Apollo spoke first. “I confess I’m relieved you have returned.”
Charlotte frowned. Did he think she’d take the chamber pot and run? “You have not changed your mind, then.”
“No. Have you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Uncertainty shadowed his pale blue eyes. “I’m afraid I was unable to procure the license today. I have arranged to have it delivered by special courier wherever we are. The sooner we can be married, the better.”
She swallowed the knot in her throat. No backing out now. To her surprise, she didn’t want to. “I agree.” Her gaze drifted to the portrait above Apollo’s head, the striking woman in the lavender gown. She had not thought of it when she had purchased it, but her new frock was a similar color to the one in the painting. She started to speak before she could stop herself. “With no disrespect, are you altogether certain you’d like to marry me?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “Why do you ask?”
“It is only that I am no one…” She nodded toward the painting. “You are… you, and I am the daughter of drunken playwright and a forgotten Irish actress.”
He shook his head. “Apart from my title, I am of little note. You are Charlotte Halfpenny, the finest actress of our generation.”
She tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear, feeling oddly bashful. Her gaze returned to the portrait. “Who is that?” she asked, changing the subject.
“That’s Sally. The papers called her ‘Lady Virtue’ for her charity. She founded the orphanage.” He sipped his wine. “She was countess through the early eighteenth century. My grandmother.”
“She’s beautiful. Very distinctive.”
Apollo nodded. “She was an illegitimate daughter of Charles II.”
Charlotte could not disguise her surprise. “You are descended from a king?”
He shrugged. “Not that one, it so happens. They found a child left to the mercy of the river and they took him in, raised him as their own. There were rumors at the time, but no one could prove it. He was named for her brother, and I am named for him. Benedict.”
“Apollo Benedict Rothschild,” she said aloud, remembering. “Your family has taken in orphans before?”
He nodded. “Oh, yes. Benedict was an orphan from Southwark, and his wife was the daughter of a famous harlot and a Jewish pugilist.”
Charlotte’s laugh was more suited to a pub than a grand house. “You’re having a laugh.”
“I most certainly am not.” A dimple appeared in his cheek as he smiled. “Lady Virtue’s earl was rather bookish and kept excellent records.”
“There is a legend in our family that we are related to the playwright Joanna Sharpe,” Charlotte confided. “She married a Hartford, and they say that’s where my father got his gift with words.”
“You look like her,” Apollo agreed.
Charlotte dropped her knife in surprise. She hadn’t the faintest idea what the woman had looked like. “I do?”
He nodded, sipping his wine. “We have a portrait of her upstairs. She was related to my ancestors through marriage. Her brother married one of my great-aunts. I’ll show you after dinner.”
Charlotte nodded eagerly. “Yes, please.”
After dinner, he led her to a vacant suite of rooms at the west side of the house. “These can be your rooms, if you’d like. The bedroom is through here. There’s a large closet, an indoor bathroom with a flushing toilet, and a drawing room through here if you’d like to receive guests. You can furnish them to your taste. I would have had them cleaned out for you, if I’d have known you’d stay.”
He lit the sconces nearest the door with his candlestick, but the room did not improve with light. Paintings, curiosities, and ball gowns decades out of date crowded centuries-old furniture hewn from heavy dark wood.
Charlotte didn’t mind. It looked like the rest of the house, and would improve with open windows. “It’s lovely.”
Apollo led her to the far wall and held his candle up to a portrait of a young woman with dark blue eyes and a mischievous smile.
Charlotte gasped as she saw it. “She looks like my grandmother.”
Apollo inclined his head. “Your coloring is different, but you have a similar expression, a certain light in your eyes.”
“You’ve noticed my eyes?” Charlotte asked before she could think better of it.
He looked down as he smiled, endearingly bashful. “Of course.”
Her smile was effortless. Of all the benefits to their strange arrangement, Apollo’s compliments, uttered like confessions, were her favorite. She wondered if she would have fancied him if they’d met under different circumstances. He was beautiful and kind, but as distant as if an uncrossable gulf separated him from everyone else. Confined to the house with a limited staff and very little living family, he must have been terribly lonely. Though she’d always been surrounded by people, Charlotte had often felt the same.
“You have so many lovely portraits,” she started, watching his reaction. “May I ask, what happened to your family?”
Even in the candlelight, she could see his face pale. “There was a fire. Our house in Somerton went up one night and everyone with it. I had thought to run away, you see, so I was some miles away. The stable master knew I’d gone and came after me. By the time we returned, it was too late.” He cleared his throat. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to rebuild, so this is the only house we have. I still have tenants to look after in Somerton, but this is where I reside.”
Charlotte’s hand drifted to her heart as if she could protect it from the pain in his voice. “Why did you run away?”
He raised his eyebrows, perhaps surprised she had asked. “I was seventeen and I was feeling the weight of my responsibilities. When I left, I was a child thinking of nothing more than revolt. When I returned, I was earl. I had to come around to the idea rather quickly.”
Her nose tingled with the promise of tears. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I’m so sorry.”
