A Duke's son to the rescue (Regency Romance) (Regency Tales Book 4) (3 page)

The next morning found her calmer than she’d been when she went to bed. Her tears had dried, the moon had shone upon her, and Lord Davenport had been kind. It would, perhaps, not have been much to others, but it was a different morning than yesterday had been. She might see him again and in spite of her father’s warning, he could speak to her. He seemed indifferent to the social conventions that barred the nobility from doing so. She couldn’t guess where that open-mindedness came from; his father was an autocratic peer, one who held rigidly to the rules of society. His mother was twenty years younger than her husband, born to an aristocratic family but not from quite the same ancient cultivated stock as the Duke. But the Duke, a widower since the death of his first wife, needed an heir and not a dowry, so he’d married the younger woman and she’d fulfilled his hopes; Lord Davenport had been their firstborn, followed by another son and then two daughters. The family was well-regarded in the village, and indeed the whole county, the Duke was respected for his unbending views on class. It was the way things were; the rich were above the rest. The ordinary people were seemingly content with this philosophy and nothing was likely to change.

But even the rich could have a conversation. Charlotte left her bedroom with a feeling of hopefulness.

This was soon dashed.

“You’re not to go to the grounds,” Mrs Smith told her.

“What am I to do?” Charlotte refused to let her mother know how disappointed she was by her father’s edict. Her mother would enjoy signs that Charlotte had been hopeful of seeing Lord Davenport again and Charlotte refused to give her the satisfaction.

“You’re to go to the village. I need you to go to the baker’s, and the butcher’s, before they close midday. Don’t dawdle, come straight home. You remember what your father told you.”

Disconsolate, Charlotte left the house and headed to the village. She was seldom permitted to go anywhere on her own and in other circumstances, she would have cherished this opportunity. She was among other people, she would escape the labour of the gardening on a hot summer’s day, and she was not in her father’s company. She should have been delighted. But despite her father’s words of warning, she had hoped to see Lord Davenport again.

The village was crowded with shoppers. Charlotte was very conscious of her dirty, torn dress and her boots in need of repair. She saw passers-by give her an assessing look; some showed their scorn, their thoughts plain to see. She walked with her head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

She made the purchases her mother had ordered and left the shop. She chose to walk around the back of the shops so that she would not be seen by others. The stares of the shoppers had made her realise how her torn, dirty dress and unkempt appearance led them to think of her.

She had to stop at one point because she tripped on the loose sole of her boot, scraping her toes. She halted behind the tavern to sit on the stone wall that encircled the village, resting her feet before continuing on her journey.

She could overhear the conversation of two men who were talking together. They were discussing the death of Lady Elizabeth Anthony.

Charlotte started to listen to what they were saying, even though she knew she shouldn’t. But she recalled that her parents had spoken of the lady’s ill health the other night at supper. Apparently, the inevitable had happened and she had succumbed to her illness.

“His lordship is combing the area to find out more about his daughter,” said one man. “When he found out what Lady Anthony had done, he was in a terrible rage. Her ladyship was dead, nothing to be done there.”

“Nothing to be done anywhere,” said the other man. “How is anyone to find a baby born nineteen years ago, even if the child does bear a distinctive mark? Who will see it?”

“How did her ladyship get away with it? And why did she do it? The child was surely Lord Anthony’s.”

“Oh, no question of that. Her ladyship was virtuous. But, you will allow, she was a dreadful snob. It pains me to speak ill of the dead, but it’s true. When her child was born, His Lordship was away. He was away over a year; something to do with a property settlement in India. He didn’t even know that she was to have a confinement. And so, when she had the child taken away because it had some kind of mark on it, his lordship was unaware of it. But she couldn’t go to her grave with her secret and she told him before she died. Now he’s desperately hoping to find the child, turning the county upside down to find a trace of the baby.”

“Good luck to him. The child is likely dead.”

“Perhaps not,” said the other. “But Lord Anthony will find the answer. For all his gentle ways, he’s determined.”

Charlotte was transfixed by the sad story. What a terrible thing to have done, she thought. No wonder Lady Anthony had confessed before she died: who would dare to face God on Judgment Day with such an act on her conscience. How on earth would Lord Anthony be able to find his missing child on the basis of a birthmark that might or might not be visible? True, her own birthmark was plain to see, but she was certainly not the missing daughter of a local lord. She could just imagine what her parents would say if they heard the news about the search for a child with a mysterious birthmark. She wondered if the mark was a particular shape, as hers was, or if it was just a mark like a large mole.

