Page 29 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

STAVE VII.

First Impressions

S EVEN S WANS A S WIMMING

On the upper road that led from Heysten Park to Wakely Hall, a rider pushed hard his horse.

The stallion was of Arabian stock, a breed known for its hot-blooded nature, a state in which its owner Charles Heysten was in at that very moment, for he had found himself experiencing a fit of agitation most pronounced.

His lordship had already been tired both in body and mind when – in a mood particularly dark – he had hastened a return from London and arrived in Merrywake at dawn that morning, in need of some respite and a chance to consider his next move, for his findings in that drear city (or lack thereof) had not been to his liking.

Taking to his bed Charles had tossed and turned, in such a perturbed fettle he had been unable to sleep, and so decided to read the correspondence which had piled up upon the dresser in his absence.

Amongst a missive from his second cousin, Bertram, advising him that he and his siblings had started their journey south; another from Cordelia (Charles had tossed that one aside with barely a second glance); one from his new banker, Mr Busgrove; and a packet from a Mr Repton who enclosed some rather enterprising plans to redesign the park’s gardens, there were two notes from Viscountess Pépin.

He had sighed at the first and pinched the corners of his aching eyes, for he did not give one single fig about his waistcoat and he bare remembered what the other Pépin girl had said to him that night, so distracted was he by his own troubles.

Charles knew only that the viscountess’ daughters had given him the perfect opportunity to leave early so he could mull over his concerns in peace, and in doing so he had decided that he could not wait for word from his solicitor any longer and must venture to London himself.

Yawning, Charles had reached for the second note, and beyond feeling some mild gentlemanly guilt at having caused Viscountess Pépin distress at not replying to her first (his being in London, at least, gave him a perfectly acceptable excuse), and surprise that his estranged elderly uncle had affianced himself so suddenly, he was about to discard the note entirely when his tired gaze landed upon the fourth paragraph …

and then, well, Charles could not look away.

He read it twice, thrice, a fourth and fifth time, but there was no mistaking the words.

At first he felt relief, but then, when the unlikeliness of the situation hit him, that relief was replaced by doubt, and thence the aforementioned agitation, and so without waiting for his valet Charles stumbled into the clothes he had discarded only two hours before, headed to the stables, and gave the poor stable boy the fright of his life.

Now, at a little past eight in the morning on New Year’s Eve, Lord Charles Heysten rode as fast as Samson could convey him the six-mile distance to Wakely Hall.

What turbulent thoughts flew about his head as he galloped down the turnpike road!

First, that Faith should have by some means or other ventured to Merrywake, alone, was most perplexing and distressing.

The village was at least a day’s journey from the capital.

How on earth had a child of only seven managed it?

Mrs Doncaster did advise that some money had been stolen.

Did Faith pay her way to ——shire? But, according to the viscountess, she was discovered in Wakely Forest in so grievous a state that it hardly seemed possible.

Lord Heysten gritted his teeth, pushed Samson harder through the snow. Of course, it was perfectly likely that the child Viscountess Pépin spoke of might not be Faith at all, but all his instincts screamed otherwise.

Perhaps it was because Faith was now, to him, more like a daughter, so long ago had their attachment been formed.

Truth be told, Charles never much enjoyed the company of children, nor had he any wish to bring another Heysten into the world even if his injury had not prevented him from doing so, but Faith – being so sweet and gentle of temperament, so very unlike her father – had softened his heart.

Charles saw in his care of her a kind of redemption, a way to right the wrongs of all the other Heystens before him.

Now that it was in his power to do so he meant to treat Faith as she had always deserved to be treated, to give her the life she had been so cruelly denied.

Had he not been toiling hard these past months to ensure Heysten Park was ready for her?

So it must be said that when, two weeks ago, Charles found Faith had disappeared from Mrs Doncaster’s Academy for Temperate Young Ladies, his lordship was distraught.

No words can describe the torture he experienced when he received that terrible missive from the academy’s matriarch.

