Chapter 11
That evening, guests assembled in the drawing room, awaiting dinner.
The room was a cheerful, informal chaos of chatter and revelry.
The ladies’ perfumes clashed with the gentlemen’s colognes, while a portrait of some grim ancestor glowered from above the mantel, as though personally offended by the merriment below.
Mrs Wilberforce introduced Charlotte to a couple of her friends, who received her with polite civility.
Lady Pearson, a middle-aged baroness with a high-arched brow and the fading traces of former beauty, possessed an air of quiet resignation—as though life had disappointed her in small but persistent ways.
She spoke in so soft a whisper that one was compelled to lean in perilously close; Charlotte feared their foreheads might at any moment collide.
Her daughter was very much her likeness, though softened by youth—a delicate debutante with a dazzling, almost overly eager smile she seemed determined to bestow upon everyone.
She spoke more distinctly than her mother and greeted Charlotte with particular warmth as she described her recent Season in London.
Mrs Fraser, another friend of Mrs Wilberforce, was a plump, sharp-witted lady in her forties whose keen eyes missed very little. Her silks rustled with importance, and she wore an expression of faintly aggrieved entitlement, as though the world rarely met her expectations.
Miss Fraser, a younger scion of her mother, was youth and artifice in perfect harmony.
Pretty, with high cheekbones and soft doe-like eyes, she smiled brightly—but with an edge sharp enough to cut.
She carried herself with the serene assurance of one entirely convinced the whole county revolved around her.
Charlotte found herself preferring Miss Pearson; her eager sweetness, though a trifle excessive, was far easier to bear than Miss Fraser’s calculated charm.
Mrs Wilberforce and her two friends formed a neat, composed tableau upon the sofa, while Miss Fraser and Miss Pearson, evidently bored, were relegated to a delicate loveseat by the window.
Mr Wilberforce entertained a few gentlemen—Lord Pearson, Mr Fraser, and two others whose names Charlotte did not catch.
They all seemed absorbed in their conversation about politics; she caught only snippets.
The words abolition, progress, and tremendous moral courage drifted through the air between their ums and ahs.
Charlotte, feeling herself a loose thread in the arrangement, withdrew to a quiet corner and took refuge in observation beside some elderly ladies. Perhaps she might detect an Odd Fellow among them, she told herself, as her gaze moved deliberately across Mr Wilberforce’s acquaintances.
Yet nothing about them suggested clandestine villainy.
They were, at least in appearance, unassuming country gentlemen—broad of waistcoat and earnest of countenance.
Rather than whispering of dark enterprises, they engaged in vigorous debate over the Corn Laws and the abolition of the slave trade, speaking with the zeal of men entirely persuaded of their own rectitude.
The two elderly ladies seated in armchairs beside her—Miss Hill and Miss Underwood—were spinsters who lived in the village and had been introduced to Charlotte as distant relations of Mr Wilberforce.
They seemed well acquainted with one another and were speaking quite loudly about the price of turnips.
Charlotte rightly suspected Miss Hill was hard of hearing, as she wore an ear trumpet about her neck and, whenever she could not catch what Miss Underwood was saying, would whip it out and cry, ‘Eh?’
The trumpet squeaked like a wounded duck each time it was employed.
When Miss Underwood declared that hens were ‘lazy this season’, Miss Hill replied that society in general had gone to the dogs. Their conversation made Charlotte suppress several smiles as the evening progressed.
It transpired, however, that they possessed a wealth of experience, having both served as governesses in their youth, and they readily dispensed unsolicited advice to Charlotte, who half listened while continuing her quiet survey of the room.
Miss Underwood leaned in and peered at Charlotte above her spectacles. ‘Rule number one: never let a child see fear. The moment they sense it, you’re doomed.’
‘Oh,’ Charlotte murmured, ‘Master Tom definitely senses fear.’
‘Of course he does,’ Miss Underwood sniffed. ‘You have the face of a rabbit.’
Charlotte blinked. ‘A rabbit?’
‘A startled rabbit,’ Miss Hill interjected helpfully. ‘One that would run at the drop of a hat.’
Miss Underwood nodded. ‘You must project authority. Children are like wolves: they only respect the loudest howl.’
Charlotte regarded them dubiously. ‘Should I... howl at him?’
Miss Hill perked up. ‘Yes, children respond to a good howl.’
Charlotte blushed violently. ‘I—I don’t think I’ll be howling.’
Miss Underwood sighed. ‘Fine. Then use the Governess Glare. Observe.’
She turned towards Miss Hill and glared at her.
Miss Hill stared back, unimpressed.
