Springtime Pleasures

by Sandra Schwab

  “Armed?” If possible, Lady Isabella’s voice had become even fainter.

  A new difficulty occurred to Charlie. “Or would it be considered unladylike to carry a blunderbuss on one’s person?” She leaned forward and whispered confidingly, “I have the most awful time to sort such things out if you must know. My friend Emma-Lee thinks me a hopeless case.”

  “Ah,” Lady Isabella breathed, and fainted.

  Charlie blinked. “Oh dear. Whatever have I done wrong this time?—Eh, groom? Groom!?”

  ~*~

  Miss Carlotta Stanton to Miss Emma-Louise Brockwin, by Two-penny Post

  My dearest Emma-Lee,

  are you in need of a pistol? I obtained another one when some ruffian tried to rob Lady I. and me in the Park this morning. But never fear: I taught him the Error of His Ways. Still, the number of ruffians in this part of the country is shocking, I find. I have decided to carry my blunderbuss with me at all times & thus must needs sew myself a larger reticule.—Lady I. told me the most shocking story about Lord Chanderley, her brother (whom I met at the F’ham ball), & the older Chanderley, who, it w’d seem, was too stupid to drive a phaeton & got himself killed. I think it is monstrous that poor Chanderley (current) is blamed for his brother’s idiotishness. No wonder the poor man’s complexion is already marred by lines! He told me he was an Indifferent Dancer, but I daresay it’s the Ghastly Treatment he receives from his family that has thrown him into a Blue Funk. For who doesn’t like Balls & Assemblies?

  Yours most affectionally, C.

  PS: Do you know where to obtain ammunition for firearms?

  PPS: Do you know whether wild boars are considered a fitting topic for Conversation in Polite Society? Lady I. looked at me most strangely when I mentioned them. I hope I did not disconcert her.

  Chapter 5

  in which our heroine receives a call

  & resolves to take dire measures

  The next morning, Miss Carlotta Stanton received a call. It was the first ever caller who had come for her in her London Season, and Aunt Dolmore was suitably confused when he asked to see Carlotta instead of her own daughter. Whatever could Viscount Chanderley want from Charlotte of all people?

  True, he had danced with the girl at the Featheringham ball, but then many other young gentlemen had danced with her as well, and so far none of them had deemed it necessary to call on her. And why would they, when the girl was afflicted with such unfashionable tallness? Truly, she must seem like a giantess to the gentlemen! And to everybody else, of course, too. It was only to be hoped that the girl’s embarrassing height would not have an adverse impact on Caroline’s chances, especially as Mr Clarke, the future Baron Moreton, had shown some interest in her.

  All things considered, it was imperative that nothing stood in the way of Caroline’s chances this Season, so it was most heartless of Mr Dolmore to insist they launch the girl that had resulted from his sister’s embarrassing mésalliance into society. What would people think? More importantly, what would Mr Clarke think? Only because Mr Dolmore had promised his sister—a most ungracious and impertinent young woman—to look after the girl? It was preposterous!

  But of course, Mr Dolmore refused to see sense, even though she had impressed upon him in the strongest possible sense how very important this Season was for his own daughter. Men so often didn’t understand such delicate situations. She was almost certain that Mr Dolmore didn’t understand this one. But—oh!—once the bloom had vanished from poor Caroline’s cheeks and she was past the first blush of youth and bound to… to… spinsterhood, the poor, poor girl, because her suitors had been frightened away, Mr Dolmore would be sorry. He would be sorry indeed.

  So when Viscount Chanderley called to see Charlotte, Mrs Dolmore might be puzzled, yet at the same time she knew when to grab a chance that was thrown her, or rather, Caroline’s, way. True, Chanderley was not the best catch of the Season—not even the third, fourth or fifth best, if truth be told, for even if he was heir to an earldom, he had as good as killed his brother, who had been the true heir. The present Chanderley was nothing but an upstart spare.

  Still, Mrs Dolmore reasoned, a bird in the hand was worth more than two in the bush. And Mr Clarke was very much a bird in the bush, Mrs Dolmore was realistic enough to admit. But if Lord Chanderley’s interest could be raised—however objectionable his past demeanour—that would be no mean feat.

