Chapter 12
12
I n the past fortnight, Charity had neither seen nor heard from Mr. Mansfield. She knew he’d recovered from his injuries, because the butcher had resumed his twice-weekly meat deliveries to the kitchens, though he had not once brought Kitty along. That action alone was enough to let Charity know he no longer wished to continue boxing lessons—or kissing lessons. And all she could do was pretend not to notice him approach with his wagon, just as she wouldn’t have noticed any sort of delivery to the kitchens before coming to Huntly Manor. Feigning disinterest was not her strong suit. Her heart ached, she couldn’t sleep, and yet there was absolutely no one in all of Britain who might understand her plight.
Of course, Modesty complained plenty about being lonely, but at least Dr. Miller had allowed the lass to start moving around inside the house, which didn’t make her a great deal happier, since she was still forbidden from visiting the barn and her pony altogether. Worse, Dr. Miller insisted that she refrain from riding Albert for two more months.
“I’m going to go mad,” Modesty said, pacing the library floor with only a slight limp. When she reached the far end, she stopped and dramatically thrust a palm to her forehead. “I retract that statement. I have already gone mad.”
Trying not to laugh, Charity shifted her gaze to Muffin, who had stealthily sneaked onto her lap while she was reading. “I have an idea. Why dunna ye train this wee dog to do tricks?”
Modesty lowered her hand and inched forward. “What kind of tricks?”
“Not to beg at the table to begin with.”
“That’s not a trick, that’s a miracle.”
“Verra well, then start with something easier—simple commands like sit, stay, down, roll-over...”
“He already sits.”
“When I tell him to do so—but no one else has been able to manage to convince him to sit.”
Modesty slid onto the settee beside Charity and smoothed her fingers through the dog’s fur, making Muffin’s ears perk up. “Do you not think this wee fella is strange?”
“How so?”
“Well, he’s supposed to be Miss Hatch’s dog, but she doesna seem to give a whit about him—and he’s the same toward her.”
Charity had puzzled over Muffin’s favoritism many times as well. “It is rather odd.”
“I dunna think he’s her dog at all.”
“Have you been listening to gossip again?”
“Me? No one ever tells me anything.”
Charity rolled her eyes, biting her lip. Perhaps no one gossiped to the lass directly, but her hearing was as acute as that of the wee doggie on her lap. “Well, Muffin may have arrived with Martha Hatch, but he seems quite content to be a member of this household and that is what matters, is it not?”
Before Modesty could answer, the dog leapt to the floor, barking hysterically. He raced across the carpet, his hackles standing on end. As usual, when his toenails clicked the floorboards, the little ball of fluff slid out of control, furry limbs flailing in every direction until the poor laddie collided with the wall.
Immediately hopping to her feet, Charity crossed the floor and gathered the pooch in her arms. “Goodness, what caused such an outburst of frenetic excitement?”
Muffin growled, his gaze shifting out the window, followed by a new onslaught of barking, with such ferociousness, he nearly flung himself from her grasp.
Her question was soon answered by the sound of approaching carriages. And she didn’t need to look out the window to realize they were about to receive visitors. Furthermore, there was also no doubt who was barreling down the drive. There was only one person Charity knew who travelled with five carriages.
“’Tis Marty!” Modesty cried, pushing in beside her.
“Aye,” Charity whispered, letting Muffin hop to the floor.
With a sharp intake of air, the lassie drew her hands over her mouth. “You dunna reckon he’s brought Mama and Grace?”
Charity turned and headed for the entrance hall with her sister in her wake. “He didna send word of his arrival—who kens whom he’s brought or why he’s here!” But judging by the way the blood drained from her face, she already knew exactly why the Duke of Dunscaby had come.
By the time Charity reached the front porch, Mrs. Fletcher and Willaby already had the servants queued and waiting for the arrival of the His Grace.
