Page 12 of Hearts at Home

4

T he fine weather continued most of the week, much to the delight of Charis’s sisters. Each day, after breaking their fast, they selected the gowns they and Charis would wear, made whatever quick repairs and adjustments they had time for, washed and dressed, did one another’s hair, and set off for the first of the afternoon’s entertainments: calls, musical afternoons, visits to the Pump Rooms, walks in the park. Dinner at the home of one of Mother’s acquaintances was followed by singing or card playing or dancing or whatever else the hostess had put together to impress Bath’s small society. Except on Assembly nights, when most guests went on to the Assembly Rooms, where the Fishingham twins continued to draw a crowd of remarkably vapid young men.

A bright moon meant safe travel after dark, and Mother was determined to take full advantage of the combination of fine weather and moonlight, so they seldom found their beds before three of the morning, rising no later than ten to repeat the whole process again.

Even on the one day that rain made travel unwise, Charis’s sisters decreed that the five women in the family and their shared maid must spend the whole day sewing, remaking the gowns they had already worn to look as different as possible.

Charis had no time to walk to her refuge at Eastwood Hall; no time to even retreat to her bedroom for a few minutes of blessed silence. She found herself staying awake in the small hours of the morning, staring into the darkness, just to have time to herself. After six days of little sleep and almost constant company, she was nervous as a cat in a kennel, fighting a constant urge to yawn and suffering a nauseous headache.

The afternoon was hard enough. They attended a lecture given by an elderly gentleman who managed to be boring while telling stories of his journeys through South America. Charis struggled to stay awake but at least did not have to talk. At dinner, she was paired with one of the vapids, who proved to be more interested in his food than her, paying her little attention beyond his duty of serving her from the dishes that came their way.

Thank goodness it was an Assembly evening. She would not need to take a turn at an instrument or try to remember the rules of some silly card game or struggle not to win at charades (which she would enjoy, if only her mother and sisters insisted that winning all the time was showing off). As soon as they arrived at the Upper Rooms, she found a corner out of the way from which she could watch the dancing until Mother decreed the time had come to go home.

Not that she disliked dancing, but she did not like conversing with strangers, nor did she enjoy being partnered with someone who was clearly biding his time until he could escort her to the side of the dance floor before abandoning her to join the groups that besieged the more popular maidens. A quick glance around confirmed that the usual overabundance of ladies prevailed, so she should be safe enough from being hunted out by the Master of the Assembly with a reluctant dance partner. Just in case, she fitted herself more closely to the corner.

“... Lady Wayford doing here?” asked someone just a few feet away, and Charis jerked awake at the name. The Wayfords owned Eastwood Hall, and Eric was some kind of a relation.

“I have no idea. I thought she never left London.”

Two turbaned ladies sat with their backs to Charis, facing into the hall. Lady Harriett Ross and Mrs. Peacham, two of Bath’s notables. Charis should announce her presence: eavesdropping was poor manners. But then they mentioned Eastwood Hall, and Charis could not have stopped listening to save her life.

“She attends the occasional house party, if it is sufficiently prestigious,” said Lady Harriett, the lack of warmth in her usually friendly voice screaming her opinion of the tyrant of Eric’s childhood. “But, as far as I am aware, and little happens without my knowledge, she has not visited Somerset in a decade.

Charis craned her neck to see around the gossipers, but she had never seen Lady Wayford and had no idea which of those present she might be.

“The new earl does not appear to be with her,” Mrs. Peacham commented. “I wonder if he is in Bath?”

The sound Lady Harriett made would have been a snort in a less fashionable lady. “The new earl has fled Lady Wayford’s determination to see him wed.” With all the scorn of a famed matchmaker, she added, “I could have told her that the insipid ninnies she chose would not suit, nor the budding harpies. It’ll take a woman of character to corral that one.”

“You have met the new earl?” Mrs. Peacham leaned closer, her body stiffening like a bird dog sighting its prey. “No one knows anything about him, but I daresay he is cut from the same cloth as the former earl, and he was a rakehell and a scoundrel.”

