“Good Lord.” Westerley’s eyes watered from coughing as he threw back the remainder of his drink.
“I wasn’t asking for references,” Charley felt compelled to inform him.
Watching her, he raised one hand to his cravat and stroked the fabric slowly.
This sent Bethany into her own fit of giggles. “I suppose, Westerley, that you will eventually make a decent-enough husband. When you finally make your offer.” And then she raised a finger in his direction. “If you don’t see fit to keep Felicity happy, I’ll come after you myself.”
Bethany’s words to her brother sent unease trickling down Charley’s spine, but now was not the time to chastise him.
So instead, she lifted her glass to her lips and met his gaze over the rim as she took a sip, thinking she ought to see at least a smidgen of guilt in his expression. Then the vibrant flavors hit her palate.
The drink was sweet and very strong. “What is it?”
Westerley shook his head.
“Cognac?” she guessed.
“No.”
“Not brandy?” This was interesting.
“A form of it,” he answered. “Twice-distilled wine.”
She lifted the glass to just below her nostrils and inhaled again. “The only kind of brandy I’ve tasted before is peach. There is so much I don’t know.”
He leaned forward and pretended to whisper. “All one needs to know is what they like.”
“Are you teasing Miss Jackson now?” Bethany chided and then took a sip of her drink. “I don’t know how you drink any of it, Charley. Distilling seems like such a masculine endeavor.”
“The basic idea of distilling is the same as it’s been for centuries.” Charley wondered that more people were not fascinated by the process. “It’s highly likely that the first people to ever distill were women. It’s like cooking.”
“Do you cook, Miss Jackson?” Lord Westerley sounded genuinely interested.
“I do.” She took another sip. “It’s not really all that different. Herbs, spices, various levels of heat, and time.”
“America must be a most unusual place to live. You have some very different ideas.” Bethany regarded her thoughtfully. The girl had the same color of hair and eyes as her brother. “But I like you anyway. Excuse me for a moment, won’t you? Mother wanted me to make certain Lady Turlington was satisfied with her chamber.”
Charley and Lord Westerley fell silent, leaving Charley nothing to do but take another sip of her drink.
“Do you like it?” He’d lowered his voice and leaned closer.
Charley felt warmed beneath his gaze. Or perhaps it was the liquor. “It’s not my favorite,” she said ruefully. “But it’s better than Madeira wine.”
Chapter 10
MUTUAL SENTIMENT
In a most unusual turn of events, Charley had been seated directly to the left of the Countess of Westerley, who sat at the foot of the table, nearly twenty feet distant from her son, perhaps more than that.
As usual, the countess appeared in all due finery, feathers in her upswept hair and elaborate jewelry on her ears, fingers, and around her neck. Charley wondered if her own mother might have appeared thusly if she’d not married Charley’s father and moved to America. What if her own mother had been alive to come to England with them? The thought caused her throat to thicken, and for a moment she wondered if her grandmother had not been disappointed in her arrival, a reminder that their own daughter would never come home again.
Her mother had been Lady Miranda, daughter of the Earl of Thornton. She’d never missed informing people of this and rather than take any pride in her mother’s title, Charley had been embarrassed.
She swallowed hard. Even knowing her mother likely would have driven Charley mad with criticism and theatrics, it would have been nice to have her mother here with her now.
Charley glanced halfway down the table to where her father sat. Was England a giant reminder to him of the wife he’d lost? It was possible he felt guilty for taking her so far from home. Was that why he was becoming so insistent she marry?
Conversation drifted around her as the idea formed in her mind. Because she was stubborn but not as stubborn as her father. If he was intent upon leaving her here, it was going to be difficult to thwart him.
She would ask Daisy to pack all her belongings and rise early and beg him to take her to Scotland. She needed to prove to him that even if he didn’t want her at his side, he needed her.
Didn’t he?
“Are you enjoying yourself thus far, Miss Jackson?”
Clasping her hands in her lap, Charley blinked and nodded. “I am.” The woman tilted her head with questioning eyes, obviously expecting more of an answer. “Your daughters have been most kind.”
“I am pleased to hear that. I expect all my guests to feel quite at home throughout their visit. Tell me, do you attend house parties in your part of America? Philadelphia, if I am correct? Thank you, Martin.”
Although the countess was addressing Charley, she seemed completely aware of the conversations going on all around her as well as the efficiency of the footmen. Lady Westerley unfolded her napkin and dropped it to her lap, which reminded Charley that she ought to do the same. She had dined formally on a number of occasions, and she wished she didn’t feel as nervous as she did.
Spending more time with the countess made it easy to see where Lord Westerley had gleaned some of his arrogance.
“I’ve visited a few large estates with my father on occasion.” It had never been for pleasure, however. Other considerations, such as commerce and political issues, had always come first.
“When I was younger, I imagined that everyone in America lived in log cabins,” offered the matronly guest seated across from Charley. Charley inhaled and then smiled. She would get through this meal, then go upstairs and ask Daisy to begin filling her trunk.