As if aware of her thoughts, one of the men asked, “What shape are they looking for? Everyone in the village is going to be peering at every little mark and mole on every woman who looks to be the right age.”

The other man chuckled. “True enough. I’ve heard tell that it’s the shape of…”

“Amaryllis Belladonna! What are you doing here?”

Charlotte, startled, would have toppled from the stone wall. Lord Davenport took her arm to steady her.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “It seems I always have to beg your pardon, don’t I?”

“I must to be going,” she said, remembering her father crude words about Lord Davenport and his possibly lewd intentions. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked anxiously. “I saw you sitting on the wall and just wanted to come and bid you good day. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s not important. I have to go. I’m expected at home.”

“Why weren’t you at Walsingham Hall? I went looking for you but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I had errands in the village. I need to return now.”

She walked away quickly, or as quickly as her worn boots would allow her. She did not want to endure more scorn from her parents. Nor did she wish to keep alive any foolish hopes that Lord Davenport could have any interest in her. He was kind, that was all. She had no hope of rising above her station. Somewhere in Battington, there was a child who had been cast off as unwanted and was now eagerly sought. Such a child was lucky. But that sort of luck was not for Charlotte. Her destiny was bleak and not even the moon could change that.

Charlotte was silent when she returned home and for the rest of the day. Her mother made use of her being at home and put her to work scrubbing the floors. Charlotte didn’t object; there was no point. That night at supper, her father was eager to share the story of the missing child that Lady Elizabeth had sent away when it was born.

‘They’re saying Lord Anthony is searching everywhere for the child. His heir and all. I fancy there’ll be a handsome reward for whoever finds the boy.”

“How will they find him after all these years?” Mrs Smith scoffed. “And what if his birthmark is on his rear?”

“How would he know?” guffawed Mr Smith. “It’s been nineteen years. How many times has he bared his behind?”

“You never know,” Mrs Smith sniggered. “There might be witnesses all over Battington who’ve seen the mark.”

“Likely the boy’s dead now, and every scoundrel in England is going to be trying to find a way to hoodwink his lordship with a false mark.”

Charlotte couldn’t recall whether the men she’d overheard talking about the missing heir had mentioned gender, but she could understand why they assumed it was a boy. Why would His Lordship make a fuss over a worthless girl? His son and heir, yes, but he wouldn’t be searching high and low all over the county for a daughter. She knew at first-hand what people thought of their female children. Would her parents have treated her differently if she’d been born a boy instead of a girl? Possibly if she’d been a boy she’d have been of greater use, and therefore more highly valued.

“You’re quiet tonight,” her father commented.

Charlotte nodded and said nothing.

“What’s the matter? Heartbroken because you didn’t see his handsome lordship today? Well, you’re back outside tomorrow but mind me girl, there will be no dallying with Davenport. You’ve work to do and you’ll do it. That’s what you’re here for. Do you hear?”

“I hear,” Charlotte replied expressionlessly.

She offered no sport for her parents’ mockery and when she had finished clearing up after the meal, neither of them objected that she headed to her bedroom. She lay awake in the darkness, wondering how she could continue to live this way. As she lay there, her emotions too numb for tears, she heard the rain begin to fall outside her open window. No lightning or thunder, just the soothing, steady pattern of rain emptying from the clouds above, nourishing the soil below. It was as if the sky was doing her crying for her.

Sighing, she got out of bed. The rain was coming in through the open window, soaking her dress—soaking her dress. Of course!

Charlotte smiled. The rain could do what she couldn’t, and wash her dress. She took the garment and held it out so that the water would drench her dress and wash the dirt and mud from the cloth. It wouldn’t be new, nor would it be a perfect laundering, but the dress would be the better for the impromptu cleaning. When the dress was wet through, she wrung the cloth and drained the excess water from it. Bringing the dress back inside, she lay it on the floor so that it would dry. There was little to look forward to in her life, but at least she would be a trifle cleaner than she’d been today.

