Lady of Milkweed Manor (8 page)

“Miss Smith,” he said, keeping his voice low, “might I suggest a sojourn in the back garden? A horde of ladies-aid types are swarming about the place, and I understand several are from Kent.”

Her eyes widened as she glanced at the hall beyond him, expression sober.

“Thank you, I shall.”

She turned at once and quickly retreated the way she had come. But not quite quickly enough.

Daniel turned and nearly collided with a thin-faced socialite in burgundy velvet and plumed hat.

“That woman you were just speaking with-that was Charlotte Lamb, was it not?” She craned her neck to see past him.

“Lamb? I do not believe we have anyone here by that name.”

“Yes, yes, that was Charlotte. I am sure of it.”

He shrugged. “There are so many here today, with your group, as well as our staff and volunteers …”

“But you were just speaking with her.”

“Was I? I believe the last lady I spoke with was a volunteer, donating blankets. She is not with you?”

“No.”

“Well, we are blessed to have so many generous souls such as yourselves come to visit. I cannot keep track.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, her expression clearly skeptical. But instead of questioning him further, her mouth curved in a feline smile. “I know what I saw. Or shall we say, whom.” She turned on her heel and swept across the hall.

Charlotte walked through the manor’s garden, breathing in the outdoor air, forcing away the images she had seen in the syphilis ward. Reaching into her dress pocket, she ran her fingers over the letter from her aunt, which she carried with her as a comfort, a sort of lifeline. She knew whom her aunt was referring to in her veiled reference to Bea’s “gentleman” suitor.

Charlotte remembered well the first time she had met William Bentley. That is, the first time in many years. She had seen him on several occasions when they were young children, but not for a number of years since, when he unexpectedly appeared at their drawing room door three or four years ago.

“Mr. William Bentley,” Tibbets had announced and then backed from the room, pulling the doors closed as she went.

The young man who stood before them was slight and not much taller than the maid who had shown him in. He was about eighteen, Charlotte estimated, a year above her own age at the time, though he bore the confidence of someone far older.

“How do you do?” he asked, hat in hand. Tibbets had forgotten to take it.

Charlotte glanced at Bea, saw from the frown line between her brows that she had no idea who the young man was. Charlotte glanced next at her father, whose place it was to greet the man and make introductions, but he wore an expression that would have been comically similar to his daughter’s, were not the situation so awkward.

“Bentley … Bentley …” he began, obviously trying to place the mildly familiar name.

“You remember, Father,” Charlotte offered. “Mr. Bentley is nephew to Mr. Harris.”

“Is he now? Oh, yes, I think I remember hearing something of a nephew. Let’s see, Harris has an older brother ..

“Sister, actually, Father. Mrs. Eliza Bentley. Of Oxford.”

“That’s right, thank you.” The young man smiled at Charlotte. “You seem to know the family quite well, Miss ?”

“Charlotte Lamb.”

“Of course.” He nodded, his eyes widened in a knowing expression that left her feeling unsettled.

Her father stood at that moment, casting a disapproving glance at her. “I am the Reverend Mr. Gareth Lamb, Vicar of the Parish Church of Doddington, Dedicated to the Beheading of St. John the Baptist.”

Mr. Bentley’s eyebrows rose. “How unusual.” A hint of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth, but her father did not seem to notice.

“Yes, it is. One of the rarest dedications in England, shared only with the Church of Trimmingham in Norfolk.”

“Ahh …” Mr. Bentley uttered the universal sound of the duly impressed. When her father’s grave expression remained fixed, Mr. Bentley continued, “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. My uncle speaks highly of you, sir.”

“As I do of him. And may I present my elder daughter, Miss Lamb.”

Beatrice merely dipped her head.

“And Charlotte has already introduced herself,” her father added as he reclaimed his seat. He tossed a sour smile toward Charlotte but did not quite look at her. “Do sit down, Mr. Bentley.”

“I thank you.”

“Of Oxford, sir?” her father asked. “The university or environs?”

