Outrageous Fortune

by Freda Lightfoot

  She knew what she must do, what she should have done at the very beginning. If she had, she would surely have saved herself a good deal of heartache. Which was strange, considering how she had been sure she was taking the best course to avoid it.

  Fortunately she remembered the name of her father’s solicitors and did not expect to experience any difficulty in locating them. They would provide her with the necessary funds to see her safely back to Cornwall, where she would buy herself a small house some distance from Truro so that she need never run the risk of meeting Sir James Caraddon again. She could not bear that. Perhaps somewhere overlooking the sea, and Uncle Nathan could move in with her and leave the farm entirely to Dickon. She would devote herself to his care as he had done to hers throughout the years. So taken was Charlotte with this idea that it kept her mind fully occupied as she made her way through the early-morning mists, and though it helped her to bear with the parting from James, it caused her to miss the fact that she was followed by a stealthy figure whose patience at last had been rewarded.

  * * * *

  Her presence was not missed until Clara took in a dish of chocolate shortly before noon. Knowing that her new mistress had spent last evening at a late function, she had let her sleep soundly on. Or so Clara had thought. But after pulling back the curtains and setting the chocolate on the bedside cabinet, she saw not only that her mistress was up and about but that the bed had scarcely been slept in. The obvious answer was the first to present itself and a knowing look came into the maid’s eye.

  ‘It must have been a good night, my lady,’ said she, and, picking up the chocolate made her way to the master’s bedchamber where she stopped to listen carefully at the door, her ear pressed hard against the door panel. She could make out no sounds. Still, best to be on the safe side. Jobs were hard to come by and she’d been lucky to get this one after the affair of the shawl. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Clara drank the chocolate herself and trotted back to the kitchen. Who was she to spoil the fun?

  But at two o’clock when still no bell had sounded to call her to help Charlotte to dress, Clara decided to take action. The poor lady had to eat, after all. How selfish some men were! Laying a tray of a suitably dainty repast, bearing in mind that it might well have been a hectic night, Clara set off again up the stairs and moments later was knocking on James’s door.

  ‘And what do you think you are doing?’ boomed Bayley, coming suddenly up behind her.

  ‘Taking breakfast, or rather lunch…’ Clara stopped, feeling slightly flustered.

  Bayley took great pleasure in informing this new maidservant that it was his task to furnish his master with breakfast, that he had done so at a quarter after seven as usual this morning, whereupon Sir had gone out. As usual. Clara took all this in with few protests, jaw gaping, and finally a conviction that her mistress must have been murdered in the scoundrel’s bed at the very least. Nothing would satisfy her but to have the door opened immediately and Bayley present her with a room, neat as the proverbial new pin and completely empty, he was glad to say, of any female whatsoever.

  And so the hue and cry began.

  No one dared fetch James from the House, not until every corner of his home had been investigated, from cellars to attics. Clara, with the help of David, the footman, retraced James and Charlotte’s steps to the house of Lady Alsager, and, on the pretence of looking for a pair of embroidered gloves, ascertained from the butler that there had been something of a hullabaloo last night, though no one could guess quite what.

  ‘Certainly Sir James had a face like thunder as they left, rather early, if I recall correctly,’ he informed them.

  ;And no one saw Miss Charlotte last night or this morning,’ mourned Clara as they made their way back to James’s town house.

  ‘Are you suggesting some sort of foul play?’ asked Bayley, much miffed, for no one was allowed to criticise his beloved master, other than himself of course.

  ‘Perhaps they were set upon,’ cried Clara, and indeed when they came to question the servants in the neighbouring houses, of whom there were a number who enjoyed keeping a close watch on the ladies and gentlemen passing by in the street below, they discovered that there had been strangers about during the night. But a woman, not a man, just before dawn.

