Читать книгу Four Regency Rogues - Энни Берроуз, Annie Burrows - Страница 14
ОглавлениеIt was not only her need to be at the mill that had hastened Charlotte’s departure, but something within herself she did not want to face. It was the Earl, of course. He had been courtesy itself all the previous evening, chuckling at her jokes, smiling at her in a way that turned her stomach over and set her heart beating like a drum. She had watched the easy way he dealt with his cousin and Mrs Temple and realised being part of a family, however distant, was something to be envied.
And as they talked, she had learned more about the enigmatic man that was Roland Temple, seventh Earl of Amerleigh. What she could not do was relate the man she had come to know to the youth he had been. If she were truly honest with herself, could she blame him for not wanting to marry her when ordered to do so? Would any man with an ounce of pride do it? If he had meekly done as he was told, she would have despised him. What she found more difficult to explain away was the manner in which he had rejected her. He did not know she had heard him, so there was no reason why he should allude to it, and she would not demean herself by asking.
And now she was beholden to him for introducing her to his cousin, arranging a night’s lodging and, what was more, helping her over her difficulty with the cotton. It was only a temporary reprieve and she would have to face it again if the Fair Charlie did not arrive with raw cotton for the spinners, but it was more than she could have hoped for the morning before when she was combing the warehouses. It had been a very long twenty-four hours, made bearable, even pleasant, by Roland Temple’s intervention. And that galled her.
They accomplished the first three changes of horses without any trouble and Talbot, having been told to drive as fast as it was safe to do so, was taking them along at a cracking rate. The roads were rough and though the coach was well sprung, she was jolted from side to side until she thought she would be black and blue before they reached home. It was after the fourth stop that they encountered their first difficulty. The only horses available were an ill-matched foursome that pulled against each other instead of working in harmony. She endured it for half an hour, then put her head out of the door and called up to Talbot to slow them down. He must have taken his attention from the road in order to answer her because one wheel came down heavily into a pothole, which slewed the whole equipage round, but their speed was still carrying them forwards. Charlotte flung herself down with her head in her hands and waited for the impact as the corner of the coach hit one of the trees that lined the road. The sound of panicking horses, rending wood and Talbot’s curses filled the air as the coach turned over into the wayside ditch. The padded seats tumbled about her head and dislodged her hat as she was thrown down on to the side now lying in the mud.
Talbot was at the door before she could extricate herself. He wrenched it open and peered down at her, his tousled head outlined against the branches of the tree and sky. ‘Miss Charlotte, are you hurt?’
‘No.’ Dirty water was seeping in from the ditch, but she was laughing as she pulled herself upright and reached for his hand. ‘Haul me up, there’s a good fellow.’
It was not as easy as it had seemed when the Earl had helped Mr Halliwell to pull his wife out of their coach, but there had been two of them then and Talbot was on his own. Not only that, he had hurt his arm. There did not seem to be anywhere to get a purchase with her feet, but she managed it by stacking the cushions in the muddy water and climbing on those. Then, putting one foot into the shattered woodwork, and with Talbot’s good hand to steady her, she emerged to sit on the top. It was an easy matter to scramble down from there, though her skirt was torn and muddy. Once out on the road, she helped the groom free the struggling horses and then turned her attention to his injured arm. ‘Is it broken?’
‘No, I do not think so, only bruised.’
‘No more driving for you for a while,’ she said, taking off his kerchief and using it to make a sling. ‘How far is it to the next inn?’
‘Four or five miles, Miss Charlotte. I could go and fetch help, but I cannot leave you here alone.’
‘Then we had better both go.’ She tried to cram her hat back on her head, but her hair was so dishevelled it fell off again and she gave up and flung it into the coach.
‘What about the carriage?’
‘It is no good to anyone, is it? Come on, let’s round up the horses.’
‘I should think they are in the next shire by now,’ he said, looking about him for any sign of the animals that had bolted the minute they were freed.
She fetched her bag from the boot and though he went to take it from her, she would not relinquish it. ‘Then let’s be off, we can do nothing here.’
They had barely covered two hundred yards when they heard a vehicle on the road behind them, being driven at a furious pace. They stopped and turned towards it.
Roland, who had been dozing, woke up with a start as Bennett brought the horses to a shuddering halt, nearly catapulting him out of his seat. ‘What’s up?’ he shouted.
‘Miss Cartwright’s coach is in the ditch,’ Bennett called out, scrambling down to investigate.
Roland was out like a bullet from a gun. He peered into the coach and, finding it empty except for Charlotte’s hat, looking decidedly squashed, searched about for any sign of her or her driver, becoming more and more concerned, imagining her unconscious in the ditch, hurt, even dead beneath the coach, and his heart almost stopped. He bent to try to move the vehicle, but it was stuck firmly in the mud.
‘There they are!’ Bennett said suddenly, making him look up.