Her dress was a little damp at the waist and neck the next morning when she put it on, and the garment was not without wrinkles, but the clumps of dirt and embedded grime were gone. It was shabby, but it was clean. Her mother looked at her with suspicious eyes as Charlotte followed her father out the door, but Charlotte’s face gave nothing away and finally her mother turned away. The dress was the same one she always wore; her boots were the same, except that her toes were visible where the soles had separated from the uppers. As she walked out the door, Charlotte was smiling to herself. Her father, walking in front of her as he always did, noticed nothing.

They headed for the Walsingham Hall grounds where Charlotte had been working the day when she had seen Lord Davenport on his horse. It seemed as if it was a long time ago and yet it had only been a day or two. Just two days, but in that time, something had changed within her. A spirit she could not identify, born out of a resistance to her father’s cruelty and her mother’s mockery, began to take hold of her. As they walked, Charlotte surreptitiously kicked off her boots, hiding them under a hedge where her father would not discover them. She would rather be barefooted than an object of derision, she decided.

“I’ll be working the garden right across the pathway,” Mr Smith told her when they reached their place of work. “So don’t think you’ll get away with anything because I’ll see you and I’ll take a stick to you. Do you understand me?” 

Charlotte smiled, and made a mock curtsey. As she did so, her bare toes were exposed. Mr Smith’s face was suffused with the bright crimson of rage. “You worthless girl, what have you done with your boots?”

“My boots?” Charlotte looked down at her feet with every appearance of surprise. “Why, where on earth could they be? I had them on when I left this morning. The soles were coming apart; they must have fallen off. What will I do? I’m barefooted. Should I return home?”

“One of your tricks, eh?” Smith growled. “I’m having none of that. You’ll stay here and work. You don’t need your feet to pull weeds. You don’t need boots in summer.” He stamped away, clearly thwarted by Charlotte’s ploy but unable to find a way to retaliate in his customary fashion. Charlotte knelt on the ground and began to pull the weeds from the flower beds. It was tedious work, but the flowers were lovely and she enjoyed the soft texture of the petals and the sweet fragrance they emitted. She didn’t know it, but as she knelt, her skirts arrayed around her, her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her skirt, her thick brown hair tied back to expose her slim neck and dainty chin, she was beautiful. Her beauty transcended her worn clothing; it was a triumph of physical attributes, youth, and a natural breeding which defied the crass behaviour of her parents.

“Good morning, Belladonna,” said a familiar voice.

The unexpected sound of a man’s voice breaking into the quiet morning made her jump.

“I’m forever startling you,” Davenport sighed. “I must apologise again.”

She smiled at him. “No apology necessary,” she told him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“I’ll apologise anyway,” he decided. “For all current and future transgressions. It’s a much better way to start the day.”

“Apologising seems to be a tiresome way to begin the day,” she disagreed, but with a smile that turned her lustrous dark eyes into beacons of light and merriment.

“Not if you forgive me,” he said promptly, sitting down on the ground beside her.

“You’ll get grass strains on your trousers,” she warned him.

“They’ll wash out,” he said carelessly.

“If someone washes them out,” she told him, her tone gentle but her meaning unmistakable.

His blue eyes showed remorse. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It seems as though I’ve done it again. I wasn’t thinking but you’re correct. Someone, yes someone surely must pay for my heedless behaviour. But if I stand,” he rose to his feet, “then I’m made to feel as if you’re beneath me.”

Charlotte tilted her head to look up at him. He was framed by the sunlight at his back, wreathing him in bright rays. “My father would agree with you,” she replied. “I’m lowborn, after all.” With those words, she turned around and walked towards the area where the horses were tethered. She did not get far before being accosted by her father.

“What are you doing, girl? I told you to work and here you are, idle like the lazy, good-for-nothing—” Mr Smith’s tirade came to a halt as he saw Lord Davenport emerge. “You, girl,” George directed his attention to his daughter. “Get back to work!”

“I must remind you, Smith, that you work for my family. If I choose to task your daughter with conversing with me, you must oblige me.” Lord Davenport, although young, carried the authority of his position well, and in control of the situation, he easily put George Smith in his place.

Mr Smith glowered, and his eyes threatened consequences to Charlotte. Subdued, he swallowed whatever he was about to say and bowed submissively.

“My deepest apologies your lordship, no offence was intended.”

Lord Davenport, continued to stare at Smith sternly.

Charlotte rose to her feet.

“His lordship has asked me to show him the Amaryllis Belladonna,” she said, managing with difficulty to keep a smile from breaking out on her face. “As he is highborn and I am lowborn, I must obey his wishes.”