“Not everyone. Many of the farmers we purchase barley and corn from do, however. The insulation provided by the logs keeps the cold out and it isn’t as though people require large manors in order to be happy.” She clamped her mouth shut tight in order to keep herself from saying more. Because she couldn’t even begin to guess how many of those little log cabins could fit inside of this manor.
“I’ve seen a few paintings of the mansion where your president lives. Opulence manages to find its way everywhere. Would you not agree?” Lady Westerley asked.
“It does.” Charley squirmed in her chair.
“It is a shame about your new president’s wife,” the Earl of Stokely, an elderly gentleman beside her commented, surprising Charley.
“Mrs. Jackson was a kind woman. Do the English follow American politics then?”
The countess stared at her. “I hadn’t thought until now. But you are not relations, surely?”
“Not that I am aware of, but my father and President Jackson are well acquainted with one another. Before the campaign, we visited he and Mrs. Jackson at their home, The Hermitage, on more than one occasion.” Charley stabbed her fork into a piece of potato. “Mrs. Jackson worked diligently alongside her husband in his campaign. I don’t agree with all that Mr. Jackson stands for, but the press was unusually cruel to her, especially after their son died. It wasn’t as though she intentionally remained married to her first husband. No one deserves to be villainized like that. In the end, her heart just gave out on her.”
She bit the potato off her fork and then chewed and then, glancing up, realized that the guests seated around her were staring at her as though she’d sprouted wings of some sort. Or a second head.
“Your president’s wife was a bigamist?” The matronly woman’s brows had disappeared into her hairline.
“It is complicated,” Charley answered, wondering if she ought to go into the details of the controversy.
“Perhaps the criticism was deserved,” another cultured voice offered.
“The son was a savage, I believe,” said another.
“Your Mr. Jackson
isn’t exactly popular in Great Britain,” Lord Stokely leaned in to inform her.
“It’s a mutual sentiment, I’m sure,” Charley said.
Charley’s father glanced at her from where he sat, a warning look in his eyes. She swallowed hard. She’d seen the scars on Mr. Jackson’s face. Scars that had been carved into his cheek by a British soldier for refusing to shine the man’s shoes. Her father had told her that Andrew Jackson’s father and both of his brothers had been killed by the English during the revolution.
“It’s all in the past, now, though, isn’t it?” Lady Westerley effectively ended this particular discussion.
Heat flushed up her neck and into her cheeks. Dropping her gaze, she returned her fork to her plate, feeling chastised. Her father didn’t want her, and neither did she fit in with these aristocratic English people. Not that she wanted to, nor that it even mattered.
Conversation resumed but she didn’t bother to pay attention. She would rather be anywhere but there. As the footman reached to remove yet another plate upon which she’d merely moved her food around, she nodded. Even if she was hungry, none of the courses were recognizable, and she feared that she’d find herself eating some poor animal’s kidney or… fish heads stuffed into pig intestines and then baked into a pie.
She’d kill for a good slice of cornbread. She’d kill to be at home.
If homesickness was a real thing, she’d wager she’d caught an extremely fierce case by now.
“Ladies.” The countess rose. “Shall we leave the gentlemen to take their port?”
Her hostess caught her gaze and gave her a reassuring nod but five minutes later, Charley went purposefully striding in the opposite direction as all the other ladies. The shadows darkened as she left the main section of the manor, but she didn’t care. She simply needed away from all of them—away from all of this.
Away from herself even, if that was possible.
When she finally took note of her whereabouts, she found herself wandering the gallery Lord Westerley had shown her earlier. Sconces had been lit and she slowed her pace to study the paintings more carefully this time.
What must it be like for no one to question who you wanted to be, what you wanted to do or even where you wanted to live? Her father’s decision to leave her behind had left her shaken. Whiskey was her purpose. It had to be. She’d been born into it. It was in her blood, in her bones.
She’d always thought her father would be on her side. And she’d be by his.
She hugged her elbows, wrapping her arms around her front.
Her mother had never understood her, but she’d always thought her father had.
The deceased Lord Westerley’s eyes stared back at her almost mockingly. How certain he looked!
It wasn’t fair that men had so much control over their lives and women had to fight so much harder to have even a modicum of control over their own.
“I thought I might find you here.” Charley didn’t turn around to see who it was. She’d find herself looking into eyes very similar to the ones in the painting.
“I’ve had enough conversation for one evening.”
“Ah, the war with the Colonies does tend to be a sore spot over here.” He chuckled as his footsteps neared.
“Over there as well.” Charley didn’t move.
She felt his warmth behind her. “Do you want to talk about it now? I won’t stop you.”
Was he mocking her? She turned and sent him a suspicious glance.
He crossed his arms in front of himself, but not because he was cold or uncertain. She doubted he ever felt uncertain about anything.
“Are you angry with only your father right now, or would you like to include all of England in your disapproval?” he asked.
“So, you heard my faux pas all the way down where you were sitting, then?”