“Perhaps. He was presented to me at a musicale . His manners were charming, but he left shortly after,” Lady Harriett said. “A pity about the scars.”

Mrs. Peacham was nodding “A sword fight, I heard. Over a woman, no doubt. His father was just the same. All charm on the surface and a heart as black as coal. The earls of Wayford have always been beasts.”

Whatever comment Lady Harriett might have been inclined to make was left unsaid as the Master of Ceremonies finally discovered Charis in her hiding place. Blushing under Lady Harriett’s wise gaze, Charis allowed the man to present the Earl of Chadbourn as a suitable dance partner.

He exuded strength in spite of his slender frame, stood tall, possessed thick brown hair, and dressed all in black down to his stockings, gloves and cravat. The armband told her the lack of colour was not a fashion choice but marked a death. However, when she attempted to express sympathy, his friendly smile faded. He said, “Thank you,” mildly enough but nothing else as he escorted her to their place on the dance floor.

It was not as bad as she’d feared. Lord Chadbourn recovered his good humour and proved to be an excellent dancer. He even kept his attention on her with every evidence of courteous enjoyment. After some remarks about the weather and her dress failed to ignite a conversation, he admitted to being more at home on his land than in fashionable company and responded to her timid question with a brief comment on new crop succession planning, which became an enthusiastic dissertation when he discovered she was truly interested.

No. It was not bad at all, except that a succession of less interesting men followed the earl’s example. She tried fading back into the shadows, but apparently, dancing with a handsome earl destroyed her cloak of invisibility, because each time a partner returned her to her delighted mother, another waited to claim the next set.

She tried the same technique that had worked so well with Lord Chadbourn, asking questions until she hit on a topic her current partner could wax lyrical about. As the hours dragged and she continued to twirl and promenade—and smile, a fixed polite fiction as painful as the feet that were aching worse than her head—she learned more than she ever wanted to know about the best points of a race horse, how hard it was to tie a perfect cravat, and the pleasures of collecting snuff boxes.

The hour was late. Surely this torture must be over soon? She gave half an ear to the fribble who was escorting her back to Mother while, with the rest of her mind, she rehearsed reasons why Mother might consent to let her sit out a dance or two. “... don’t know when I have enjoyed a dance more, Miss Fishingham,” the fribble said. “Upon my word, I don’t. Never thought I’d meet a lady so interested in...”

So that was the secret? That was what men wanted? A listener who made appropriate noises while they rabbited on and on? Even Lord Chadbourn, though he, at least, was interesting and polite enough to stop and check that she was not bored.

Her mother’s voice jerked her out of her thoughts. “And this is my eldest child, Charis. Charis, make your curtsey to Lady Wayford.”

Charis curtseyed, taking refuge in the formal manners that had been drilled into her over many painful sessions on deportment. She kept her head bowed when she was once again erect, afraid that the tyrant of Eric’s childhood would see the anger and hatred that burned whenever Charis thought of the way her friend had been hidden in the country, maltreated, and then torn away from everything he knew.

“So, this is Miss Fishingham?” Lady Wayford put a finger under her chin to raise her face, and Charis managed not to flinch away. “A pretty child. You have hopes for her, Mrs. Fishingham?”

Mother needed no more encouragement to spill forth a litany of complaints about Charis’s shyness, interspersed with entirely fictional accounts of her biddability and feminine accomplishments.

Lady Wayford continued to study Charis, while Charis studied Lady Wayford. The woman was tall and thin, elegantly dressed in rich silk in a peach tone that flattered her complexion, and draped with amethysts and diamonds, including a tiara that crowned her exquisitely-styled iron-grey hair. Her eyes were iron, too. A dark grey entirely without any spark of human kindness.

“Are you enjoying the evening?” she asked abruptly, cutting through Mother’s babble.

Charis gulped back her feelings. You cannot insult a countess in public. Think of Eugenie and Matilda . “It is very pleasant, my lady,” she managed to choke out.

“Perhaps you prefer the country, child?” Lady Wayford managed to convey her contempt for the country with a slight quirk of one eyebrow. Should Charis disavow her own preferences? She wouldn’t.