“Both, of late.”

“You must know my friend Lord Elton, then. He is quite the patron of Pembroke.”

Charlotte winced at her father’s boast. Lord Elton was Uncle Tilney’s friend, not his.

“Who has not heard of him? His son is also quite well-known. I have not had the pleasure of meeting either man, I’m afraid. My studies keep me quite occupied.”

“Excellent. And what will you take up?”

He hesitated, then oddly looked at Charlotte, then Beatrice. “I have yet to make up my mind, sir.”

“The church is as noble a profession as you might aspire to, sir, if you have a taste for servitude and humility.”

William Bentley smiled, clearly amused, then straightened his expression into sobriety. “I’m afraid I haven’t your fortitude, good sir. Nor your modesty.”

“Well, you are yet young.” Her father sighed. “I’m afraid the church calls to me even now.” He pushed himself cumbrously to his feet. “I’m to meet the churchwardens to discuss repairs to the south chapel and nave. If you will excuse me.”

Mr. Bentley rose.

“No need to get up on my account. Do stay and have your visit with the ladies. Beatrice, perhaps you could play something for Mr. Bentley?”

“It seems a bit early in the day …”

“Oh, would you, Miss Lamb? I’d be delighted to hear it.”

Bea looked at Mr. Bentley as if gauging his sincerity. “Very well.”

Their father left and Bea walked slowly across the room and sat at the pianoforte. She flipped through some pages of music on its ledge and began playing a moody piece, the somber tone darkening her already stern countenance. Then, seeming to remember her guest, she stopped.

“Forgive me, that’s not quite fitting.”

“Quite powerful though,” Mr. Bentley said, his eyes full of admiration.

Tibbets knocked once and entered. “Begging your pardon, Miss Charlotte, but Digger says it’s time.”

Charlotte rose, but Bea answered for her. “Tibbets, we have a guest, as you know. Tell him to wait.”

“Actually, I will go,” Charlotte said gently. “Thank you, Tibbets. Tell young Higgins I shall be out directly.”

“Very good, miss.”

Bea shook her head in disapproval. She spoke to Mr. Bentley but her gaze remained narrowed on her sister. “Charlotte seems to love nothing better than playing with dirt and plants all day. She spends more time out of doors than in.”

“Your grounds here are lovely,” Mr. Bentley allowed. “But why go out of doors when there is so much beauty to appreciate within?” He smiled significantly at Bea.

Charlotte bit back a wry smile of her own. “I am sorry, Bea, but I did ask Ben Higgins to fetch me just as soon as the tree arrived for the churchyard. Forgive me, Mr. Bentley. You must think us terribly rude, first Father rushing off, and now me.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Charlotte. My visit was unplanned, after all.”

“Thank you. Perhaps you might come again. Are you staying with your uncle long?”

“I’m not sure. A few days at least.”

“Then please do call again.” It wasn’t Charlotte’s place to invite him, she knew, and she could feel Bea’s silent censure from across the room.

But the young man smiled brightly. “Thank you. I shall.”

He bowed to Charlotte and she smiled at him. Bea glared at her over the man’s bent head. Charlotte simply shrugged, then left the room.

Charlotte sat down in the entry hall, on the bench between the drawing room and the outside door. She leaned down to remove her slippers and begin the arduous task of fastening all the buttons on her calfskin gardening boots. From the nearby drawing room doors, she heard Bea run her fingers experimentally over a few keys.

“Please excuse my sister, Mr. Bentley,” Bea said. “I don’t know what she could be thinking, leaving on account of a tree.”

Charlotte started. She had not realized she would be able to hear their conversation from here. Evidently Bea did not realize it either.

“What is so important about this tree?” Mr. Bentley asked.

“Oh, some tree she wants to plant by our mother’s grave.”

“That is very sentimental of her.”

“I suppose.” Bea began playing a cheerful quadrille.

William Bentley spoke more loudly to be heard over the music. “You know, my uncle has often described what a lovely girl Miss Charlotte Lamb has become. So, when I first entered the room, I thought you must be she.”

