Chapter Twenty-one
MRS MIFFORD RETURNED to Primrose Cottage long after midnight with the news that Mary had borne a girl, Daphne.
“My first granddaughter,” Mrs Mifford exclaimed with joy, as Nora rushed to the larder in search of something with which they might wet the baby’s head.
“Someone to share my birthday with,” Charlotte replied, though her comment went unheard, for Nora had already reappeared triumphantly in the parlour with a dusty bottle of elderflower wine clutched in both hands.
Despite herself, Charlotte’s thoughts slipped at once to the Comte, and she imagined—with a flicker of dry amusement—the expression of utter horror he would wear if offered a glass of wine made from English hedgerow berries.
He doesn’t know what he’s missing, she thought haughtily, as she took a sip of the admittedly bitter concoction and tried not to wince.
“A girl at last,” Mrs Mifford sighed happily, settling herself into her favourite chair by the fire. “I was beginning to think we’d end up outnumbered.”
“Heaven forbid,” Mr Mifford replied dryly. He had spent the last thirty years as the lone male bobbing in a sea of females—aside, of course, from Billy the cat, whose aloof manner and superior disdain made him rather useless as moral support.
Charlotte felt a faint pang for poor Eudora—always a step behind her older sisters, never quite first at anything. Still, she thought, when Eudora’s own first child came along, she would be so brimming with love that the notion of “firsts” would scarcely matter.
They sat together in the cosy glow of the parlour, the fire crackling merrily, the elderflower wine poured into mismatched glasses. Nora insisted on making toast after toast to Mary’s health—more, Charlotte suspected, out of a desire to refill her glass than any heartfelt sentiment.
Still, Charlotte gamely raised her glass each time. The distraction was welcome. Whenever her mind was left idle, it insisted on slipping away from Primrose Cottage and making its way to Crabb Hall.
To Gabe.
Had he and Lord Crabb confronted Miss Weaver? Had she confessed? Or perhaps she had not—and Charlotte’s guess had been entirely wrong. It was possible. And yet…
He promised to call if there was any news at all, even her being wrong…
Her fingers tightened around her glass.
She frowned, irritated with herself—for she realised that she had once again pinned her hopes upon the Comte. Not simply upon his keeping her informed about the investigation, but on his holding the mystery in as high importance as she did.
And worse. Far, far worse.
She had pinned her hopes upon him. Upon the idea that his interest in her might yet endure, despite it being written in black and white in that ledger, that it had never existed at all.
“To the duchess,” Nora cried with gusto, pulling Charlotte from her spiralling thoughts. The maid’s cheeks were flushed and the glass she held aloft was far from steady. It was nearing time, Charlotte thought with a smile, to call an end to their celebrations.
She had just finished her own glass and was preparing to stand when a loud knock came upon the front door of the cottage. They each glanced with alarm at the window, apart from Mrs Mifford, who blinked with confusion at having been so rudely awoken.
The knock came again, louder this time, persistent.
“Who on earth is calling at this hour?” Mrs Mifford grumbled.
“Perhaps a footman from Northcott Manor come to tell us it’s twins,” Mr Mifford replied, as he rose from his seat to answer their caller.
Nora darted to the window once he’d left, her face pressed against the pane.
“It’s too dark to make them out,” she called over her shoulder. “Though whoever it is, they look enormous.”
Charlotte stilled, scarcely daring to believe. Mrs Mifford must have had the same realisation, for she glanced at her with alarm.
After a moment—and a deep, rumbling exchange between Mr Mifford and the caller—there came the sound of footsteps approaching the parlour-room door.
Charlotte stood, smoothing her skirts, then touching a hand to her hair.
She wished she hadn’t partaken so enthusiastically in the wine—she was quite certain her nose had a terrible shine to it.
There was no need to worry about a shiny nose, she told herself firmly, it was probably just a neighbour who’d heard the good news, or a footman from Northcott Manor dropping back something Mrs Mifford had left behind.
Definitely not him, she repeated internally, as the door swung open to reveal—
Him.
The Comte de Roche ducked his dark head as he followed Mr Mifford into the room.
When he straightened to his full height, Charlotte’s breath faltered.
His thick, dark hair was in slight disarray, as though he’d run a frustrated hand through it more than once; there was a definite shadow of stubble along his strong jaw; and the cravat at his neck was loosened.
He looked very—very—rugged and masculine.
And Charlotte dearly wished she had remained seated.
“Er, Charlotte dear,” Mr Mifford said, thoroughly amused. “The Comte here has requested a private audience with you.”
As though she was royalty, she thought, a faint, incredulous smile tugging at her mouth.
Then she caught sight of the Comte’s expression—his brown eyes burning, fixed wholly, intensely on her—and suddenly she did feel rather like a queen.
“Come, dear,” Mr Mifford murmured to his wife. “Let’s give them a moment alone.”
For once, Mrs Mifford was too shocked for words. She allowed herself to be steered toward the door with only a helpless, wide-eyed glance back at Charlotte.
Nora followed after them, though she paused for a moment before the Comte.
“Hours,” she declared, wagging her finger his way. “I spent hours on those ringlets for the assembly. Don’t let me down again.”
Warning delivered, she flounced from the room, nose in the air, shutting the door with definite click.
“I had heard.” The Comte bowed his head. “My congratulations.”
Another pause. He was still standing just inside the door, and it felt—absurdly, achingly—as though miles stretched between them.
“You have news?” Charlotte ventured, twisting her hands nervously. “Did Miss Weaver confess?”
