“And for America, no less.” Charley couldn’t help adding. How her grandparents must have hated that. It was obvious from the manner in which they’d treated her father that they blamed him. They blamed him for their daughter’s early death, and they blamed him for the behavior and appearance of their only granddaughter.
Charley’s mother had loved them as much as had been possible, but for the most part, Charley and her father had been nothing more than a mistake to her.
“I will be sure to mention your need of painting instruction to your grandmother.” Although the countess’s eyes were brown, she had the same proud tilt to her head that her daughters did. Only rather than smiling, she kept her lips pinched tightly together. The countess’s gaze turned and landed on Felicity Brightley. “Such a lovely young woman, isn’t she? If you’ll excuse me, it seems thatMonsieurJean Luc wishes to have a word.”
Charley dropped into a shallow curtsey and wished she knew if that was what she was supposed to do. Perhaps she ought to have paid more attention to the few lessons she’d had while at her grandparents’ after all.
Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have minded learning things. Making things.
Not necessarily painting things.
Charley glanced at her painting with one last wince, and then remembered Jules was waiting for her.
She wiped her hands on the smock, slid her arms out of the oversized sleeves, and made to exit as inconspicuously as possible. Ten minutes had surely already passed, and she was feeling more and more curious about what Lord Westerley wanted to show her.
And she admitted to herself reluctantly, as she scurried through the corridors that were becoming familiar to her, a little excited.
She forced herself to pause and leaned against the wall, removing her father’s missive from her sleeve.
Charlotte,
I wouldn’t have left in such a blasted hurry if you weren’t so damn stubborn. This is not a punishment (although I doubt you believe that now). Someday, I’ve no doubt you’ll thank me. I know you love the process of distilling, of running a company, of making your own whiskey, but opportunity is going to dodge you until you have a husband at your side. Preferably a well-connected and esteemed one. You’ll never have the respect you crave if your promotions come from your father. You are hardworking, too smart for your own good, and capable of having everything you ever wanted, but you need to be patient. And you must marry.
I’ll return in a few weeks. Be open-minded. I beg of you, foolish girl, not to turn your nose up if a respectable suitor comes along.
Be good. Do this for me.
Your father,
Daniel J. Jackson
Just as Charleywiped the corner of her eye, a maid rounded the corner and Charley stuffed the letter back into her sleeve. She was self-conscious at almost being caught crying and frustrated that her father lacked faith in her.
Be good! Keep an open mind? Surely, this was just some sort of test he was putting her through. Flustered but realizing again that she was late to meet Jules, she pushed off the wall and marched toward the gallery. She’d have to ponder all of her father’s meanings later.
The countess had been rather emphatic about this chaperone business. Charley was going to have to discuss the prospect with Daisy. She’d known youngEnglishladies weren’t supposed to go about a house party on their own, but it hadn’t occurred to her that the same rules would apply to her. At home, she didn’t think twice about being alone at one of her father’s distilleries or even when they were visiting any of his colleagues. And now her father had asked her to be good—for him.
Did he seriously expect her to act like one of these English ladies?
Not that Ladies Tabetha and Felicity or the twins were all that different, really, but they acted in a certain manner that implied a feminine helplessness Charley could never feign. Nor would she ever desire to.
Stepping soundlessly in her slippers, she turned the corner and thoughts of her father fled as she caught sight of Jules, who was quite lost in thought and wasn’t yet aware that she’d arrived.
A shaft of light slanting across the hall illuminated him where he stood. His hair wasn’t nearly as dark as it seemed indoors. The color reminded her of a rich and fruitful soil, with browns and blacks and reds. He slouched as he leaned one shoulder against the wall where he studied his father’s painting. Away from his friends and his mother’s guests, he didn’t seem nearly as arrogant or sure of himself. She should have seen it before, but there was far more to the Earl of Westerley than she’d ever suspected.
He straightened and turned, just then, suddenly aware that another person had interrupted his privacy.
“You’re late.” He appeared all that was cocksure once again.
“Your mother wished to have a word,” she said. “She told me I’m not supposed to be alone with any of the gentlemen guests while under her protection.”
“Well then.” He slipped a hand out of his pocket. “It’s a good thing you’re only going to be alone with me.”
Charley didn’t hesitate to take his arm when he offered it and followed him with only the slightest misgivings. If anyone was to see her walking alone with Lady Westerley’s son, immediately after the countess had offered her sage advice, then it would most assuredly give her hostess all the more reason to look upon Charley unfavorably.
“Where are we going?” She hoped nowhere where they might be observed. “Perhaps I ought to fetch Daisy…”
But he patted her hand. “You needn’t worry about my mother.” He turned into a passageway that was only half as wide. “It occurred to me that since you have been denied the opportunity to taste the various Scottish whiskies, there is something I can do to abate some of your disappointment.”