Charlotte and Talbot were in the middle of the road, walking back towards them. ‘Thank God!’ Roland said. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
He set off at a run. Bennett returned to the carriage and walked the horses forwards until they were abreast of Charlotte, and stopped just as Roland reached her. He took her shoulders in his hands and looked down at her searchingly. There were smudges of dirt on her face and her hair was tumbling about her shoulders. He stroked it back gently. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘A few bruises, nothing more. Talbot has injured his arm.’
‘’Tis nothing, my lord,’ the coachman said. ‘I can ride beside your man, if you would be so kind as to look after Miss Cartwright.’
‘It will be my pleasure.’ He turned to Charlotte and guided her towards the coach. ‘Come along. You can tell me what happened as we go. We will send someone back to fetch your carriage.’
She climbed in and settled herself, trying to hide her torn skirt, wondering if she were destined always to be rescued by him. She might have saved herself the bother of rising early and hurtling through the countryside at breakneck speed; he had caught up with her, and now she would have to sit beside him in close proximity for hours and express her gratitude.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, as he seated himself beside her and ordered Bennett to proceed. ‘I believe there is a posting inn a few miles on. I can arrange for my coach to be fetched there.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I believe we hit a pothole, the coach slewed round and turned over.’
‘You must have been travelling at a prodigious speed,’ Roland commented.
‘I was anxious to reach the mill. And do not dare say it.’
‘Say what?’ he asked with a smile, guessing her next words.
‘More haste less speed. I know it. I shall be delayed by hours.’
‘No, for I will convey you to the mill, but not until after you have been home and changed your clothes. You will lose all authority if you are seen like that.’
She realised he was right, which only made her debt to him the greater. ‘But my coach…’
‘I doubt it can be repaired in hours. It will need to be taken to a coachbuilder and looked at properly, and that means fetching it on a flat wagon. We can arrange it once we arrive in Shrewsbury. There is a good man there who will effect repairs. I can do that after I have taken you home.’
‘There is no need to inconvenience yourself, my lord. I can see to it myself.’
‘Has no one ever told you it is discourteous to disdain a helping hand when freely offered?’
‘I meant no discourtesy.’
‘No, it is your infernal independence. What makes you like that? What are you afraid of? Is it simply me or are you the same with everyone?’
She found the question difficult to answer. ‘I am not afraid of you, my lord. Why should I be?’
‘There is no reason at all,’ he said. ‘But you seem unable to accept even the smallest service without protest. I do only what any gentleman would do given the circumstances.’
‘But you are not just any gentleman, are you, my lord? You are the owner of Amerleigh and everything in it, my neighbour and my adversary.’
‘That is only because you will have it so. It need not be. I should like us to be friends.’
‘Friends?’ she queried, trying not to let him see her hands were shaking and her face was on fire. She did not even have a bonnet brim to hide behind.
‘Why not? We have much in common. I believe I have said that before. There is Tommy and the other villagers, for one, and our interest in improving their lives, and the more I come to know you, the more I realise that the hard exterior you show to the world is only a front, that beneath it beats the heart of a gentle woman.’
‘You are being impertinent, my lord.’ It was said with an attempt at severity, but she did not quite succeed and a small sigh escaped her.
He heard it and looked round at her. Captain Hartley was right; she was vulnerable. ‘I beg your pardon. Perhaps I have been too long in the army and have forgot the niceties of polite society.’
‘Did you ever know them, my lord?’
He looked sharply at her. ‘Are you implying my manners were ever less than you would expect of a gentleman? If so, I might remind you we were only lightly acquainted before I went into the army. And you were only a schoolgirl.’
‘So you do remember.’
‘Yes, I remember. What a long time ago that seems.’
‘What do you remember?’
‘Let me see, a young lady in a dimity dress and pantaloons who could handle a shotgun almost as tall as she was and shoot ten ducks in a row.’
‘Oh, yes, I did, didn’t I?’ she said, laughing at the memory. It had been very conceited of her to attempt it and she had been very relieved when she had made good her boast.
‘What did you do with the pig? Did you eat it?’
‘No, I could not bear to do that. It was a female. I bred from her and sold the litter. It was my first lesson in business.’
‘Who taught you to shoot?’
‘My father’s gamekeeper. Papa was all in favour, but my governess was horrified.’
‘I never saw you with a governess.’
‘Oh, I was easily able to escape from them.’
‘Them? More than one?’
‘Yes, about one a year I should think. I am afraid I was not a very good child.’
He laughed. ‘I can believe it. Who taught you to ride?’
‘Oh, that was Papa, as soon as I could sit on a little pony. And the stable boy taught me to fish and swim, so you see my upbringing has been out of the ordinary. It was all to fit me for my role as my father’s heir.’
‘Were there no ladies in your life?’
‘Only my governesses, though Mrs Cater—that’s my cook-housekeeper—once told me my mother’s sister came when Papa was first widowed, but he would not have her near him. She reminded him too much of Mama, I think, and he said he would brook no interference in the way he brought up his daughter.’
