Springtime Pleasures

by Sandra Schwab

  With expert hands, Petie brought the horses to a standstill, next to a very dashing Chanderley.

  He was always so very elegantly dressed, Charlie mused. Even when walking in the Park! He wore a dark frock coat over biscuit-coloured breeches and top boots. She loved a man in top boots! They were so… well, manly.

  Chanderley touched the rim of his top hat. “Izzie. Miss Stanton.”

  Charlie felt her lips stretch into a beaming smile. She just couldn’t help herself. When one was in the grip of a very warm affection—more than warm, really—one was prone to doing very silly things, she found. Like fluttering one’s lashes at a man.

  “My lord,” she said primly. “Your sister has given me excellent advice.”

  He opened the door to the carriage and held out his hand to her. “I hope she has. Will you do me the honour of taking a few steps with me, Miss Stanton.”

  “Why, my lord. With pleasure.” She twinkled at him and, taking the proffered hand, let him help her down. She turned back to Isabella. “My reticule—”

  “You won’t need your reticule,” Chanderley cut in decisively.

  “But, my lord! One never knows what kind of ruffians one will meet!”

  He tugged at her hand. “You will not need your reticule,” he repeated. “Petie, take a turn round the Park with my sister before you come back here to take Miss Stanton up again.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Chanderley gave the lad a penetrating glance. “And you will not breathe a word of this to anybody.”

  Indignation registered on the groom’s face. “I would never, my lord! That would be a mean-spirited thing indeed.”

  Chanderley nodded at him. “Good lad. Now, off you go.”

  Chanderley and Charlie watched the landau ambling away. Eventually, she felt him angling his body towards hers. “Shall we, Miss Stanton?”

  They walked across the lawn to a weeping willow whose branches almost touched the ground. The foliage formed a dense, green curtain. Chanderley reached out with one of his wonderfully large hands to draw some of the branches aside to let Charlie pass into the room formed by the green canopy.

  “Oh, this is splendid!” she exclaimed, slowly turning around and around. “It’s like an emerald cave.” She threw Chanderley a teasing look. “Perfect for clandestine assignations.”

  “Not so during the fashionable hour, I assure you.”

  They eyed each other, until Charlie’s lips started to twitch. “Take your hat off,” she said. “You are so very formidable in your top hat.”

  “Am I?” He flung his hat away. “What about your bonnet, Miss Stanton?”

  Oh, how easy it was to tease him! “I might need help with the knot.” She arched her brows. “You might have to take your gloves off.”

  The gloves followed the hat, then, in two long strides, he was in front of her, his large, wonderfully bare hands curved around the sides of her neck, his thumbs angling her head just so.

  “What a tease you are, my dear,” he muttered, before his mouth closed over hers, engaging her in a heated kiss that made her body tingle and nearly knocked her glasses off her nose.

  “Accursed things,” he growled against her lips. “They get into the way. Not to mention the bonnet.”

  Charlie giggled.

  Sighing, he took a step back. “That is not what I had planned,” he said ruefully. “You are poison to my self-control.”

  Charlie lapped up his words. How exciting! To make the dashing Viscount Chanderley lose hold of his control! And just by being herself! Had anybody ever heard of a more extraordinary thing?

  She righted her spectacles. “Well, then, what did you have in mind?”

  He sighed again, and, turning away from her, gripped his neck. “My sister has talked to you?”

  “She has warned me that Lady Lymfort is very serious about propriety and respectability. So I am to talk about neither fishing nor shooting wild boars, but about needlework, and Italian songs, and Haydn sonatas. We have settled for a very serious German poem I ought to mention.” She frowned. “We have forgotten to cover English literature, but I suppose Sir Walter Scott will do fine.”

  Charlie walked towards and around him. She touched his arm. “I will do fine, Chanderley.”

  He stared at her, the look in his eyes almost tormented.

  The strong emotion that held him in its grip did not remain without effect on Charlie. Her throat closed, as tenderness welled up inside her. “Everything will be fine, George,” she whispered. “I’m sure of it.”

  He reached out to brush a tendril of hair from her face, his touch oh-so gentle. “I cannot yet tell you of what is in my heart,” he said hoarsely. “But so much depends on your interview with my mother tomorrow. I—”

  “I know,” she said. This time it was she who slipped her hand around his neck, pulling his head towards her, and closing his mouth with her lips, and tongue, and love.

