Springtime Pleasures

by Sandra Schwab

  Your friend,

  Charlie

  ~*~

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

  My dear Charlie,

  surely it cannot be quite so bad as you fear? Don’t despair, dear friend. For certainly Lady L. will come to recognise what a great service you have done her. As it was in your power to stop the attempted robbery, I don’t see how you could have acted any differently than you did.

  Yours, E.-L.

  ~*~

  In the afternoon, Lord Chanderley honoured the house of the Dolmores with a visit and requested the pleasure of a private interview with Miss Stanton. The announcement transported Aunt Dolmore into a fit of excitement, yet Charlie, who had learnt a little to read his face, knew he had not come with the intentions her aunt suspected. Chanderley was at his most formal, his expression forbidding.

  With a sinking heart, Charlie watched her aunt and cousin exit the drawing room. She wondered whether she ought to sit down to hear whatever he had to say to her, but…

  She raised her chin.

  Well, it was not as if she could delude herself. She knew what was coming.

  And now, certainly, was not the time to begin behaving like a swooning maiden.

  Chanderley had walked to the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Well, my lord?” Charlie asked when they were alone, and it became clear that he would not turn around any time soon. She was proud of the steadiness of her voice.

  At her question, he jerked around, and Charlie’s heart clenched at the expression on his face. He looked as if he had aged overnight. Deep groves had been etched into his features.

  Involuntarily, she made a step towards him, her arm outstretched.

  He glanced at her hand, then let his eyes meet hers again. “I had an interview with the earl and the countess this morning,” he said.

  Charlie’s hand fell to her side. “I suppose you did,” she murmured, feeling her lips grow numb.

  “The countess is still quite affected by what has happened yesterday. A doctor had to be called.”

  The numbness spread over her whole face. “I am sorry to hear it.”

  Shaking his head, he turned his back on her. “Why did you do it, Charlie?” he threw over his shoulder. “Why? You knew how important this meeting with Lady Lymfort was. I don’t understand why you had to sabotage it in such a fashion.”

  Tears sprung to Charlie’s eyes. She bit her lip and dashed an angry hand over her eyes. She would not cry! “Strictly speaking, it was the highwayman who sabotaged it.”

  “You damn well know what I mean!” he snapped, whirling around.

  “Should I have let him rob your mother, then?”

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. “You could have behaved in a more ladylike fashion. All I asked of you was to behave like a respectable young lady.”

  Pain roared through Charlie; such overwhelming pain she nearly bent double with it. But a true St. Cuthbertian stood tall and strong even and especially in the face of adversity. So she lifted her chin a notch higher. “Plainly, I am not that, a respectable young lady.” A spark of sudden anger lent bite to her voice. “I do apologise most sincerely that I did not stand by and watch him slit your mother’s throat, while waiting for him to violate myself. Very unbecoming of me, I know.”

  He turned as white as a sheet. “W-what did you say?” He swayed a little and groped for the back of a chair to lean on. “What did you say?” he repeated, raising his stark gaze to meet hers.

  Charlie sighed, annoyed at herself for having let her temper get the better of her. For what good did it do to burden him with even more guilt?

  “Carlotta?”

  “He was a very nasty kind of man,” she said reluctantly. “The kind that thrives on violence. He would have enjoyed hurting us.”

  If possible, Chanderley became even paler than before. “Dear God,” he said. “Dear God.” He fumbled with the chair and then dropped down on it as if his knees had suddenly given out. With a groan, he slumped forward and buried his face in his hands.

  Charlie bit her lip. She longed to go to him, to touch him, and to reassure him that—

  He lifted his head, revealing his tormented expression. “I owe you an apology. I never should have said those hateful things I said earlier. I will be forever ashamed of myself. To think that that this man—” He broke off and took a gasping breath.

  “He didn’t do anything, Chanderley,” Charlie reminded him gently because he looked truly horrible.

  Yet ignoring her comment, he continued in a driven tone, “My mother never mentioned that… that he would have…” He swallowed. “I will be forever grateful to you, Charlie. Not just for that, but because you have brought so much light into our lives. You don’t know how much. My parents, though…” His face spasmed. “They don’t see what a treasure you are. And you are, Charlie. You are. But…” Once more he swallowed. “I cannot see you again,” he said rawly. “The earl has made it exceedingly clear that he would not countenance a connection between you and me. I owe my family—”

  “Yes, I know,” she interrupted him. She did not want to hear him say it because it would probably make her cry, when she was already trying so very, very hard not to burst into tears.

  Yet he said it all the same. “I cannot go against their wishes. In all honour, I cannot do it. Not when I am responsible for killing their son and maiming their daughter. I owe them—”

  “A respectable wife,” Charlie finished for him. “Which I am not and never will be.” The devil of it was, she could even understand him. After all, she knew how driven he was by his mistaken sense of guilt and his sense of duty and obligation towards his family. Still, this knowledge did not keep the anger and the bitterness at bay. “And even if we did marry, you would grow to hate me.” Her lips moved in the parody of a wry smile.

