How to Impress a Gentleman (16 page)

“The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men... lea'e us nought but grief an' pain”

~Robert Burns, 18th Century Scottish Poet

Charles was exhausted. Wilson, while a good friend, demanded thorough and consistent work from his employees and Charles had been away for two long weeks. The receipts and bills had piled up on his desk. Not trusting to his ability to acquire a ready dowry, Charles had chosen to surreptitiously supplement his paltry inheritance with employment as an estate manager. This position came about when Wilson Bonneville, a dear friend of Charles’ parents, had to fire his manager for stealing from him.

Growing up, Charlie had become aware of Wilson’s trouble with numbers, as his father had brought him on several visits to Lord Rochester’s estate. Periodically, Daniel Donovan would check his friend’s books, to insure that all was in order. Wilson never let on that numbers would not sit on straight lines for him, as they did for other men. Shortly after word spread that he had returned from the navy, Charles had received a desperate letter from Wilson’s wife, and had gone to her aide.

Lord Rochester brought out the books, as he had with Charles’ father and it soon became apparent that George Drake, the estate manager, had been skimming from the tenant’s rent monies. Drake was fired immediately and Charles, with nothing better to do at the time, had agreed to stay on until reliable help could be found.

That was three months ago. Since then, Charles had become an integral part of estate management and was paid handsomely in return. Wilson never treated Charles like a servant, but much like an eldest son. The Bonnevilles had only one daughter and thus were even more reliant on Charles for his gentile status. Charles could stand in for Lord Rochester whenever Wilson was unavailable for social or political occasions.

Rubbing his aching neck, he leaned back in the desk chair and squeezed his eyes shut.
How will I ever extricate myself from this obligation?
Charles had hit the books by seven this morning and it was now three. He had at least another three hours of work ahead of him and tenant rents to collect on the morrow. Sighing, Charles rose to pace the floor in indecision. No, there was no choice. It had to be done. Pulling the elegantly embroidered bell pull by his employer’s desk, Charles sat to pen his note.

Dear Lindsay,

I am very sorry, Dearest, but the negotiations with the Lord Bonneville have dragged on and will employ me well into tomorrow afternoon. Please, do not wait up for me. I will make this up to you.

Love,

Charles

Waving it to speed the drying time, Charles just had time to fold and stamp the wax when John’s butler, Simon, entered the study. “Simon, my good man, I am famished. Could you see if Cook could have a cold plate sent up? Also, I will be staying over tonight, so I shall need my chamber prepared. Please send this note to my wife. Thank you, Simon.”

Bowing with only the slightest quirk to his eyebrow, Simon returned, “Might I be the first in the household to congratulate you on your nuptials, Sir Charles?”

“Yes, Simon, thank you. Please allow me to share the tidings with his lordship, personally, as it might come as a bit of a shock.”

Bowing again in agreement, Simon backed from the chamber. When the butler departed, Charles sank his head upon the desk. He hated this lying, or more, not telling his wife the whole truth of his situation. Right now, he felt like a first rate clod.
Yet, if I tell her of the reality, that I am a lowly working man, and may even be the illegitimate love child of my mother’s first beau, my newly tonnish Lindsay will turn from me, of that I am sure. I would rather face her wrath than her disgust, disinterest, or worst of all, her pity.

Mary, the maid, entered with his cold plate and was gone before he could even muster a, “thank you”. On her heels came the infamous Cynthia. Her wispy blonde hair softened the sharpness and angularity of her features, putting one in mind of a true-to-form Aphrodite, Venus with her hard edges exposed.

“Hello, Charles. I hope your toil has not over tried you. Here, permit me to pour you a brandy.” Cynthia’s tall and willowy frame glided to the decanter. Her gracefully long, piano fingers caressed his glass and slid past his hands as she set it upon the desk.

Cynthia’s wiles were well known and yet, for the knowing, no more easily averted. She was a master of seduction. Cindy, as her friends called her, was considered by many bachelors to be a rare commodity. At two and twenty she was already a widow. Cynthia Bonneville had married Lord Parton, an elderly man, against her parents’ advice and had been happily widowed some eighteen months later.

