
"Did you?" He leaned one elbow upon the wall of the bridge, regarding her with interest. He had not thought that one so obviously concerned with dress and makeup would be of a temperament to appreciate natural beauty.
"Of course." She gave him a look he could only interpret as wicked. "I was better able to slip away on my own in the woods, and to meet whom I pleased."
He stared at her, aghast, and she started to giggle, her hand coming up to cover her ruby-painted lips.
"Charles, there's no need to look at me so!" she said when she caught her breath, and lowering her hand she pushed him lightly on the arm, as if he were a dull-witted brother. "I was teasing. I was far more likely to meet a crofter's daughter and play house in an old tree trunk than I was to be making mischief with boys. Although there was that one young fellow who was willing to drop his breeches and let us look, if my friend and I would lift our skirts in exchange."
"D-did you?"
"We made him go first, and then ran away when it was our turn. We laughed whenever we saw him after that; he was always trailing after us, complaining that we had to pay our debt."
"Poor sod."
"You'd rather I had lifted my skirts?" The smile was still playing around her lips.
"No, I—" He fumbled, flustered. "I imagine the fellow was probably half in love with you, and received poor treatment for it."
"If he was half in love with me, he should have tried picking flowers instead of dropping his breeches. No, I doubt it was love that he had on his mind."
She was altogether too wise for a girl of eighteen. He felt the less worldly of the pair, and realized she probably had more experience of the tender interplay between man and woman than he. If ever she were to steal a kiss from him—not that he wished she would try!—she would likely laugh at his ineptitude, and then go searching for one better able to meet her desires.
Although, given the chance, he was certain he would learn to please a woman as well as any other man, if not better. Only not with her! He could not even tell the color of her hair, so covered was it in powder, although the warm dark brown of her eyes she could not hide.
He thought she might be a pretty thing, if not buried under all that makeup. She was willful and improper, and far too ready to speak her mind, but she was also plainly not one to hold long to a grudge or a bad humor, and had a ready laugh. Perhaps spending a bit of time with her would not be entirely the tribulation he had assumed.
"Could we go to the Blue Ball now?" she asked. "I think I have had enough of the view of the wharf, and there is a new edition of the Ladies' Guide that I wish to purchase. And while we are in Stall Street we can find you a new black ribbon for your hair. That one you are wearing is a disgrace."
Then again, perhaps spending time with her would be a torment of unforeseen proportions.
Chapter Three
"You needn't gloat, Mama." Evelina was in her bedroom, helping Sally to pack up a basket of entertainments she would be taking with her on her outing with Charles.
"Evelina, my darling, I wouldn't think of it. But I am glad to see that you will be out enjoying the fresh air. It must have been tiresome for you, being indoors all week."
"A drive into the country with Charles Highcroft will be nearly as great a bore, I expect." She had tested Mama's resolution this past week, making several attempts each day to leave the house, and pestering her with complaints in hopes of wearing her down. Mama had answered the assaults with the blank solidity of a castle's curtain wall, and outlasted the siege.
"Mind that you don't alleviate your boredom by trying to kiss the man. I
won't have you practicing your flirtations on him."
"I thought the very point of setting him as my watchdog was his indifference to feminine wiles. Are you worried he might behave less than honorably?" Now, there was an interesting thought. It might be entertaining to see if, instead of fainting dead away at an advance, Charles responded with enthusiasm. And then what a state Mama and Mrs. Highcroft would be in!
"No, of course not," her mama said, sounding very worried indeed. "All the same, you are to behave yourself." She paused, and then shook her head, as if laughing at herself. "But what was I thinking? No one, not even you, would wish to kiss such a loutish, homely sort as Charles."
"He is not loutish in the least. He is merely shy, and there is a certain backward charm to that." She was prompted to defend him by a perverse sense of loyalty to her fellow sufferer at the hands of manipulative mothers. "And I think he could be handsome, if he would take more care with his appearance."
"Nonsense. He is uncouth. But since you think that he is not devoid of appeal, I find I must absolutely forbid you to kiss him. And perhaps you should limit your outing today to no more than an hour."
"Mama! You must allow me more than that! Please!" She could not bear to stay inside for yet another day. Ten minutes ago she had been bemoaning her fate at being stuck with Charles, but now he was her deliverance from incarceration, and she wished she could be off with him at once.
"It would be safer to keep you at home."
"Please, Mama. I must go out; I simply must."
"Well... as long as you do not think of Charles as anything more than a chaperon. I know that Mrs. Highcroft would be as upset as myself—perhaps more so—to hear of a dalliance between the two of you."
"Would she! The arrogant old cow, she probably thinks I am not a good enough match for her precious son. Well, if he doesn't start to listen to my advice on dress and behavior, you can be sure that all she'll find for him will be the worst sort of fortune-hunting harlot."