  ~*~

  Mrs Henrietta Bridget Burnell to the Rt Hon the Earl of Lymfort

  Lymfort,

  be assured that I know exactly what I owe to this family. You made very certain that I do.

  H.

  Chapter 14

  in which all depends on Charlie

  Miss Emma-Louise Brockwin to Miss Carlotta Stanton, by Two-penny Post for early-morning delivery

  My dear Charlie,

  I wish you the best of luck for today’s outing. I am certain that the spirit of St. Cuthbert’s will carry you forward, and Lady L. will be enchanted by you. How could she not be?

  Your loving friend,

  Emma-Louise

  ~*~

  Exactly at the strike of four o’clock in the afternoon, the Lymfort landau came to a stop in front of the Dolmores’ town house. Cousin Caroline peered through the curtains in the small parlour off the entrance hall. “The carriage has arrived for Cousin Charlotte. This time there is a coachman and a groom up front.”

  “Yes, yes,” her mother said impatiently, keeping her attention focussed on Charlie. “You will remember to sit straight and be most polite to Lady Lymfort. Don’t prattle in that way you sometimes have.” With a critical eye, she looked the girl over. “I have to say that it is quite beyond me why Lady Lymfort wishes to take you on a drive around the Park. But as it is—I hope you are not going to shame your family.”

  “No, Aunt Dolmore.” Charlie put on her bonnet and secured the ribbons with a good, firm knot under her chin. Throwing the footman a faint smile, she took the gloves he held out to her and slipped into them.

  “The Lymfort carriage for Miss Stanton,” Doring announced from the door.

  “Well then,” Aunt Dolmore said. “You better go. You wouldn’t want to keep such a fine lady like Lady Lymfort waiting.”

  “Not at all. Goodbye, Aunt Dolmore.” Charlie went into the entrance hall and picked up her reticule. She nodded at Doring, who had opened the front door for her. “Thank you, Doring.”

  “Good day to you, miss,” the butler said.

  Taking a deep breath, Charlie squared her shoulders and walked down the front steps and then to the curb, where the landau and Lady Lymfort were waiting for her.

  Charlie remembered having seen her across the ballroom on several occasions. The countess was a thin, pinch-faced creature. The gloomy impression was still heightened by the fact that she was wearing deepest mourning.

  Charlie suppressed a frown.

  Neither Chanderley nor Isabella were in mourning. Why, then, was the countess? Surely she couldn’t still be in black for her eldest son, could she?

  Petie, relieved of coachman duties today by a much older man, held open the door of the carriage. His posture was stiff, and he stared straight ahead, not sparing Charlie a glance.

  Ah, yes, she remembered. One was not supposed to talk to the coachman nor to the groom.

  Plastering a smile on her face, Charlie swung herself up into the carriage. “Lady Lymfort. Such an honour.”

  The countess was gracious enoug
h to bow her head a fraction. “Sit, child. Is that a small portmanteau you are carrying?”

  “Not at all,” Charlie replied cheerfully, while storing the object in question underneath the seat. “It’s my reticule.”

  Petie closed the door behind Charlie, and then leapt up onto the box seat. With a smart snap of the reins, the carriage rumbled into motion.

  Lady Lymfort’s brows rose. “A reticule? Surely that can’t be. It is so very… voluminous.”

  Charlie felt that it would not quite do to admit to carrying a blunderbuss, even if England did suffer from that sad infestation of people of the criminal persuasion.

  She folded her hands demurely in her lap, and said, “Miss Pinkerton, the school mistress of St. Cuthbert’s, always impressed upon us The Importance Of Carrying Your Needlework With You At All Times.” Which was not even a lie. Charlie gave Lady Lymfort a serene smile. “I therefore felt it necessary to equip myself a reticule somewhat larger than strictly fashionable.”

  “Ah, yes, your needlework. My dear daughter told me that you are a very fine needlewoman. She said that you were a very accomplished girl.” The last sentence sounded more like a question than a statement.

  Charlie fought to keep her demure smile in place. “Lady Isabella is too kind,” she murmured, congratulating herself that she had remembered to use Isabella’s title rather than just her Christian name.

  Yet within half an hour any sense of accomplishment had fled her, and cold sweat dampened her armpits.

  Lady Lymfort was grilling her, there was no other word for it.

