Charles made no answer.
“While I found Charlotte charming, with her lovely smile and generous ... nature, I admit it was Beatrice I preferred. So prim. So tightly wound I was sure every moment she must come unsprung.”
He sighed wistfully. “How I miss those afternoons in Doddington, listening to beautiful Bea play. But of course, all that was before Fawnwell burned and I came to realize the dire straights you were in. Still, I must admit your marriage to Lady Katherine took us all by surprise. One of the Miss Lambs was especially devastated, as I am sure you know.”
Charles clenched his fists at his sides.
“And after that I had no choice but to change course and begin pursuing a wealthy wife.”
“But you still called on Bea after that, letting the poor girl think—”
“I deluded myself, hoping Lady Katherine might not be spring chicken enough to lay the golden egg. I was wrong—drunk on wishful thinking, I suppose.”
“You’re drunk now.”
“Quite tolerably, yes. It’s the only time I am this honest.”
“So, when our son ... when Edmund was born, you had no use for Bea anymore.”
“Precisely. And regret it though I did, I would regret more being poor.” He sighed theatrically. “Marrying the dreadfully cheerful Amanda Litchfield with her five hundred a year is a burden I must bear up under somehow. You know all about marrying for money, do you not, Uncle?”
On a lovely summer day, Charlotte and Anne were sitting on a blanket in the small garden behind the London townhouse when Dr. Taylor came upon them.
“There you are,” he said.
“We are having a picnic, as you can see,” Charlotte explained.
A basket and Anne’s miniature tea set were spread out neatly on the blanket.
“A picnic in the garden. How lovely. Might I join you?”
“Of course, Papa,” Anne said. “But I shall have to fetch another cup. Constance is using the pink one, and Missy and I the other two.”
“I do not believe Constance and I have been introduced,” Daniel said, nodding toward the porcelain doll seated before the pink cup and saucer.
“Of course you have, Papa.” The three-and-a-half-year-old sounded mildly peevish. “You see her every night when you tuck me in.”
“Forgive me. My mistake.”
Anne jumped to her feet. “I shan’t be long. But do not blame me if the tea is cold, Papa. You did not tell me you would be joining us today.”
“Do not hurry on my account, sweetheart. I am quite fond of cold tea.” He sat down on the blanket and folded his long legs, knocking over the tiny sugar bowl as he did.
Charlotte righted it again and confided quietly, “The sugar is make-believe but the tea is quite real.”
He grinned. “Then I shall endeavor to be more careful.” He looked about him. “Such a small bit of earth we have here. Barely worth calling a garden.”
“How fortunate, then, to have such a large plot at your disposal at the Manor.”
“Yes.” he said distractedly, then cleared his throat. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve had a letter from our old friend, Dr. Webb.”
“Dr. Webb? It is good news, I hope?”
“Yes, rather. He has decided to retire—plans to move north to be nearer his grown son and grandchildren.” He plucked a forget-me-not from the grass and twirled the stem in his fingers. “He has offered me his practice. His home in Doddington, his offices, all for a very reasonable sum.”
