Chapter 14 #2
“And what was his opinion of the caricature you drew of him?” Mr. Digby asked. “It was hardly the sort of thing a man would appreciate from his betrothed.”
Charlotte laughed softly, though it was the question she had dreaded the most. How was she to explain the motivation behind the drawing?
“You will have to ask him when next you see him, for it was his idea. He worried people might suspect the truth about us, you see, and feared rumors would spread before he could explain his intentions to his aunt. Mrs. Ashby is so particular, you know.”
Heavens. She was becoming far too adept at untruths.
Mary was staring at her, brow furrowed and something very much like hurt in her eyes. It made Charlotte’s stomach twist and churn.
“I see,” Mr. Digby said slowly, but she was not at all certain he did.
He began shaking the coin in his palm gently.
“It is only that, well, it has been my understanding of the Yorkes that they place high value on propriety and reputation. I cannot imagine they would be pleased if the truth of your undertakings here became public knowledge.”
There it was again—the heavily implied threat. She could not let Digby see even a sliver of fear. She held his gaze firmly as she spoke. “Fortunate, then, is it not, that it is only Anthony and the three of us who know that truth?”
Mr. Digby nodded. “Fortunate indeed. Though, a tongue can slip . . .” A coin between his fingers fell, but he caught it deftly in his other pudgy fist.
Charlotte’s teeth pressed together with such force that her head began to ache.
But she smiled despite it. “It can. But I trust it will not. As you said, the Yorkes are particular about their reputations, and Anthony is even more so about guarding mine. He would not allow it to be sullied without grave consequences to the responsible party.”
Heart thudding against her chest, she put out her hand for the money.
Mr. Digby looked at her for a moment, then reluctantly gave her the coins, which she slipped into her reticule.
She could hardly believe her own gumption—making threats on Anthony’s behalf.
Threats she wasn’t entirely confident would be carried out if her reputation did become sullied.
Perhaps Anthony would grasp at the excuse to end the engagement, pleading ignorance of her vulgar occupation.
Then, she would be well and truly ruined.
She could only hope Mr. Digby found her story credible enough not to put it to the test.
“Mary, would you walk me to the door?” Charlotte asked.
The maid, who hadn’t said a word since Mr. Digby had offered his congratulations to Charlotte, quickly nodded and followed her out.
Neither of them spoke until they were in the bustling inn yard, where the call of ostlers and drivers and the clomping of hooves were enough to cover their conversation.
Charlotte’s eyes fixed on a small boy, holding the reins of a horse that towered above him while the ostler tended to the bridle. “Who is that?”
Mary followed her gaze. “Patrick?” Her lips flattened as she watched him draw back nervously as the horse pawed the cobbles impatiently. “’Tis Digby’s nephew come to work here. His mother needs the money.”
“But he cannot be above six years old.”
“Five, miss,” Mary replied darkly, shaking her head. “He’s become Digby’s boy-of-all-work, but the task he’s charged with most often is wandering amongst the guests to elicit sympathetic coin.”
“Of which Mr. Digby swiftly relieves him?”
Mary nodded as the ostler took the reins and shooed the boy impatiently. Patrick scurried off toward the door and disappeared inside.
Pulling her eyes away, Charlotte reached into her reticule and took out a few of the coins. She took Mary’s hand and set them in her palm, closing the maid’s fingers over the cold metal. “There is your portion of the earnings.”
“But, miss,” Mary said with round eyes as Charlotte released her hand. “‘Tis far too much.”
“Nonsense.” Charlotte cinched her reticule strings. “You deserve every last penny.”
“But I did not even help with this week’s drawing.”
“And yet, without you, I could not have done any of the others. You have been a true friend to me in all of this, Mary, and I thank you for that.”
Mary clenched her hand into a fist around the money, eyes shining with gratitude. “No, miss. Thank you.” Her gaze became more somber, and she glanced around to ensure no one was listening. “What was all that about, though, miss? Are you truly engaged to Mr. Yorke?”
Charlotte did not respond immediately. It was one thing to lie to Mr. Digby, but Mary . . . Mary had been there when Anthony and Charlotte had met. They had spoken about him enough that she would not easily believe the untruths Charlotte had told.
“If I tell you this, Mary,” Charlotte said, “you mustn’t tell a soul.”
“Of course not, miss,” she said with wide, earnest eyes.
Pulling her farther from the few people in the yard, Charlotte recounted what had happened in the past week—the diary and the visit from Anthony, then the ball and the sudden, unwanted engagement.
“But that’s awful,” Mary cried.
“It is,” Charlotte replied. “But there is nothing to be done. At least, not yet.”
“But are you not afraid of him? What do you think he wants with that diary?”
Charlotte chewed her lip, shaking her head. “I do not know. But whatever it was, he did not find what he wanted.”
“How terrified you must be, having to spend time with him like that.”
Charlotte smiled slightly as she thought on Anthony. “I am not afraid of him, Mary. I can manage. But Mr. Digby mustn’t know.”
“He won’t, miss. Not from me.”
They bid one another goodbye and parted ways, Mary toward the inn, and Charlotte toward the street.
When Charlotte caught sight of Patrick standing just inside the open inn door, however, she reached inside her reticule and took out a few of the last remaining coins. Looking for any sign of Mr. Digby, she crouched down in front of the boy.
“Patrick, is it not?”
He nodded, his round eyes watching her warily.
“If I give you something, can you make sure your mama gets it?”
He nodded again.
“You mustn’t give it to anyone else, not even your uncle. Do you understand? I wish very particularly for it to go to your mama.”
“Aye, miss.”
She revealed the coins she was holding, and his mouth opened wordlessly in surprise. “Do you have somewhere to put them?”
He fumbled with the pocket of his patched coat, opening it to show her.
She slipped the coins inside. “Remember. Those are only for your mama.”
“For mama,” he repeated.
“There’s a good boy, Patrick.” She rose to her feet, offered him a last smile, and strode off toward Bellevue.