‘You must have been very lonely.’
‘I was never aware that I was, not until Papa died and I found myself owner of Mandeville and in charge of everything. By then, of course, my independence was part of my character. I could not change now, even if I wished to.’
‘Oh, I think you could,’ he said softly, reaching out and putting a hand over hers as it lay in her lap. ‘You can learn to trust.’
‘Trust, my lord?’ She was aware of the warmth of his hand on hers, but made no attempt to withdraw hers. It was a new experience to be treated with tenderness. No one had done so before, not her father and certainly not the young men who paid court to her fortune and not to her. Was Roland Temple any different?
‘Yes, trust your instinct. Instinct is a kind of sixth sense, more a woman’s characteristic, I think. Where it comes from I do not know. The heart, perhaps. Listen to it.’
‘And what should it be telling me?’
He reached out and put his fingers to the side of her throat, making her suck in her breath. ‘Relax,’ he said, half-jesting. ‘I only wish to establish that it is in good order after all you have been through.’
She could feel her heart thumping as he took her chin in his hand and tipped her face up to his. She could not have pulled herself from his grasp even if she had wanted to and found herself looking up into his eyes and once again she felt the power in him, drawing her towards him, as if she had no will of her own. He searched her face and saw, not the harridan, not the wild woman, but the lonely girl who needed awakening, a girl with slightly parted lips and shining green eyes, tempting him. The temptation was too much to resist; he brought his mouth down to hers. He did not want to hurt her, but to arouse her.
He kissed her skilfully, pressing her into him, so that her body was held against his the whole way from shoulder to thigh. Her breasts were hard against his chest, her legs were pressing against his, her feet almost off the floor. The kiss lingered and deepened, making her squirm, no longer in an effort to resist him, but because what he was doing was sending little shivers of desire down through her belly to the secret places of her groin. She wanted him. She wanted him with an intensity that shocked her. His mouth moved from hers and found its way down past her ear to her throat, kissing, gently and insistently, and transporting her to a heaven she had never even dreamed of. She felt almost boneless, a quivering jelly that had no shape except his.
He drew away at last, holding her at arm’s length to look at her. ‘My God,’ he said, grinning lopsidedly. ‘You are all woman after all.’
If he had said anything else, if he had spoken tenderly, if he had shown some remorse for his behaviour, she would have been overjoyed at this awakening, but his words had reminded her of other words uttered in scorn six years before, words she could not forget. Her retort was for the girl she had been, not the woman she had become. ‘How dare you! How dare you force yourself on me in that cavalier fashion and then mock me.’ She was breathless from his kisses and her face was scarlet with mortification that she had given in so easily.
‘I did not force myself on you, you were willing. As for mocking you…’
‘Yes, mocking. You are a past master at that. I had a lucky escape six years ago, not that I would ever have considered marrying you.’
His teasing tone disappeared as suddenly as it had come. ‘Six years ago?’
‘Oh, do not tell me you have forgotten. “She is a hoyden and ought to have been a boy. She is certainly plain enough.” Your words, Lord Temple.’
‘Good God! You were never meant to hear them.’
‘Then you should not have spoken so loudly, my lord.’
‘If it is any comfort to you, I have regretted them ever since.’
‘I do not need comfort, my lord. And my heart is still intact.’ Her voice was icy. ‘Now, I see we are drawing into an inn yard. I bid you good day.’ She did not wait for Bennett or Talbot to open the door, but wrenched it open and jumped down, almost before the wheels had ceased to turn.
He watched as she marched into the inn, her hair bedraggled, her skirt muddy and torn, and he cursed himself for the biggest fool in Christendom. He was reeling from the knowledge that she had heard what he had said to his father, had not only heard, but had obviously been hurt, hurt enough to remember his exact words. While he did not think she had heard them, he could push them to the back of his mind, but now he was consumed with guilt, the more so since he had come to know her and realise how unjust he had been. He did not think she was plain at all, she was beautiful, and if she was a hoyden, it was a trait he could admire in her because she had had to step into her father’s shoes with all the responsibility for hundreds of employees on her shoulders. Her burden was even greater than his. Too shocked to do anything else, he silently let her go.
Raised voices coming from the inn alerted him to the fact that something was amiss. He hurried inside to find her arguing hotly with the innkeeper who would not serve her, calling her a filthy gypsy and he wanted none of her like in his establishment. There was nothing for it but to intervene.
‘The lady is with me,’ he said. ‘Her carriage has overturned and she requires assistance, not insults.’
She rounded on him. ‘Assistance, not insults, my lord. How apt.’ And she gave a cracked laugh.