  It did not help that they met very few people in the Park, as three o’clock in the afternoon was still considered a very unfashionable hour by the ton’s standards. Instead of being obliged to greet acquaintances, Lady Lymfort was free to focus all her attention, as formidable as that of a hawk, on Charlie.

  And despite all the preparations and all the advice she had received from her friends, Charlie felt more and more uncomfortable.

  Yes, she had spent her childhood in Italy—it was such a wonderful way to acquire proficiency in a foreign language!

  Oh yes, she had attended a most excellent school during her youth. Did my lady know that the revered Dr Johnson himself—yes, the Dr Johnson—had written some very fine lines on that finest of academic establishments, St. Cuthbert’s on Chiswick Lane?

  French? Of course, she had learnt French.

  Charlie sang the first two lines of “À la claire fontaine” to prove it, then remembered just in time how the song continued and decided that Lady Lymfort probably did not want to hear about people jumping into any odd spring that caught their fancy.

  Lady Lymfort pronounced Charlie’s voice to be “very sweet” and proceeded to enquire after her musical skills in more detail. Miss Stanton was a proficient singer, then?

  Oh, Miss Stanton loved to sing.

  The scenery of Hyde Park whirled by, pretty green lawns and trees, yet Charlie didn’t dare to spare any of them even the merest glimpse.

  Her hands were damp, and it became more and more difficult to keep her voice light.

  Songs? She loved all sorts of songs. She did! (Oh dear, she was not supposed to mention Scottish songs, was she?) Hadn’t… uhm… Mr Dibdin created the most splendid songs? She particularly liked that very patriotic piece, “The Soldier’s Adieu”—most rousing.

  “Adieu! adieu! my only life,” she sang.

  “My honour calls me from thee,

  Remember thou art a soldier’s wife,

  Those tears but ill become thee.”

  Her ladyship condescended to raise a brow and pronounce this a very pretty song indeed. And then, the grilling continued.

  So Miss Stanton was musical? What about the fortepiano? After all, it was so crucial that a young lady displayed skill on the fortepiano.

  Oh, she adored Pleyel and Clementi. And Haydn sonatas. Didn’t everyone?

  German? Not quite as proficient as in French or Italian, but she considered German a very serious language. If one only thought of such uplifting verses as “Edel sei der Mensch—”

  The horses whinnied and came to a rumbling halt, while the stoic coachman swore profusely.

  Lady Lymfort’s face darkened with displeasure. “Pray, what is the meaning of this?”

  “Stand and deliver!” a gruff male voice intoned.

  Oh dear God. Charlie felt the desperate urge to bury her face in her hands and groan. Loudly. It simply couldn’t be!

  Yet…

  She leaned sideways and took a peek around the box seat.

  A swarthy man, his lower face obscured by a shawl or a handkerchief, on a horse, barring the way for the carriage and pointing a pistol at Petie and the coachman.

  Drat!

  As she watched, he rode slowly around the landau until he could target the two women.

  Lady Lymfort, catching sight of the gun, paled. “What? What is this?”

  The highwayman’s eyes glittered. “Time to deliver, biddy.” He waved his pistol around, then pointed it at the countess’s chest. “Start by takin’ off that bauble round yar neck.”

  Charlie closed her eyes. Please, go away. Please, please, just go away and leave us in peace.

  “You… you barbarian!” Lady Lymfort shrieked. “Anders! Anders! Do something!”

  Charlie opened her eyes again, saw the countess fingering her necklace with the bejewelled locket.

  “Now!” the highwayman snarled. “And your rings, too.” He turned to Charlie. “And as to you…”

  Charlie pushed her spectacles up her nose. “You are making a mistake,” she said coldly.

  The man cackled.

  “Miss Stanton, take care!” Petie whispered urgently.

  “Stop the palavering, and give me your jewellery!” His finger touched the trigger. “Or do I drill a hole into one of you?”

  At which Lady Lymfort was gripped by full-blown hysteria and was shrieking and sobbing.

  A gently reared young lady would shriek and sob, too, Charlie thought.

  A proper young lady would perhaps swoon.

  Griff and Isabella and Emma-Lee and even Aunt Dolmore—they all had impressed upon her how important it was that she behaved like a proper, respectable young lady on this outing.

  “Give the necklace to the man, my lady,” the coachman said, his tone urgent.

  The rider grinned. Charlie could see it in the way his eyes crinkled. “Good man,” he said.

  A good girl, that was what she needed to be today in order to secure a future for herself and Chanderley.

  A good girl.