  Moreover, she naturally could not leave Charlotte alone with the viscount. That would have been most improper, after all.

  She would have wished that Caroline had worn a nicer dress this morning, but nothing could be done about that now, except to arrange Caroline to best effect in the middle of the room. Mrs Dolmore quickly tugged a stray hair of her daughter’s in place, muttering irritably, “We must look for a new maid. Mary does your coiffures in the most sloppy manner. It is disgraceful!”

  “Hush, Mama,” Caroline said, an excited gleam in her eyes. Well, it was not every day that a viscount paid one a call.

  Mrs Dolmore ignored her admonishment. “Remember that you don’t let your shoulders droop,” she hissed. “That is most unbecoming in a girl.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “And don’t forget to smile! You have good teeth, so there’s no need to hide them!”

  A sigh. “Yes, Mama.”

  “And—”

  The door opened.

  Mrs Dolmore quickly dashed to the settee—

  “The Right Honourable the Viscount Chanderley,” Jenkins intoned.

  —and sat down.

  Chanderley entered the room, rather nicely dressed in a dark blue coat.

  “Lord Chanderley!” Mrs Dolmore beamed and stood. “What a pleasant surprise!” From the corner of her eyes she could see that Caroline had risen as well. It was to be hoped that Charlotte had followed suit.

  Chanderley bowed rather becomingly, and the women curtsied. “How do you do,” he murmured and, glancing up, his gaze sought Charlie’s.

  “What a splendid day, is it not?” Aunt Dolmore beamed at him. “It did look like rain before breakfast, but thankfully this proved to be a false alarm.—Won’t you take a seat, my lord? Shall I ring for tea? Caroline, dear, do ring for tea.”

  “Thank you, but I cannot stay long,” Chanderley cut in hastily and shot an apologetic look at Cousin Caroline, who had half risen to follow her mother’s instructions.

  Caroline’s mouth shrank into a pout.

  “I… ehm… ah…” His gaze slid to Charlie once again. The poor man positively fidgeted in his chair.

  Moreover, it seemed to Charlie that the lines in his face, the grooves that ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth, were more deeply carved into his flesh than when she had first met him. Being accused of having murdered one’s brother, however unintentionally, must be a most horrid affliction and one that obviously deeply tormented him.

  She gave him an encouraging smile.

  He blinked.

  Aunt Dolmore’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “It was such a pleasant surprise to see you at Mrs Featheringham’s ball, my lord. Wasn’t it, Caroline?” she said merrily. “If you must know, my lord, my daughter is a splendid dancer, and I am sure she would be happy to give you a few discreet hints if you find your technique has grown rusty.”

  “Oh Mama!” Caroline trilled a laugh. “I am sure that only the harshest critic would find anything amiss with Lord Chanderley’s dancing technique. But of course I would be most happy indeed to give you any hints if you would deem that necessary, my lord.” She batted her lashes, which, however did not seem to have the desired effect, as Lord Chanderley just stared at her blankly.

  Why was it, Charlie mused, that London society delighted in ever so much inane conversation? And the poor man did not even like dancing! She shook her head. “How is your sister, my lord?” she asked in an attempt to change the topic. She vividly remembered his uneasiness at the beginning of their set. Dancing as a subject of conversation was surely not going to put him at e
ase.

  “She is well.” His expression eased a fraction, and the warm look he bestowed upon her made her insides prickle. “I must thank you–”

  “Dear Lady Isabella!” Aunt Dolmore cut in. “We were all much surprised to see her at the Featheringham ball.”

  “It must be so sad for her to see other people dance,” Cousin Caroline added, her voice as sweet as syrup. “Poor girl. It quite wrenched my heart when I saw her sitting there at the edge of dancing floor.”

  Chanderley’s features seemed to turn to rock. His lips thinned.

  Oblivious, Aunt Dolmore gave her daughter a misty smile. “Dear Caroline. She is such a soft-hearted girl, my lord. Seeing a mouse caught in a trap will make her cry for the poor creature.”

  Charlie frowned. Were they actually comparing Lady Isabella to a trapped rodent? Swift anger rose inside her and she opened her mouth. “I don’t think–”

  “Do you think it wise to bring Lady Isabella to a ball?” Aunt Dolmore overrode her. “She must be so ill at ease seeing all those people doing things she can no longer do.”

