“Well, we are blessed to have so many generous souls such as yourselves come to visit. I cannot keep track.”
She opened her mouth to speak again, her expression clearly skeptical. But instead of questioning him further, her mouth curved in a feline smile. “I know what I saw. Or shall we say,whom.” She turned on her heel and swept across the hall.
Charlotte walked through the manor’s garden, breathing in the outdoor air, forcing away the images she had seen in the syphilis ward. Reaching into her dress pocket, she ran her fingers over the letter from her aunt, which she carried with her as a comfort, a sort of lifeline. She knew whom her aunt was referring to in her veiled reference to Bea’s “gentleman” suitor.
Charlotte remembered well the first time she had met William Bentley. That is, the first time in many years. She had seen him on several occasions when they were young children, but not for a number of years since, when he unexpectedly appeared at their drawing room door three or four years ago.
“Mr. William Bentley,” Tibbets had announced and then backed from the room, pulling the doors closed as she went.
The young man who stood before them was slight and not much taller than the maid who had shown him in. He was about eighteen, Charlotte estimated, a year above her own age at the time, though he bore the confidence of someone far older.
“How do you do?” he asked, hat in hand. Tibbets had forgotten to take it. Charlotte glanced at Bea, saw from the frown line between her brows that she had no idea who the young man was. Charlotte glanced next at her father, whose place it was to greet the man and make introductions, but he wore an expression that would have been comically similar to his daughter’s, were not the situation so awkward.
“Bentley ... Bentley ...” he began, obviously trying to place the mildly familiar name.
“You remember, Father,” Charlotte offered. “Mr. Bentley is nephew to Mr. Harris.”
“Is he now? Oh, yes, I think I remember hearing something of a nephew. Let’s see, Harris has an older brother ...”
“Sister, actually, Father. Mrs. Eliza Bentley. Of Oxford.”
“That’s right, thank you.” The young man smiled at Charlotte.
“You seem to know the family quite well, Miss—?”
“Charlotte Lamb.”
“Of course.” He nodded, his eyes widened in a knowing expression that left her feeling unsettled.
Her father stood at that moment, casting a disapproving glance at her. “I am the Reverend Mr. Gareth Lamb, Vicar of the Parish Church of Doddington, Dedicated to the Beheading of St. John the Baptist.”
Mr. Bentley’s eyebrows rose. “How unusual.” A hint of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth, but her father did not seem to notice.
“Yes, it is. One of the rarest dedications in England, shared only with the Church of Trimmingham in Norfolk.”
“Ahh ...” Mr. Bentley uttered the universal sound of the duly impressed. When her father’s grave expression remained fixed, Mr. Bentley continued, “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. My uncle speaks highly of you, sir.”
“As I do of him. And may I present my elder daughter, Miss Lamb.”
Beatrice merely dipped her head.
“And Charlotte has already introduced herself,” her father added as he reclaimed his seat. He tossed a sour smile toward Charlotte but did not quite look at her. “Do sit down, Mr. Bentley.”
“I thank you.”
“Of Oxford, sir?” her father asked. “The university or environs?”
“Both, of late.”
“You must know my friend Lord Elton, then. He is quite the patron of Pembroke.”
Charlotte winced at her father’s boast. Lord Elton was Uncle Tilney’s friend, not his.
“Who has not heard of him? His son is also quite well-known.
I have not had the pleasure of meeting either man, I’m afraid. My studies keep me quite occupied.”
“Excellent. And what will you take up?”
