Chapter Thirty
The following afternoon, Emma was seated at the writing desk in the corner of the drawing room when her husband and Mr. Brydges found her.
“Are you alone, Emma?” John asked.
She lay down her pen and lifted her gaze to her husband. She so wished her mood didn’t improve by his presence, but it did and there seemed to be nothing she could do to prevent it.
“Yes. I am alone. Lucy took a book to her room and I am writing a letter to my aunt.”
John looked around the room. “But where is Charlotte?”
Emma smiled. “I’ve no idea.”
“What do you mean, you’ve no idea?” Mr. Brydges asked sharply.
“I mean simply that. I’ve no inkling as to her whereabouts.”
John frowned. “What did you have planned for today? Has she run off again? I thought the two of you smoothed things over.”
“We did. All is fine between us,” she reassured him. When Emma had finally caught up with Charlotte, they had talked, but John had never inquired as to how things had been resolved, and that had irked Emma ever since.
“When did you last speak to her?”
“At breakfast this morning.”
“But it’s half four,” Mr. Brydges said, eyes widened in alarm.
“Is it?” Emma checked the mantle clock. “Why I suppose it is.”
John’s expression was quizzical. “Do you mean to say you’ve not spoken to Charlotte all day?”
“No. I did speak with her today. At breakfast, as I just said.”
Let them expire from frustration, Emma thought. If John harbored so much concern for his sister, perhaps he should have involved himself before now.
“Since breakfast, then,” John asked. “You’ve not spoken with her since breakfast?”
“No, I have not.”
Mr. Brydges threw up his hands. “Well, why ever not? You’re supposed to be looking out for her, aren’t you? She’s in your charge.”
“She’s not an infant, Mr. Brydges.”
“Well, she’s not exactly sensible either,” the man blurted.
Emma ignored Mr. Brydges and looked placidly up at her husband, squaring her shoulders against any disapproval that may be forthcoming. “I have given Charlotte a reprieve.”
“A reprieve from what? Her lessons?”
“A reprieve from everything. All of it. The lessons, the strictures. She’s not behaved well, I’ll be the first to tell you, but she’s not been treated well either. In trying to help her learn our ways, we’ve made her feel as though she were broken somehow and needed to be fixed. I have given Charlotte some time to do as she pleases. I believe that should improve her disposition when we continue preparations in a few days.” When Emma had finally caught up with Charlotte, she’d found her crying. These were the terms of their truce.
“But we are returning to London in less than two weeks,” John hastily reminded her.
“And we shall accomplish nothing in that time if Charlotte is not in the correct frame of mind.” Since John had abdicated responsibility for Charlotte’s preparations to Emma, she did not really think it fair of him to question her approach.
Emma steeled herself for further recriminations, but they did not come. Instead, John pulled the nearest chair closer and sat. A number of expressions crossed his face as he digested what she’d told him. He ended with concern. “Do you really believe she’s been made to feel broken? That was never my intention.”
He was concerned for his sister and her feelings, rather than his grand plans. Emma supposed his loyalty and deep concern for his sister was one of the reasons she admired him so, despite his avoidance of her company. He was a good man—protective and loyal. Selfishly, she felt a stab of envy. She wondered whether John would someday feel the same protective loyalty for his wife, then immediately pushed the silly, romantic notion out of her head.
“I know it was not your intention, nor was it mine, but I do believe that’s how she feels. She was very insecure coming here. She already felt out of place. By immediately throwing her into dance lessons and riding lessons and dress fittings, we only confirmed her feelings. We should have given her some time for adjustment.”
“You say you’ve given her complete freedom?” Mr. Brydges interjected. “You’ve not spoken with her for hours and you have no idea where she could be?”
“That is correct, Mr. Brydges. She is a grown woman, not a child.”
“She could be anywhere,” he insisted, “getting into to God knows what mischief.”
Emma was not surprised by his absolute certainty in Charlotte’s irresponsibility. She was taken aback, however, by the force of his concern for it. “She cannot be far, Mr. Brydges, given that she’s terrified to mount a horse.”