  The set of Chanderley’s shoulders became even more rigid than a few moments before. “I am sure your concerns are kindly meant,” he said, his voice hard. “But you address them to the wrong person. Lady Lymfort would be most gratified to hear that you are taking such a great interest in my sister.” Abruptly, he rose from his chair. “And now you must excuse me. Good day.”

  He had left the room even before Aunt Dolmore had been able to complete her adieus.

  Cousin Caroline huffed. “What an ungracious, ill-mannered lout. Storms out of a room like… like… like a juggernaut.”

  “Oh hush, Caroline,” Aunt Dolmore snapped. Then she rounded on Charlie. “As to you, miss—in the future you will kindly remember to not interrupt the conversations of other people. It is most unbecoming.”

  “I did not—”

  “Do you think he would have stayed longer, Mama, if Charlotte hadn’t reminded him of his crippled sister?” Caroline demanded.

  “Crippled?” Charlie exclaimed.

  Her aunt shot her a fulminating glance. “Charlotte,” she said warningly.

  Cousin Caroline merely shrugged. “Is it true that he is looking for a wife?” She gave a delicate shudder. “I must admit I do not envy his future bride in the least. Poor girl. All the ton will be running bets how long she will last before he murders her.”

  Seething, Charlie stomped out of the drawing room, her fingers twitching with the desperate urge to throttle her relatives. Miss Pinkerton would have never tolerated such maliciousness as had been displayed in that room.

  Memories of dear, old St. Cuthbert’s whispered through Charlie’s head—the dreams she had had, all those hopes for her exciting new life in London… Unexpected tears pricked at her eyes.

  Impatient, she blinked them away and took a deep, calming breath. Think of poor Chanderley. Think of what he has to endure. Somebody ought to help the poor man. It was grossly unfair that everybody seemed to blame him for the death of his stupid brother. Somebody ought to take action.

  Yes, Charlie thought. Somebody ought.

  ~*~

  When Griff walked down the street, away from the Dolmores’ house, whom should he meet but his cousin, twirling a silver-headed walking stick and obviously heading to the same address where Griff himself had just come from. When Boo caught sight of Griff, the stick abruptly stilled in mid-air and then came very softly to rest on Boo’s shoulder. “Lud, Griff, tell me you didn’t!”

  Griff’s chin rose a notch. “If you mean to ask whether I have paid a call on Miss Stanton, then the answer is affirmative.” Recalling the scene in the Dolmores’ drawing room, he grimaced and added, “Or at least I came as close as possible with Mrs Dolmore and Miss Dolmore present. Detestable females, both of them. They made comments about Izzie’s presence at that damned ball, if you must know.”

  Boo’s brows rose. “That would explain the thunderous mien. Still, it was deuced foolish of you to call on them in the first place.” He sighed. “Nothing can come of it, Griff. You know that. And it would be a damned ungentlemanly thing if you would give the girl any sort of false hopes.”

  Raising his shoulders as if against a chill wind, Griff looked away from the probing gaze of his cousin. “I know. I know. But I simply had to see her after…” He glanced sideways at the other man. “You did receive a missive from Isabella, too, I take it?”

  “Indeed I did. Just been to see your sister, in fact—and to make sure that the servants will keep mum about the whole affair. Good lad, young Petie. He knows there’d be consequences for Izzie if he’d prattle about what happened in the Park.” Boo studied the handle of his walking stick, which was fashioned to resemble a parrot’s head. “Plucky girl, Miss Stanton. I don’t know many a man who would have argued with a criminal holding a pistol.”

  Some internal organ clenched. “No,” Griff said. “Not many would have.” He imagined what would have happened if young Petie and Isabella had been alone, if Miss Stanton had been less brave, less… Imagined his sister’s broken body, all that vitality of Miss Stanton snuffed out, extinguished forever.

  He suppressed a shudder.

  His cousin continued to subject the handle of his walking stick to an intense scrutiny. “If young Petie is to be believed, Miss Stanton threw Izzie’s crutch at the villain’s head. Marvellous right arm, he said. He also seemed quite taken with the fact that–”

  “She overpowered a highwayman with Izzie’s crutch?” Griff asked incredulously.