Keeping her face frozen in polite stillness, she said, “I do, my lady. But the company in Bath is very fine.”

The answer pleased the countess, if her slight smile was any indication. She asked a few more direct questions. Did Charis enjoy riding? Did she keep pets? Was she a great support to her mother? Had she any suitors?

Charis managed to give insipid answers to them all, and heaved a sigh of relief when the lady brought the conversation to a close.

“She does you credit, Mrs. Fishingham. We shall speak again.”

* * *

As always, Mother used the trip home to compliment or castigate each of her daughters for their performance.

Matilda had danced twice with the same man; one, furthermore, without a fortune to commend him. On the other hand, she did not miss a single turn on the floor and went into supper with a marquis, so could be forgiven much.

Eugenie had missed several dances, giggling in a corner with the Lacey sisters. “It will not answer,” Mother pronounced, “for their brother is too young and is heir to a dukedom, besides. You are pretty, Eugenie, and of good birth, but a duke is above your touch.” However, though her supper escort was not titled, he had the redeeming feature of an enormous fortune, so Eugenie, too, was forgiven.

Charis’s turn began with the usual complaint about hiding in corners, but Mother’s scold was perfunctory. “For the second part of the night, you did very well, my dear,” she said. “I knew you could if you only tried. You are the most aggravating... But there. I was so pleased to see you dancing with Lord Chadbourn, amusing him, too, for everyone could see the pair of you chatting away as if you were old friends. Whatever could he have been saying that entertained the pair of you so well?”

“He was explaining the new method of crop rotation, Mother,” Charis said.

Mother’s jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. “Truly? How peculiar.” She frowned, but then her face stilled, and she shook her head as if to clear it. “No matter. He looked to be enjoying himself, so of course other young men wanted to follow his example. After the one with Chadbourn, you did not miss a dance until Lady Wayford engaged you in conversation.

“Interrogation,” Matilda muttered to Eugenie, but not quietly enough for Mother to miss the remark.

“You will refer to Lady Wayford with respect, young lady. Her interest in Cas was most gratifying. Word is she seeks a wife for her disreputable son—imagine if she were to choose Cas!”

“Mother!” Charis protested. “Why would I want a disreputable man for a husband?”

“His shocking reputation is the reason for our opportunity, Cas,” Mother explained. “We are neither wealthy nor titled, and normally, I would not look as high for one of you, but those considering the Wayford title and lands must also consider the reputation of this earl and his predecessors. The Earls of Wayford have ever been wild, and if you were to be fortunate enough to marry the earl, you could not expect him to be attentive or faithful.”

“He is scarred, too, Mother,” Eugenie said. “Lady Eleanor and Lady Alice met him in London, and they say he looks very fearsome. He is haughty, they say. Almost as haughty as Lady Wayford.”

“Go on,” Mother encouraged. “I normally abhor gossip, as you all know.” She sighed, heavily. “But I will make an exception for the sake of my dear girls.”

Charis exchanged glances with her sisters. Far from abhorring gossip, Mother was addicted to it and had a biweekly subscription to The Teatime Tattler , despite the cost of having it delivered from London.

Eugenie frowned as she reported, “He frowned the whole time, and they tell me that he acquired the scars duelling. Are you sure, Mother?”

Mother gave a dismissive wave. “A title, Cas, and more pin money than you can dream of. I daresay he will leave you to live with his mother and only visit to get an heir on you, so you will hardly need to spend any time with him. Just think! Perhaps he will let you remain at home!”

“Hardly, Mother,” Matilda said. “What would Society say about that?”

“Impertinence,” Mother scolded but confirmed the justice of Matilda’s observation by adding, “a long visit would be perfectly acceptable. My Cas, a countess.”

Charis saw no point in arguing that such a marriage would be hell on earth. Lady Wayford was just being polite, and there was nothing in the encounter to encourage the castle Mother was building from pure air. Another day and evening at Bath were over, and they were nearly home.

Surely, this close to Christmas, the fine weather could not hold much longer?