“My source of your engagement rumor seemed quite certain, but then, things have a way of being twisted around,” said Edward with a shrug. “Say—there is a ball being held by the Nelsons, four days hence. Our families are quite close. If you like, I would be happy to send word of your arrival back in town. Lady Nelson would think it quite the coup to have you there.”
“IbelieveI am available—let me think,” mused Robert. “Yes, yes, I am certain I have no obligations. Do ask her on my behalf, thank you. Tell her to send the invitation to me care of the Winston’s town home on Bridlemile Circle. I should be happy to attend. Are both of you going?”
Simon and Edward nodded.
Perfect, thought Robert.In order for my plan to work, I need a willing, although innocent, partner. Either of these two would do perfectly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Charlotte had tobe reminded to eat, so busy was she in the sick room. Mrs. Wilson often hovered over Charlotte to make sure the girl ate at least some of what was on the plate she had personally brought up. Dorothea also spent many hours helping her sister, and the two felt their nursing efforts were showing results, although their father was still so very weak and slept most of the time. Despite their initial fears upon their arrival home, they were both now cautiously optimistic their father might recover. Mr. Baker was less confident, however, warning the family that their father taking a few sips of broth now and then was no guarantee of anything.
It had now been three days since arriving at Clayton House, and Charlotte had received no word from Mr. Morton. She tried to rally her spirits, telling herself that the post was slow or that there might be some crisis with the estate just now. Perhaps he was away and had not even read her letter yet. But, she continued to feel both anxious and a bit wounded in spirit. To her way of thinking, had he truly loved her, an express from him would have been waiting for her when they arrived at Clayton.
When she was relieved from tending to her father, Charlotte quietly played the pianoforte in the music room, read, or napped. The weather had been unusually rainy since their arrival, and so, when the weather turned sunny and warm again on the fourth day, Charlottedetermined she would get out and take a walk into Doddington for some much needed exercise.
In her pocket, she had tucked another short note to Robert relating the updated particulars of her father’s condition and asking again for assurance from him that all was well between them. Part of her was afraid of sending the missive—would he think it too bold of her? But then, she would tell herself, how could it be? He had expressed his love and admiration for her strongly enough that he wished her to elope with him. Why would that have changed in a mere few days?
Her mind recalled a portion of Shakespeare’s famous sonnet:Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! It is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.
No, his heartfelt attachment to her could not have altered or disappeared; she was letting her imagination run away with her. Most likely a letter from him would be waiting at Clayton House when she returned from the village.
When Charlotte reached Doddington, her first stop was the post office to drop off her letter. Then for a time, she wandered aimlessly in and out of shops, occasionally greeting friends and accepting their best wishes for her father’s recovery. She was not really in the mood to purchase anything, but when she came across a little tin of watercolors, she impulsively bought it, as well as charcoal, papers, and a few brushes. Her art had always been a source of solace and peace to her, and since her art kit was still at Haverstone, she allowed herself this small indulgence. It would be something to do while sitting in the sick room with her Papa, she reasoned.
Realizing it was getting late in the afternoon and that she had eaten very little that day, Charlotte proceeded to a tea shop for some refreshment—perhaps a cup of hot chocolate and a sugar bun. As she entered, she heard a familiar voice, and turned to see Lavinia sitting at a high table, engaged in deep conversation with their cousin, Selina.
“We hope for the best, of course, Selina, but I am afraid it is all butcertain my husband will soon be the new master and landlord of Clayton estate. Then, believe it, I intend to make some much needed changes and renovations to that stuffy old place.”
“Lavinia!” Charlotte cried. Heads turned at her outburst, but she did not care. Lavinia, sitting at a high table with an acquaintance, whirled around, her mouth dropping open at the sight of her sister-in-law. Charlotte stormed over. “I think you might atleastwait until my poor father is cold in his grave before you begin changing Clayton House to your particular preferences. But, your hopes of his demise are highly misplaced. For your information, Papa is doing much better, and Dorothea and I have every confidence of his recovery. Not that you would know this since you have absented yourself from home ever since he fell ill.”
“But I am with child, Charlotte,” Lavinia whined, her face now beet red. “I cannot risk catching scarlatina. Would you have me lose the future heir to the estate?” She placed a hand protectively over her belly that showed barely a bulge. Selina’s head was lowered, and her lips tightly pressed together as she attempted to make herself invisible.
Charlotte closed her eyes and took a deep breath to govern her temper after her very unladylike reaction. “No, of course not. I know you must do your best to avoid sickness so that you may give birth to a healthy child. But how hurtful to hear you say what you just spoke—it is almost as though you wish Papa gone.” Charlotte felt the prickle of tears in her eyes. Lavinia opened her mouth to speak, but Charlotte’s hand flew up to stop her and took deliberate steps away. “No, Lavinia. I am sorry, but I cannot speak of this anymore at present. I must leave. Pray, forgive me, but I must return home—tomyhome, which is perfect in every way just as it is.”
Charlotte spun around and nearly ran from the tea shop before the tears in her eyes spilled down her face. As she hurried home, she murmured a prayer for her father over and over along the way. “Please, God, do not take Papa yet. Please, God, do not take Papa yet…”
When she entered Clayton House, Mrs. Wilson was by the stairs, just sending one of the maids upstairs with fresh broth.
“Oh, Miss Charlotte, I am glad you are back,” she said. “Mr. Baker is with your father now. He says he seems much improved since just this morning. Will you go up to him?”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Wilson. Oh, tell me—was there any mail for me today?”
“No, Miss, not a thing.”
Charlotte tried to hide a crestfallen face, merely nodding and starting up the stairs. Her prayer changed to: “Please, God, let Robert write me. Please, God, let Robert write me…”
*
In London’s HydePark, Robert Morton was also sending prayers heavenwards. He had been strolling for the past two hours, hoping for a chance encounter with Miss Phoebe Graham. A few shillings to a kitchen-maid at Henry Winston’s home had been money well spent when she returned from an outing to report that she had run into a friend who worked at Miss Graham’s and learned the heiress was usually seen riding in a phaeton with her maiden aunt most sunny afternoons around two or three o’clock.
To be on the safe side, Robert had arrived at one o’clock and had strolled around the most likely locations Miss Phoebe might be driving. The park was four hundred acres, but since she was not on horseback, she would not be on the Ladies’ Mile; he felt a better place to catch her was more likely to be on the Ring somewhere. It was now half past two, and Robert clutched his walking cane tightly as he continued to scan the park.
Where can she be? Lord, should you have any pity on my situation, you will bring her to me.
He smiled genially at several people he knew but kept walking. Hecould not afford to get caught up in a conversation only to see his prize go riding by. At last, he saw a shiny phaeton approaching and smiled. There she was and just as lovely as he remembered. He noted that she was driving, so he carefully positioned himself close to the road on the side she was on. Then, he lifted his face as though in surprise and called out, “Why, Miss Graham, is that you?” while praying she would not merely nod and continue on.
The conveyance came to a halt, and Robert was rewarded with a brilliant smile.
“Gracious, can it be? Mr. Morton? How lovely to see you are back in town, sir. I had heard we should not expect to see you again all this summer.”
