Despite having given it much thought and consideration, Baxter knew that it didn’t matter, for it didn’t alter the fact that he’d chosen to speak the vows that bound himself to her. His decision and his consequences to bear.
Yet how long was one expected to pay for mistakes? There was a fine line between inactivity and patience, and Baxter had spent so much of his life considering that balance, yet he still couldn’t say with any certainty that he knew upon which side of the line he stood.
“Miss Stillwell!” Charity lurched forward, the blanket dropping from her lap as she raised a hand. Baxter jerked, his gaze snapping to where his daughter looked, and when he spied the familiar figure trudging along the side of the road, he couldn’t control the quickened pace of his heart—though he couldn’t say if it was an anxious or anticipatory beat.
Chapter 11
Calling to the coachman, Charity leaned forward with a smile as the carriage pulled up beside the lady. “What a happy coincidence. Where are you off to, Miss Stillwell?”
The lady’s gaze darted to Baxter and back to his daughter. Though she grinned broadly at the energetic greeting, there was a tightness to her expression that had him studying the lady.
“I am enjoying a walk this fine afternoon with no particular destination in mind,” she said, holding out a hand to catch a single flake. The occasional flutter was just enough to give the city a Christmas ambiance, though not enough to cause any real trouble for the traffic.
“Would you care to join us?” asked Charity, motioning for her to climb up. “We have escaped and are off to a pantomime.”
“Escaped, have you?” asked Miss Stillwell with her first truly genuine laugh.
“If you’d had the morning I’ve had, you would say ‘escaped’ as well,” murmured Charity. “But it isn’t a proper St. Stephen’s Day without a Christmas pantomime. You must join us.”
“I wouldn’t wish to intrude,” she said whilst stepping away and waving them off.
Charity glanced at Baxter, though he refused to meet her gaze. Everything inside him screamed to pull Miss Stillwell into the carriage, but his previous resolution echoed in his thoughts. He ought not to look at her as anything more than a passing acquaintance. It was not proper for a man in his position to entertain thoughts about another lady. He was in mourning.
And even if he were not, Miss Stillwell was far above his station in life. Juniper Court was surviving—but just. Hardly equal to a lady of distinction and beauty; a man could dream, but only a fool reached for such lofty heights.
“Please do come,” said Charity. “Papa isn’t one to shout alongside the audience, and I need someone to make up the difference.”
Miss Stillwell’s expression softened, her lips twisting into a half-smile. “Ah, so you require my assistance.”
“Most definitely.” With a wicked grin, Charity added, “After putting Camilla in her place so thoroughly, I know you are a lady worth knowing.”
The lady’s brows rose at that. “You wish to surround yourself with people who put your family in their place?”
“You have met my family, and you would ask that?” replied Charity with a put-upon sigh.
“And who puts you in your place?” replied Miss Stillwell.
“My husband, but I fear he is halfway around the world at present.”
“Then perhaps I ought to come simply to ensure that you behave yourself,” said Miss Stillwell with a chuckle, and Baxter’s lips twitched into a smile. Despite the levity with which she spoke, she glanced at him as though asking his permission first. The best route would be to give her a fond farewell and let matters lie.
Yet he couldn’t help but wish that Miss Stillwell join them, for she was certain to make the outing more enjoyable. And why shouldn’t she? A final outing together as friends. There was nothing untoward about that.
It was a lie, and he knew it, yet he couldn’t keep himself from saying, “Please come.”
Baxter opened the barouche door and stepped down, offering his hand to her and helping her inside beside Charity. Straightening the blanket over the ladies, he took the seat opposite.
***
“Oh, yes she will!” shouted Hettie as the audience all jeered at the stage.
The wicked stepmother stamped her foot, glaring them down with a fury that might well set the theater aflame. “She will not go to the ball!”
“Oh, yes she will!” the audience hollered back before dissolving into laughter as the stepmother harrumphed and turned back to her hapless stepdaughter—whilst bumping into a bucket her daughters had placed in her path during their bungling. With a mighty shriek, she collapsed into a heap before said daughters, her very feet flying over her head.
The two girls (who could be called such only because the actors playing them had adorned dresses and appropriate wigs) stumbled over themselves to help the lady up, but the three collided, tumbling one over the other in a heap of limbs as the crowd bellowed with laughter.
Straightening, the stepmother righted her wig and stared down the hapless heroine as she pointed at the now empty bucket. “You cannot go to the ball unless you clean all those lentils out of the fireplace.”
