Chapter 23 #2
Charlotte acknowledged her with a polite nod. “Ma’am.”
The shopkeeper approached before Mrs. Kitteridge could make a reply. “Good day,” he said with stiff reserve. He bent his head to Lucy. “Miss Champion, isn’t it?”
Lucy inclined her head in return.
Charlotte summoned a smile. “And I am Miss Beresford.”
“I know who you are, miss,” the man replied.
Mrs. Kitteridge lingered beside him with a knowing smirk.
A surge of self-consciousness nearly made Charlotte waver.
There was only one way the man might have heard of her.
Gossip about the night she’d spent with Magnus must have already traveled through the village, courtesy of Mrs. Kitteridge herself, no doubt.
Heaven knew what the people here must think of Charlotte.
“Er, yes,” she managed. “I expect you do.”
“Has your mother not returned yet, Miss Champion?” Mrs. Kitteridge asked Lucy with all the delicacy of a bull charging into a china shop. “Is she still away in Hampshire?”
“She is, ma’am,” Lucy said.
Mrs. Kitteridge’s flinty eyes gleamed. “While you and Miss Beresford remain unchaperoned?”
Lucy faltered. “As to that—”
“If I were in your circumstances,” Mrs. Kitteridge said, “I’d have sent my man to the grocer in my stead.”
“Miss Beresford wished to come,” Lucy replied lamely.
“I did,” Charlotte said. She ended the conversation with a civil bow. “Good day, Mrs. Kitteridge.”
Mrs. Kitteridge went rigid at the abrupt dismissal.
At length, she grudgingly bent her head in return.
“Miss Beresford,” she said frostily. “Miss Champion.” Exchanging another knowing glance with the shopkeeper, she withdrew, but only as far as the end of the counter.
She remained there, still within earshot, affecting to peruse a glass jar of boiled sweets.
Charlotte privately bristled at the intrusion. She nevertheless endeavored to ignore it. She had nothing to hide. And she certainly hadn’t done anything wrong. Not by her own standards.
And maintaining one’s own standards was surely all that mattered in the end.
“You’ll forgive me,” she said to the shopkeeper, “but I’m a visitor here and have no notion how orders work in your shop. You do provide a delivery service, do you not?”
“Aye,” he said. “I’ve a lad who can bring your order round in a cart, providing it’s large enough.”
“It will be large.” Charlotte looked at him expectantly. “You may wish to write it down.”
The man hesitated a moment before, at last, producing a pad and pencil. “Go ahead.”
“A wedge of that good cheddar, to start,” Charlotte said. “Some salt beef. Two tins of tea. A cone of sugar. Two pounds of butter, and the same amount of salt. Ten pounds of flour, three of oatmeal, one of raisins and dried figs—”
The shopkeeper’s pencil flew over his pad. The more she ordered, the less brittle was his expression.
“Three pounds of candles,” Charlotte continued. “A quart of lamp oil. Some washing soda, and—”
“Charlotte,” Lucy said under her breath. “The expense!”
“That’s rather the point,” Charlotte whispered back.
A shopkeeper might, after all, decline to deliver the odd order, but an order that would guarantee his business a hefty sum would be far less easy to refuse. Even if it was an order sent to the most notorious house in the district.
“A tin of cocoa as well,” Charlotte added when she’d at last come to the end of her long list. “I do love a cup of hot chocolate in the mornings, don’t you?”
The shopkeeper refrained from offering his opinion. “Anything else, miss?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she said. “But pray, don’t wait on me to remember it.”
With another stiff nod, the man strode off to collect the items from around the shop. Mrs. Kitteridge wandered after him, leaving Charlotte and Lucy alone at the counter.
“He’s heard the whole tale,” Lucy said quietly. “So has everyone else in the village, I’d wager.”
“Very probably,” Charlotte acknowledged.
“That woman is telling him even more of it now, I vow.”
The urgent murmur of Mrs. Kitteridge’s voice drifted across the store as she followed the shopkeeper about his tasks, lending weight to Lucy’s assertion.
“She may tell him all she wishes,” Charlotte said.
“That doesn’t concern you?”
“It does. But there’s nothing I can do about it now, is there?”
“You could do as she suggested. Remain at Sowerby Hall until Mama returns. At the very least, you could refrain from going shopping.” Lucy wrinkled her nose. “How can you even think of all those things on your list, that’s what I want to know. You’re no housekeeper.”
Charlotte shrugged. “My mother says that any lady who heads a household must know something of the weekly order for candles and dry goods. It’s part of being a good housewife.”
“Yes,” Lucy shot back. “But you’re not a housewife. You’re not any wife at all.”
