‘I suppose it would be Mr Hamilton, his nephew,’ Charlotte replied as she checked her attire. ‘Shall I do, do you think?’ she added, suddenly unsure.
‘You look lovely, for once,’ came Sarah’s impish reply, which earned her a glare as Charlotte departed to join the rest of the party.
She was the first to enter the drawing room and took a seat in the far corner. Her legs trembled slightly, and her fingers shook as she attempted embroidery. After producing what could only be described as a grievously malformed butterfly stitch, she abandoned the effort altogether and instead watched the doorway with unwavering intent.
Miss Hill and Miss Underwood soon joined her, settling at her side with polite conversation. They spoke of their rooms, declaring the mattresses ‘remarkably bouncy,’ and proceeded to adjust their shawls and plump their cushions with the solemn concentration of surgeons preparing for delicate work.
‘Chilling weather, Miss Lucas. I warn you against ageing—a most disagreeable entity,’ Miss Hill said, as though it were something one might simply decline to participate in. ‘Are you comfortable, my dear? You look... on edge.’
Charlotte offered a smile. ‘I am quite well—though, if you would be so kind, might you pass me the cushion?’
Miss Hill froze, trumpet halfway to her ear.
‘What’s that?’ she bellowed. ‘You want a courtship?’
Charlotte blushed. ‘A... cushion?’
Miss Underwood’s knitting needles clicked emphatically. ‘Oh, do stop alarming the girl, Dotty. She asked for a cushion, not a courtship.’
Miss Hill narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘A cushion? Are you certain? They sound remarkably similar.’
‘Not remotely,’ Miss Underwood muttered.
Miss Hill pressed the trumpet more firmly to her ear. ‘Speak up, Miss Lucas!’
‘The cushion,’ Charlotte repeated loudly, cringing as heads turned towards them.
Miss Hill nodded sagely. ‘Very well. Though I daresay we might find you a suitable young buck here too. You are quite wasted as merely a governess.’ She elbowed Miss Underwood. ‘What do you think, June? She is rather pretty—it should not be overly difficult, eh?’
At that moment Captain Whitworth entered the room. Hearing the direction of the conversation, he executed a crisp about-turn with military efficiency.
Charlotte covered her face with her hand.
Miss Underwood shook her head and handed Charlotte the cushion apologetically. ‘Honestly, Dotty, one day that trumpet of yours will provoke an international incident.’
Charlotte cleared her throat and redirected her attention to the steadily arriving guests. They appeared well acquainted with one another and entirely at ease in their surroundings.
As more guests entered, Charlotte’s attention shifted towards the gentlemen gathered about the room.
Six names from Matthew Stanley’s guest list now stood beneath the same roof.
Lord Bainbridge immediately drew her eye.
Though age had softened his frame, it had done nothing to soften the meanness in his face. He stood proprietorially over his painfully young wife as though she were an acquisition rather than a companion. Within the ton, he was notorious for cruelty, particularly towards his first wife and daughters. Charlotte had little difficulty imagining him among the ranks of the Odd Fellows.
Mr Hamilton, by contrast, appeared thoroughly amiable. Not especially handsome perhaps, though pleasant enough, with sandy-brown hair and lively eyes that seemed perpetually amused by some private joke. Several ladies clustered readily about him. Yet Charlotte distrusted how easily he inspired confidence. Charming men, she had learned, were often the most dangerous.
Sir Oswald, the balding architect, stood somewhat apart, engaged in earnest conversation with Mr Payne, the portly, wealthy local merchant. Charlotte caught fragments through the hum of the room—‘steel prices’, ‘shipping tariffs’, ‘cost of wheat’. Mercenary subjects, perhaps innocent, though both men appeared upon the list.
Mr Fraser loomed stiffly beside Lord Bainbridge, his tall, angular frame giving him the appearance of an irritated heron. Charlotte privately thought him exactly the sort of man who might belong to a secret society devoted entirely to self-importance.
And then there was Lord Boulton, who inspired immediate dislike.
Barrel-chested, yellow-haired, and perpetually disdainful, he spoke to his timid wife in low, cutting tones while she appeared to shrink further into herself with every passing moment. Shewas of diminutive stature, with dull brown hair and a sallow complexion. There was something faintly wistful about her, as though a sudden breeze might carry her off.
Charlotte rose at once and rescued the poor woman beneath the pretence of tea.
‘I always find tea restorative, my lady,’ she said lightly.
