Chapter Nineteen
THE KING’S HEAD Inn was swarming with villagers, all eager to see whether they had been immortalised by Mr Hardy.
As Charlotte followed her family—led by Mary, loudly insisting that this was positively her final outing before confinement—inside the venue, she tried desperately to quash the dreadful feeling that everyone was looking at her.
No one is here to see you, she told herself sternly. They are here to admire the art.
Unfortunately, her attempt at courage lasted precisely five seconds.
For she walked straight into Miss Morton.
“Miss Mifford,” the young lady called, pushing past several people to reach her side.
Miss Weaver trailed behind her friend, fashionable as always with a French scarf around her neck despite the heat of the room.
Miss Morton seized Charlotte’s hand—purely to ensure her audience was secure—and bestowed upon her a gratingly sympathetic smile.
“It’s so brave of you to come,” she said loudly, casting a glance at her friend to make certain she was listening. “Considering…”
“The bet, yes, yes,” Charlotte replied crisply, snatching her hand back. “Strange how au fait you seem to be with the goings-on at The Ring of Bells, Miss Morton. Though I would not dream of speculating as to why, of course.”
Miss Morton reeled back as though Charlotte’s words had been a physical blow, which gave Charlotte the opportunity to slip away, wiggling her fingers in a delicate farewell.
As she melted into the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Miss Weaver's apologetic expression, before she turned her fair head to comfort her affronted friend.
Feeling a little guilty—for she was not usually one who veered toward spite—she began to make her way around the exhibition. She paused before each piece, marvelling at Mr Hardy’s talents.
Here was a sketch of Mr Marrowbone atop his long-suffering pony.
There, a scene of the snow-covered village, all warm Cotswolds’ stone beneath great tracts of white.
She stopped again before a painting of a carriage on a country lane, leaning heavily to one side.
“Look, dear—that’s the carriage that lost its wheel on the way to Long Acres,” Mrs Walton said to her husband as they paused to admire the work. “Don’t you recall?”
“How could I forget,” Mr Walton replied glumly. “Best bottle of brandy I ever had in my life—and you gave half of it to your brother when he called.”
The pair moved on, bickering good-naturedly.
Charlotte hid a smile and waited a moment to give them a head start before she stepped toward the next work.
According to the label beneath it, it was titled Christmas Morning.
It depicted a group of wassailers standing near the village green, their cheerful faces illuminated by the lanterns they held aloft.
Charlotte recognised Nora amongst the group at once, for Mr Hardy—with great precision—had captured every feather and bauble of the bonnet she wore… Charlotte’s bonnet.
“That minx,” Charlotte whispered aloud, reluctantly impressed.
Her eyes scanned the work, picking out neighbours and friends amongst the group, before drifting to the quiet village beyond them, which looked almost eerie when contrasted against the happy wassailers.
She blinked as she caught sight of a figure in the far distance, walking toward the narrow lane that led to Mr Postlethwaite’s cottage at the back of the receiving office.
Who could it be?
She leaned in, studying the faint strokes of green and grey, but before she could look more closely—
“Charlotte!” Mary’s voice cut through her concentration. “Oh, you must come see—it’s simply perfect—come, come!”
Her cousin grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her through the crowd to another painting.
“Look,” Mary instructed, prodding her forward.
There—hung on the wall in a simple gilt frame—was another of Mr Hardy’s watercolours. And this one made Charlotte’s stomach drop clean through the floor.
It was her and the Comte.
Standing in the snow outside St Mary’s, surrounded by crowds yet with eyes only for each other.
The Comte’s dark head was bent toward her, his gaze warm, his mouth curved in the faintest, most devastating smile.
And she—Charlotte cringed—was gazing up at him with unmistakable, shy hope shining in her eyes.
She had thought the betting book humiliation was bad enough, but this—this was worse. Her foolish, one-sided infatuation with the Comte had been immortalised in watercolour for all the world to see.
“This is terrible,” Charlotte whispered, covering her face with both hands. Perhaps, if she begged, Mary would lead her from the room without requiring her to remove them. She wasn’t certain she could ever bear making eye contact with another living soul again.
