Manor of Secrets (11 page)

“When do the men arrive?” Fran asked as they crossed the marble hall, her heels clicking on the black and white squares.

“You seem to know more than I do. Didn’t you say Lord Broadhurst arrives this afternoon?”

“I meant the other men.”

“The ‘men’ are my father’s friends and my brothers.” Charlotte supposed she loved her brothers, but all of them had spent her entire life away — first at Eton and then Oxford or Cambridge. She barely knew them.

And when they all came to the house together, Charlotte felt like an afterthought.

“Which ones?” Fran asked as they walked down the short, dark passage to the patio.

“Lord Buckden, Lord Ellis.”

“Which
brothers.
”

“David, Freddie, and Stephen. John and Edward can’t get leave.” Lucky devils.

They passed the open door of the gun room, where Harry was polishing the stock of Lord Edmonds’s twelve-bore. He looked up at the sound of their voices and Charlotte raised her hand in a little wave, earning a smile.

“That’s your hall boy!” Fran said, scandalized. She didn’t even try to lower her voice, and Charlotte hustled her out onto the patio before she could say anything offensive.

“That’s Harry.”

“First the kitchen maid and now this, Charlotte?” Fran asked, sitting down on a patio chair and kicking off her kidskin shoes. “It’s a good thing Lord Broadhurst is coming. You can stop making eyes at the servants.”

“Well, I’m not going to start making eyes at Andrew Broadhurst.” Charlotte suddenly wanted to run away. From Fran. From The Manor. From expectations.

“Fine,” Fran said, putting her stocking feet up on the rail
of the patio. “I’ll make eyes at him instead.” Charlotte noticed with a twinge of distaste that the soles of Fran’s stockings had been stained red by the dye from the shoes.

“Be my guest.”

“Don’t you think his eyes are like chocolate?” Fran asked. “Sweet and warm, but with a hint of darkness.”

“Darkness?” Charlotte perched on the edge of her chair and looked out over the Tudor knot garden, all the hedges arranged in strict lines and bisected by clean gravel pathways. All of them leading nowhere.

“Don’t you think?” Fran said, dropping her feet back to the patio stones. “Like he’s got secrets. Maybe he’s a photographer for the
Daily Mirror,
finding out all the scandal of the upper class and broadcasting it to the world.”

Charlotte snorted. “I think you’re more of a daydreamer than I am, Fran Caldwell.”

“What a horrid sound,” Fran said. “You need to stop spending so much time with the servants. And we should both stop daydreaming and set all of our minds’ energy on catching husbands.”

“Oh, Fran, have
you
been spending too much time with my mother?”

“It’s true, though,” Fran said. “If we start catching the eyes of eligible men now, we will surely have three or four
proposals
each
by August next year. Just in time for the Season.”

“Is that all you ever think of?”

“It should be all
you
ever think of, Charlotte. Think of the freedom! You’ll be able to make your own menus and pay your own calls. Choose your own charities.”

Charlotte felt her face flush. “Freedom? It’s just another prison! There’s more to life than choosing between turbot or salmon!”

“Not our lives, Charlotte,” Fran said, thrusting her feet back into her slippers. “The sooner you realize that, the better. Or you may discover that you’ve lost that charmingly rich young man who is coming to The Manor expressly to see
you
.”

“Charming?” Charlotte asked. Her palms had begun to itch. If she didn’t get away from Fran soon, she might tell her what she really thought.

“Lord Broadhurst is a catch, no doubt about it. I don’t know what’s the matter with you lately. I have no idea what you’re thinking, but your mind obviously isn’t in the game. It’s like you don’t even care who you marry!”

Charlotte stood and turned on her friend.

“I
don’t
care who I marry right now, Fran! I’m only sixteen years old! There are things I want to do, a life I want to live
and adventures to have before I end up shackled to some dull earl-in-waiting whose greatest joy in life is bloody cricket!”

