Springtime Pleasures

by Sandra Schwab

“Goodness me!” Charlie exclaimed brightly. “Are you foxed, gentlemen? Persons who can’t keep their spirits have no place in a ballroom, if you ask me.”

  Somewhere a titter started. Soon, it moved around them like a giant wave.

  Charlie turned to one of the matrons standing near her. “Did you see that? If you ask me, it is most shocking how young men behave these days!”

  “Oh, my dear,” the lady said, reaching for Charlie’s hand. “I hope nothing has happened to you.”

  “Well, I—”

  The man on the floor had scrambled to his feet, amidst the crunch of broken glass. “I say!” he spluttered. “That… that damn chit—”

  “Sir! You are forgetting yourself!” the lady snapped at him. “Making such a spectacle of yourselves! You should be ashamed!”

  “It… it was she!” his friend protested, pointing at Charlie.

  Charlie stared at him coldly. “Me? Don’t be ridiculous, sir. I am just a girl.” She turned to the matron. “Thank you so much for your assistance, my lady. It was most welcome.”

  “Not at all.” Charlie’s hand was patted.

  Charlie threw a glance over her shoulder at her cousin, who was watching her with wide eyes. Smiling, Charlie gave her a nod.

  In the future these men would think twice before they gossiped about Miss Dolmore.

  ~*~

  Any feeling of satisfaction Charlie might have felt over putting the two oafs in their place had fast fled by the time the family had come home from the ball in the early hours of the morning. Now Charlie sat in front of the looking glass in her room, brushing her hair and feeling the onset of a serious case of the blue devils.

  Sighing, she stared into the mirror. Without her glasses, her face was a blur. No sharp angles, she thought. Perhaps this blurred Charlie-in-the-mirror was the respectable lady Charlie-outside-the-mirror could never hope to be. Blurred Charlie looked quite beautiful, with all the faults of the real Charlie erased. Indeed, not even the lack of a decent bosom was quite that apparent.

  Sadness washed over her.

  Blurred Charlie was probably not even a Charlie, but a nice Charlotte, a girl who had never shot either wild boars or highwaymen in all her life.

  Charlotte was the girl who would have been considered suitable to become the Viscountess Chanderley.

  I’ve never wanted to become a viscountess, Charlie thought. What do I care about his title, when it is the man I want?

  A lone tear ran down her cheek.

  Quickly, she dashed it away with the back of her hand, and put her spectacles back on. “Wretched pea-goose,” she muttered.

  She looked into the mirror.

  All the angles were back.

  But this was her, the real Charlie. Sweet, blurred Charlotte didn’t exist—and if she did, Charlie suspected she wouldn’t have liked blurred Charlotte very much.

  She sniffed, fighting back those stupid tears.

  Blurred Charlotte would have never befriended Isabella. She would have never cheated at cards to win a phaeton for a day, and she would have never abducted Chanderley to cure him of his misguided guilt. Not that this had been of much use.

  The guilt still devoured him. That was the reason why he was so desperate to comply with his parents’ wishes to find a suitable wife.

  Charlie knew well enough that she was not particularly conventional by society’s standards. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder how Chanderley had thought to get away with marrying her. Sure, if they had not run into the dratted highwayman, Lady Lymfort might have believed her accomplished enough, but such a charade could not have gone on indefinitely. Had Chanderley really expected her to play the fine, meek young lady forever after?

  She frowned.

  If he had, it was the most idiotish scheme she had ever heard of.

  She shook her head.

  Surely he couldn’t have…

  Deep in thought, she began to braid her hair for the night, and had just secured the ends when there was a knock at the door.

  Charlie turned. “Yes?” she called out.

  The door partly opened, and Cousin Caroline peeked around the wood. “I wasn’t sure whether you would already be in bed.”

  “As you can see I’m not. Come in.” Charlie reached for her knitted shawl—a long ago present from Emma-Lee—and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  Almost hesitantly, her cousin slipped into the room. When she had closed the door, she leaned her back against it. “That incident at the ball today—that was no accident, was it? You somehow tripped the two men and made them look foolish.”