  ‘I watched her walk off with your young lady with me own eyes,’ said next door’s Martha, who was always up to light the fires early. ‘Thought at the time it were peculiar. Your little miss being so young and smart, and this other one, well, no better than she ought to be I’d say. Bit brash she was, and dark, too. Gypsy, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Clara felt a chill run down her spine. Hadn’t she met one who answered just such a description not so very long ago? She’d not liked the look of her then, and now her fears had been proved correct. Poor little Charlotte had been abducted by the gypsies, there was no doubt about it.

  When James was finally called it was after seven in the evening. By then, far from being with the gypsies, Charlotte was halfway to France.

  Chapter Fifteen

  James scoured the entire area. He visited every park, every street, every shop in the vain hope that Charlotte had merely gone off on some expedition or other. But as the hours passed with still no sign this seemed unlikely, apart from the fact that even in their present state of disagreement she was hardly likely to be so inconsiderate.

  It was Clara in the end who found the note.

  James had sent her to Charlotte’s room to go through her mistress’s clothes and ascertain what she might be wearing. There, propped upon the mantelshelf as nice as you please, was a square white envelope addressed to Sir James Caraddon in Charlotte’s round, flowing hand.

  Clara watched in breathless anticipation as James devoured the contents, and saw at once that the news was bad.

  ‘She has gone home, after all.’ He sounded deflated, then frowned. ‘Yet how could that be if next door’s housekeeper saw her with a gypsy-woman outside the house at dawn? Who on earth could she have been?’

  Clara shuffled her feet and cleared her throat. ‘Well, I didn’t like to tell you, but I reckon I might have seen her before, though I don’t know her name.’

  ‘What are you talking about, girl?’ Seeing Clara’s nervousness, added more kindly, ‘There is nothing for you to fear, Clara. This is none of your doing and I assure you your job is perfectly safe. But I am most concerned about Miss Charlotte and if there is anything you know which might cast any light on the subject I would be most grateful, for I am at my wits’ end where to look next.’

  Thus encouraged, Clara not only described in surprisingly accurate detail Fanny’s appearance in her Spanish disguise but related almost word for word the conversation that had taken place behind locked doors in Lady Susanna’s parlour. Had James not been so riveted by it, he would have been hard put to it not to smile at the picture thus presented of an eavesdropping maid. In the circumstances, however, he saw all and more of what had occurred. Plot and counter-plot to outrun any Shakespeare. And there was the greatest danger that this time their plan would not backfire, for James still had not the first idea where to look for Charlotte. Fosdyke would have made off with his prize long since, if he was any judge.

  ‘I at least know where to take my first question, thanks to you, Clara. You must come with me, for Charlotte may be in need of as many friends as we can muster by the time we find her. Dear God, I pray we are in time, for I trust Fosdyke not one scrap.’

  James was halfway to the hall even as he spoke, snatching up his greatcoat, hat and gloves and calling for the carriage in a voice that had lost all vestige of his usual mannerliness. Round-eyed, Clara grabbed her best red cape and scurried along beside him. She could guess where their first stop would be and not for the world would she miss it.

  * * * *

  Charlotte felt sick. It was not so much the boat journey, though that had been difficult enough, pitching and tossing on a choppy sea with a stiff north-westerly bre
eze. Nor was it particularly the overcrowded lodgings, where they now found themselves, somewhere in the heart of Paris. But her life seemed to have spun out of control, with James left far behind her in England, and Fosdyke not quite himself but different in some inexplicable way.

  When Charlotte had come out of James’s house only two mornings ago, she had been almost glad to find Fanny waiting. Here at least was a friendly face. Together they easily traced the location of Grisedale and Henning, her father’s solicitors. She needed money if she was to get safely home and she could think of no other source. It was on her way out from the solicitor’s office, having been granted a small sum from her inheritance on presentation of identification in the form of the letter she had thankfully brought with her, that they met Fosdyke. Without Charlotte’s knowledge he had waited patiently for days, for just such an opportunity.

  ‘Well, well, well. Ain’t this a surprise to find our Lottie again? You must tell us all about your adventures later. Fanny, you go back to Woodley Terrace. Pack up everything and meet us you know where.’