Not unexpectedly, Martin MacGalloway was the first to alight from the frontmost carriage. To Charity’s chagrin, he tugged up his pristine white gloves while giving her a pointed frown.
“Brother, what a surprise.” She forced a smile as she hastened down the steps. “We’ve received no word of your visit.”
Normally, Martin would greet her with a peck on the cheek, but instead he grasped her elbow and headed for the house. “There wasna time. Come. I need a word.”
Charity glanced back to see her mother alighting with Grace behind. “Where is Julia?”
“Resting.”
“Resting?” She stumbled on her skirts, trying to keep up with Martin’s hasty pace. “Is she ill?”
A tic twitched in her brother’s jaw. “Enough chatter until we’re behind closed doors.”
Charity’s skin grew hot as together they ignored Willaby and the welcoming party, marched through the entry, down the corridor, and into the library where Martin closed the door and turned the lock.
“Sit,” he ordered, gesturing to a chair while he took her usual seat at the writing table.
“Marty, you cannot come in here like a bull with your lips buttoned. I ken Julia would have loved to see Huntly Manor, and the fact that you are here and she is not?—”
“If I dunna tell you, Mama will blurt the news just as soon as we are finished. My wife is with child and is suffering a bout of morning sickness. The doctor says it ought not last too long, but we both agreed, given her fragile state, it was best for Julia to remain at Stack Castle.”
Charity brightened, hoping her next words would do something to improve Martin’s mood. “How wonderful! You’re going to be a father.”
“Aye, but not for months, and not before we discuss exactly what you were doing at a boxing match in Torquay.”
“Oh…that.” She knew it. Prickly heat spread across her skin. Someone had informed the duke that she had supported The Butcher, and now she was well and truly ruined. Nonetheless, she tipped up her chin and sat ramrod straight. “Mr. Mansfield has been so incredibly helpful, and I felt it was my civic duty to support him when he faced Mr. Terrible.” If only she knew Alanzo’s real family name, she might sound a tad more convincing.
“Believe me, I am aware of Mr. Mansfield’s perceived heroism. According to letters sent to me and Mama by both you and Modesty, he rescued our sister from certain death, he single-handedly repaired the rotted timbers in the stable’s roof, and he makes the best bacon you’ve ever tasted.”
“Och, aye, all of that is correct. And his sister, Kitty, has been?—”
Marin slammed his fists atop the table. “What the devil were you thinking? Young unmarried ladies do not attend boxing matches. And young, unmarried ladies most especially do not exhibit a display of unfettered emotion when said boxer is the victim of unfair play and collapses in a bloody heap!”
Charity gripped her hands in her lap, her cheeks afire.
Martin leaned forward, the strength of his ire charging the air. “Do you have any idea what your actions have done to your reputation?”
Unable to meet her brother’s crystal-eyed stare, she buried her face in her hands. “I’m ruined,” she whispered. “My sisters?—”
“You are not bloody ruined. At least not yet. Thank God you were smart enough to allow his man to tend him while you were seen leaving that cesspool with another woman and a footman.”
“Of course, I was careful.”
“You were not careful. You were foolish !” he shouted loudly enough to make the chandeliers above rattle. “Did you pause for a moment to consider how your actions would reflect upon your family, upon your younger sisters, lassies who will eventually follow in your footsteps and have to make matches of their own?”
Heaving an enormous sigh, Charity knew she had been far too daring and sidestepped societal rules far more than she should have. Yes, she’d worn black. Yes, she’d brought along Ester Satchwell. But that wasn’t the half of it, and if Martin ever discovered that she’d been taking boxing lessons alone in the arbor, her brother would find the first pallid-faced, ancient peer in search of a wife and send the pair of them to Scotland for a hasty marriage.
“But Marty, I would have thought you of all people?—”
“Thought?” he bellowed. “If you had thought, I would still be in the north of Scotland with my pregnant wife!”