  Boo shot him a glance. “Uh-hm. Izzie failed to mention that in her nice message, didn’t she?” With a sigh, he lowered his walking stick to the ground. “Judging from that rhapsodical expression on your face, I shouldn’t have mentioned it either. Come–” He took Griff’s arm and started down the street. “Before you begin comparing her to Boudicca or some Amazonian warrior princess, we should rather retire to your club and get foxed until you have forgotten all about her.”

  Not bloody likely, Griff thought. Not all the alcohol in the world would make him forget that pair of fine, green eyes, that enormous energy that seemed to hover around her like an invisible coat.

  “Aww, Griff, why did you have to call on her?”

  “It was only this once,” he muttered, thinking of the sweet smile which had curved her wide, mobile mouth as she had glanced at him.

  Yet, almost at once, other memories intruded on this pleasant vision. As you bore your family so much pain in the past I expect that you will not disappoint us in the future. The emotionless voice of the Earl of Lymfort filled his skull and chased away all thoughts of sea-green eyes and wide mouths.

  …I expect that you will not disappoint us in the future…

  Griff clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. He welcomed the physical pain, as it diverted him from the raw feeling inside his chest, the emptiness that seemed to expand until it filled his whole being.

  “It won’t happen again,” he said. Boo was right: it wouldn’t be fair to the girl. Moreover, Griff didn’t think he could stand another encounter with a dream that could never be his.

  ~*~

  Miss Carlotta Stanton to Lady Isabella Griffin, by Two-penny Post

  My dear Lady Isabella,

  I hope this letter finds you well. Y’r brother has just called on us & I am positive that the lines on his face were harsher than 3 days hence. He looks positively haggard. I am convinced that we ought to take Some Kind of Action to cure him of his Sad Melancholia. Indeed, dire measures are called for. Do you think it will cure him when he has to teach somebody to drive a high-perch phaeton? (I daresay the situation is quite similar to falling off one’s horse—not that I w’d assume y’r brother to be a poor horseman—you want to get back in the saddle as soon as possible thereafter. I don’t see why Lord Ch. should be in a Sad Melancholia when it was y’r other brother who crashed his phaeton. Teaching him w’d show him what a good driver he is, w’d it not?) (Not that I w’
d actually need him to teach me how to drive; yet that is Beside the Point.) I asked James the footman (as the Most Likeliest Person in this household to know the answer to my question) & he informed me that the highest high-perch phaeton in all of London is owned by an Individual called Whitstock. Do you think he will be present at Lady Towell’s ball at the end of the week? I suppose he likes gambling, as most young gentlemen are wont to do. If I c’d catch him at the card-table I am positive that I c’d win the phaeton from him. For a day, at least, for what w’d I do with a phaeton for the Rest of the Time? It w’d probably throw my aunt into the Greatest Agitation. (Many things I do throw her into the Greatest Agitation, I am afraid. & then she always says what an Affliction I am & if only it hadn’t been for the promises my uncle had made—though what promises these might have been, I don’t know.) Yet for our plan to be put into Action, it needs Funds (for the card-table, that is). Unfortunately, the purchase of the fabric for my new reticule has sadly diminished my pin-money, so I need to apply to you in this regard. I believe we ought to take Action as soon as possible to let your poor brother not continue in this Sad State.

  Your affectionate friend, Carlotta Stanton

  ~*~

  Miss Carlotta Stanton to Miss Emma-Louise Brockwin, by Two-penny Post

  My dear Emma-Lee,

  obtaining ammunition for one’s firearms in this town is more difficult than I had expected. My cousin had a fit of the vapours when I asked her about the best way to go about it. How curious. You w’d have thought that in a place so sadly infested with People of the Criminal Persuasion, the rest of the population w’d go about prepared. Yet clearly, they are no St. Cuthbertians! As to the purchase of ammunition, I had to ask Mr Doring, the butler. I believe I have much risen in the esteem of Mr Doring & all the other servants ever since I kill’d the rat that frightened Cook & her maid witless a few days ago.—We received a Call from Lord Ch. this morning, & I was much shocked at his grave & sad countenance. Have developed a plan to relieve him of his burden. Do you believe anybody will notice if I cheat at cards at Lady T’s ball on Friday night?