‘My lord?’ the innkeeper queried, looking at Roland.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am the Earl of Amerleigh and this lady is under my protection. She requires a room in which to refresh herself, and after that we both require a meal.’ He produced a pouch from his tail pocket and jingled it. ‘Have fresh horses put to my carriage, ready for us to proceed as soon as we have eaten.’ He paused. ‘And you had better send someone back up the road to round up the horses from the overturned coach. I am afraid they bolted when they were released.’
‘At once, my lord.’ He bustled away.
Charlotte walked over to a settle against the wall and sat down, her hands in her lap. Her face was devoid of colour and for the first time he understood what her life was really like, fighting battles and having to win them, simply because she was a woman. He longed to fight them for her, to protect her, but he had forfeited the right. Going over to her, he sat down beside her. Neither spoke. A few minutes later the innkeeper’s wife came to them. ‘I have a room ready for you, my lady.’
Charlotte did not correct her form of address, but rose silently and followed her from the room and up the stairs to a bedroom that had been hastily made ready for her.
How she managed to answer the woman’s questions about the accident and how the Earl had fortuitously come upon her, Charlotte did not know. She could not go downstairs again until she was calmer and once more in control of herself. She declined the help of someone to help her dress and arrange her hair, but, taking off her skirt, asked if it could be cleaned and mended. The woman took it away and she was alone.
She sat and shivered, though she did not know whether she was simply cold or whether she was suffering from the after-effects of that episode with Roland Temple. She had never intended to let him know she had heard his rejection of her and certainly not that she had been hurt by it, but the words in her head had escaped from her mouth. They had been getting along so well, chatting amiably, until his conversation had become a little more intimate. She might not have minded that if he had not so far forgotten himself as to kiss her and then to declare she was a woman as if he had only just discovered it! It had brought the past back as if it had been only the day before. Oh, she might pretend to be affronted, but she knew she was deceiving herself. Inside, inside the core of her, she had wanted him to kiss her, had revelled in the strange sensations that coursed through her, but in the end she had been left confused and unhappy.
Before today, no man had ever touched her, let alone kissed her, but Roland Temple had, and he had aroused a longing in her she could not account for, a longing to be held, to be protected and loved. Had she fallen in love? If she had, it was a foolish thing to do, especially as she had eschewed marriage and especially as the object of her turmoil was Roland Temple. He considered her a hoyden, way beneath him. Then why had he kissed her? To show his dominance? To prove he was her master? To amuse himself at her expense?
She was startled by a knock on the door. Brushing the back of her hand across her face, she discovered her cheeks were wet with tears. No one had ever made her weep, not since she was a small child, and then it had been out of temper and not misery. She made herself call out, ‘Who is it?’
‘Me.’ The voice was easily recognisable even through the thickness of the door. ‘How much longer are you going to be? Dinner is on the table and we must be on our way in half an hour.’
How she would have liked to tell him she would go no farther with him, but she was nothing if not a realist and knew there was no help for it. She stiffened her spine. ‘I will be down directly.’
He had only gone up in order to satisfy himself she was still on the premises and had not fled, and hearing her voice had made him grimace at his fancies. She was not one to run away; she would always face her adversaries head-on. And to his sorrow, he was one of them. He returned to the dining room and she followed twenty minutes later.
Her skirt had been roughly repaired and her hair had been fastened back with a ribbon; she was, to all intents and purposes, the woman she had been before he kissed her. But there was a subtle difference about her. He could not quite make up his mind what it was. She seemed older, and though she had always been in control, there had before been a light-heartedness about her, a thumbing of her nose at everyone who decried her, an indifference to what people thought of her, which seemed to have disappeared. If it were possible, she was even more self-contained. He did not like or understand this new, cold Charlotte.
She sat down opposite him without speaking and made a pretence of eating. She answered his queries about whether she would have more vegetables, or a little more pie, or whether she preferred coffee or tea, but ventured nothing more than that. When the meal was finished, he conducted her out to the coach, being very careful not to touch her. If he intended to try to make things right with her once they were on the way again, he was thwarted.
‘Talbot,’ she said, as the coachman prepared to climb up beside Bennett. ‘You may ride inside with us. I am sure it does your arm no good to be hanging on to your seat up there.’
He looked startled, shifting his gaze from her to the Earl and back again. It was an order he dare not question. ‘Yes, Miss Cartwright,’ he said, and helped her in.
Two can play at that game, Roland decided. ‘I have a mind to drive,’ he said, climbing up beside Bennett and taking the reins from the astonished man’s hands.
And thus they arrived at Mandeville, having stopped only to change the post horses for his own at the last stage where they had been left against his return and then Charlotte did not leave the carriage.
* * *
Lady Ratcliffe came rushing out as soon as they stopped at the door and was astonished to find the Earl sitting on the box beside his old coachman, and Charlotte being handed down by Talbot, just as if he were the gentleman. ‘Whatever has happened?’ she cried out. ‘Charlotte, just look at you!’
‘I will tell you later, Aunt,’ she said. ‘His lordship is in some haste, so we will not detain him.’