He looked unconvinced. “Excuse me,” he said, and left them.
“What does he think she’ll do?” Emma asked, gaping at the doorway through which Mr. Brydges had disappeared. “Set fire to the manor?”
John shook his head. “I’m afraid Brydges does not have a very high opinion of my sister.”
“I believe you are correct.”
“He’s a good man and normally a sound judge of character. I don’t know why he fails to see the good in Charlotte.”
Emma had a few thoughts as to why that might be the case, but she kept them to herself. “What about you, John?” she asked. “Do you have a high opinion of your sister?”
His attention shot to her. “What do you mean? Naturally I have a high opinion of her. She’s my sister.”
“Perhaps you could make sure she knows that.”
John searched her face in genuine confusion. “I’ve gone to great lengths for Charlotte. She should have no doubt of it.”
Emma’s voice softened to calm the rising alarm in her husband’s. “No one could deny the effort and sacrifice you have made for Charlotte, but you’ve barely seen her. She feels as though she’s only an obligation—one that’s been foisted off on the wife you acquired to be her governess in disguise.”
“Well…that’s not even…” John sputtered in an attempt to respond. Then he stopped. He took a deep breath and met her gaze with clear, direct honesty. “I never considered she would see it that way. Charlotte is my sister. My goal has always been for her to feel as though she belonged here, and I didn’t want her unorthodox upbringing to be a barrier to that sense of belonging.” He paused and released another breath. “I’ve done the opposite, haven’t I? By insisting she change so many things, I’ve made certain she feels out-of-place.”
Emma’s heart sunk. She was heartened by John’s concern for his sister, but he had not disputed that she was, in fact, a governess in disguise. She tamped those feeling down and tried to concentrate on the girl in her charge. “I am just as complicit in the lack of consideration we have shown Charlotte,” she told John. “She has been extremely difficult, but we’ve been a bit merciless in our expectations. I think, more than an English lady, Charlotte would like to feel that she is a member of the family. You are the one person who is familiar to her and she has spent very little time with you.”
We all have spent very little time with you. The thought proved she had not buried her own selfish concerns as deeply as she thought. Though she knew better, Emma yearned to campaign for her own feelings of neglect. Charlotte was John’s blood sister. He had crossed the sea to rescue her, lived as a pauper for four years to protect her, and then married a stranger to secure her future. Emma was simply the stranger. She’d understood the arrangement perfectly. In truth, to realize she had an amicable marriage to a man for whom she felt respect and affection was better than she could have hoped. To expect him to return that affection with anything resembling passion or love…was a discredit to her good sense.
She could use a dose of practical, good sense just then, she realized.
She patted John’s hand one more time. “I think I will go find Lucy and see if she would like to take a short walk through the garden before dinner.”
She rose and so did he, with the crestfallen look of a boy who’d lost a game he didn’t understand.
“Just make time for Charlotte,” Emma implored him. “I truly believe that is all she needs.” Then she swept from the room to seek out Lucy, thinking a walk might be just the thing.
* * *
Hugh shook his head as he hurried along the corridor.
A reprieve. Ridiculous.
He could see a break from lessons and the like. But no supervision whatsoever? That was pure foolishness. Who knew what sort of trouble that headstrong girl could find? She was likely in danger already, horse or no.
He checked the library first, as it was the nearest place to check, but did not expect to find her there. He wandered to the east parlor next, thinking it might be a good place to hide in the afternoon, since it was usually only used in the morning. She was not in either place, nor in any of the rooms he checked on the way, so he quickly climbed the steps in the hope that she was simply sulking in her bedchamber.
He found her bedchamber door closed. He rapped quickly and waited only a moment for a response before rapping again.
Still nothing.
He opened the door and was greeted with an empty room. He walked into it and spun around. He considered peeking under the bed, but decided against it. She was not that juvenile, and she was too ornery to hide.
He thought of the duchess’s offhand comment about Charlotte being terrified of horses.
She wouldn’t have…
No. He’d had a report from the stable master that her lesson had been a dismal failure.