Without a moment to spare he employed a runner to scour the city streets, instructed his solicitor to send out enquiries to all the London orphanages and workhouses, and Charles himself visited the more questionable venues which might have had occasion to chance their luck with a younger charge.

Such things were known to happen.

But to think, a surge of desperate hope filling his chest as Samson’s hooves thundered upon the hoarfrost, if this child was Faith …

Well, what other little girl could possess a pink shawl embroidered with tiny satin roses, a shawl he had given to her himself?

The child must be her, she must be , and with such an assurance possessing his mind, Charles pressed the Arabian on.

It was just as his lordship was breaching the crest of the first of Old Mr Hodge’s fields, that Charlotte Pépin decided to take a turn about the garden.

She was in a sour mood, for breakfast had been a trying episode – aside from there being some pronounced bitterness at the table due to none of the sisters winning the crown at last night’s treasure hunt, Rosalie had not ceased sniffling on account of the Duke of Morley.

Indeed, he appeared to have become bored of Rosalie’s company, a shun which also extended to Maria and Louisa, meaning all three of her sisters had taken it upon themselves to blame each other for Sir Robert’s change of heart.

Charlotte was thankful, at least, that the Pépins – on account of wanting a little privacy with so many guests in the house – took their breakfast away from the others; it allowed her sisters to quarrel outside of company, and also meant Charlotte need not exert herself to be sociable.

The truth of it was, Charlotte preferred above all things to be left alone.

Perhaps this was a singular preference for a woman of only twenty who was blessed to belong to a family of good birth and fortune, to whom ample opportunities were afforded …

except the opportunities afforded were not of Charlotte’s preference.

What need she for embroidery or music or the frivolities of balls and the suffocating words of Fordyce’s Sermons so regularly pressed upon her by Mrs Busgrove?

Of course, a woman such as she (who had spent most of her visit at Wakely trying and failing to pair Charlotte with her buffoon of a son – how on earth he won the crown last night could not be fathomed) had such a walnut of a brain Charlotte supposed that lady could not help it.

But oh, how it pained her to know that esteemed works such as those of Mrs Wollstonecraft were regularly shunned by the women to whom her Vindication was directed?

It pained Charlotte too that her sisters did not share in the consideration that women were meant for far more than being wives and mothers, the chattels of men.

Even Juliette – who Charlotte felt had more sense than the others – wanted nothing more than to become these things, though at least her eldest sister admitted she wished to see more of the world beyond the confines of Merrywake, something she would soon achieve once she left England for France.

Charlotte sighed, the cold air pooling at her mouth, the crisp scent of frost tingling her nostrils, and navigated the first of the yew trees that stood in a long line either side of Wakely’s vast lawns.

It was her intention – despite the snow – to sit by the pond at the end of them, for it was a place she often went to feel at peace, a place where she could contemplate the world and all that might be achieved in it if she had the means to do so.

The truth of it was, Miss Charlotte Pépin wished to make a difference in the world, to use her position and what small amount of money she had for good.

Take, for instance, the atrocities of the slave trade.

She thought of the book she was reading by Snelgrave, the horrors it recounted.

How could one condone treating other human beings so ill?

It was unpardonable. And then there was the mistreatment of children in those wretched establishments she had read about in the weekly papers, the limitations imposed on women that Mrs Wollstonecraft expounded.

Now, there was a female who had used her voice to great effect.

But could Charlotte Pépin – third daughter of a viscount – say or do anything about any of it?

Mrs Wollstonecraft had only been the daughter of a farmer which gave her some element of freedom, but Charlotte’s exalted position in life was nothing more than a cage – she had no other recourse but to glimpse through the bars into a wider, freer world.

If she could only use her status to do even some small decent thing.

A soft whomping sound interrupted her musings, and Charlotte turned her head.

With a sinking sensation she thought it might be that buffle-headed Nigel Busgrove, ready to descend once again upon her much-needed solitude, but instead Charlotte smiled.

At the far end of the pond there was a swan, stretching its snowy wings.