He gave a small, sad smile. “I’ve lived almost as much of my life without them now. The portraits are all I have to remember them by.” He took a long breath. “We must set out quite early to make it to Hollystone Hall by nightfall. Perhaps we should retire.”
He offered his arm and she took it, letting him lead her the few yards down the hall to her room. Remembering Artemis’ diary, she wondered if he had been close to his sister, but thought it better not to ask.
As they reached the doorway, he stopped and took her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he raised it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Goodnight, Charlotte.”
“Goodnight.” Her sigh was heavy with regret. The room was rather cold and could only improve with him in it. She was still smarting from his rejection the night before, so she would not ask again.
He slipped down the hall, light footed as a thief.
Feeling more than a little lonely herself, Charlotte undressed for bed. Someone had built a fire in the room for her and turned down the bed. Mrs. Phillips, she assumed. She wondered if the woman disliked her personally or would have taken exception to any woman Apollo had decided to marry. After all that he had been through, it was reasonable for the old woman to feel protective of him.
Though she knew she should let the matter rest, curiosity got the better of her and she pulled Artemis’ diary from the wardrobe, hoping for some insight into Apollo’s past. She flipped through the stiff pages until she recognized a name.
Uncle Roderick is back again pressing his suit. Again, Father has refused. He says it is because I am too young, but he knows as well as I do they only want a greater share. Miles has run out of money and wants more, and thinks to marry me to get it. I haven’t even seen the boy since he left for Eton, so God knows why he thinks we would suit. I doubt he knows what I look like. He’s a pillock of the first order—
Charlotte smiled sadly at the expression. Clearly Artemis and Apollo had shared the same
opinion of their cousin. She continued reading.
I can’t bear the thought of it, Miles or anyone else. Mother says I will come around when I meet the right man, but I won’t. How I wish I were Apollo! He is at this very moment fencing with Alex while I am meant to be practicing my painting. I could be useful, if they would let me. I want to help Father with his duties. I want to fence and ride and smoke and dance with pretty girls. Why am I like this?
She felt the warmth of the tears running down her cheeks before she realized she was crying. She felt Artemis’ frustration and despaired at the tragedy of her short life. Though Charlotte had herself enjoyed music, art, and dresses, she knew a thing or two about wanting to dance with pretty girls and the way that desire alienated one from the very girls one was interested in. Fortunately for her, the life she had chosen allowed for certain eccentricities, and drew others of similar persuasion. She couldn’t imagine how alone Artemis must have felt as an earl’s daughter.
She wished she could have met the girl, told her she wasn’t alone. Perhaps they could have been friends.
A sharp knock sounded at the door and Charlotte thrust the diary under her pillow just as Mrs. Phillips poked her head around the door. Brilliant. She crushed the tears from her face with the heel of her hand and attempted to feign cheerfulness. “Yes?”
Mrs. Phillips frowned. “It’s a cold one, miss. Would you like me to bring up the warming pan?”
Though her voice had lost none of its gruffness, the tone had softened somewhat. “I’m fine. Thank you, Mrs. Phillips.”
The woman nodded, studying Charlotte’s face. After a moment’s hesitation, she crept through the door. “Are you well? The babe is not troubling you, is he?”
Charlotte blinked, taken aback. “You know about… that?”
“Can’t say as I’d miss it, given the state of your chamber pot.”
Charlotte laughed in spite of herself. “Can’t say fairer than that. Does that bother you?”
Mrs. Phillips inclined her head as though studying a rare bird. Charlotte only hoped she was not imagining her stuffed over a mantel somewhere. “His lordship knows, and that’s all that signifies.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Unsure of where to look, Charlotte studied her hands.
“He’s a good man,” Mrs. Phillips blurted. “If you only knew what he’d done for us—”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows, eager to hear what the woman had to say.
Mrs. Phillips clamped her mouth shut. She would clearly say no more on the subject.
Again, Charlotte thought of her old stage mistress. After her mother had passed, the woman had done what she could to fill the role herself. She would have been a ferocious mother, but a mother nevertheless. Unless she missed her guess, Mrs. Phillips filled this role for Apollo. Suspecting the woman needed some kind of reassurance, Charlotte offered, “I won’t hurt him.”
“See that you don’t.” Mrs. Phillips closed the door behind her as she left, softly this time.
Charlotte smiled. It was progress and she would take it.
She waited several minutes before she took the diary out from beneath the pillow in case the maid thought to return for any reason. She read it late into the night, only stopping as she felt her eyes begin to close. Before she could think better of it, she hid the diary in the trunk packed for her holiday, hoping no one would find it. The girl had already been alone for so long, Charlotte couldn’t bear to leave her behind.
Chapter 7
Charlotte woke with the distinct feeling she was being watched.
She sat up in an overstuffed bed, enveloped in layers of soft, sweet-smelling bedclothes. The room was enormous, bright, and tastefully decorated; it was not even a little bit like Somerton House, which was more of a mausoleum crossed with a pirate ship.