Still…she’d been compliant enough to endure a lesson in the first place.
Hugh strode out of the bedchamber, pausing only to pull the door closed behind him, and saw a flash of movement in his peripheral vision.
He quickly stepped into a shadow. One of the maids? Who else would be hurrying toward the back stair? This particular maid, however, was unusually petite with raven hair. Or was his mind playing tricks on him?
He peeked out from the doorway. No maid he’d ever seen at Brantmoor looked quite so much like Charlotte Brantwood. Had she stolen a dress from the household staff?
No, the rag of a dress fit too well to be borrowed.
As he had on more than one occasion, Hugh marveled at how Charlotte’s childish temper could be contained in a package so womanly for its small size. In the rare moments when she was not scowling at him, she was lovely to look upon.
As he watched, she disappeared down the back stair that led to the kitchen. Did she expect to sneak out of the manor without notice simply because she’d worn an old dress and exited through the kitchen? She may be small, but with her ebony hair and sapphire eyes, she was a striking woman and would be noticed anywhere, particularly in this house.
Once she was no longer in sight, Hugh cleared the distance to the steps in three long strides and followed her down the spiral staircase. He was careful to maintain a discreet distance.
He stopped before rounding the last curve of the staircase, keeping out of view. He listened, waiting to hear the commotion among the kitchen staff when a lady of the house walked into their midst—dressed as a ragamuffin.
“Well, here she is, ladies,” barked a voice from the kitchen. It carried not even a hint of the scandalized shock Hugh had expected. “What is it today, my dear? Another dress fitting?”
Charlotte released a light, easy laugh.
A laugh?
“Nothing of the sort,” she answered. “I’ve been given a reprieve and told I may do as I please.”
The other woman clucked. “I doubt Her Grace meant to send you to the kitchens when she told you to do as you please.”
“Of course she didn’t.” Charlotte’s voice was…different. It lacked its usual bite. “She wouldn’t approve of my coming here..” She laughed again. “Of course, I’ve not heard any complaints of the food either.”
Laughter from several women trickled up to Hugh as he hid.
Unable to resist the temptation, Hugh bent forward to peek around the corner. He was stunned to find Lady Charlotte Brantwood, wrapped in an apron even more worn than her dress, wandering expertly around the kitchen gathering implements and ingredients in a large wooden bowl.
A stout woman with sleeves rolled up to her elbows walked over to Charlotte. “What’s it to be today, Lottie?”
Lottie?
“What are you serving us?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s squab for tonight.”
“Hmmm.” Her back to the staircase, Charlotte rested the large bowl on her hip as she considered the question. “Do you have mace and nutmeg?” she asked.
“Always.”
“Could you get me a small glass of brandy?”
“I think we can manage that.”
“Perfect. I’ll make tavern biscuits—American biscuits. They’re delicious. Fit for a king.”
“Are they fit for a duke?” the cook asked.
“They were fit enough for him when he was a lowly clerk in Boston.”
The ladies shared another laugh.
Hugh receded into the shadow and out of view.
Of all the possibilities for mischief, his thoughts had never landed upon this one. How long had this been going on?
He slowly turned and began quietly climbing the steps.
Lottie?
He smiled to himself.
The stair tread creaked loudly under his step.
He stopped, waiting.
“You!”
Hugh turned just as Charlotte appeared at the base of the narrow staircase.
She crossed her arms and leveled him with an accusing glare. “What are you doing here?”
He’d been caught. He could do nothing else but grin. “I might ask the same of you, Lottie.”
She gasped, then glared again. She charged up the stairs until she stood one step below him. “You’ve been spying on me.”
Hugh could not deny it. “Guilty, I suppose. Though in my defense, the mischief I imagined you getting into was something altogether different.”
“What did you think I would do? Steal away for a tryst in the stables? You’ve a rather low opinion of me, haven’t you?”
In all honesty, the vision that assaulted Hugh at her mention of a tryst in the stables left him with a rather low opinion of himself.
He looked down into her defiant blue eyes and pout-pinched lips and was struck with a veritable chain of inappropriate thoughts.