  “They had no business talking about your engagement in that manner.” Charlie hesitated one moment before she added, “I could see how hurt you were by their malicious gossip.”

  Agitatedly, Cousin Caroline kneaded her own hands, and came further into the room. “But we didn’t have… I gave you no reason to…” She broke off, her brow creased.

  Charlie shrugged. “It was malicious and insulting. I knew I could stop it, and so I did.” Even in the dim light of the candles she could see her cousin blush.

  “I gave you no reason to do this, but I thank you.” Caroline studied her hands. “You must think me the most selfish miss, the way I behaved all Season. Mother and I were so desperate that another year would pass and I still would not receive a proposal of marriage.”

  Charlie blew out her breath and rubbed her fingers over her lips. “And then I arrived on your doorstep, your unconventional cousin.” She couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of her voice. “You thought I would embarrass you and prevent you from forming an attachment.”

  By now, Caroline’s face almost glowed with embarrassment. She swallowed. But, “I did,” she admitted.

  “Well, and I did, too.” Charlie sighed. “Surely it will be only a matter of time until Lady Lymfort tells everybody that I shot a highwayman.”

  Caroline’s eyes widened. “You did what?”

  “He would have robbed us. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “But… but…You have a gun? How can you have a gun?”

  “I did ask you about ammunition once, if you remember. I took it from another highwayman.” Charlie frowned. “Truly, the number of ruffians in this country is shocking!”

  To her surprise, her cousin started to giggle, and then the giggles turned into outright laughter. She sat down on the side of the bed, snorting and chuckling and laughing until tears ran down her cheeks.

  Charlie watched her with not an inconsiderable degree of alarm. What if Cousin Caroline had a fit of some sorts? This was too strange!

  As her hilarity slowly subsided, her cousin brushed a hand over her cheeks. “Oh Carlotta!” she exclaimed. “This is beyond anything I have ever heard!” She chuckled again.

  But then, all at once, her amusement fled, and her expression turned serious. “I wish we could have become friends.” A wistful smile crossed her face. “But perhaps you wouldn’t have liked me very much. We will never know, will we?”

  Slowly, Charlie walked over to the bed and sank down next to her cousin. She gazed at the other girl. She supposed it must be rather awful, spending Season after Season waiting in vain to receive a proposal, becoming older and older and knowing that one’s time was running out. After all, each year a flock of fresh, young debutantes entered the marriage mart. Before she had come to London, she had had no idea how awful life could be here.

  My splendid adventure.

  “It would have been nice to be friends,” she finally said.

  Caroline nodded. She glanced down at her hands, then looked up to meet Charlie’s eyes. “Do you know that Mother has secured a place for you as a governess for when this Season is over?”

  The breath caught in Charlie’s throat.

  “I have heard my parents argue about it.” Caroline returned to studying her hands. “Mother thinks it would be wasted money to sponsor you for another Season. She has persuaded Father that it would be best for everyone if…” S
he swallowed. “If you learnt how to make a living independent from the family. I am so very sorry.” She looked up again. “After what you did this evening, I felt I ought to tell you.”

  Coldness seeped through Charlie. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, of course. Thank you.” She stood and slowly walked back to the dressing table. Resting her hands on the edge, she stared into the mirror.

  Charlie-in-the-mirror stared back at her with huge dark eyes, almost black in her pale face.

  “Are you alright?” Caroline asked worriedly.

  Charlie glanced at her in the mirror. “Yes. Thank you. I am grateful to you for telling me.” Her stomach churned. Dear God, what shall I do? Her family didn’t want her, so where was there for her to go?

  She wetted her dry lips. “If you would excuse me. I think I would like to be alone now.”

  “Of course.” Her cousin stood, then walked to the door. There she stopped and turned around one last time. “I am very sorry,” she repeated.

  With a soft click, the door closed behind her.

  That night, Charlie sat at her window for a very long time, only watched by the kind, old moon.

