The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(28)
“Oh, but—”
“I will keep her company, Mrs. Florrick,” Charlotte said firmly, at her cousin’s look of entreaty. “She will not do anything strenuous, I assure you.”
“But my lady—”
“Come,” Charlotte said, throwing the housekeeper her sweetest smile, even as she guided Lavinia from the room.
“Thank you,” Lavinia whispered. “I can’t think where all my energy has gone.”
“Can’t you?” Charlotte said, with a none-too-subtle glance at her midsection.
Lavinia chuckled. “I didn’t know increasing would make me feel so wretched. I don’t know how women manage without such friendly faces and people so willing to help.”
“Yet somehow those without servants still manage to survive, otherwise the population would be decreasing. Now, let’s get you settled.”
After ensuring her cousin was comfortably ensconced on the sofa, a pile of correspondence before her, Charlotte picked up her embroidery from earlier. Soon all thought of sickness faded as quiet calm filled the room.
The tall case clock near the door provided a reassuring tick. The crackle of flames gave heartening warmth. The yellow drawing room might not be as large as the one in the Grosvenor Square house, but the view, over fields and distant hills, was a much pleasanter prospect, and made the room seem more spacious.
Charlotte glanced back at the embroidery, stifling a sigh. Sewing had never held much pleasure. These past few days had only reinforced her fears about country living. When Mama had seen just how dull the earl and Lavinia lived, she had quickly relinquished her chaperonage to escape back to London. A niggle of resentment flared; subsided. She couldn’t blame Mama for leaving, nor, she supposed, for carrying out her maternal duty. It wasn’t like Charlotte could do anything about it, anyway. Wasn’t like she could make choices about anything.
She stabbed at the scrap of silk. What if Henry—unfeeling, unreasonable Henry—had never said anything to Mama? Could Charlotte have said anything to change Mama’s mind? Why did Father always follow Mama’s lead? The heat spiking her chest suddenly turned to ice. What if Lord Markham had found a new lady interest?
No. No! Charlotte forced herself to breathe, to think on other things. Lavinia’s challenge about childishness had sparked resolve to not live from her emotions quite so much. If she behaved with dignity and decorum, Mama might not think her so spoiled and silly. But it was very hard!
Smothering a yawn, she peeked up to meet Lavinia’s smiling glance before her cousin resumed reading her letters. At least Charlotte’s time here had proved of some benefit. Apart from comforting Lavinia, Charlotte had been forced to act as a kind of gatekeeper, doing her best to shield her cousin from the servants’ fuss and worry, while secretly sharing Mrs. Florrick’s concern about just how thin the countess was becoming. And Charlotte’s presence meant the earl had felt easier about leaving his wife for a few days while he returned to London for some important parliamentary function to do with the peace.
“I hate leaving you, especially now, at such a time,” he’d avowed yesterday, clasping Lavinia’s hand, moments before he was due to drive away.
“I’ll look after her,” Charlotte had said. “Stop worrying.”
“You remind me of your Aunt Patience,” Lord Hawkesbury said, with his easy chuckle. “Thank you for staying, Charlotte.”
“Where else would I go?”
Lavinia smiled. “You’re a pearl amongst women, just like Aunt Patience.”
The memory of the compliment drew heat to her cheeks again.
She’d rarely met the woman who had raised Lavinia from the age of nine, apart from that brief stay last November, when the discovery she possessed an aunt and cousin had transformed her world. Brusque, bluestocking Aunt Patience was like a force of nature, speeding headlong into situations and wreaking change—havoc, Mama would say—wherever she went. To be compared to such a capable, intelligent woman caused her heart to glow. She smiled, resuming her stitching. Her boring stitching. Her tedious, dull, and dreary— “Good gracious!”
“Yes?” Charlotte glanced up eagerly. News, even of the “good gracious” kind, had to be better than this mind-numbing stupor. “What is it?”
“Nicholas writes … oh my!”
“Lavinia?”
“Oh, thank goodness!”
“Lavinia, stop being so cruel.”
“Oh!” Her cousin glanced up from her letter, gray eyes wide. “I’m sorry. But it is just so dreadful.”
“Really? I wouldn’t know.”
Lavinia’s mouth pulled to one side. “Sarcasm does not become you, dear Charlotte.”
“Neither does intentionally withholding exciting news, dearest Lavinia.”
Lavinia’s brow puckered. “I don’t know if I would describe it as exciting.”
“I wouldn’t know how to describe it at all, seeing as I don’t even know what ‘it’ is!”
“Oh! You don’t, do you? I’m sorry. Read this.” She handed over the letter, the firm bold scrawl denoting a masculine hand. “Second paragraph.”
Charlotte read the missive, dated the day before:
I regret to inform you of a matter of a most alarming nature. Only days after leaving us, Hartington was involved in a terrible incident. A rock was thrown at his coach, injuring his coachman and causing the horses to run away. H. was fortunate (we would agree blessed) to find help at a nearby village, and it seems the coachman will make a slow recovery. I have this on the word of H. himself, whom I met at White’s last night. Seems he has managed to keep much of this quiet (amazing what enough gold lining hands will do) and would prefer people not to know. Please pray for him, and for his household, who are understandably shocked and worried. Join me also in praying for H. whose matter-of-fact attitude toward it all concerns me not a little, as I cannot but wonder if this “accident” was more intentional than otherwise.