  Without a word, Fanny did as she was bid.

  Equally obediently, since she had no heart left in her with which to protest, Charlotte allowed herself to be led to a park seat where she briefly related the attack she’d suffered at the hands of two young brigands, and how Sir James had taken her in out of pity. She made no mention of Lady Susanna’s intervention, nor of her recent quarrel with James, although Fosdyke was shrewd enough to guess that something of the sort must have taken place.

  ‘So what are your plans now, little Lottie?’ he asked with excessive courtesy, and Charlotte explained her desire to return home, hence her need of money. She told him about the inheritance, not realising that he already knew. ‘I had not wished to touch it and now that I have I feel besmirched by it,’ Charlotte said, tears thick in her voice. ‘But I swear it is only temporary until I am on my feet. I shall repay every last penny. What kind of a father would leave money to a child in order to be rid of her?’

  ‘A coward and a heartless cur,’ said Fosdyke dramatically. ‘It is fortunate that you have friends.’ He must tread softly. If he took care not to startle this little filly she might come sweetly, without any fuss at all. ‘Were you to ask a friend’s advice I would give it unstintingly.’

  Charlotte glanced up at him, noting his square, cheerful face with its thatch of brown hair and sparkling blue eyes, the only welcome sight left in the whole of London. She gave a wry little smile. ‘I dare say I am in need of some.’

  ‘Then cut loose. Leave these shores and start afresh along with Fanny and me. There are jobs aplenty on the continent. You have great talent, little Lottie, and I have the contacts. I can find you all the work you need to make your fortune, and you know that you can trust me, do you not, for have I not been a friend to you?’ As an afterthought he added, ‘We might even discover this relative you seek.’

  For the life of him he could not remember who it was, exactly, she sought, but that mattered not at this juncture.

  Charlotte could feel relief flowing into her. To return to Cornwall, to Dickon, even to Uncle Nathan without having achieved anything positive, had worried her considerably. What kind of life could she build for herself in that quiet backwater without being forced to resort to this odious fortune? And how could she live in Uncle Nat’s house with the knowledge of her supposed tainted parentage?

  Besides, she had often enough expressed a desire to go on stage for a living. Now here was her opportunity. If she could not have James, she could at least have that. It might serve to make life relatively tolerable.

  She turned to Fosdyke. ‘Very well. I shall come.’

  Fosdyke insisted that she take the precaution of returning to the solicitors to inform them of her whereabouts in the coming months. He gave them the address of the lodging-house he used when in Paris and they in turn promised to make arrangements for Charlotte to draw upon a bank there. Fosdyke did not share Charlotte’s romantic desire for poverty and in no time at all the necessary letters and papers were drawn up.

  They took the first sailing that afternoon from Dover, after first being met by Fanny, complete with hired chaise and baggage.

  Charlotte had suggested that she ask Clara to accompany her, since she would have liked female company of her own, and not being a close friend of Fanny, but Fosdyke had assured her that there were maids aplenty in Paris.

  So here they were. The rooms were cheap and although the ceilings looked in danger of collapsing at any moment, the beds were clean and the food plentiful and good.

  ‘This is but temporary. We shall soar to great heights, the three of us, and will soon have the money to buy our own fine house,’ Fosdyke kept repeating.

  Charlotte laughed at this but a small kernel of unease was born. His constant references to we and our disturbed her somewhat. If she was ever to purchase her own house it would not be with her father’s money, nor would she wish to share it with Fanny and Fosdyke, for all his goodness to her in the past. But she did not intend to wait so long for a place of her own. Once she was established she would rent her own rooms and cut loose from them altogether. Yet it would be churlish just now to say so.

  The very first morning, Fosdyke went out and left his card at all the likely theatres, including the Paris Opera House which Charlotte considered somewhat presumptuous on his part. They were informed that very shortly they would be receiving a call from a Mr Wilfred Clement Fosdyke and his protégée, a Miss Lottie Forbes, who would have the honour of displaying her skills in the arts of acting, singing and the delectable arts.’