Emily looked up at Roland, who tipped his hat to her. ‘Your obedient, my lady. I must go and arrange for Miss Cartwright’s coach to be fetched and repaired. Good day to you. Goodbye, Miss Cartwright.’ And with that he drove away.
Charlotte stood and watched the coach disappearing out of sight, then with a huge gulp at what might have been, turned to go indoors with Emily fussing round her. ‘What happened? Have you had an accident? Have you been set upon and robbed? Oh, you poor dear. Come up to your room and tell me everything. Meg! Meg!’ And when the girl appeared, flustered at having been summoned in that peremptory fashion, ‘Bring some hot water up to your mistress’s room. And be quick about it.’
‘Do not fuss, Aunt, I shall be as right as ninepence once I have bathed and changed and rested a little.’
‘What was the Earl doing driving his coach? What has happened to yours? Oh, I knew nothing good would come of you rushing off on your own like that.’
‘And so you sent the Earl hotfoot after me.’ She was stripping off her clothes as she spoke.
‘Someone had to save you from your foolishness.’
‘Ah, but who was to save me from the Earl?’
‘The Earl? Surely not?’ She suddenly noticed Charlotte’s bruises. ‘He never did that?’
‘No, of course not.’ It might have given her some satisfaction to blame him for the marks, but she could not bring herself to lie. ‘My coach overturned and I was thrown about. His lordship rescued me.’
‘Oh, thank the good Lord. I thought for a moment—’
‘No, Aunt,’ she said, determined no one should ever know what had happened in the coach. ‘Nothing so fantastical. His lordship is, after all, a gentleman.’
The old lady seemed not to notice the irony. ‘Yes, of course he is.’
The hot water arrived and Meg prepared to help Charlotte wash and change and they could not talk in front of her, so Emily left to tell Mrs Cater the mistress was home and required something to eat. By the time Charlotte had finished her toilette and sat patiently while Meg brushed the tangles from her hair and pinned it up, she was, on the outside at least, once more the Miss Cartwright everyone knew. She went downstairs and, over her meal, gave her aunt a carefully edited account of what had happened, which only confirmed the lady in her opinion that the Earl of Amerleigh was a gentleman of the first order and would make her great-niece a splendid husband.
The last stage of their journey had been made at a fair canter and Roland would not subject the tired horses to further work. He drove home and had his riding horse saddled, then he set off for Shrewsbury, leaving Bennett and Travers to see to the carriage. He had undertaken to arrange for the broken coach to be fetched and he would honour that undertaking, but he doubted Charlotte would allow him to do anything else for her.
Everything had been spoiled and it was his own fault for acting on impulse. If he wanted to live in harmony with Charlotte again, to share the lessons with Tommy, to work together for the good of the village, then he must somehow put things right. Could he explain himself to her satisfaction? Would she let him? And what could he say? ‘Sorry,’ or ‘I did it because I love you’, which would be the honourable thing to do, followed by a proposal. ‘Sorry’was not enough and she would laugh in his face if he said he had fallen in love with her. And who could blame her for that?
Being on horseback, he could take the short cut over the hills and his errand was soon accomplished and he was on his way home, still musing over what to do about Charlotte. Dipping down into Scofield, he became aware of a noisy crowd outside the Cartwright mill, grouped around a man standing on a flat cart. ‘I told you,’ he was shouting. ‘I told you no good would come of putting a female in charge. Now she has ruined the business and some of you are already without work. Tomorrow it will be a few more and the day after, a few more…’
‘What would you have us do?’ someone shouted from the crowd.
Roland dismounted and led his horse forwards to the edge of the throng to listen.
‘Walk out. Every one of you, walk out and join your unemployed brethren. Without workers she will have to sell to someone who can manage the business properly. I know a gentleman ready to buy her out. Then you will be given jobs again.’
‘Ain’t goin’ to do that.’ Roland recognised Beth Biggs, about three rows from the front. ‘Miss Cartwright hev always treated us fair. Ain’t ’er fault if ’er ship’s bin delayed.’
‘A sensible employer would have made provision in case such a thing should happen, not let stocks run down to nothing. Proves she’s not up to the job.’ He turned to the men in his audience. ‘Do you like bowing and scraping to a chit of a girl?’
Roland pushed his way forwards. Some, seeing who he was, parted to make way for him, while others continued the argument among themselves. Once at the front, Roland sprang up on to the makeshift platform. He was several inches taller than the man and his commanding presence silenced those near the front. He waited until he had everyone’s attention. ‘You have been misinformed,’ he said. ‘There is cotton on its way here. It will arrive tomorrow.’ He prayed he was right in saying that. Geoffrey seemed sure that he could manage to find some.
‘Too late,’ someone called out. ‘We’ve been stood off.’
‘Not by Miss Cartwright?’
‘No, Mr Brock.’
‘That was a mistake.’
