Charity Begins at Home (32 page)

Anna nodded thoughtfully, then fixed Charity with a significant gaze. "Yes, it's true. We a make mistakes."

"Not Francis." She didn't know why she said that, only that she wanted to divert Anna from discussing mistakes like betrothals and broken betrothals. It seemed to work, for Anna had tilted her head inquiringly. "My twin Neddy and I used to say that," Charity explained hastily, for her assertion sounded bombastic. "You know, Francis is always so good. He's a good farmer and a good student, and, you wouldn't credit it, but a good dancer. Why, he taught me to waltz. And what's best is that he doesn't really know. There's not an ounce of conceit in him. You can understand why Ned and I always wanted to poison him."

Anna laughed dutifully, but Charity could see she didn't really understand at all, possessing as she did only a younger brother whom she probably never desired to poison. "Sir Francis is indeed a modest man, considering his many fine qualities." The countess wound the cord of her reticule around her finger, and Charity realized they'd backed away from those tense subjects of Anna's husband and brother. Francis would doubtlessly be surprised to know he was at the center of two ladies' conversation.

"I'm surprised, in fact," Anna went on, "that some girl hasn't snapped him up long since."

As she couldn't ring for a real tea until the other ladies arrived, Charity had to damper her hunger with a few nibbles of a cream biscuit. She had somehow forgot to eat lunch. "Oh, we've been in mourning forever. And I don't think he believes he will attract much interest should he step into the marriage mart. He thinks he's nothing special, only a country baronet without any great fortune or looks."

"His looks are very creditable," Anna said in a tone of great objectivity, her fingers still winding and unwinding the reticule cord. "He is always so impeccable. Hardly a rustic."

Charity shrugged, for Francis's looks seemed no more inspiring than her own. "You are kind to say so. He will probably turn his mind to acquiring a bride after harvest, now that we are out of mourning." She frowned, imagining a new lady here in the house, and hardly noticed Anna's returning gloom.

Then the knocker sounded and the rest of the Midsummer committee arrived for tea. The other ladies greeted Anna warmly but with the respectful reserve due to the highest ranking noblewoman. Anna accepted it all graciously, even suggesting that they share luncheon with her on the morrow.

Charity recalled that she had planned three major summer projects upon her return from London: Overseeing the Midsummer fair, preparing Charlie for Eton, and coaxing Anna out of her self-imposed isolation. It looked as if, in another week, only Charlie would remain undone, and the summer had not yet officially begun.

At least she had a few minor Midsummer disasters to cope with over tea. Some children had got into Mrs. Dalton's crates of jumble booth donations—Charity gazed innocently into her cup, knowing her acting troupe was probably at fault—but she promised to have everything sorted again by Wednesday.

Her bosom heaving with outrage, Mrs. Williams reported on mercantile perfidy. Mr. Ashton, the baker, had abruptly raised the price on his destiny cakes, knowing that it was too late for the committee to order them elsewhere. So much for Christian benevolence, Charity thought, and decided this required an Old Testament sort of punishment. "Mrs. Hering, you are so good at this. Could you just somehow let Margo know that we won't be requiring her fortune-telling services if her husband doesn't return to the agreed price?"

Mrs. Hering, eyes gleaming, agreed to attack the baker at his most vulnerable point. "Margo does love to play off her airs, pretending she's got second sight. And Ashton's a fool for that woman. He'll do anything for her."

In a murmur of agreement, the meeting broke up. The ladies were lingering at the door, exchanging last-minute plans, when the vicar came walking up the drive. "Oh, Lord, we're in for it now," Mrs. Hering said irreverently. "He's got his Jehovah face on."

Indeed, the vicar was looking wrathful, and Charity knew a moment's unease. Had he heard about—when she thought of how many things he might have heard about and disapproved of, she felt a chill. I can manage it, whatever it is, she told herself, and greeted him with a cheerful smile.