He moved from the step above her to the step below and tried not to think of kissing the pout right off her lips. “What are you doing here, Charlotte?”
“If you’ve been spying, you already know.”
“I can see that you are cooking, but why?”
Her chin jutted forward. “Because I like to cook and I’m good at it.”
He lifted a brow at her boast.
“You’ve eaten plenty of my cooking and seemed to enjoy it.” She put her fists at her hips and dared him to deny it.
As he had no idea which food she might have prepared, he couldn’t very well say. “I gather you prepared meals in Boston?”
“Yes. There is nothing wrong with that.”
Hugh shook his head. “Sheath your weapon, would you? I never said there was anything wrong about it. Why must you be so contrary all the time? I’d be more offended if you told me you sat around and tried to act like a lady while your mother and brother worked hard to support you.”
“Well. Fine then.”
“Fine.”
Charlotte’s eyes fell, then rose again with less defiance. “You’re going to tell them, aren’t you? What I’ve been doing.”
“You don’t want me to?”
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and trapped it there—held his gaze trapped there—before she answered. “I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t. He’d put a stop to my coming if he knew. Or she would.”
Her tone wasn’t precisely submissive, but her request was delivered with more civility than he’d ever received from her before.
“You don’t mean to stop cooking, do you?” he asked.
“No. I like it. I know what I’m doing.”
That was the second time she’d told him not only that she liked working in the kitchen, but that she was skilled at it. Maybe the duchess was right. Perhaps Charlotte had been made to feel inferior.
Of course, if sneaking off to the kitchen was that important to her, and he held the power to prevent it in his hands…
He smiled wickedly.
Her eyes narrowed.
“I would like to help you, Lady Charlotte. Truly, I would. But you see, we boorish oafs are rather selfish. I look at our present predicament and wonder if there isn’t something in it for me.”
“Do you really intend to blackmail me over a bit of cooking, Mr. Brydges?”
“Oh, you really should start calling me Hugh, now that we’re sharing secrets, don’t you agree?”
When she didn’t immediately agree, he waited.
“All right, Hugh,” she ground out. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to blackmail me over a batch of biscuits?”
He stepped up this time, filling the space next to where she stood and creating a tight fit in the narrow stairwell. “Put that way, it does seem rather trivial I suppose. I can’t demand too high a price, but perhaps a small one.”
“What is your price, Mr. Brydges—Hugh—since you lack the integrity to honor the request of a lady?” Her expression remained defiant, but she had lost a bit of her confidence. Uncertainty crept into her gaze.
Hugh leaned toward her until their bodies were nearly touching. “I believe I would like to see you atop my horse.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He laughed. Her expression was so delightfully scandalized. “If I recall, Charlotte, you told me James Madison would swear fealty to the crown before you sat atop my horse. If you want me to keep your kitchen escapades a secret, you will agree to a riding lesson given by me—on the horse I delivered especially for you.”
She leaned away from him, but the wall prevented her from gaining much distance. “But I’m on a reprieve. I’m to have no lessons. The duchess promised.”
“The duchess won’t give the lesson. I will.”
She glared at him. “You swear if I agree to this lesson—one lesson—you will tell no one about this? Ever?”
“I swear.”
She thought a moment, then nodded. “Agreed. One lesson. Now go away before someone comes looking for you and finds me. I have work to do.” She turned and flounced down the steps.
“Charlotte?” He couldn’t help calling her back.
She stopped and turned. “What is it?”
“You didn’t by any chance make the pear tart with lemon custard that was served Saturday last, did you?”
“I did, actually,” she said, watching him with a bemused expression.
“Do you suppose that could find its way onto the menu again some evening soon?”
Her smile was hesitant, then beaming.
“I imagine it could.” She turned and was around the corner and gone.
Hugh stood arrested, watching the spot from which she’d smiled brilliantly up at him. It was the first time he’d been the recipient of such an expression from Charlotte Brantwood. She was a beautiful woman when her eyes flashed with the blue heat of anger, but when she smiled—that brilliant, artless smile—she was incomparable.