It was her first morning waking at Hollystone Hall, and her surroundings were so different from her experience, she had to take a moment to get her bearings. She had been so tired after the hours-long journey the day before, she had collapsed into bed after supper and introductions. Now she was a guest at a spectacular estate in the countryside, surrounded by more titles than a bloody library. She had no hope of remembering them all. She knew she was at a disadvantage as a person of no birth with a reputation that was more than a little scandalous, but she hoped she would not unknowingly disgrace herself.
Again, the feeling she was being watched.
Charlotte frowned and glanced around the room, half-expecting to find an especially silent servant waiting in the wings.
She gasped as she spotted the cat.
A tiny ball of black and white fluff, he was a precious little thing, staring at her from the desk with a pair of huge blue eyes. Who had let a kitten into her room?
“Hello, baby,” she called to it in a sweet voice. “Where did you come from?”
The kitten reached forward with an uncertain paw, too large for his body. He lurched forward, his hindquarters shaking, but stopped short of leaping. After another attempt, he finally jumped and hit the foot of the bed, scrambling up the covers with his claws.
“What a good kitty!” she praised him, reaching for him as he padded across the bunched up bed clothes. When he was close enough, she gingerly drew him into her lap, stroking his fine, soft fur. He swatted the ends of her hair and she giggled.
She played with the kitten until a maid arrived with a pot of chocolate. The maid greeted her with a pleasant smile. “Good morning, Miss Halfpenny. I see you’ve found your kitten.”
“My kitten?” she asked, hope rising in her chest. She had never had a pet before.
“Oh, yes. There are quite a few of them running around. Lord Somerton thought you might like one. He left it for you this morning.”
Charlotte grinned, holding the kitten protectively. Of all the things that came with being a countess, the kitten was her favorite. “How kind of him. Where is he?”
“I believe he’s out riding with the gentlemen,” she said, pouring her a hot cup of drinking chocolate. “Would you like to write him a note?”
Charlotte nodded and accepted the chocolate. “Thank you.”
The maid pulled open a drawer in the desk and withdrew a quill, ink, and paper. “I’ll leave these here for you.” She set them out on the table beside the bed. “Shall I send someone to help you dress?”
Charlotte blinked. She had been dressing herself her whole life without any assistance to speak of. Still, some of the new items she had purchased would require more help than she was accustomed to. “Yes, please.”
Once the maid had gone, Charlotte frowned over the paper, trying to word her note of thanks to her intended.
Dear Apollo
The kitten swatted the end of the quill and Charlotte laughed in delight. She drew the end of the feather over the kitten’s ears and he whacked it, opening his mouth to bare his tiny teeth. He was so precious she felt as though her heart might burst just to look at him. Would she feel the same about the baby when it came?
She waved the quill in front of the kitten’s nose and giggled as he snapped at it, her glee going some way toward relieving her anxiety at spending two weeks with influential people who had every reason to distrust her.
The kitten caught the quill between its paws and kicked at it with his back legs. She smiled down at him. “At least I’ll have one friend.”
* * *
Charlotte looked into her empty tea cup with some regret. She had passed an awkward afternoon attempting to converse with some of the young women in attendance, regretting her decision to leave her room a little more with every passing moment.
As the daughters of lords, they projected good breeding with every movement, every courtesy, every accent and vowel until Charlotte had felt like a river rat in comparison.
Few had offered more than the briefest greeting. It took two failed jokes before Charlotte realized they had likely been warned away from her. She might be engaged to Somerton, but they were not married yet. Until
that time, she was little more than a woman of ill repute, and one to be avoided at all costs.
Defeated, Charlotte sat alone beside the fire with a book for company. She attempted to appear imperious, then relaxed, and finally indifferent as she shuffled through the pages, not really reading so much as drowning in insecurity.
The young ladies’ conversation drifted through the room, laughter tinkling like tea spoons in porcelain cups. They spoke of school, frocks, and gentlemen she’d never met, the language and the subject matter a world away from the revelations she’d been a party to in her local pub. She had never been in the presence of such gently-bred innocence for an extended period of time and she found it to be so cloying it was almost noxious. Much longer without hearing something stronger than ‘blast’ and she would have been suffocated by it.
Fortunately, they left when they had finished their tea, fluttering away like flower petals in a strong wind.
Charlotte heaved a sigh of relief. The girls had made Charlotte uncomfortable in a way she had never experienced.
She was intimidated.
Everything about them was perfect. They held their cups with a schooled artfulness they no doubt took for granted. Charlotte tried to imitate it, pinching the handle just so, but good as she was, she knew anyone with eyes would be able to see she was more comfortable with a bottle.
Her despair gathered into a migraine between her eyebrows. How was she going to do this?
A young woman shuffled into the room with an endearing uncertainty, and Charlotte recognized her at once as the hostess’s relative. They had met briefly the previous evening before the girl had been called away to some drama in the kitchens. She was quietly pretty and, Charlotte suspected, secretly running the party. In the few hours since she had arrived, Charlotte had spied her bustling from task to task with ruthless efficiency, unnoticed but almost certainly indispensable.
Holly and Hopeful Hearts Page 23