“What are you about, Lady Parton? I was unaware that you had returned to your ancestral home.”

“Is this the greeting I get from my intimate friend? Why, Charles, I do believe you forget yourself,” she cooed, draping her arms around his neck loosely, she leaned her torso against his. Charles could not help but notice that Cindy had neglected to place a handkerchief into her corset, offering him a clear view, all the way down to her perky pink nipples.

“I am not in a position to humor your invitation,” he retorted, removing her arms from his neck. “Not only am I very busy but I have just brought my bride home to Braxton Hall and am eager to return.”

“A bride? To that old dump? Charles, really!” Her expression showed humor and perhaps a hint of envy.

“I am in earnest. So, if you please?”

“Come, Charles, let us not quarrel. I had hoped we would renew our association. It is a pity you did not consider me before you went and married some naive little whippet. I imagine she has bored you to tears already. Do not worry. You need not rush home. It just so happens that I have my old nanny here and can send her over. Let me guess, she is fresh out of the school room and you fear she shall set the old heap on fire before you return? Nanny Francis will take her well in hand.”

She is eighteen, Cynthia, a mere four years your junior. She is blessedly innocent and I wish to keep her that way. Now if you don’t mind-”

“Come to my bed tonight,” she interrupted, sitting upon his lap and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “I know what will keep you satisfied. You need not hold back all of your deviant desires from me.”

He would be lying to claim that images of Cynthia’s bed did not flit without welcome through his mind. But the idea of her thin angular body coming anywhere near him made his stomach clench in disgust. Charles stood, sending her tumbling to the floor. “Out!” he barked. Cynthia regained her composure so quickly, it was as if she had decided to leave of her own accord. Her tinkling laugh echoed down the hall, imitating the clinking of ice in a glass. Her bazaar intensity sent shivers down his spine. What a little snake!

Returning to his desk and biting down on his ham sandwich without enjoyment, Charles bent back over the ledger. He was determined to finish his work and get back to his wife, before she tired of waiting and left him.

~ ~ ~

“Thud!” Lindsay’s head fell back against the iron bench, bruising her neck and bringing her painfully awake.

“Ow!” Rubbing her neck, Lindsay felt the stiffness overtake her body. Standing, to work the kinks out, she grabbed her sandwich and paced the bricked walkway in front of the bench. The chicken from last night was even tougher after another round on the spit. She chewed thoughtfully as she assessed her progress so far.

The study was clean now, if not sparkling. She would check on Bobby’s progress and direct him to the small room when he had repaired John’s living space. Then, she would fetch Charles’ paperwork and books and place them upon his ‘new’ desk. Perhaps she could find a spare candelabra and a rug as well. The chimney! She would need to clean out the grate and flu and get a fire started, to give the space a homier feel. No doubt Charles would have several entries for his ledger after purchasing farm equipment.

Bobby was working in the bedroom adjacent to the master chamber. As Lindsay came up the stairs, Bobby looked up and stopped what he was doing to give her an appreciative look. “ ‘ello, doll! And who might you be? The new maid? Name’s Bobby Smith, the new handy man.” Wiping his palms on the front of his trousers, Bobby offered his hand to shake. Lindsay returned his firm shake, momentarily taken aback that she could be so mistaken.

Looking down, Linnie realized that she still wore her dust-covered cotton and kerchief. “It is nice to meet you also, Mr. Smith. I am Lady Donovan, the mistress of the house.”

Bobby’s face turned white, as he realized his error. “Oh, Lady Donovan, I ‘pologize for my manner. I should not ‘ave...I mean I did no’ know...”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Smith. I am sure that your behavior is normally that of a gentleman. I know I look nothing like a lady of quality at the moment, but I would hope you would treat any young woman in this house with the utmost respect.”

“Uh, yes, of course, Ma’am. I will be on my best behavior, that is, I mean; I am a respectable worker. I shan’t be a bit o’ trouble. I promise ye that.”

“Of that, Bobby, I have no doubt. You come highly recommended and I would hate to think that Ms. Thomas was mistaken about your character.” Standing straighter, Bobby inclined his head in understanding.