  His face haggard, he replied, “At this moment I hate myself, if it is any consolation.”

  Was it?

  No, not really. She was still angry with him for being so stubborn and unable to let go of all this nonsensical guilt.

  “This is goodbye, then?” she asked.

  His jaw worked. “Yes. Yes, it is.” He slowly rose to his feet, and before her eyes his social mask fell into place. He transformed into the cool, elegant Viscount Chanderley, whom she had first met at the Featheringham ball. His expression was smooth, his tone very formal, when he said, “I apologise if I have raised hopes that I cannot fulfil.”

  Oh God, could he sound more stilted? Was this the same man who had kissed her so sweetly, so…—she swallowed—only two days ago?

  Well, she had learnt a thing or two during her time in London. If he wanted to end their conversation with inane formalities, she would give him tit for tat. “I apologise as well that I could not fulfil the expectations set in me.” After all, in the end it came down to that: she was not respectable enough, not maidenly enough.

  He stared at her, and quite suddenly his face spasmed as if he were in terrible pain. “Don’t say that.” His voice was hoarse. “I should have never mentioned such expectations in the first place. I told you that. There is no need for you to apologise. The fault was all mine.” He gave her a stiff bow. “Goodbye, Miss Stanton.”

  Without waiting for her answer, he strode out of the room.

  Then he was on the stairs.

  Then the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  Charlie felt behind her for the nearest sofa and, weak-kneed, sank down onto the seat.

  More steps on the stairs, then Aunt Dolmore and Cousin Caroline came back into the room. “Whatever is the matter?” Cousin Caroline asked. “Why has Lord Chanderley left so abruptly? I would have thought he would ask for an interview with my father.”

  “Oh, never mind that,” Aunt Dolmore said impatiently. “You know how peculiar the viscount is!” Smiling broadly, she focused on Charlie. “My dear child! A viscount! It is most wonderful! The
thought never crossed my mind that a viscount would ever ask for your hand in marriage!”

  “Oh, but he hasn’t,” Charlie said blandly. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  She stood and walked by her relatives, and walked and walked, and only when she had reached the sanctuary of her bedroom did she burst into bitter, bitter tears.

  Chapter 16

  in which our heroine comes to a decision

  The ball was in full swing. Gauging from the animated chatter that filled the ballroom and the adjacent rooms, from the clear, cheerful music that managed to cut across the noise, and from the sheer press of people, the ball was a great success for Lady Elton, the hostess. A splendid turn-out! Most gratifying!

  Somewhere in the throng, Lord Chanderley was dancing with one blushing debutante after the other. After all, he was bride hunting, looking for some thoroughly respectable girl.

  Somebody who didn’t throw crutches at highwaymen, who didn’t talk about gutting fish, and who had probably never seen a wild boar in all her life.

  A girl who was everything Miss Carlotta Stanton was not and never would be.

  Charlie eyed the potted plant standing near her chair. It was a nice plant: large, with dense, green foliage—perfect for hiding behind. She would have loved to hide behind it.

  Morosely, she stared at the top of her flimsy slippers peeking out underneath the hem of her dress.

  She told herself she was behaving like a wet pea-goose, but that did not help.

  She told herself Miss Pinkerton disapproved most strongly of lachrymose self-pity, but that did not help either: the pain inside her did not diminish.

  It certainly had not helped when Mr Cole had stopped by her chair earlier this evening, his kind eyes full of pity. She had hated the pity. By then she had already known that Isabella was not there, but that her brother was. Mr Cole had asked her to dance, which she had politely declined. While he had mustered her, she had felt absolutely smothered by kindness. He was a sweet man, for sure, but—oh!—how she had wished he would take his dashed kindness away to somebody else before it would make her tears overflow!

  “I am terribly sorry, Miss Stanton,” he had finally said, and cleared his throat awkwardly. “I have… eh… a letter for you.” He had removed it from some inner pocket in his coat and had held it out to her. “From my cousin.”

  Charlie had stared at the hapless piece of paper as if it were a snake. Chanderley had… Chanderley would…?

  She had raised her eyes and Mr Cole had caught her look. He had had the grace to blush. “Oh no. No.” He had cleared his throat again and his eyes had softened with even more of that terrible pity. “From Isabella.”

  “Oh.” It was all she had been able to say. She had taken the letter and had been proud to see that her hands were not shaking.

  He had bowed. “Goodbye, Miss Stanton. I wish you all the best.” And after another hesitation, “I am very sorry.”

  She had nodded, and after a short moment, he had vanished into the whirl of happy party guests.

  Charlie had sat, rubbing her thumb over the clear address on the outside of the letter. Miss Carlotta Stanton. Once she had broken the seal, she had found that the inside was another matter: here the handwriting was smudged and marred by blotches where the ink had spread—as if the author of the letter had been crying while she had been writing these lines.