‘What’s it to do with you?’ someone else asked. ‘What do you know about it?’
‘I saw Miss Cartwright in Liverpool yesterday when she arranged for the yarn to be delivered.’
‘Oh, yes,’ another jeered. ‘I’ll wager you were having a grand time of it too. Enjoy yourselves, did you, frolicking about while we went home with no wages?’
Roland’s jaw tightened. He did not know how to answer that without having a verbal battle with the man and that he would not demean himself to do. His best defence was to attack. ‘This man is a troublemaker,’ he told his audience, indicating the man on the cart beside him. ‘He has his own reasons for inciting you to break the law. I suggest you find out what they are before you listen to him.’
‘And what reason do you have for interfering?’ the man demanded. ‘This is a matter between Cartwright’s and the mill hands.’
‘You may think it is, but I am a magistrate, empowered to read the Riot Act, and I am telling you to disperse or face the consequences.’ He watched as one or two drifted away. ‘Report for work tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Miss Cartwright will confirm what I have told you.’
They murmured among themselves and began to disperse. Relieved that his strategy had worked, he jumped down and made his way back to his horse and it was then he came face to face with Charlotte, who had just driven up in her curricle. She evidently had two sets of her working apparel, for she was dressed once again in a grey skirt and a tailored jacket, both in pristine condition. He swept off his hat and bowed, stiffly formal. ‘Your obedient, Miss Cartwright.’
She had seen him on the cart and her workers grouped round him, but had not been in time to hear all that was said. Could she go nowhere without him turning up? What was he doing addressing her workers? ‘Can you not keep your nose out of my business?’ she demanded.
‘My business, ma’am. As a magistrate I am obliged to prevent riotous assembly. I was doing my duty as the law demands.’
She could not quarrel with that, but she had heard him mention her name. ‘Riotous?’
‘I believe so. One of the men was definitely inciting them to strike. At least they listened to me and dispersed.’
‘And what is it I am to confirm?’
‘That there is yarn on its way.’ He picked up the reins of his horse, which was nibbling the wayside grass, and walked it over until he was standing beside the curricle. ‘I gather Mr Brock put them off for lack of it.’
‘Then I hope, for everyone’s sake, Mr Temple is as good as his word.’
‘I can vouch for that, ma’am.’ He paused. ‘I have just come from Shrewsbury. Your coach will be fetched tomorrow by Guthries. I have asked him to let you know the extent of the repairs and how long it will take. In the meantime, if you have need of a carriage, please avail yourself of mine. If my mother is not using it, that is.’
‘Thank you, my lord, but I can manage very well with my curricle.’ It was said politely, but there was no warmth there. She had obviously decided he was not to be forgiven and meant to keep him at arm’s length.
He put his hand on the side of the vehicle, preventing her from driving off. ‘Miss Cartwright, I hope you will still come to Tommy’s lessons. He—we—will miss you if you do not.’
‘I am much occupied with more pressing matters at the moment—perhaps later, when I have more time.’ She flicked the reins and he stood back to allow her to drive into the mill yard.
The evening was far advanced and in an hour or so it would be dark. He wondered if she would be safe. Would any of the mob wait around to waylay her? Leading his horse, he crossed the road and leaned against a tree where he could see into the yard of the mill. A pool of light from the upstairs office window spilled out onto the curricle and its patient pony. She would certainly not welcome his watchfulness, but he felt responsible for her. He asked himself why, but could think of no convincing reason.
Charlotte did not stay long talking to William Brock. She listened to his explanation of why he had laid off so many hands, then told him that in future he was not to do so without consulting her. ‘We nearly had a riot on our hands,’ she told him. ‘If it had not been for the Earl, they might have come to violence. It is not unknown for a disgruntled mob to set fire to a mill. And it was all so unnecessary. You knew I had gone to buy cotton, you could have waited.’
He mumbled something about petticoat government, but she chose not to hear him, though he would bear watching. There might come a time when he would have to be replaced.
‘Now, go home, Mr Brock, it is late. We will plan what to do tomorrow.’
She left him to secure the premises and drove out of the gate and made for Mandeville. She was aware of being followed by Roland and though she was tempted to turn round and send him on his way, she was strangely comforted by his presence. It did not matter what she did—he was determined to look after her. She laughed aloud and urged the pony onwards. It was a cat-and-mouse game, but who was the cat and who the mouse?
Charlotte was busy all the following week. The cotton mill was once again in full production, though she was still left with the problem of more supplies once those Mr Temple had sent were used up. A letter from the Liverpool harbour master had informed her that the captain of an incoming schooner had seen what he believed was the Fair Charlie dismasted and wallowing in heavy seas. Struggling with his own vessel, he had been unable to get close enough to hale the stricken ship and had no idea what had happened, but she was so low in the water he could not think she could make landfall before sinking. Quite apart from the loss of the crew whom Charlotte genuinely mourned, it was a blow from which it would be difficult to recover and she would be at the mercy of independent importers for her cotton and exporters to take her finished cloth. She felt as if she were losing control, but she could not allow that to happen and spent days searching out contracts. For the first time she felt her gender was against her, but she persevered. Not to do so would mean throwing her mill hands out of work. In comparison to everything else, the coming ball seemed unimportant.
