Chapter 16
Two weeks later, the guests arrived.
Carriages rolled steadily into the courtyard throughout the afternoon, bringing neighbours, relations, political acquaintances, and opportunists in equal measure.
Charlotte watched from the hallway with quiet apprehension as footmen hurried to unload trunks and servants darted back and forth with hot water, tea trays, and armfuls of cloaks.
Mrs Dent, with what felt like deliberate malice, imposed extra duties upon her wherever possible.
In addition to her usual responsibilities, Charlotte assisted guests to their rooms and ensured refreshments were sent up before dinner.
She did not object. It afforded her the perfect opportunity to observe the company as they arrived alongside Lord Stanley and Mrs Wilberforce.
Miss Hill and Miss Underwood—as always—arrived together, as inseparable as shadow from body. The Captain followed shortly thereafter, his affable, gentle manner bringing a smile to Charlotte despite her apprehension.
Mr Wilberforce’s acquaintances—the local gentleman farmers, Mr Smythe and Mr Lionel—stepped from their carriage already deep in conversation, neither appearing especially concerned with where they were so long as they might continue debating the merits of some new agricultural invention.
The Frasers and Pearsons were already known to Charlotte.
But she noted in particular how both Miss Fraser and Miss Pearson looked towards Lord Stanley—the latter with hopeful reverence, the former with smug confidence, as though it were already a foregone conclusion that she would become the next Baroness Stanley.
Then came the guests Charlotte did not know.
Lady Susan arrived next. Charlotte had been informed she was a widow, though one would scarcely have deduced it from the scarlet silk and profusion of jewels at her throat.
There was nothing subdued in her mourning—if mourning there had ever been.
Before she even addressed her hostess, her gaze swept the room, lingering—just a moment too long, Charlotte noted—upon Lord Stanley’s home.
She surveyed the hall as though already taking stock of silver and linen, quietly calculating what she might retain and what would require improvement once she secured the position of his wife.
More carriages rolled into the courtyard.
Mr Payne—a successful local businessman—and Sir Oswald, whom Charlotte recognised as the architect, arrived in quick succession with their families.
Both gentlemen brought their wives, along with sons and daughters barely out of the schoolroom, all trying very hard to appear worldly and succeeding chiefly in looking endearingly uncertain.
Then came Lord and Lady Boulton. Much to Charlotte’s dismay, she watched him descend first, leaving his wife to manage the carriage steps entirely unaided. She followed with careful dignity, her expression suggesting this arrangement was neither new nor negotiable.
Lastly arrived Lord and Lady Bainbridge with Mr Hamilton—Lord Bainbridge’s nephew.
Twenty-five guests had arrived.
Only one remained unaccounted for.
Lord Wolverton.
When Charlotte quietly enquired after him, Mrs Wilberforce informed her he had been delayed and would arrive later.
By evening she was already exhausted, yet her nerves would not allow her rest. Wolverton was coming, and she could not afford to lose focus.
She dressed for dinner in one of her newly made gowns—silver-grey, modest enough for her position, yet a marked improvement upon her former wardrobe.
Sarah assisted her with her hair. ‘What do you think of Lady Bainbridge?’ she asked. ‘She looks awfully young.’
Charlotte considered this as Sarah pinned a final strand.
She knew Lord Bainbridge by reputation, though mercifully she had not been formally introduced to him in her former life.
His only son had died of syphilis some years prior, and he had since been determined to secure a new heir.
There had nearly been a disaster the previous year when he had set his sights upon Grace, but Charlotte’s intervention had prevented that particular calamity.
She lifted a brow. ‘Poor girl—he must be pushing eighty.’
‘I heard from her lady’s maid that her family required the funds and agreed to the match.’
‘So, he bought himself a bride,’ Charlotte said flatly.
Sarah merely shrugged. ‘When he dies, she will inherit a fortune. His estate neighbours this one, and his house is said to be like a palace.’
Charlotte muttered, ‘And if he outlives her? Selfish old men have an unfortunate tendency to persist.’
Sarah made a face. ‘Then she will have sacrificed for nothing. If I were her, I’d wait until no one was looking and push him down the marble stairs.’
‘Sarah!’ Charlotte gasped, scandalised, yet impressed.
‘Just one roll would do it,’ She continued without the slightest remorse.
Charlotte pressed her lips together. ‘Well, let us hope she outlives him—and that his estate is not entailed away before she can produce an heir. At least then her sacrifice would not be entirely in vain.’