  By the time dawn broke, she had come to a decision.

  Chapter 17

  in which the seventh heaven of bachelorhood

  is invaded by a person

  of the female persuasion

  Mr Dalton, the day porter at the main entrance of the Albany, eyed the tall, bespectacled lad standing in front of him with misgivings. The boy was clutching a carpet bag and a small travelling chest tied with string, and regarded the porter from cold green eyes.

  “For Lord Chanderley, eh?” Mr Dalton repeated. There seemed something not quite right about the whole affair. If the lad would bother my lord, there would be hell to pay given that Lord Chanderley was in a devil of a temper these days. Mr Bing, the valet, had confided he feared his lordship’s humours were quite out of balance. He would appreciate it if all disturbances were kept at a minimum. There was no telling what set off my lord these days. Moreover—here Mr Bing’s voice dropped to a discreet murmur—he feared my lord had taken to the bottle. It was most distressing for a gentleman’s gentleman if one’s employer let go of himself in such a fashion.

  The lad pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Indeed,” he said coolly. “It’s an important private message. Which I have to deliver personally.”

  Mr Dalton sighed, trying to decide what would annoy Lord Chanderley more: if it was an important message and he didn’t the lad pass, or if he let the lad pass and his business turned out to be a very trivial matter. “Well then,” he finally said, deciding he could not possibly be held responsible for the contents of messages passed to the inhabitants of the Albany. “Go through the Mansion, here, down the Rope Walk. You’ll want Flat C3—keep note of the letters that are posted at each entrance.” He took another look at the lad. “Your face seems familiar. Have I seen you before?”

  A faint hint of red stained the boy’s cheeks. “Not at all. May I leave my chest with you?”

  Mr Dalton frowned. He wondered whether the lad was a young relative of Lord Chanderley’s, having run away from school. All in all, he seemed a nice boy, even if he had forgotten to take off his cap when speaking to his elders.

  “I’ll give you a penny for your trouble.”

  Feeling quite fatherly all of a sudden, Mr Dalton shook his head. The boy was probably in some kind of predicament—it was to be hoped that my lord didn’t just send the poor child away. “Save your pennies, laddie. Put the chest here in the lodge, out of sight.”

  The boy followed these instructions, then touched the edge of his cap—“I thank you most kindly”—before stepping through the short hallway onto the Rope Walk that ran between the two apartment blocks at the back of the Mansion.

  The porter watched him walking down the pathway, his narrow back ramrod straight. Then he disappeared into Block C.

  Mr Dalton tugged at his moustache. If only he had not decided wrongly.

  ~*~

  Clutching her carpet bag with sweaty fingers, Charlie marched down what the porter had called the Rope Walk, a canopy-covered pathway that ran between the two rows of cream-coloured houses.

  If she had learnt anything during her time in London it was that quite a number of things were considered improper for a lady. On the other hand, a young gentleman could do without opprobrium the very same things that were considered improper for a young lady. So she had decided that for what she planned to do, she would need to become a young gentleman.

  Not too difficult given my complete lack of curves, she thought wryly.

  She spotted Block C on her left and, squaring her shoulders, strode through the door and up the stairs to the first floor. And there it was: Flat C3.

  With her heart hammering against her ribs, she knocked on the door.

  After a moment, it opened to reveal a man in black trousers and jacket. He looked Charlie up and down. “Yes?”

  “I have a message for Lord Chanderley, and I need to deliver it in person.”

  Behind him she could see a small anteroom with doors leading into other rooms.

  The man cleared his throat. “My lord is not at home, I am afraid.”

  “Who the hell is it, Bing?” she heard Chanderley’s muffled voice from somewhere inside the flat. “Get rid of them!”

  Charlie raised her brows. “That does not sound as if Lord Chanderley were not at home.” Leaning forward, she called out, “Chanderley, are you at home?”