Lady Ratcliffe, of course, did not think so. As far as she was concerned, it was to be the event of the year and nothing less than Charlotte’s betrothal to the Earl of Amerleigh would satisfy her. Charlotte had given up protesting; her great-aunt would see her error in the fullness of time.
When at last she found time to go into Shrewsbury to choose a costume, there was very little left; everyone had been there before her. She was offered elaborate gowns, which needed no end of corseting, and coiffures that would take hours to create—that is, if they could be created on her wild hair. She could just imagine Meg’s dismay at being asked to do it. The alternatives were flimsy bits of nonsense that were hardly respectable. Or animals. She chose to dress as a black cat, hoping the disguise would be complete enough to hide her anguish. The anguish would be engendered by the sight of Roland Temple and the knowledge that, whatever happened, she must keep him at a distance. It was the only way to stay in control.
The week had been wet but the day itself produced thunderstorm after thunderstorm all day long and Charlotte wondered aloud how many of her guests would be put off by the weather. ‘None,’ Emily said. ‘Everyone is agog to see Mandeville and as the Earl is coming…’
‘Perhaps he will not.’
‘Nonsense. Of course he will. He has accepted and I do not believe he is a man to go back on his word.’
Her great-aunt had no idea what had transpired between her and the Earl, that they were in a state of open warfare. And for what? A little strip of land? A grudge held for years? Or a kiss that had set her in such inner turmoil she could hardly go about her daily business for fear of coming upon him, or sleep at night for reliving it? ‘No, I am sure he never does,’ she said, thinking of other words spoken in the heat of the moment years before. ‘And neither am I.’
Emily looked at her sharply, wondering what her great-niece meant by that. ‘I hope you are not going to keep worrying about business all through the evening, Charlotte. The mill is not going to fall down simply because you take a little time off. If you want to be accepted in society, this preoccupation with business must surely stop. Ladies do not interest themselves in such things.’
‘And who is to do it if I do not?’
‘Your husband.’
‘But I have no husband.’
‘Nor will you have unless you observe the proprieties and learn to conduct yourself in a more fitting manner.’
Charlotte gave up the argument and her aunt was soon distracted by other things. Given a free hand, she had the servants scurrying hither and thither with vases of flowers and trays of glasses, urging people to do several jobs at once and scolding them when inevitably they failed. The maids, on hands and knees, had polished the floor of the ballroom until it gleamed like a mirror. The footman, even the temporary ones, had been given new livery, and the butler stood in his pantry, counting bottles of wine and champagne. Lamps had been strung up in the trees in the garden and a double row of them illuminated the drive.
Afraid that the weather would delay the musicians she had hired for the evening, her ladyship had sent a message requiring them to come early and they had to be fed along with everyone else and Mrs Cater was throwing a tantrum. How could she be expected to cook for the army of helpers at the same time as overseeing the caterers who were providing the elaborate supper to be served to over a hundred guests? she demanded to know.
‘It is time you were going up to change,’ her ladyship said, coming upon Charlotte in the kitchen with an apron tied round her business dress, helping Mrs Cater, an activity her ladyship deplored. ‘Your guests must not find you unprepared to receive them.’
She went up to her room, stripped off her dress and lay down on the bed to wait for Meg to bring her hot water to wash. She had hardly slept the night before and had had such a worrying day, sleep overcame her. She was woken by the maid at seven o’clock.
‘Why, you have not even taken your costume from its box,’ Meg said, pouring hot water into the bowl.
‘There was no reason to do so before I was ready to put it on.’ Charlotte said, stripping off the underwear she had been sleeping in and washing before putting on a thin chemise and drawers and reaching out for the costume Meg had taken from its wrapping. It was of black velvet, very tight fitting, covering her from head to toe, far too daring for a country ball and, according to Lady Ratcliffe, to whom she had shown it when she brought it home, positively indecent and would horrify the Earl. That last remark was enough to strengthen her resolve to wear it.
There was a long black sarcenet pelisse to go over it, which would float around her and the mask would hide everything but her eyes and mouth and that was good. She did not want to betray what she was feeling to anyone, least of all the Earl of Amerleigh. It needed no jewellery, no trimming, no anything, except a small pocket for her handkerchief. Even her hair was covered by the velvet head and so all she had to do was brush it and push it up out of the way. She looked plain, simple and anonymous. Taking a deep breath, she left the sanctuary of her room and went downstairs.