“To the first attempt,” he conceded, a faint grin touching his mouth. “Then Mr Boden appeared to confess to the more successful attempt—which, as it turns out, was not murder at all, but an act committed in defence of Miss Weaver.”
At Charlotte’s puzzled glance, he launched into the tale—beginning with Miss Weaver’s arrival in Plumpton and ending with the chaotic events that had led to Mr Postlethwaite’s sudden demise.
Charlotte listened, wide-eyed, her worry gradually dissolving into surprise, then horror, then something like relief that no one would hang for Mr Postlethwaite’s murder.
“I was only half-right,” she said at last, unable to stop a small grin. “Though it’s not about being right, of course. It’s about laying the matter to rest.”
“You solved the case, Miss Mifford,” the Comte corrected her gently. “Congratulations are in order.”
She flushed, touched by the compliment.
“And felicitations too,” he added, reaching into his coat pocket. “Happy birthday. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you a small gift.”
He stepped toward her, bearing something small, wrapped in tissue paper. Charlotte accepted it dumbly, unable to stop her trembling as their fingers brushed.
“Thank you—you shouldn’t have,” she whispered, though the protest was rather pointless, for she was already unwrapping the gift. Nobody ever remembered her birthday.
With some difficulty—for, like her brain, her hands were not behaving as they usually did—she peeled back the tissue to reveal the small porcelain ornament from Mr Postlethwaite’s shop.
“It’s perfect,” she exclaimed, glancing up at him with a smile.
“It reminds me of you,” he replied.
She blinked—for he was suddenly standing much closer than before.
“I bought it intending to keep it for myself,” he admitted softly. “Something to remind me of you when I returned to London.”
“Oh,” she breathed, nodding because she could think of nothing else to do.
“But I realised that a silly ornament would not do,” he continued, reaching now for her hands. He took the porcelain robin and placed it gently upon the mantlepiece before turning back to her. “I do not want a reminder of you, Charlotte. I want you.”
Charlotte stilled, scarcely believing her ears.
“Desperately,” he finished, a rueful quirk lifting his dark brows. “Charlotte, mon c?ur, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
Charlotte blinked. Her mouth fell open.
“I— I’m so sorry,” she whispered, mortified. “I… can’t quite remember what mon c?ur means.”
“It means my heart,” he murmured, his hand sliding to her hip as he drew her close.
“Oh.” Charlotte nodded rather stupidly. “In that case… yes. Yes, I will be your wife.”
She had barely finished her last syllable, when a sound escaped him. A low, rough, utterly unrestrained growl of pure triumph. She had unleashed his inner bear.
Before she had time to draw breath, his arms were around her and he pulled her against him as though he had been starved for her.
“Mon c?ur,” he whispered, the words deep and reverent against her cheek.
“My bear,” she whispered back, her arms wrapping around his neck in a way that felt impossibly natural.
Then he kissed her.
Proper. Passionate. And, she assumed, very French. Though she had, of course, no bar against which to measure it. Nor did she intend to seek out an Englishman for comparison—she was quite content with kissing only her French Comte for the rest of her life.
She melted against him, hoping that the moment would stretch forever. Unfortunately, her relatives had other ideas.
“Charlotte, dear, I think I left my knitting on the chair!”
Mrs Mifford’s voice floated through the door to them, followed by a very conspicuous rattle of the handle. Charlotte and Gabe sprang apart just as the door was thrown open to admit her aunt—tailed by a sheepish Mr Mifford and a very curious Nora.
“Comte de Roche,” Mrs Mifford smiled thinly. “So sorry to interrupt this little tête-à-tête but it is rather late and Charlotte needs her—”
“Well, did he ask?” Nora interrupted, the elderflower wine making her bold.
“Miss Mifford has done me the great honour of agreeing to become my wife,” Gabe answered, solemnly.
Nora let out a shriek of joy, followed by a call for more wine to celebrate. As she sped from the room, Mr Mifford stepped forward to shake Gabe’s hand.
“On behalf of my late brother,” he said, with an affectionate glance to Charlotte. “I am obliged to warn you, my dear Comte, that I am quite the crack shot, should the need arise.”
Charlotte could not help but grin at Gabe’s startled expression.
“And,” Mr Mifford continued on a low murmur. “Once my wife gets over the shock of it, I’m sure she’ll be as delighted as I am to have you join our family.”
Charlotte stole a glance at her aunt, who was standing adrift in the middle of the room. A frown marred her brow, as though she was thinking deeply. She then drew a deep breath—Charlotte closed her eyes nervously—and exclaimed.
“I knew it,” she crowed, rushing toward Charlotte to embrace her. “Did I not say it from the start Charlotte? You and the Comte were destined for marriage.”
She turned then to Gabe, placing a hand on his elbow to draw him close. “My dear Comte de Roche, I don’t know if you’ve been told, but I’m something of a clairvoyant…”
Charlotte heaved a happy sigh, as she watched Mrs Mifford drag Gabe to a corner so she could inspect his palm.
After a few moments, Nora returned with another bottle of elderflower wine and, as final proof that he truly did love her, Gabe accepted his glass without any word of complaint.
Well, just a small, perplexed furrow of his brow, but only she noted that.
“To love,” Nora cried breathlessly, as she raised her glass in the air.
“To love,” they all echoed.
Gabe used the distraction of the toast as an opportunity to slip from Mrs Mifford’s grasp to Charlotte’s side. He placed a protective arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him as Nora called out another toast.
“To love,” Charlotte echoed again, as she leaned back against Gabe.
True, everlasting—if unexpected—love. The sweetest birthday gift she had ever received.