“Well. Yes then.” She narrowed her gaze. “Brightly is not going to be happy.”
“I don’t suppose he will be. And I apologize if this puts a riff in your relationship with Felicity’s mother.” He winced. “But my mind is made up.”
In her eyes, he could practically hear all the things she refused to say out loud. And then she inhaled a deep breath and released it. “Very well. I will have a talk with Mrs. Crabtree. I would still have her accompany Miss Jackson, but I will ask that she do so with less… enthusiasm.”
The vice that had been squeezing his lungs for most of this conversation finally released. Her capitulation was a fair compromise. “Thank you,” he said.
“Will you be speaking with Felicity then?” she asked. “Your sisters are going to be dreadfully disappointed.”
“They’ll come to terms with my decision in time. It’s not as though they would have been the ones marrying her.”
“But you will speak with Felicity.”
It was not a question. Jules rubbed a hand along the back of his collar. “Of course, I will.” Damn but this was becoming more complicated than he’d imagined. “And Lord Brightly as well. And Mother?”
“Yes, darling.”
She smiled at him as though all of this had been resolved as she wished. He knew better.
“Inform Mrs. Crabtree that if Miss Jackson has any complaints whatsoever, she’ll answer to me.”
Chapter 18
EVER SHOT AN ARROW, MISS JACKSON?
Mrs. Crabtree had presented herself at Charley’s chamber the next morning, filled with apologies and promising to perform her duties going forward in a more discreet manner. And then shortly after, Bethany and Tabetha arrived to inform Charley of the lesson Julian had arranged.
Archery.
Since this would be a private lesson, Bethany pointed out as Mrs. Crabtree trailed behind them, targets had been set up in the ballroom.
“The primary benefit of this sport is that it allows ladies to show off their figure,” Tabetha announced.
Charley rubbed the side of her face. It was a sport for hunting, was it not? A bow was a weapon, and arrows were dangerous projectiles. The English aristocracy latched onto some very unusual forms of entertainment.
She marveled further when she stepped into the ballroom to see that it had been reconfigured once again. This time with large painted circles for targets and stacked bales of hay behind and above them. Julian stood proudly beside a table where various bows and arrows were set out, and his friends had congregated as well.
“The gentlemen are here to assist with your instruction,” Bethany whispered beside her, a warm blush on her cheeks.
Charley wondered which particular gentleman caused Bethany’s sudden coloring.
“Have you ever shot an arrow, Miss Jackson?” Lord Chaswick stood posed as though he ought to be in a painting, his chestnut hair combed back neatly, dressed impeccably and holding the bow at his side.
She smiled. “A few times.” It would be nice to participate in something in which she was not completely inept. Although the bows and arrows she’d used in the past had been smaller and less ornate.
“Archery is a sport in America?” Bethany seemed genuinely interested.
“Don’t be silly, Bethany! The savages use them! Do you know any savages, Charley?” Charley bristled a little at Tabetha’s question. “Has your family ever had to fight them off?”
“I do know one.” But he was not a savage boy at all. He’d been her friend, of sorts. And this aspect of America was so much more complicated than she could even begin to explain. “Lyncona was born Creek Indian. Muscogee. A… friend of my father’s adopted him when his family was killed in a battle.”
“Does he paint his face? Is he dangerous? I hear some of the natives in Africa do that.”
“My friend was not dangerous.” She smiled sadly. “I was only acquainted a short while, and he was much younger than me, but on a few occasions when our fathers were busy in meetings with one another, he took the time to show me a bow that he’d built. It wasn’t as large as these.”
Tabetha’s eyes were large as saucers, and she exaggerated a shiver that ran through her. “You are so much braver than me.”
“Not at all. It’s not as though Philadelphia is teaming with Indians. They are people. Like you and me.” Just as she’d had preconceived notions about the English, so too, it seemed they did about Americans. “And they do, on occasion, paint their faces. But they trade in the towns. They eat. They hunt. A white family raised Lync. Other than his darker skin and hair, he was very much the same as you and I. He made saddles on his father’s estate.”
