Chapter 2
Charlotte Tolliver returned to London before dawn, the hired carriage rolling up to the Tolliver townhouse without announcement.
She slipped through the servants’ entrance as quietly as a thief (or more accurately, a daughter who knew precisely under which flowerpot the key was kept).
She knew too, exactly which stair creaked and which did not.
The servants’ hall was mercifully quiet; even the housekeeper’s footsteps had not yet begun their daily march.
With a grin, Lottie went directly upstairs to her own bedchamber. Oh, how she had missed it!
Her riding things were exactly where they ought to be.
She had half-expected otherwise, for her elder sister Georgie had packed and sent off her trunks to Aunt Belinda’s with such a quantity of muslin that it bordered on offensive.
Georgie had packed modest dresses for church, modest dresses for calls, modest dresses for teas, and one particularly egregious pelisse.
Lottie’s riding habit had likely been deemed entirely unsuitable, and thus she had been forced, during her exile, to make do with walking dresses pinned up to her knees.
Lottie dressed with haste, and when she caught herself in the looking glass, she smiled. Only then did she slip back downstairs, cross the yard, and head to the stables, where her own beloved horse greeted her with a huff of recognition and a stamp of reproach.
She rode hard through the waking streets, turning her mount towards Hyde Park, where the gates were open and the hour forgave almost anything.
The air was whipping, and the ground still damp with dew.
There were a few officers riding with grim concentration, a groom or two exercising valuable stock, and one young woman who rode as though she had been starved of it.
For a blessed half hour, Lottie Tolliver belonged to no one at all.
It was upon her return that the housekeeper, Mrs Finch, encountered her. “Miss Tolliver! You’ve arrived at last. Oh! Your poor mama will be beside herself—your boots muddied so. You must make yourself fit to be seen before she lays eyes upon you!”
Lottie surrendered her riding hat and gloves. “How thrilling. I have been longing to be judged again, Mrs Finch.”
“Do not jest so, Miss Tolliver. Her ladyship’s nerves have been in quite a state at your return. There’s been valerian in the tea these last three days.”
Lottie hummed thoughtfully. “Three days? She must be very excited indeed.” She kicked off her boots without bending, leaving specks of mud upon the rug.
Mrs Finch gasped. “Miss Tolliver!”
“Oh, hush,” said Lottie with cheer, wiggling her toes as she walked away. “If Mama is to scold me, I should prefer to be comfortable throughout.”
Lottie, of course, had assumed Mrs Finch was horrified at her lack of shoes within the house, and was entirely naive to the more practical matter of who, precisely, would be made to scrub the mud from the rug.
But if the reader should wonder whether such conduct from our heroine is meant to be redeemed—whether Charlotte Tolliver might learn, through the improving influence of love and misfortune, to be softer, sweeter, or more agreeable—it must be said that redemption is not always a matter of becoming pleasant.
It is not, despite what certain modern reading guides may insist, a lady’s prerogative to be likeable.
Lottie would, in time, learn to notice whose hands scrubbed the mud from the rug, but she would not, under any circumstances, become less troublesome—and I thank you, dear reader, to stop asking it of her.
Lottie paused upon the threshold of the breakfast parlour, her stockinged feet feeling rather cold without shoes. The dogs were barking joyously, and the table was full of Tollivers.
Home, she thought, and very nearly cried.
Instead, she lifted her chin and swept into the room. “Ah,” she said. “The very hounds of Hades.”
“They are my hounds,” her younger sister, Nell, replied stoutly from her seat, where she was quite shamelessly feeding one of the dogs beneath the table. “And they are perfectly splendid.”
“They are perfectly filthy,” said Lottie, as the dogs lifted their heads, and then bounded towards her. “And I have missed them dreadfully.”
Nell beamed and rose. “Montmorency, Pickle, Lady Marmalade! Get down at once!” She swatted at the hounds, who obeyed, and then flung her arms around her sister. “Oh, Lottie. It has been terribly dull without you. No one argues with me as you do.”
Lottie grinned, hugging her tight. “Then I shall endeavour to remedy that at once.”
At the head of the table, Lady Tolliver dabbed delicately at her mouth with a napkin.
“Yes, well,” she said, without rising, “it is quite a relief to have you back, Charlotte. A voluntary sojourn in the country can be most beneficial for one’s complexion.
Come here—let me look at you properly. Oh dear.
You have grown thinner. And your hair—good heavens, have you been allowing it to curl as it pleases? ”
“It has a wilful nature, Mama.”