  My dear Charlie, it had begun. It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter which my cousin has promised to deliver to you. You must know how very, very dear you have become to me during these past few weeks, a true sister of the heart. How I have wished you would become—The next few words were crossed out.—My mother has forbidden me any further contact with you. I will, most likely, not be allowed to attend parties or balls where you will be present as well. I begged my mother to allow me to see you one last time, but she would have none of it. My heart breaks when I think of never seeing you again. You are my dearest friend in all the world—whatever shall I do without you? Oh, how I wish that we could escape to St. Cuthbert’s together! But it is not to be. I don’t know how I shall bear it. I don’t know how my brother will bear it.

  My dear Charlie, goodbye. Goodbye.

  Your loving friend forever,

  Isabella

  It was a good thing Charlie always carried a handkerchief in her pocket—another one of Miss Pinkerton’s worldly advices. After reading Isabella’s letter, she was in dire need of a hanky, and had added her own tears to her friend’s on the paper.

  Charlie sighed, and despondently eyed the toes of her shoes that were peeking out underneath her dress. The next time the Dolmores were invited to a ball, she would plead some kind of malady and stay at home.

  Just then the set ended.

  Charlie spotted Cousin Caroline and Mr Clarke moving in her direction.

  Charlie grimaced.

  As if to underline her own failure to secure a proposal of marriage, Cousin Caroline had received just such a proposal only the day before—and now she simply glowed with happiness. Charlie hoped it was not just because of Mr Clarke’s future baronage.

  “Is this not your cousin?” she heard him say. “Miss Stanton!”

  Charlie stood. With considerable effort she made her lips curve into what she hoped was at least a resemblance of a smile. “Mr Clarke.” She curtsied.

  “Would you care for some refreshments, Miss Stanton?” he asked. He was a good-looking man, of medium height, with brown hair and brown eyes. He was probably more at home in the country than in Town, though he cut no mean figure in his elegant evening clothes. “I have promised dear Caroline a lemonade after our very energetic dance.” He threw a smiling glance at his fiancée. “Let me get one for you as well.—And you, my dear—” He turned to Charlie’s cousin. “—why don’t you stay here with Miss Stanton and let me brave the crush in the refreshments room on my own?”

  Blushing prettily, Cousin Caroline nodded and stepped next to Charlie. Together they two girls watched his retreating figure being swallowed up by the crowd.

  “He seems a very kind man,” Charlie eventually remarked.

  “Oh, he is,” the other girl said, her voice bright. But then she seemed to remember to whom she was talking. Her blush deepened, and with obvious signs of confusion, she sank down on a chair.

  Suppressing a sigh, Charlie followed her example.

  She twiddled her thumbs.

  “Mr Clarke is very dashing, too,” she finally said.

  Cousin Caroline turned towards her, her eyes sparkling. “Isn’t he? He is so very handsome.” Again, she cut herself short, and bit her lip.

  In front of them, people moved up and down, while on the dance floor several couples formed for the next set.

  Two young men with wine glasses positioned themselves almost in front of the two girls. Appreciatively, they eyed the female dancers.

  “Mighty fine girl, that one.” He pointed with his glass.

  “The red-haired one? Can’t miss that one in the dark!”

  They guffawed—and a horrible sense of déjà-vu overcame Charlie.

  “Oh dear,” she murmured. That was definitely something she did not need this evening.

  “The dark-haired chit over there—nice figure.”

  “Ah, but that face, dear chap, that face. Wouldn’t want to see such a face across the breakfast table for the rest of my life.”

  “With a dowry of ten thousand pounds? What do you care for her face with that amount of money involved?”

  Again, they laughed. Loudly. Obnoxiously.

  “Did you see Clarke?”

  Next to Charlie, Cousin Caroline stiffened.

  “Bobbie Clarke? The poor fool. I’ve heard he’s been snatched up.”

  “Quite right. By the Dolmore girl. Mother’s been hunting for a titled husband for her daughter for years—and it appears poor Bobbie fell into the trap.”

  Feeling acutely embarrassed, Charlie threw a glance at her cousin. Caroline’s face had lost all colo
ur. Indeed, she seemed close to tears. “I’m not just marrying him for his money nor for his title,” she whispered.

  “Soon to be leg-shackled, poor Clarke.”

  “He should have run faster.”

  Again, they laughed, and quite suddenly, Charlie had had enough.

  She gave Caroline’s arm a small pat. “Just wait for me here. I won’t be a minute.”

  Determinedly, she strode forward, aiming for the narrow space between the two men. “Excuse me!” she called brightly, then barrelled past them. A shove with her elbow made one glass topple and empty its bright red contents over a snowy-white shirt.

  “Wha—”

  A foot anchored around the other man’s ankle, and a good pull, and then he landed on the floor with a loud crash.

  All around them, heads turned.

  Even some of the dancers craned their necks to see what the commotion was.