‘Who would it be entailed away to?’ Sarah asked.
‘I suppose it would be Mr Hamilton, his nephew,’ Charlotte replied as she checked her attire. ‘Shall I do, do you think?’ she added, suddenly unsure.
‘You look lovely, for once,’ came Sarah’s impish reply, which earned her a glare as Charlotte departed to join the rest of the party.
She was the first to enter the drawing room and took a seat in the far corner.
Her legs trembled slightly, and her fingers shook as she attempted embroidery.
After producing what could only be described as a grievously malformed butterfly stitch, she abandoned the effort altogether and instead watched the doorway with unwavering intent.
Miss Hill and Miss Underwood soon joined her, settling at her side with polite conversation. They spoke of their rooms, declaring the mattresses ‘remarkably bouncy,’ and proceeded to adjust their shawls and plump their cushions with the solemn concentration of surgeons preparing for delicate work.
‘Chilling weather, Miss Lucas. I warn you against ageing—a most disagreeable entity,’ Miss Hill said, as though it were something one might simply decline to participate in. ‘Are you comfortable, my dear? You look... on edge.’
Charlotte offered a smile. ‘I am quite well—though, if you would be so kind, might you pass me the cushion?’
Miss Hill froze, trumpet halfway to her ear.
‘What’s that?’ she bellowed. ‘You want a courtship?’
Charlotte blushed. ‘A... cushion?’
Miss Underwood’s knitting needles clicked emphatically. ‘Oh, do stop alarming the girl, Dotty. She asked for a cushion, not a courtship.’
Miss Hill narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘A cushion? Are you certain? They sound remarkably similar.’
‘Not remotely,’ Miss Underwood muttered.
Miss Hill pressed the trumpet more firmly to her ear. ‘Speak up, Miss Lucas!’
‘The cushion,’ Charlotte repeated loudly, cringing as heads turned towards them.
Miss Hill nodded sagely. ‘Very well. Though I daresay we might find you a suitable young buck here too. You are quite wasted as merely a governess.’ She elbowed Miss Underwood. ‘What do you think, June? She is rather pretty—it should not be overly difficult, eh?’
At that moment Captain Whitworth entered the room. Hearing the direction of the conversation, he executed a crisp about-turn with military efficiency.
Charlotte covered her face with her hand.
Miss Underwood shook her head and handed Charlotte the cushion apologetically. ‘Honestly, Dotty, one day that trumpet of yours will provoke an international incident.’
Charlotte cleared her throat and redirected her attention to the steadily arriving guests. They appeared well acquainted with one another and entirely at ease in their surroundings.
As more guests entered, Charlotte’s attention shifted towards the gentlemen gathered about the room.
Six names from Matthew Stanley’s guest list now stood beneath the same roof.
Lord Bainbridge immediately drew her eye.
Though age had softened his frame, it had done nothing to soften the meanness in his face.
He stood proprietorially over his painfully young wife as though she were an acquisition rather than a companion.
Within the ton, he was notorious for cruelty, particularly towards his first wife and daughters.
Charlotte had little difficulty imagining him among the ranks of the Odd Fellows.
Mr Hamilton, by contrast, appeared thoroughly amiable.
Not especially handsome perhaps, though pleasant enough, with sandy-brown hair and lively eyes that seemed perpetually amused by some private joke.
Several ladies clustered readily about him.
Yet Charlotte distrusted how easily he inspired confidence.
Charming men, she had learned, were often the most dangerous.
Sir Oswald, the balding architect, stood somewhat apart, engaged in earnest conversation with Mr Payne, the portly, wealthy local merchant.
Charlotte caught fragments through the hum of the room—‘steel prices’, ‘shipping tariffs’, ‘cost of wheat’.
Mercenary subjects, perhaps innocent, though both men appeared upon the list.
Mr Fraser loomed stiffly beside Lord Bainbridge, his tall, angular frame giving him the appearance of an irritated heron. Charlotte privately thought him exactly the sort of man who might belong to a secret society devoted entirely to self-importance.
And then there was Lord Boulton, who inspired immediate dislike.
Barrel-chested, yellow-haired, and perpetually disdainful, he spoke to his timid wife in low, cutting tones while she appeared to shrink further into herself with every passing moment.
She was of diminutive stature, with dull brown hair and a sallow complexion.
There was something faintly wistful about her, as though a sudden breeze might carry her off.
Charlotte rose at once and rescued the poor woman beneath the pretence of tea.