“Like its owner.” Lady Tolliver narrowed her eyes. “Where are your shoes, Charlotte?”
Lottie glanced down at her stockinged feet and smiled sweetly. “Muddied, resting by the door.”
Lady Tolliver reached for her glass in a manner that suggested she rather wished it were laudanum.
At that moment, a chair scraped violently against the floor.
“My girl!” boomed Lord Tolliver, who had taken some time to realise his prodigal daughter was returned.
He rose so suddenly that his belly collided with the table and sent the mustard pot toppling into the gravy.
“Confound it— blast the thing—oh, never mind. My dear girl!” He made his way around the table, dabbing ineffectually at his waistcoat.
“I said to your mother only this morning that the house was intolerably quiet without you, and she insisted it was merely peaceful. Ha!”
“Bernard,” sighed Lady Tolliver, “you might refrain from shouting before the servants.”
He ignored her entirely, enfolding Lottie in a gravy-scented embrace. “London has been a desert without you, my dear. You have been keeping the country entertained, I trust? Excellent. Someone must.”
Lottie laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Only Aunt Belinda’s geese, Papa.”
He roared with laughter and returned to his seat, dragging the tablecloth half an inch askew in the process.
Lottie slid into the seat beside another of her sisters, Marianne, who had thus far been quietly observing.
“Welcome home, Lottie,” Mari said. “It has not been quite the same in your absence. I did not write, as I knew you would detest it.”
Lottie grinned, seized her sister by the shoulders, and planted an unapologetic kiss upon her cheek. “Dearest Mari! I knew you adored me, still.”
Mari wiped her cheek with her napkin. “That was not, strictly speaking, a compliment.”
Lottie smiled, reaching for the breadbasket. “I shall take it as one nonetheless.”
It was then that the door opened once more, and the eldest Tolliver sister—formerly Miss Henrietta Tolliver, now the Countess of Langley—entered the breakfast parlour upon her husband’s arm.
Lottie’s smile slipped for a moment at the sight of Lord Langley; then she stood at once and pulled Hetty into a fierce embrace.
“Good heavens,” Lottie blurted, before sense could intervene, “you are enormous, Hetty.”
Indeed, Hetty was very far along with her first child. “Thank you, Charlotte,” she said evenly. “I see you have survived the countryside.”
“Barely,” said Lottie, stepping back and dropping into a mischievous curtsey. “Aunt Belinda’s sermons were more perilous than her geese.”
Hetty’s husband approached with narrowed eyes and inclined his head. “Miss Tolliver.”
“Lord Langley,” she returned, curtseying just enough to make a mockery of grace. “How very brave of you to enter the room unarmed.”
Across the table, the youngest Tolliver, Nell, gave a snort of laughter that she attempted—and failed—to disguise as a cough.
Lord Langley (or more commonly known to readers of good taste as Theo) tightened his jaw, though his bow was impeccable. “I am delighted to find you in good health.”
“Indeed,” Lottie said, tightly. “It is astonishing what one may survive.”
Before her mother could scold her, the door opened yet again.
“Ah,” Lady Tolliver cried, brightening, “Georgiana at last, and my darling grandson!”
Lottie felt again as though she might well cry. She curtsied to neither the duke nor his duchess—though to think of her sister Georgie as such was still odd. “So this is little Henry,” she said instead, eyeing the infant. “You’ve all been cooing over him for months, and not one of y
ou thought to send me a sketch. I was beginning to believe he was mythical.”
Georgie laughed prettily. “He is far from mythical, my dear—though at times, during the night, I suspect he may be demonic.”
“You mustn’t say such things,” Lady Tolliver chided, beaming as she stood and reached for the child. “He is an angel, my darling Henry. The very picture of his grandfather.”
“Poor mite,” murmured Lottie, as she took her seat, still without curtseying to the duke.
He nodded to her. “Miss Tolliver,” the duke said, his tone perfectly courteous. “How fortunate that you are back amongst your family.”
Lottie inclined her head in return, reaching to butter a roll. “Fortunate indeed, Your Grace.”
Lord Tolliver looked between them, clearly delighted by the appearance of civility. “How pleasant! We are all together again at last. Save for your elder brother.”
“Oh, indeed,” sighed Lady Tolliver, patting the baby’s bottom. “All my daughters together again and our son gallivanting across the continent. Just as it used to be.”
Theo’s gaze flickered to Lottie sharply, before he looked away.
Lottie reached for her teacup. “Yes,” she said lightly. “Quite the happy reunion.”