Silence bloomed between them. Charlotte returned Fran’s glare without flinching. She couldn’t believe she had once thought Fran daring and gregarious and someone to be envied.

By the same token she couldn’t believe she had just said all of that out loud.

Before she could open her mouth to apologize, a strangled sound like a cross between a cleared throat and a bark caused them both to spin toward The Manor.

And there, where the doors had been opened to let the summer air into the house, stood Andrew Broadhurst, dressed in a crisp, well-tailored linen suit, his cobalt cravat bringing out the darkness in his eyes.

“Lord Broadhurst.” Fran curtseyed and then smirked at Charlotte. “How lovely that you are already here.”

“I came early to see the …” Andrew cleared his throat again. “… the village cricket team.”

Charlotte wanted to sink right down through the sandstone paving.

“Welcome to The Manor,” she said. Wishing she were anywhere else. Wishing for rescue from her own imprudent remarks.

She spied Lawrence stepping onto the terrace behind Andrew and her expression cracked into a true smile.

“Would you join us for tea?” she asked — barely glancing at Andrew or waiting for his assent while passing him to get to Lawrence.

“Save me!” she whispered.

“Dear Princess, I’d save you from the fiercest dragon,” Lawrence said with a quick bow, then glanced over her head. “But I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to save you from boredom. Or Miss Caldwell.”

Charlotte tried not to giggle.

“Perhaps just tea, then,” she said. “And cakes. Please, Lawrence.” She stopped herself from reaching out for his arm. “I think I’ll need cakes.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Charlotte lingered, watching his retreat and enjoying how the back of his tailcoat nipped in at the waist. She imagined the two of them together on a luxury liner to a new life in America, where class and status and family alliances didn’t matter.

Charlotte turned and almost ran into Fran, who had crept up silently behind her. Fran had a shrewd look on her face, and a calculating half smile.

“I said he was handsome before, didn’t I?” Fran asked, nodding to the far door where Lawrence had disappeared. “Things you want to do, eh?” she asked quietly.
“And I thought you meant adventures like Nellie Bly or Mary Kingsley — discovering new lands and traveling to undiscovered places.”

Before Charlotte could defend herself, Fran turned back to the patio and walked over to Andrew Broadhurst, resting her gloved hand briefly on his arm, the skirt of her tea gown swirling around her ankles like a wave. Andrew nodded at something Fran said, and then looked up to smile at Charlotte, who was surprised by the humor in those dark eyes. As if he knew something she didn’t. Or as if they shared a secret joke.

Her throat suddenly felt dry. “I’ve just ordered tea.”

“As if anyone would want a hot drink on an afternoon like this.” Fran threw herself back into her chair, one hand dramatically on her forehead.

“I can request barley water as well.” Irritation rose up in Charlotte again. And the itchiness to escape.

Fran rolled her eyes. “Did you at least order cakes?”

“Of course.” Charlotte managed to keep her voice level.

“Chocolate?” Fran tipped her head coyly at Lord Broadhurst. “They’re my favorite.”

“I didn’t specify.” It was incredibly difficult to speak through gritted teeth.

“Well, by all means, please specify,” Fran said, snagging Charlotte’s hand and reeling her in like a fish. She
leaned in, as if to whisper another request, her words grazing Charlotte’s ear.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors, Charlotte. Mark my words. You have to reach out and grab life, or it will pass you by.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Charlotte hissed in reply. “To grab my brother?”

Fran’s gaze didn’t flicker. “Clever girl.”

Charlotte stormed back into the house, the dim light a blinding contrast to the oppressive sunshine outside.

“Fran and her manipulation,” she grumbled out loud. “Why can’t men see right through her? I should warn David.” Charlotte shuddered involuntarily, thinking of Fran as her sister-in-law. As mistress of The Manor.

She stopped in the middle of the marble hall. Fran was her best friend. Charlotte shook her head. But right now, she almost hated her.

Charlotte grabbed the bell pull, but dropped it again without yanking it. Fran might be an irritant, but like it or not, she was right. Charlotte had to seize life while she could. She had to go for what she wanted.