‘That,’ Miss Underwood said flatly, ‘is because she is immune. But to a child, my dear, it works like magic.’
Charlotte bit back a giggle.
Miss Hill cleared her throat. ‘Now this is very important.’ She leaned in dramatically. ‘Never let the boy have any pockets.’
Charlotte let out a small laugh. ‘I... don’t believe I can help that.’
Miss Hill tutted. ‘Of course you can—get some scissors and cut them off.’
Miss Underwood nodded. ‘If he has pockets,’ she said patiently, ‘he will put frogs and crawling, wriggling creatures in them—and leave them for you to find.’
Charlotte recalled her first week and replied grimly, ‘I have already endured this.’
Miss Underwood shook her head. ‘A most novice error. Never mind—we all live and learn.’
Miss Hill tapped her chin thoughtfully. ‘And another thing: always keep sweets in your apron. They work better than discipline.’
Miss Underwood glared. ‘Yes, Dottie. Bribe the boy into compliance. That’s why your pupils grew up spoiled and fat.’
Miss Hill huffed. ‘I’ll have you know my favourite pupil married a duke.’
‘He married the wrong sister because you introduced them in the dark,’ Miss Underwood countered.
Miss Hill sputtered. ‘That was one time.’
Charlotte burst into laughter, clutching her side.
Miss Underwood softened and patted her hand. ‘Listen, my dear. Children are simple creatures. Be firm, be kind, and never show fear.’
Charlotte opened her mouth—then closed it again, mildly impressed by their sage advice.
Miss Underwood nodded approvingly. ‘There now,’ she said. ‘That’s proper governess training.’
Miss Hill squeezed Charlotte’s hand. ‘You’ll do splendidly, dear. You already have the most important quality.’
‘Which is?’ Charlotte asked brightly.
‘Kindness,’ Miss Hill said.
Charlotte rolled her eyes affectionately. ‘Well... thank you. I shall put all your advice to use.’
Miss Hill leaned back proudly. ‘See, June? We should open a school for governess training.’
Miss Underwood sighed. ‘We’d be shut down by Michaelmas.’
Charlotte dissolved into another fit of laughter and decided she quite adored them both.
Soon, a tall and striking gentleman entered the room, his thick brown locks artfully disordered about a face of almost angelic symmetry. His scarlet regimentals lent him a particularly dashing air, and more than one feminine gaze lifted in open admiration as he advanced with easy confidence.
Charlotte wondered whether this might be the elusive brother Mrs Wilberforce had so anxiously anticipated, but the notion was swiftly dispelled when he was addressed as Captain Whitworth.
The Captain looked well accustomed to the attention and wore an expression that suggested he was ready to duel, flirt, or both.
He made a point of speaking to all present, but Charlotte did not expect him to approach her.
She was therefore surprised when, after half an hour of eliciting giggles from the ladies and a few hearty back-slaps from the gentlemen, he drew alongside her as she moved towards the tea stand for refreshment.
‘Miss Lucas, how are you finding your stay?’ he asked.
She jumped at the sound of his voice; he stood rather closer than she had anticipated, having leaned slightly towards her.
She turned sharply and found herself met with a warm pair of brown eyes.
She noted the creases at their corners—so he laughed often, she thought.
His well-shaped lips spread into a dashing smile, and Charlotte felt an entirely unexpected little flutter of pleasure.
She nearly dropped the sugar tongs.
How did he know her name? He had taken the trouble to enquire. Realising her mouth was agape, she closed it quickly.
‘Have you met Master Tom, Captain?’ she replied dolefully.
She was uncertain why he would bother to speak to the help when none of the other gentlemen had, but she nevertheless found it rather pleasing to be acknowledged as existing.
He chuckled. ‘I believe he is a handful. I am surprised you are still here after—what is it—seven days? How ever did you manage it?’
Charlotte thought, Because I have no choice, but turned a tight smile towards the Captain and replied, ‘I do my best.’
She curtseyed and returned to her seat, but the Captain watched her retreat with a curious smile.
Charlotte pretended not to notice, though her ears felt uncomfortably warm. Perhaps the Wilberforces kept the room too well heated. Yes—that must be it.
Then the door opened, which went unnoticed by Charlotte as she sat down, still somewhat flustered, and took up her embroidery hoop.
Mrs Wilberforce rose gaily. ‘Brother! You’re finally here. What took you so long?’
A deep voice answered, ‘I was delayed by the roads, Minerva.’
Charlotte’s fingers froze mid-stitch.
She knew that voice.
It could not be—could it?
Slowly, she looked up—
And there he was.
The Ice Baron.
Lord Henry Stanley.
She might as well have been struck by a ton of bricks.