But Mr. Langworth permitted himself only a nod and refused to come past the foyer. "I'm glad you are all here, ladies. I come only to say I've called a meeting of the parishioners tonight after evensong. I think this Midsummer nonsense has gone too far, much too far. And I think you will agree with me when you hear the most disturbing report I have just heard."

He fixed Charity with an angry, sorrowful look, and she felt faint. This was not the vicar's ordinary anti-pagan rant. He was deeply angry and deeply troubled. She closed the door behind them all and leaned weakly against it. It could only be Barry's gambling syndicate. Nothing else she had done would cause the vicar to call a special meeting.

She felt the vibrations of the knocker against her cheek and dispiritedly opened the door. Tristan came in, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

"Anna said that something is wrong."

He has forgot he's to speak Italian to me, Charity thought irrelevantly. She made an attempt to pull herself together. "No, no, nothing important. The vicar is upset again about the fair." She glanced around, realizing that they were standing in the foyer. "Do come in. Would you like some tea?"

"Charity, tell me what has happened." He still had her hand and gripped it imperatively. "Tell me."

She gazed down at their joined hands, feeling some comfort flow from him to her. She wasn't used to confiding in another, especially about her own troubles and mistakes. But this was Tristan. He had already forgiven her much more than this.

Still the words caught in her throat and emerged so softly he had to bend his head to hers to hear her. "Oh, it's rather a muddle. I think I might have pushed Mr. Langworth too far this time."

He pulled her down to sit on the window seat next to the door and slowly, with much coaxing, got the whole story from her. He wasn't shocked, which was comforting, but he understood that some members of the church might feel differently. "I think we had better find your elder brother and tell him before he hears from someone else. This is his concern, too, you know. And you'll need his support at that meeting tonight."

If Charity had any doubts that she would have her brother's support, Francis made short work of them. Beyond calling her a dolt, he made no more criticism of her actions. He rose from his chair in the drawing room and paced along the periphery of the room. "You should have told me. But of course, you probably thought it would be of no use. I've hardly noticed you or the boys this last few weeks. I've been so damned distracted by my own affairs."

Charity was startled to hear such a mea culpa. She had never really know that her brother had any affairs that didn't have to do with the Grange or the village or the historical research he was doing on Kent in Saxon times. But of course he must have a bit of his own life, and he had a right to it, too. "No, Francis, I didn't tell you—oh, because I knew you'd be angry at Barry and probably make him do something he didn't want to do."

"I might have, at that. Or I might not, I don't know." Francis paced off another couple lengths of the room. "I would probably have let him go ahead and meet the bets he'd already made because he was in so deep anyway. But I wouldn't have allowed him to take any more bets or to bring his friends to see the events. And I never in a thousand years would have thought of making him donate some of his winnings to the Tower Fund."

"Only Charity would think of that," Tristan agreed, as if her ingenuity pleased him. That almost made her smile. He always appreciated her view of things. He sat down on the arm of her couch, a warm comforting presence at her side, speaking gently as if he had forgot that they were not alone in the room. "And poetic justice it would have been,
cara
. Unfortunately, that makes it seem as if you condoned what Barry did."

"I guess I did condone it." She wanted to feel angry, to blame someone, but she had instead a deep sense of dread, of inevitability. "How do you think the vicar found out?"

Francis shook his head disgustedly. "Oh, Barry probably had a dozen of his local friends enlisted, and one of them must have split on him. He never has had a lick of sense. It's Neddy all over again, isn't it? But I'd never thought you'd consider me like Father, that you couldn't come to me. Though as worthless as I've been lately, I can hardly blame you."

Charity let go of Tristan's hand and reached up to intercept her brother in his pacing. She tugged on his arm, pulling him down to sit on the couch next to her, wanting to erase the remorse on his face. "No, no, Francis, it's my fault. I should have told you, but I thought I could handle it myself without any help."

They were both chagrined to hear Tristan laughing. Francis drew up straight and inquired exactly what was so amusing in all this.

"You're just such a pair. Neither of you is at fault here, for pity's sake. Barry is to blame, and he's safe off in Oxford and leaving you to handle the muddle he has made!"