  The man called Bing gave her an annoyed look. “Whatever did you do that for? Have you no manners, boy? Lord Chanderley is not socially—”

  “What the hell?” One of the doors was thrust open and my lord Chanderley came storming into the anteroom like an irate bull. When he caught sight of Charlie, he abruptly stopped.

  He was wearing no jacket, his waistcoat was halfway unbuttoned, and his shirt rumpled. His normally immaculate hair was likewise in considerable disarray, as if he had continuously run his hands through it. He looked rather barbarous.

  Ignoring her galloping heart, Charlie gave him a winning smile. “Hullo, Chanderley.”

  His eyes widened. “I’ll be damned. What are you—” He halted, and glowered at the hapless Mr Bing.

  “May I come in?” Charlie asked. “Whatever happened to you? You look a fright!”

  He gritted his teeth. “You must be out of your mind,” he ground out, obviously not at all pleased to see her. Well, that couldn’t be helped. “Bing!” he barked. “Take the afternoon off!”

  “M-my lord?”

  “Now!” He pushed the man out of the door, and, grabbing Charlie’s wrist, dragged her inside the flat.

  With a bang, the door closed behind her.

  “Are you out of your mind?” he bellowed.

  Charlie put her carpet bag down, then eyed him critically. “Are you foxed?” she asked. “That would explain the state of your clothes, I suppose.”

  “I’m damn well—” He snatched her cap, then gaped at her as if struck dumb by amazement.

  She raised a self-conscious hand to her very short hair. “I cut it. Does it look very bad?” She had tightly wrapped the cut-off strands in paper and packed them at the bottom of her bag, for she hadn’t wanted to leave any clue behind that she would travel in the disguise of a boy.

  Stupefied, Chanderley looked her up and down. “What do you think you are doing? What are you wearing?”

  Charlie raised her chin. “There is no need for you to sound so censorious,” she said crisply. “I hardly could have come to you as myself. What a scandal that would have been!”

  “And this isn’t?” he growled.

  “Actually not, because nobody knows who I am or that I’m with you. Except for you, of course.”

  Abruptly, he turned away from her, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered. “This is beyond…”

  Charlie came up behind him and tentatively laid her hand on his
shoulder. “I’ve come to say goodbye, Chanderley. I wanted to see you one last time.” Sorrow rose inside her, but she fought it back. It had no place in what she wanted to do, forging memories to treasure in the future.

  She lightly stroked her hand down his back. “Our last parting was filled with so much bitterness. I didn’t want to part with you on such terms.” She knew her behaviour would be considered shocking and most improper, yet what did she care, now her London life was shattered in a million pieces? She leaned her forehead against his broad back, inhaling his scent. No, she didn’t care how improper she was. She wanted to steep herself in him at least once so the memories would last her a lifetime.

  “George?” she murmured. “You couldn’t keep your promise for the Tollham ball. I thought, maybe, your flat had some interesting niche you could show me.”

  He quickly turned, catching her upper arms in his big hands. His eyes were narrowed as he studied her. “What is this? Are you trying to trap me into marriage now?”

  “No!” Angrily she freed herself, and took a step back. “How can you even think such a thing?”

  “What am I supposed to think? You come here, proposing to me in this fashion. Do you think my honour would allow me to bed you and not to marry you?”

  His wretched honour. Charlie had had quite enough of it! She held his gaze as she shrugged out of the coat she was wearing. “I release you from you honourable obligations.” She started working on the buttons of her waistcoat.

  “It does not work that way.” He frowned. “What are you doing?” he asked in forbidding tones.

  But she could see that for all his protests, his eyes dropped to follow the progress of her unbuttoning fingers.

  Suppressing a smile, she let her waistcoat drop to the floor. “Really, Chanderley, I thought this would have been obvious.” She began to work on the knot in her neckcloth.

  “Stop it!” he demanded hoarsely. “This is not a game, Carlotta!”

  “I love it when you say my name in this deliciously stern voice,” she told him. “It makes feel my all aflutter inside.” As it was, it was her neckcloth which fluttered to the ground. The lapels of her shirt fell drunkenly to the side.