Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Istill don’t know why he would agree,” Lucy remarked an hour later as the Champions’ gig bounced over the rutted road back to Sowerby Hall. “Nor why the baker would. Nor the butcher. They despise Lord Eversleigh and his family.”
Charlotte settled in her seat next to Lucy, immensely satisfied with the result of their endeavors. “They may despise him, but they’re not stupid.”
“To be influenced by a bit of money? I call that very stupid.”
“Not a bit of money, Lucy. A lot of money.” Charlotte turned her face to the afternoon breeze. The burgeoning warmth of summer kissed her skin. “Even Mrs. Kitteridge couldn’t gainsay them in the end.”
Lucy giggled. “The look on her face! Like curdled milk.”
“It was, wasn’t it? I suppose that’s some recompense, given all the dreadful things she said.” Charlotte turned back to Lucy, admitting, “I was mortified.”
“You were magnificent,” Lucy said.
“So were you,” Charlotte told her.
Lucy dismissed the compliment with a flick of her hand. “Friends must stand up for each other. That’s what you’re always saying. Even when one of us is behaving without care for her reputation.”
Charlotte had no need to inquire which friend she was in this scenario.
“What amazes me,” Lucy continued, “is that any amount of money would be able to persuade the tradespeople to call at Moorcross Manor.”
Charlotte wasn’t amazed in the least. “My father says that a person’s prejudices rarely prevail when countered with an appeal to their own self-interest.”
Lucy gave her a doubtful look. “Their desire for coin was greater than their hatred of the evil earl?”
Charlotte smiled. “I was counting on it.”
Lucy’s lips curved into a brief smile in return. “You have a terribly strategic mind, Charlotte. A ruthless one too. You must have learned that from your father as well.”
“Many think him cold,” Charlotte acknowledged. “I daresay he is if one opposes him. But he’s ever been a dear to my sister and me. And he would move heaven and earth for my mother.”
Lucy pulled a face. “My father spends all his time at his farm in Ireland. I never see him unless my mother takes me to a horse race, which she refuses to do because of their corrupting influence.” She jolted in her seat as Mr. Frog drove them over a rut in the road.
“They met at a grand ball in Belgrave Square, did I ever tell you? It was awfully romantic.”
Yet now they live apart, Charlotte mused to herself as she gripped the edge of her seat.
It wasn’t what Charlotte wanted for herself. An awfully romantic meeting and courtship that deteriorated into a cold, distant marriage. No. She wished for something more. Something as extraordinary as it was enduring.
“How did your parents meet?” Lucy asked.
“At a house party my Beresford grandparents were hosting at Beasley Park,” Charlotte answered. “My mother’s older brother attended and brought her along with him. She was very shy then. Even more than she is now. Papa says he lost his heart to her the moment he saw her.”
“I can’t imagine your father losing his heart to anyone,” Lucy said. “Nor my father. They neither of them seem romantic sort of men. Perhaps no man really is.”
Charlotte didn’t offer an opinion on the subject. She was too busy recalling the moment when Magnus had kissed her.
That had certainly been romantic.
But not like a romance in a novel. It was no Byronic ravishment. No chaste, knightly tribute either. Indeed, there was nothing much with which Charlotte could easily compare it. The feelings had been so warm. So new.
She wondered how soon she might experience them again.
The gig gave another uncomfortable jolt as Mr. Frog turned up the narrow lane that led to Sowerby Hall. “Who’s this now?” he grumbled. “You ain’t expecting any callers are you, young misses?”
“What is it, Frog?” Lucy stretched up in her seat to peer around him. “Has someone come?”
Charlotte sat up taller too. The Hall loomed ahead of them. A large coach-and-four was stopped in front of the entrance. It was too big and far too fine to belong to anyone in the village.
A pulse of anxiety went through Charlotte as she realized what it must mean. “Can it be your mother?”
“I expect it is.” Relief suffused Lucy’s face. “At last!”
Charlotte’s own spirits sank in contrast. Much as Mrs. Champion’s absence had worried Lucy, Charlotte would have preferred if her friend’s mother had stayed away even longer.
Now she had returned, her chaperonage would resume.
Charlotte’s daily visits to Moorcross Manor would be vastly curtailed. Or perhaps ended altogether.
Frog brought the gig to a halt behind the coach so that both girls could get down. “The missus will be eager to take the house in hand,” he complained. “Asking questions and ordering me about. And me with the gig to put away and the horse to look after.”
Lucy disembarked first this time. She turned to help Charlotte out. “Go on with you, Frog,” she said. “I shall tell Mama that you’re otherwise engaged.”
The instant Charlotte stepped down, Mr. Frog slapped the ribbons against the old bay’s rump and the gig rolled away.
Lucy hooked her hand in Charlotte’s arm as the two of them ascended the front steps. “I confess, I’ve been beside myself since my mother left. It should never have fallen to me to make decisions when you disappeared. You know how apt I am to overreact.”
“Indeed, I do,” Charlotte said.
Together they entered the house. They’d no sooner set foot inside than Mrs. Goodenough flew into the hall to meet them.
The housekeeper’s face was flushed, her hands wringing in front of her. “There you are!” she cried. “It’s been nigh on two hours since I told him you’d be back!”
Charlotte and Lucy stopped on the threshold, their thoughts immediately as one. “Him?” they repeated in unison.
“Aye, that’s what I said.” Mrs. Goodenough hastily divested them of their hats and gloves. “He’s in the drawing room.”
“But…I thought my mother had returned,” Lucy said.
“It ain’t Mrs. Champion,” Mrs. Goodenough replied, urging them toward the staircase. “Would that it were!”
Charlotte’s thoughts immediately turned to Magnus. Her heart leapt with anticipation. “Then who—”
“Why, it’s your father, miss,” Mrs. Goodenough said. “It’s the Viscount St. Clare himself!”