“Terrible?” Mary squeaked indignantly. “Charlotte, the way he’s looking at you—oh, he adores you. It’s all right there.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who sees this for the abomination it is,” Mrs Mifford’s voice came, right near Charlotte’s ear.
“You look radiant, dear, but talented as Mr Hardy is, even he couldn’t make that Frenchman appear anything less than petrifying—why, he’s enormous!
His shoulders take up half the composition—”
Her critique ended abruptly and was followed by a pause.
A long, terrible, stretching pause.
“Why, Comte de Roche,” Mrs Mifford twittered eventually. “I didn’t see you there. Do you know—”
Charlotte went utterly still, her eyes locked on the painting, not daring to turn. She only hoped that her aunt would not abandon her.
“—that I’ve been looking for Eudora all evening? Wherever has that child gone? Must dash!”
Mrs Mifford fled with great speed but very little dignity.
Coward, Charlotte thought as she remained rooted to the spot, her face turned toward the painting. She felt the Comte move to stand beside her, but she didn’t dare turn her head to look at him—she couldn’t.
She had spent all evening preparing herself to endure the curious gazes of the villagers, but she had quite neglected to consider what she would do if she found herself face-to-face with the man who had caused all her upset and humiliation.
And nobody—nobody—could have prepared for facing that same man while standing before a painting that showed her gazing up at him with unmistakably puppy-dog eyes.
There were limits to human fortitude.
Still, she thought, squaring her shoulders, even if Mrs Mifford had abandoned her at least she had her cousin by her side.
“Do you know?” the duchess said suddenly, in a perfect imitation of her mother’s flustered tone. “I’ve been looking for Eudora too. Won’t you both excuse me?”
Before Charlotte could protest, Mary dashed away, leaving her standing alone—shoulder to shoulder beside the Comte. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the watercolour before them, wondering whether she could discreetly sidle away like an inconspicuous crustacean.
Unfortunately, the Comte spoke before she had the chance to disappear.
“Charlotte,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I owe you an apology. I never meant—”
“No need to apologise,” she interrupted quickly, forcing a smile upon her face as she turned to look at him. “It was just a silly betting book, Comte de Roche. A lark, that’s all—I’m not upset in the slightest.”
She placed a heavy emphasis on his formal title, hoping that he would take the hint that they would no longer be addressing each other in such familiar terms. She could bear anything, really—as tonight had proved—but hearing him say her name was quite another matter.
His accent softened it into something rounded, gentle, almost tender.
Something that might be mistaken for a lover’s caress, if one didn’t know better.
A man who had no intention of marrying her had no business whispering her name as thought it was an oath.
“Mr Hardy is very talented,” she continued, before he had a chance to regroup. She waved airily at the painting before them, as though it meant nothing to her at all. “He has really captured the true essence of your… coat.”
She paused for a moment, her cheeks heating.
“Cut by Weston?” she ventured, grasping for anything—anything—else to comment on. There were only so many things one could say about a coat. Mr Hardy’s portrait of them—glancing at each other with a tenderness that was no longer there—well, she could write an entire novel on that.
“I believe so,” the Comte replied, his tone careful. He was watching her closely with those velvet-brown eyes, his dark brow marred by the slightest, worried frown. He was, Charlotte guessed, about to attempt another apology.
“Listen to me, wittering on about coats when we have much more important things to discuss,” she said quickly.
His expression grew hopeful.
“The murder,” she hastened to explain, ignoring the slight pang her heart gave as his smile faltered. “There’s something I want you to see—I mean, that is, if you’re still interested in trying to solve it? I wouldn’t want to presume…”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than assisting you in your task, Miss Mifford,” he replied with sincerity—and with the very formality she had wished for moments before. Strange, she thought, how hearing it now made her want to weep.
“Lead the way,” he said, giving a short bow as he gestured for her to make the first move.
She walked ahead of him through the crowd, conscious of the eyes that followed them, but even more conscious of him.
Though he kept a perfectly respectable distance, she was acutely aware of his presence—it felt, absurdly, as though she could sense his warmth at her back…
though perhaps she was simply mistaking it for the heat radiating from her own flaming cheeks.
“Look,” she instructed, coming to a halt before Christmas Morning. She leaned toward the watercolour and waved him closer so he could see for himself.