Francis said, "Well, that's as may be. But it is our doing if he's so irresponsible. We had the rearing of him."

"And you're both of you only a few years his senior. You expect too much of yourselves, and so does everyone else. I think no one, including the vicar, has any right to complain if you fall short." Tristan rose and pulled Charity to her feet. "You go rest for a bit. I'll see if the vicar can be persuaded to call off this absurd meeting. This isn't the Inquisition, after all."

But a little while later Francis knocked on her bedroom door and told her that the vicar was insisting that he inform his parishioners of this new development. "Don't worry, Charity." Francis leaned wearily against her doorframe. "Everyone in the village loves you, you know that. They might chide you, but that will be all."

If that was all, Charity thought as she entered the church that evening, it would be more than enough. Only about fifty or so of the parishioners were assembled, but among them were the most prominent. Charity sat in the pew where her family had sat for generations, with Francis next to her, and Charlie, who had insisted on coming, beyond him. Just behind her were Tristan and Anna, making their allegiance clear even before any accusations were announced. Tristan kept his hand on the back of her pew, so that she had only to lean back to feel his gentle surreptitious caress on her neck. It was very wicked, but sustaining, too, especially when the vicar began to speak.

Mr. Langworth was no longer the old prophet thundering doom. No, his halting speech was all the more painful to Charity, because she knew he was deeply distressed. He said that he had received a report, from an impeccable source, of gambling on the children's games at the Midsummer fair, and that more troubling yet was the news that a member of the organizing committee had condoned it.

Charity was expecting this, as she was expecting the parishioners to crane their necks trying to see which of the four women on the committee looked most guilty. But she wasn't expecting the vicar to pause and call Mr. Greenaway forward.

The schoolmaster strode to the pulpit and, with more confidence than he had ever before shown, described Barry's scheme and Charity's participation. Charity recalled now that he had been in the taproom when she had accosted her brother. Mr. Greenaway must have been straining his ears to the bursting point, for she had made certain to keep her voice low. She wondered what he would say if she rose and pointed a finger at him and accused him of the sin of eavesdropping. But that was probably not really a sin, however perfidious it was. And Mr. Greenaway was scrupulous to confine himself to the truth, without exaggeration or embellishment. Only his self-satisfied expression indicated that he was more than just an objective witness.

Still his reedy voice echoed in the ancient sanctuary, and each accusation echoed in her heart. She had been baptized in this church, buried her loved ones here; she had hoped one day to be married here—this should indeed be her sanctuary, and it had become instead an inquisition.

When he finished his statement, Mr. Greenaway shot a triumphant glance at her and returned to his seat. He had got his revenge after all.

The vicar did not add to the accusation and did not call for any particular action. He did not even demand the cancelling of the Midsummer fair, though he permitted himself a few comments on the corrupting influence of pagan traditions. He reminded them of God's mercy, of Charity's long service to the village, of her family's difficulties these last years. Certainly Charity was not wont to behave as impulsively and erratically as she had these last weeks, he said. Perhaps so many sorrows had overset her judgment, and thus their judgment should not be harsh.

The heat rose in Charity's face. The veiled reference to her short-lived betrothal could not be mistaken, and even Tristan's quick grip on her shoulder did not mitigate her shame. To have that raked up again and used as evidence of her instability! This was worse than anger, this pity. If she had done wrong, she would accept her punishment. Just let it be quick, without these endless earnest preliminaries.

But the parish needed it, if she didn't, needed to justify whatever it planned to do. The Justice of the Peace spoke first. He was her mother's cousin and had dandled Charity on his knee. But he shook his head and said that she had erred in keeping this scheme to herself and even more in seeking to have the church profit from it. Mrs. Williams rose, too, not to denounce Charity, of course, but to suggest again that she had used poor judgment. Charity knew that Mrs. Williams had resented having a younger woman chairing the Midsummer committee, but still the criticism stung, all the more perhaps because it was true. At least Mrs. Williams did not suggest herself as a successor. Mrs. Hering was her candidate to direct what remained of the Midsummer preparations.