“Perhaps not,” Charlotte allowed. “However, I can manage things. And Lord Eversleigh’s estate is desperately in need of proper management.”
“Not by you!” Lucy drew closer, her face betraying a sudden flare of shock. “Unless you mean to—”
“Hitch up the horse and cart, lad!” the shopkeeper shouted out to someone across the store. “Got a sizeable delivery for Sowerby Hall!”
Charlotte stepped away from Lucy without answering her. “Not Sowerby Hall, sir!” she called to the shopkeeper.
He poked his head up from behind a display of goods. “What’s that?”
Charlotte beckoned him back to her with a discreet wave of her hand. The man promptly returned, holding several paper-wrapped items in one arm and a bundle of candles under the other.
Mrs. Kitteridge was not far behind. She stopped a few yards away, pretending to examine a tin of biscuits.
“It’s a rather delicate matter,” Charlotte said to the shopkeeper in what she hoped was a suitably solemn tone.
His bushy brows elevated.
She sank her voice. “This order is to be delivered to Lord Eversleigh at Moorcross Manor.”
The man’s expression froze on his face.
Lucy briefly closed her eyes, as though anticipating the worst.
The shopkeeper didn’t disappoint. “Lord Eversleigh?” he returned in a burst of ire. “That devil son of the late earl who caused the village so many years of suffering?”
“What’s this about Eversleigh?” Mrs. Kitteridge hurried over, abandoning all pretense of indifference. She thrust herself in front of Charlotte. “You don’t mean to tell me you continue to have dealings with the man?”
Charlotte took a step back. “I’m not telling you anything, ma’am. And I would thank you to—”
“Sending household goods and sundries to him?” Mrs. Kitteridge demanded. “Without care for the little reputation you have left?”
Charlotte’s fingers clenched on the drawstring cords of her purse. Somehow, she managed to keep her countenance. “It’s by way of a thank-you,” she said to the shopkeeper. “Lord Eversleigh has recently done me and my family a great service.”
“I’ll not do business with him or his ilk,” the shopkeeper returned. “And I won’t be subject to the japes of strangers and interlopers who waste my time with foolish—”
“A very great service,” Charlotte interrupted.
“He’s ruined you, girl,” the man said. “It’s the talk of Bead’s Hollow. Kept you up at the manor and—”
“Gossip is a vile pastime,” Lucy interjected sharply. “I’ll thank you not to spread it any further, sir.” She glared at Mrs. Kitteridge with a fearsomeness Charlotte had rarely beheld. “That goes doubly for you, madam.”
Charlotte stared at her friend in amazement.
Mrs. Kitteridge’s face flushed. “Well, I never!”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?” the shopkeeper asked. “She was up at the manor? And him there with no one to stay his evil impulses.”
“I witnessed it myself,” Mrs. Kitteridge pronounced in defiance.
“Aye, so did my missus,” the shopkeeper said. “The devil’s manservant came here twice on his foul errand and twice my missus turned him away. A girl up at the manor, the fellow told her. We didn’t believe it was possible. Know better now, don’t we?”
Charlotte’s heart was beating very hard. No one in her life had ever confronted her in this insulting manner. Not publicly anyway. It was difficult to withstand, even with Lucy there to defend her.
Dear Lucy! Charlotte’s instincts had been right about her.
Just as they were right about Magnus.
The knowledge gave Charlotte all the courage she needed.
“Lord Eversleigh rescued me when I fell from his wall,” she informed the shopkeeper. “He saved my life. It’s no less than I’d expect from an officer who served with distinction in Her Majesty’s navy.”
The man stopped midsentence. Doubt crossed his face. “A naval officer?”
“So he claims!” Mrs. Kitteridge said.
Charlotte’s temper flared. “It’s not a claim!” she returned in a burst of passion. “It’s a verifiable fact! As is his innocence regarding the tragedy you still insist on blaming him for. He was exonerated eleven years ago!”
“Charlotte.” Lucy touched her sleeve in whispered entreaty. “Do lower your voice.”
Charlotte took a ruthless hold of her emotions. She was ashamed to have lost her grip on them, if even for a moment. Shouting only ever made things worse.
The bell above the door sounded behind them, announcing the arrival of more customers. A group of village women entered, chattering amongst themselves.
Charlotte took a deep breath. Moderating her tone, she turned to the shopkeeper.
“He is a captain, sir. A great hero, in fact. Now…regarding my order.” She opened the drawstring closure of her purse with a dramatic flourish.
“As I’m a visitor in Bead’s Hollow, I naturally don’t expect you to charge it to my account.
” She withdrew a hefty roll of banknotes. “I trust that cash will be sufficient?”