Every muscle in Charity’s body clenched with her brother’s shouting. He was right, she’d been a fool to believe she could entertain a…a… friendship with Mr. Mansfield. Well, whatever it was did progress a bit further than friendship, but no one needed to know how far. And she was fairly certain she’d quashed all in-house gossip about her boxing lessons. Still, it was her fault the news had reached her brother and he felt the need to hasten from one end of Britain to the other. For that she was utterly filled with remorse. So much so, a tear slipped from her eye.
She didn’t bother to swipe it away. “I am very sorry to have caused so much consternation to you, Julia, and the entire family at a time when you should be filled only with joy.”
Martin sat back, though he still appeared to be wound as tight as a clock’s coil. “Well, now, that sounds far more like the Charity I know and love.”
“I have not changed.”
“No? Perhaps I was a bit too compassionate when I allowed you to come here and open the house to wayward young women. Tell me, is one of them the culprit who led you astray?”
“Absolutely not. All four of our boarders are lovely ladies who have fallen on difficult circumstances, just as Julia had—not so long ago, mind you.”
“Do not skirt the topic. Our mother thought I was being foolish by allowing my unwed sister to play at being the lady of the manor for a summer, and it turns out she was right.” Martin pulled off his gloves, yanking one finger at a time. “Your reputation may not be entirely ruined but, believe me, it is dangling .”
“So, then will you and Mama be staying on until the Season begins?”
“Absolutely not.”
A flicker of hope fluttered in her breast. “Nay?”
“Both Mama and I agree we need to spirit you to London posthaste. I’ll find a matron to oversee Huntly Manor whilst Andrew and Mama take you and your sisters to London, where you will prepare for the Season whilst showing all of society that you are the well-bred, polite, demure, lovely lass everyone kens. Thank God Parliament did not recess until July this year and the Season will not commence until January. That should give us plenty of time to set things to rights”
Charity already knew the timing of the Season would be late, which is why she’d thought she had several more months to enjoy her post as lady of the manor, but there was one thing in Martin’s discourse that seemed awry. “Did you say Andrew is coming with us?” she asked, wondering why the most social of the twins would be bothering with London now. He and Philip, who was twenty minutes older, had recently graduated from St. Andrews University, and were busy establishing a mill on the River Tay.
“Aye, since Julia is expecting, I’ll be returning to Stack Castle. Andrew will take my place in Parliament with a proxy vote, while you—” He thrust his pointer finger at Charity’s heart. “You will do your damnedest to find a husband.”
“But—”
“No excuses. Your first Season was cut short by our father’s untimely death, but hear me now, sister. There will be no interruptions this year. You will find a match or I will find one for you.”
Charity opened her mouth to speak but not a sound came out, while the library filled with a charged silence. Yes, she knew her duty, but the idea of being paraded about the marriage mart was abhorrent. Who in their right mind wanted to be thrust into a loveless marriage and sit at home while her husband caroused with mistresses? She hated London. She hated the prim English ladies who always looked at her as if she were born with a wart between her eyes.
Martin heaved a sigh, his gaze softening. “Och, dunna look so glum. You ought to be the most sought-after lassie of the ton . Moreover, by the time the orchestra plays the grand march at the Season’s first ball, this farce about attending a boxing match in some provincial English seaside village will be forgotten.”
With that, he stood, unlocked the door, and slipped away. Charity hoped to take her leave as well and spirit up the servant’s stairs. But it wasn’t meant to be. Mama came in next, and of course, Grace, Modesty, and Andrew all stood in the corridor listening to every word.
Mama’s chiding was fifty times worse than Martin’s had been—at least it seemed as such. Charity sat quietly and took the tongue-lashing, while wringing her hands and staring at nothing, Mama’s every word fanning the fire burning in her heart. She knew her family expected her to marry a peer. She knew she would never see Harry again. Never kiss him, never feel the warmth of his embrace, while his powerful chest molded perfectly against her breasts.
She might never know another moment of happiness in all her days.