He was irritated to see his nephew’s grey gelding in front of the vicarage, old Buxley attempting to hold the jittery horse by its bridle.What is that boy up to now?
Here William came in his green coat and cravat and fine hat, his smile decidedly self-satisfied.
“Hello, Uncle. Sorry I cannot stay and chat. Pressing business calls.”
The young man was a dandy and a conniver. Charles should have discouraged his visits to the vicarage, but it was too late now.
Astride the horse now, William turned in the saddle and said with seeming innocence, “Miss Charlotte seems to have disappeared utterly. You haven’t any idea what that’s about, do you?”
Charles stared, dumbfounded at the boy’s insolence. He opened his mouth to fashion some feeble reply, but the young man was already spurring his mount down the lane.
Buxley took his horse with a “Good day to you, Mr. Harris.” Charles entered the vicarage and Tibbets took his hat and showed him into the drawing room. Gareth Lamb sat on one of the satin settees, staring off into space while his elder daughter, Beatrice, picked at tinny melodies on the pianoforte.
“There you are, Charles,” the vicar greeted him gloomily. “We despaired of ever seeing you again.”
“Yes ... Katherine prefers town to country living, I’m afraid.
I’ve just come round to check on the place and visit my mother and all of you.”
“Do come and sit down.”
But Charles hesitated, looking around the room for some clue that what he had heard was true. Beatrice looked up at him with a brief nod.
“Good day, Beatrice.”
“Mr. Harris.” She played on, seemingly unconcerned with or unaware of his agitated state or her father’s pale stupor.
“And ... where is Charlotte this fine day?” He attempted a weak smile.
“Who?” Mr. Lamb asked, his expression blank.
“What do you mean, who? Your younger daughter, of course.”
“I have only one daughter, and here she sits.” The Reverend Mr. Lamb waved vaguely in Bea’s direction.
“I am speaking of Charlotte.”
“She is lost to me. It pains me to speak of it.”
“I beg you forgive me. But if you could only speak a bit more and tell me where she has gone ... I only want to help.”
“I know not.”
“You ...don’t knowwhere Charlotte is?” he asked in disbelief.
A discordant clang shuddered through the pianoforte, and Bea glared at him over the fading notes. “We do not wish to speak of it, Mr. Harris. I believe Father made that quite clear. And pray do us the kindness of not speaking of her to others either. Charlotte is off”—she waved her hand with dramatic flair—“visiting friends. Gone to Brighton, I believe. Or was it Bath? In any case, we don’t expect her anytime soon.” She began playing again.
“That young man who was just here,” Gareth began, frowning. “I know he is your nephew, but I have to say, I do not trust him.”
“Father!” Bea exclaimed.
“I am sorry, my dear, but I cannot help but think he had something to do with the whole infernal affair.”
Bea stood quickly. “Mr. Bentley is a perfectly amiable gentleman, and I will not sit by and hear him maligned in my presence.” She flounced out of the room, and Charles was relieved to see her go.
“She’s pinned her hopes on him.” Mr. Lamb shook his head, his eyes still on the open door though Bea was no longer visible. “I know I should encourage it, but something does not sit right with me. You do not think Bentley had anything to do with ... Charlotte’s leaving?”
“I ... I shouldn’t think so. Did you ask him?”