With that thought, a series of images flashed across her mind. Not imaginings, but rememberings. Like a moving picture at the cinema. Lawrence helping her away from
the lake. Daring her to eat a chili. Dancing the hesitation waltz.

Charlotte didn’t want the possibility of more to pass her by.

Charlotte looked back toward the patio, but could no longer see Fran and Andrew. So she turned away from the bell pull and ran across the checkerboard floor, not even glancing into the gun room. Hoping that Harry didn’t see her, because, like the other servants, he was under orders to keep her upstairs.

She hadn’t used the hidden door behind the staircase since her childhood, but she remembered it was there. David had walked her through it more than once. At the age of five, it seemed a doorway into a magical place — like Alice’s rabbit hole. She opened it, catching the odors of coal fires and roast, cabbage and cleaning fluid. A short flight of stairs disappeared into the basement.

“The only way forward is down, I suppose,” Charlotte said to herself, and closed the door behind her.

A crash and a clatter down the hall were followed by a sharp cry — pain? Anger? Frustration? It must have come from the kitchen.

Charlotte held her breath. What if someone caught her down here? Foyle, the formidable butler, of whom Charlotte had always been a little afraid as a little girl. Or Mrs. Griffiths.

Her mother would send her immediately to finishing school. Shooting party or not.

I’m not cut out for this,
Charlotte thought.
I could never be a lady spy like Belle Boyd.

Charlotte took three steps backward, up the stairs. Just in time to see feet come out into the hall in front of her — from the plain white door on the left.

The men’s quarters.

Charlotte flattened herself against the wall, watching the shoes and hoping whoever it was wouldn’t look her way. Only when he walked off did she recognize the shape of his back. She watched until he turned through a doorway. The footman’s closet, where they hung their livery jackets.

Charlotte imagined she was someone strong, someone courageous. Someone worth loving. She straightened her shoulders and walked down the corridor, looking neither right nor left.

Straight ahead, she saw a skirt flash by the door of the kitchen. Mrs. Seward’s gray dress. Another clatter. Charlotte paused, ready to run, but heard the murmur of voices rise up again.

The thought that Lawrence might be in there flirting with one of the maids briefly flashed in her mind, but she nudged it out of the way.

Charlotte turned and slipped into the footman’s closet. The room was tiny and smelled of shoe black and soap. Of lemons.

“Lady Charlotte! What are you doing here?”

Charlotte nearly fainted from relief.

“Lawrence!”

She grabbed his hand and pulled the door closed behind her, leaving just enough of a gap to let her see his face. His eyebrows arched in surprise, his eyes unsure, and his mouth tipped into a smile.

He was happy to see her.

All she could think about was Lawrence’s hand in hers. About the possibility that he might one day kiss a different girl. And the fact that she had to take her chances when they arose.

Charlotte’s sudden bravery overtook her and she stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck. She felt him pull back — just a little, and just for a moment — and then he moved forward and pressed her gently against the wall.

Charlotte’s heart slammed against her rib cage as she tilted up her face to meet his kiss.

J
anie always felt life slow down when she was doing something methodical. Reducing soups, kneading bread, icing cakes. She couldn’t rush or worry. She could only do.

“Cakes!” Lawrence crowed, coming into the kitchen. He straightened his jacket and used his thumb to wipe the corner of his mouth.

Janie indicated the kitchen table — the bowls of icing covered with damp cloths and the fingers of sponge she’d been cutting exactly two inches long by a half inch wide.

“Perfect.” Lawrence sneaked a finger of sponge off the table and ducked away from Janie when she tried to swat him.

“You’re far too cheerful to be believed,” she teased.

“What’s not to be cheerful about?” Lawrence spun her once around and turned back to the table. “How long does it
take to ice these? Lady Charlotte asked for cakes explicitly. She’s having tea with Miss Caldwell and Lord Broadhurst.”