  Charlotte trembled at the prospect of an audition before strangers, but could only assume Fosdyke knew what he was doing.

  ‘Now we must fit ourselves out in proper fashion before facing Paris, this finest capital of Europe, if not the world,’ said Fosdyke expansively.

  ‘Will it cost a good deal?’ queried Charlotte, conscious of the leanness of her purse, for she had insisted on the absolute minimum of funds being paid to her.

  ‘You must not think of it as an expense, my dear, but an investment,’ advised Fosdyke. ‘No one is likely to offer work to a drab.’ This sounded sensible enough and so Charlotte permitted him to take her around all the very finest dress establishments. They also visited tailors, for he too must look presentable. Perruquiers, milliners, hatters and shoemakers, not to mention all the necessary little items which must accompany these numerous and splendid outfits. And everything must be of the finest quality. Brussels lace, silver buckles, red heeled pumps, frills, bows, ruffles and furbelows till Charlotte was dizzy with it all. But she was not quite such the innocent. The number of promissory notes she was signing on her new bank account was considerable, covering not only her own expenses but those of Fanny and Fosdyke too.

  ‘Is it quite necessary for you to have four velvet suits, Mr Fosdyke? And at fifteen guineas a time? We never had so many outfits in England. And I am sure I can manage with two ball gowns.’

  ‘But this is not England, Lottie. This is Paris. And the last thing we must look is provincial.’

  Certainly if the ladies who paraded the boulevards were anything to go by, fashion here was indeed considerably different to that in London. Never had Charlotte seen so many fantastical rigouts in all her life. With their gaudy colours and wide skirts, hair cut short and curly about their heads and as loaded with powder as their faces were with paint and patches, they looked for all the world as if they had just stepped out of one of Harlequin’s pantomimes.

  She found too that Fosdyke was unaccountably short of funds to pay their full month’s rent, required in advance, and it was Charlotte again who paid. She made a vow to find work as quickly as possible.

  * * * *

  Dressed in a pale rose gown of shot silk which showed off her complexion to perfection, Charlotte prepared for her first audition. Fosdyke schooled her in what to say and how to present herself. It seemed very little, being only a line or two from Romeo and
Juliet, which she knew anyway, but Fosdyke assured her it would be sufficient. He also made her pay particular attention to way she walked, used her fan and did her hair, and refused to allow her to cover the considerable décolletage of her new dress with a kerchief, however fine the workmanship of the Brussels lace.

  ‘This is not the time for shyness and modesty,’ asserted Fosdyke. Leaving Fanny languishing in her room drinking wine and nibbling crumbly cake in a new silk nightgown, Fosdyke led the way to the first establishment on his list.

  The theatre was smaller and darker than Charlotte had expected, but the manager was interested in her from the outset and offered her a position before she had even opened her mouth. If there had not been still so much of the country girl in her make-up she might have realised then that all was not well. Instead of which, she was delighted to have found work so quickly and at such a princely sum each week. He and Fosdyke appeared to be old friends and went off to the local hostelry for a glass of wine while she sat sipping a cup of coffee, watching a rehearsal of an incomprehensible French farce and feeling more relaxed than she had in a long time.

  To think that she had worried over the audition! The only part she had not liked was when Monsieur Cartelet had asked her to lift her skirts and show her legs. Charlotte had at once cast an anguished look at Fosdyke, who had motioned irritably for her to obey. Pink cheeked, she had granted the briefest glimpse of her ankles and calves, which were not uncomely, and this seemed to settle the matter.

  Studying the performance now being so ruthlessly rehearsed, Charlotte realised that language was evidently going to be a problem, and she gave much thought to it. Nothing had been said about her inability to speak French. She had rather assumed, foolishly as it turned out, that the plays would be in English, perhaps played to the many English tourists who crowded into the theatres each night in their expensive silks and satins. Could she learn French? Was it difficult? And who could teach her? Fosdyke seemed to know none at all.