Watching her closely, a slow grin tipped up the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t need to. It spread like wildfire and may have become somewhat exaggerated by the time the stories reached me.” He raised one finger to his chin as though searching his memory. “Let me see. You all but accused my mother of living in a house that was far too large. Lady Crone speculated that you are secretly one of Rachel Jackson’s children from her previous marriage, an adopted daughter to the Whiskey King. But Lord Riker topped that by suggesting President Andrew Jackson sent you to England himself, to act as a spy before he sends a fleet of ships up the Thames.”
Charley didn’t even try to hide her snort of disbelief. Of course, he was joking. But in case he wasn’t…“I didn’t say anything to that affect.” She winced. “Although, I may have mentioned something about the wastefulness of one family living in such grand accommodations.”
The earl chuckled woefully.
“I did not mean to insult your mother. It’s just…”
“Yes?”
“I believe I’ve already insulted your family enough for one evening.”
Lord Westerley rocked on his heels.
“When I was not quite ten, I had a cat. Not sure whether she was one of Miss Perkin’s long line of descended felines. Nothing special about this particular cat, except for the fact that she sat with me whenever I wanted to be alone in the stables.”
The tightening in her chest loosened just slightly as she imagined Lord Westerley cuddling a cat as a young boy.
“Did this cat have a name?”
“Pussy.” He flashed her a cocky grin.
“I am sorry I asked,” she returned, whereas he lifted his shoulders and brows as though he had no idea why that would be the case.
“Anyhow, one day when I entered the stable,” he narrowed his eyes and swallowed, “I couldn’t find her. One of my father’s grooms informed me that she’d ventured into one of the stalls and been accidentally trampled.”
“That’s horrible.” She’d lost a dog a few years ago. It had felt arguably more traumatic than her mother’s death.
Six years ago. Some days it felt like yesterday, and other days it felt like a lifetime.
He grimaced. “The thing was, I was so angry at that horse. Hearing the commotion, my father rushed inside and discovered me yelling at the mare. At a horse! He took hold of me and dragged me outside.”
Charley was a little concerned as to where his story was going.
“He stood in front of me and I was bracing myself for the switch.” He studied his father’s painting, seemingly lost in the memory. “He said, ‘Julian Elias Fitzwilliam. That horse didn’t kill your cat intentionally. If you are that angry, then take me on instead and stop scaring the poor horse with your blubbering nonsense.’ I’ll never forget.” He pointed at his chin. ‘Take your best shot,’ he told me.”
Charley imagined he’d been so distraught that he’d not stopped to check his anger at the poor horse. She’d seen the man with his horse. He’d likely felt terrible afterward. “Did you hit your father?”
He exhaled. “I did not. There was something about him standing there, making himself vulnerable to me that immediately dispelled my pitiful need to lash out.”
“Are you attempting to do this with me?” She’d barely spent any time with him and yet she found herself reeling between wanting to box his ears and…
Not kiss him. She flicked her gaze up from his mouth.
Definitely not kiss him.
“I believe I am quite capable of absorbing any criticisms you are itching to dole out. Better to hurl them at me than my mother.” He grimaced and then grinned again. “At least I’m unlikely to send you back to London. I have my own motives where you are concerned.”
“It isn’t funny.” At least, it hadn’t been at the time. “Do you think she’d actually do that?”
“Send you back to your grandparents? The ones who wish to turn you into a proper English miss?”
She ought to scowl at him for reminding her that her mother’s parents awaited her with more correction, but he really was impossible! “Yes, those particular grandparents.”
“S
he would not. My mother may seem like something of a dragon, but she can also be rather understanding. Too understanding where my sisters are concerned.”
Not Bethany. “Tabetha?”
“I need to rein her in before she gets herself into trouble. Have you decided yet, then, to consent to our courtship?”
“I’m going to speak with my father early in the morning. Hopefully, I can change his mind.” The slightest regret trickled down her spine. “If I’m not here, the wager, of course, will become moot.” Feeling stiff from standing in one place for too long, she turned and began walking along the galley with him for the second time that day. “He has to take me with him,” she added almost to herself.
“But—”
“I think if he’d told me when we were alone, he would have listened to my arguments. I couldn’t very well quarrel with him in front of you and Mr. Stone and Peter Spencer, now could I?”
“It’s just that—”
“And please, don’t take offense. But seeing those distilleries is the primary reason I felt any enthusiasm whatsoever about going on this trip.”
“You weren’t curious about your grandparents?” He strolled leisurely along, matching her pace.
“I was. But I’ve seen them now and I believe they would be quite happy to pretend I was never born.”
“I doubt that very much. One thing you’ve yet to have learned about the English… well, most of us anyhow, is that all of those lessons provided by your mother’s parents is their way of showing you how delighted they are to have you here.” And then she heard the sound of his knuckles cracking.
“That sounds rather painful.”
“Your father did not take port. He left right after the meal was finished.”
She stumbled before turning to see if he was perhaps joking. He had to be joking, but at the same time, she knew Lord Westerley wouldn’t joke about this.
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