  “Now!” the highwayman snarled. “Or I will pepper you with lead.”

  Sobbing, the countess fumbled with her necklace, while he watched with gleaming eyes. He was the kind of man who would smile while he killed a person.

  Nausea churned through Charlie’s stomach.

  Maidens of St. Cuthbert’s…

  She could not let this happen.

  But if she did act…

  Bile rose in her throat.

  Be a good girl…

  She remembered a line from Emma-Lee’s letter. I am certain that the spirit of St. Cuthbert’s will carry you forward.

  Lady Lymfort had finally managed to open the clasp of her necklace. “You vile man!” she sobbed, throwing the piece of jewellery at the robber.

  He just laughed. “Careful, m’lady.” He pointed the pistol at the countess. “Perhaps I’ll shoot you after all. Or perhaps I’ll let you strip for my pleasure.”

  Lady Lymfort gasped. Her face lost the last vestige of colour. “You… you…”

  “What’s in that large bag?” He turned to Charlie. “Another present for me?”

  For a heartbeat or two, Charlie only stared at him, lightheaded, her stomach clenching.

  Maidens of St. Cuthbert’s…

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, it does contain a present for you.”

  “What you’re waiting for then? Open up!”

&nbs
p; As if in a dream, Charlie felt for her reticule and lifted it up onto the seat.

  “Hurry!” His gaze changed as it roamed over Charlie. “Too bad you’re such an ugly chit. I could have taken you along for a ride.” He cackled again—such a horrible sound. “Perhaps I’ll take you anyway. For some female company.”

  Charlie opened her reticule and reached inside. Her fingers closed around the smooth wooden butt of the blunderbuss.

  …a good girl…

  To do nothing, to let that man rob them, would go against everything she had ever learnt at St. Cuthbert’s. She would fail the spirit of the school—worse, she would betray it.

  …a good girl…

  Charlie swallowed, hard. Then she raised her head and her arm and the gleaming blunderbuss. “I don’t think you will.” She took aim and pulled the trigger.

  With a yell, the highwayman clutched his right shoulder. His pistol fell to the ground with a dull thump, followed by Lady Lymfort’s necklace, while his horse reared, nearly unseating him.

  In sympathy, the Lymfort horses whinnied nervously.

  With a vile curse, the robber brought his horse back under control.

  Charlie could see blood welling up where she had shot him, and her stomach lurched.

  “You damn chit!” the man bellowed before he pulled his horse around and galloped away.

  “Well,” she said brightly, trying to ignore the way her heart drummed and thumped in her throat, “I don’t think he will be back.”

  She dropped the blunderbuss on the seat, then opened the door of the carriage to jump nimbly to the ground to retrieve both the pistol and the necklace.

  When she turned, she saw that Lady Lymfort was as white as a sheet and looked at her with horrified eyes. “What kind of girl are you?” she whispered.

  Chapter 15

  which is very sad

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

  My dear Emma-Lee,

  I am the most dismal girl alive. I fear today’s outing with Lady L. can by no means be described as a Success. Indeed, I fear I am quite out of Lady L.’s books. Forever. It was all going swimmingly—I talked only about very Proper Things—when we were held up by another highwayman. Dear Em, I tried to do the right thing. I tried to be good, but that man, he was so obnoxious & ill-tempered, & w’d probably have reverted to Bloody Violence. I could not, upon my honour, let this happen. You know I could not. It w’d have meant repudiating the spirit of St. Cuthbert’s. And so I took out my blunderbuss & got my shot in first. Into his shoulder that is. I reclaimed Lady L.’s v. fine necklace the Ruffian had taken from her, but—Oh Em! She was so horrified! She shrank away from me & had the most dreadful Hysterics & wouldn’t let me back into the carriage. I had to walk home. We had been stopped in the northern part of the Park, near Cumberland Gate, so it took me the better part of half an hour. I have not dared to tell my aunt what has happened. Fortunately, only Doring, the butler, saw me coming home, the other two ladies of the house having gone shopping. I assume the servants will soon all know about my misfortune, though I don’t think I will care. It is my aunt’s recriminations I w’d not be able to abide. Oh Em! If only I had never come to London! If only I were more maidenly! I have ruined all possibility of ever receiving a proposal from Lord Ch. It is too cruel, to find a man whom you hold in such great esteem—only to smash your chances with him forever. I am so unhappy, Em, I don’t know what to do.