Miraculously the rain had eased and the guests were arriving. Lord and Lady Brandon and Martha were the first. Sir Gordon was in ordinary evening dress, but her ladyship was dressed as Queen Elizabeth in a huge brocade farthingale with a stiff lace ruff around her plump neck. Martha was dressed as Columbine, making Charlotte wonder if the Earl might arrive as Harlequin. He would not be the only one, she realised, when the Reverend Mr Elliott, Mrs Elliott and Martin arrived. Martin was Harlequin.
‘Now why did he have to go and do that?’ Lady Brandon said in annoyance. Then, to Martha, ‘Did you know he was coming as Harlequin?’
‘No, Mama, but I told him I was to be Columbine.’
‘Foolish girl!’ her mother exclaimed.
Other guests followed them, kings and queens, knights and nymphs, strange animals, historical figures, maids and highwaymen, twittering and excited, exclaiming over the decorations as they made their way into the ballroom where the orchestra, replete on Mrs Cater’s cooking, were tuning their instruments ready for the first dance. It wanted only the arrival of the Earl of Amerleigh to make the evening a huge success.
Roland had ridden to Shrewsbury to see Charles Mount-ford. The day before, poking about in the attics to find a costume for the ball, he had come across a chest full of very old documents. Some of them were crumbling to dust, others illegible and written in a script he could not decipher. One had a huge red seal and appeared to be signed by a Royal hand. Realising they might be the ancient deeds to Amerleigh Hall, he had decided to take them to Mountford at once.
‘It will be interesting to learn if the old family story of the estate being given to my ancestor by Queen Elizabeth is correct,’ he told him. ‘Or perhaps it is a fairy tale.’
‘If it is what I think it is, this will detail exactly what land is included,’ Charles said, scrutinising them with a magnifying glass. ‘Some may have been acquired later, during the war between King and Parliament, for instance. You need to show them to an expert who can decipher them. Professor Lundy would do it, but he lives in London.’
‘I see. You cannot read it?’
‘Only a few words here and there, not enough to be sure I was advising you correctly.’
‘Then perhaps I’ll take them myself when I have time.’
‘Very well. Now you are here, have you time to go over the financial affairs of the estate? I think you need to reconsider your options.’
They had spent some time on the subject. The money he had brought back with him from Portugal was almost exhausted, though he did have his annuity, his half-pay from the army and the income from the tenants’ rents, all of which would have to be carefully husbanded. ‘Of course, if you had the income from the Browhill mine, it might help,’ Mountford said.
‘No, I have told you not to proceed with that litigation and I will not change my mind.’
‘Then the best advice I can you give you, my lord, is to marry the present owner of Browhill. It would be the best way of repossessing it.’
‘And that is advice I can well do without,’ Roland said sharply, effectively ending the conversation. He took his leave and rode home with a great deal on his mind.
Tonight was the night of the ball. He had wondered if his invitation might be withdrawn, or, if it were not, whether to stay away. Charlotte would surely not wish to see him? On the other hand, his absence would cause comment. After telling himself over and over again he did not want to see her, he knew he did, that the hours and days when he did not meet her seemed barren and uninteresting. He must talk to her and make her understand that the youth who had so cruelly rejected her six years before was not the man who had come back to take up his responsibilities as Earl of Amerleigh, that he could not go on, day by day, doing his duty, looking after the estate, making plans for his deaf school, without her forgiveness. Or was that going too far?
He hurried into the house to find Geoffrey and Elizabeth with his mother and Miles ready to leave for the ball. Geoffrey was dressed as a Tudor gentleman and Elizabeth a lady of the same period, while a bewigged Miles wore satin small clothes and a pink brocade coat with enormous pockets, his wrists covered in cascading lace. The Countess was not in costume, but in a lilac evening gown trimmed with white lace. ‘Roland, you will make us all late,’ she said. ‘Where have you been?’
‘To see Mountford. You go on in the coach, I will follow in the gig.’
‘You will get soaked.’
‘No, the rain has stopped.’
He declined anything to eat, saying he would drink a dish of chocolate in his room while he changed. He had found a basket full of costumes in the attic; he supposed that many of the lavish entertainments his father had put on had included costume balls for which he had obviously provided the clothes. He had chosen to be a medieval knight, wearing a cross of St George on his jerkin. The imitation chainmail was knitted in some thick shiny material, but the effect was good and nothing like as heavy as the real thing. It also had a helmet with a visor, which would do away with the need for a mask. He pulled on his boots and fastened a sword belt about his waist. ‘How do I look?’ he asked Travers.
Travers grinned. ‘Will I saddle your horse? A knight cannot go rescuing damsels in distress without his trusty charger, can he?’
‘Corporal, I do believe you are bamming me.’
‘No, sir, not at all, sir.’ But his smile was almost enough to split his face.
‘Then go and bring the gig round. I will drive myself. And there is no need for you to wait up for me.’ He flung a cloak over his costume and went downstairs, wondering what the evening might have in store for him.