“Have you found sufficient furnishings for John’s chamber?”

“Aye, Mistress. I was just putting the finishing touches on this wash stand and his room will be prepared. I need only carry the cot down and Miss Thomas will fix it up with some linens. John said he’d move in after he fed and groomed the horses.”

‘Very well, I am moving the rest of Lord Donovan’s things into his study on the second floor. If you could move his trunk into the master bedroom I would greatly appreciate it. Also, the desk in the study is in need of repair. When you are through here, could you come to the study to inspect it?”

“Yes, M’Lady, of course.” Lindsay nodded curtly as Bobby turned back to the wash stand.

Linnie loaded up the books and ledgers in a wooden crate from the attic and carried them downstairs. Placing the books in strategic positions along the built in shelves and centering the ledger on the desk, Lindsay noted some items she would like to add. She imagined a rug, vase with flowers, knick knacks, and drapes; she pictured the small framed sketch of herself alongside the ledger on the desk. Mayhap Lindsay could encourage Charles to at least think of her, even if he were unwilling to spend time with her.

Linnie had just knelt with the hand broom, to brush out the ash-laden grate, when she heard Bobby clomp into the room. “Mr. Smith! Tell me what you might be able to do with this chair and desk.”

Opening and closing drawers, then picking up the chair, Bobby nodded sagely. “They’re fixable. T’will take me a couple of hours but I can mend them well enough to last a might longer.”

“Perfect! Go ahead and fix up the desk. Then, move yourself into the stable after dinner. I will need you to go over the stable routine with John, so he can leave that business to you, come the morrow.”

“Aye, Ma’am.”

After sweeping out the grate, Lindsay went on a scavenger hunt to find the necessary items. After displaying her likeness and a few trinkets from her room, she went in search of Betsy. Betsy was hustling up the stairs with linens and quickly directed her towards the vases. After picking an assortment of wild roses and daisies from the garden, Lindsay stood back to assess her handy work. The space was shabby and bare but it felt homey and, well, clean. In short, it was a total transformation.

She twirled about in the open space in front of the desk and hugged herself in celebration. Charles would have to see that she supported him now. He would be so happy and proud of her. She longed to earn that gaze of shocked approval that she had so easily garnered from him as a young child.

Prancing up the stairs, Lindsay entered her chamber and immediately stripped down to her underclothes. Thinking better of it, she disrobed completely. “Oh, how I wish for a bath,” she sighed, and fell back upon the feather tic. She would not dare ask Betsy or Bernard to haul bath water for her, when they had worked just as diligently today.

She really was getting an idea of how the lesser half lived and it was not her cup of tea. Yet, she certainly felt proud and powerful as she lay, sprawled bare on her cool comforter. Yes, there was something to be said for a hard day’s work. As her ire towards Charles cooled, her ardor had grown, poured into the task of creating a space for him, she hoped he would pour his affection upon her tonight, in their marriage bed, or at least, the bed next door to their marriage bed.

Rising with anticipation, Lindsay quickly dampened her wash cloth and ran it over her prickled skin, shivering. She pulled up her heavy locks and ran the cool cloth over her sore neck. Lifting her looking glass, she could see a faint purplish blue streak across her neck. Lindsay longed to trail the mirror down, to explore the rest of her body, but she feared Charles’ return at any moment and would not risk him finding her so immodest.

Toweling off, Lindsay opted for a square-necked gown with a high back and a low-cut front. In this way, her bruise would be disguised by the lace trim but her cleavage could be displayed to full advantage. The off-white dress was printed with green sprigs of red berries. It set off her skin and hair to perfection. A bit of coal on the edge of each lid and her blue eyes popped. Lindsay opened her tin of scented lard and rubbed a bit on her parched lips. She swept her hair into a loose French twist, allowing the excess to trail in ringlets down her back and around her face. She looked delectably tousled, she decided, as she slipped on her green heels and headed out the door.

Pausing, Lindsay turned back into her bedroom to straighten the bed cover and sprinkle it with a bit of rose water. Nodding in approval, she turned and marched off to dinner.