A sour note, a half step off-key, reverberated through the doors as Bea abruptly stopped playing. “Mr. Harris finds Charlotte … lovely?”

In the hall, Charlotte froze mid-button.

“I suppose that’s what he meant, a lovely girl, a lovely young girl. But you, Miss Lamb, are a beautiful woman.”

Charlotte expelled the breath she’d been holding. She could imagine Bea’s reaction, the red-cheeked pleasure that must be coloring her face.

“I believe Uncle is quite fond of your sister,” Mr. Bentley continued, “though it must be tedious for a man of his age to always be warding off the infatuation of one so young.”

Humiliation filled Charlotte, and she quickly pulled on her other boot without bothering to finish buttoning the first.

“Did he say that?” Bea sounded as appalled as Charlotte felt.

“No, no, heavens no. I am only reading between the worry lines as it were. Fret not, beautiful Beatrice, Uncle holds you all in great affection.”

Charlotte did not wait to hear more. She made her way quietly out of the vicarage and strode across the narrow lane to the churchyard. Ben Higgins, a lad of fifteen who assisted his father with grave digging and upkeep of the church, was waiting for her. He had already maneuvered the young tree, its roots bound in a ball of dirt, to a spot near her mother’s grave. Charlotte picked up a shovel and thrust it into the ground with more vehemence than necessary.

A few minutes later, William Bentley came walking across the churchyard. “Your workman desert you, Miss Lamb?” he called.

Charlotte looked up at him from the hole she was digging. She paused in her work, leaning on the shovel with one hand and pushing a stray hair from her face with the other, though she did not realize until later that her muddy glove had left a smear of dirt on her forehead. Nor why Mr. Bentley had bit back a smile as he drew near.

“I sent him to ask our gardener for some manure. He shall return directly.”

“Manure? Lovely. You could wait and let him do that, you know.”

“I do not mind a bit of work. Do you?”

“I confess I am not really the digging-in-the-dirt type.”

She grinned. “I cannot say I’m surprised.”

“Really?”

At his feigned chagrin, she felt her smile widen.

His eyes danced with pleasure. “You do indeed have a lovely smile, Miss Lamb.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded toward the sapling resting beside the hole. “What sort of tree is that?”

“A French lilac. Syringa vulgaris.”

“Looks like a stick to me.”

“I suppose it does. But in year or two, it will boast the most fragrant lilac blossoms.”

“Your mother. She’s been gone-?”

“Two years.” She felt her smile fade.

“Forgive me. I’m sorry.”

“That is all right.” She sighed. “I went traveling with my aunt in the spring, as I often do. Our carriage passed a long stand of lilacs in full bloom, and I remembered how much Mother loved their fragrance. But this variety doesn’t spread like the more common English lilacs. I ordered this all the way from Limoges.”

“That’s a very dear gesture.”

Charlotte shrugged. “She was very dear to me.”

Resuming her work, her shovel clanged against something solid, and Charlotte bent low to pick a large stone out of the hole. As she did, she had the discomfiting realization that William Bentley enjoyed a lingering look down the bodice of her dress.

“Mr. Harris speaks very highly of you, Miss Lamb. I know I said the same of your father, but in all truth I think my uncle holds you in the highest regard of all.”

“I’m sure you are mistaken,” Charlotte replied, straightening. “Mr. Harris has long been a friend to our entire family. Even Mother was fond of him.”

“And you, I think, are not indifferent to him either.”

Remembering what Mr. Bentley had said to Bea, Charlotte could not hide her embarrassment. “Of course not. Mr. Harris has always been very kind, the best of neighbors, almost like a son to Father.”

“A son? I shouldn’t think so. That would make you brother and sister, and I don’t think either of you should like that.”

“Mr. Bentley, please don’t speak so. It isn’t fitting.”

He appeared genuinely chastised. “You are quite right, Miss Lamb. Forgive me.”