Charity Begins at Home (9 page)

"No, I don't. I only believe in boys who need healthy outlets for their energy. Like schoolwork."

Lawrence's mouth opened and closed in wordless protest. But Cammie continued inexorably, "And chores. And—" she added when Lawrence started to speak, "dogs. Puppies, to be precise. I do value precision, don't you, Lawrence?"

"Puppies?" Lawrence looked wary, for he'd spent most of his life in London, where puppies did not thrive.

"Yes, puppies. Sir Francis's retriever had eight. He's sent two over for your birthday."

"My birthday was last month." Lawrence's eyes filled with tears, and Charity knew that he was the only one who had remembered.

But Cammie only shrugged. "Master Lawrence, they weren't three weeks old then! We could hardly give them to you before they were weaned!"

"No, I suppose not." Lawrence rubbed away his tears with the heel of his hand, leaving dirty stripes behind. "What about Jeremy? His birthday's in August."

"He has to get his present early, for his new pets must meet their new master before they become too enamored of Calder Grange. Puppies form attachments very early, you know. You don't mind, do you, Jeremy, getting your gifts early?"

Jeremy said promptly, "No, ma'am. What about the others?"

"Oh, two are for sale, I think, and two are staying with our young Charlie. He's right fond of them already. And he's already fulfilled the first duty of ownership for them, which you'll have to do straightaway. You must give your pets names."

"Now, Cammie," Charity interposed. After a decade together, she and her governess worked in perfect tandem. "Lawrence's and Jeremy's puppies already have very fine names. The boys needn't go to the trouble of coming up with new ones."

Jeremy nodded, for he was a deliberate boy, and coming up with two puppy names might take him all day. But Lawrence was more adventuresome. "What are they named now?"

"The first is named A, and the second B, and the third C, and the fourth—"

"D!" Jeremy shouted triumphantly. "And then there's E and F!"

He might have gone through the whole alphabet if Lawrence hadn't broken in. "Those are stupid names! I won't call my puppies A and B!"

Charity looked doubtful. "Well, they sounded fine to me. Here, A! Sit, B! Don't you think that sounds fine?"

Cammie ignored her former charge and turned to the young earl. "I am in entire agreement with you, Lawrence. A and B are perfectly good letters but lamentable names. We shall get out an atlas, and a dictionary, and a book of constellations, and find some proper names for your puppies. Let's go meet them and see if inspiration strikes or whether we shall have to make a search for just the right appellation."

The boys trooped off obediently after Cammie, Jeremy asking, "What's an appellation?"

Charity went back out to the carriage yard, wondering if Jeremy would grow up to be a lexicographer or merely obnoxious. Having loosed the puppies in the empty stable yard, Jem, the Calder coachman, was waiting near the gig with the rest of Cammie's luggage and Charity's luncheon things. She asked him to take the luggage up to the schoolroom. "Do be careful on the staircase," she added. "Those boys have probably greased the treads."

Alone again, she hauled the picnic basket out of the gig and carried it around the east wing of the hall to the weed-choked gardens. She skirted the stagnant lily pond, enjoying the flutter of her heart as she thought of Lord Braden somewhere in the house. It was altogether too wonderful that the artist of the paintings she so admired would become a neighbor, and that he would turn out to be so very attractive. Perhaps

But she cut that wish short. Charity was too sensible to hold to superstitions, but there was no use tempting fate by imagining the most glorious outcome of this nascent acquaintance. She decided to be happy if she only got to ask him about his painting and to watch the play of mood across his sun-gilded face.

The terrace flagstones were muddy from the recent rains, and the wrought-iron table and chairs were speckled with dirt and dead leaves. Charity wrinkled her nose and surrendered to necessity. She was soon equipped with an apron, a mop, a pail, and lots of soapy water. She set her sandals on the wall overlooking the garden, hitched up her skirt under the enveloping apron, and tied back her hair. If her gown and her coiffure survived this work, she deserved to win the heart of Lord Braden, she told herself. "Too soon," she scolded aloud, swishing the mop around the flagstones. "You'll hex your chances for certain."

It was a perfect day for cleaning a terrace, sunny with a hint of a breeze and the scent of jasmine teasing the piney fragrance of the soap. She made short work of the mud, and with a few minutes still lacking to eleven, she returned the apron and mop to the maid's closet. In the necessary room of the vacant housekeeper's office, she paused to straighten her dress and wash her hands. As she scrubbed the dirt off her nose, she made a face in the mirror and wasted a moment longing for hair as pale as a sunbeam and eyes blue like a peacock's feathers. She had the dreams of a girl like that, but the appearance and character of someone far more prosaic. Lacking a comb, she ran her fingers through her hair and tied the violet ribbon in a dashing bow just north of her ear. She hid the locket she always wore under her bodice, so that only the gold chain showed. Then, giving the prosaic girl in the mirror a forgiving smile, she ran off to set the picnic table.

The sun was warm on her bare arms as she smoothed down the white linen tablecloth. She placed the china plates—three, just in case—and the silverware, just the everyday tableware for an everyday sort of picnic. A handful of daisies in a tumbler served as an everyday sort of centerpiece. And if the slivered ham and melon were a bit elaborate for everyday, it was only because the usual picnic fare of cold chicken and corn pudding did not leave a lady at her best advantage.

"Oh, Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling," she sang softly as she made last-minute adjustments to the pretty display. "Oh, Charlie is my darling, the young chevalier."

"I knew you were too good to be true. Your secret vice is Jacobism."

That deep voice she had been listening for came from the open French doors. From the sunlit terrace, she could not discern more than a dark form there in the gloomy library. But she could call his image up so clearly, even after only one encounter: his lean figure; his austere face, all angles, with its paradoxically tender mouth; the burning dark eyes—Adonis's eyes, she realized now.

Then his reality emerged to join his image in her vision, only the reality was so much more intense. There was something indefinably exotic about his slender, graceful form, even in a casual gray riding coat and supplely fitted buckskins. And there was something foreign in his slanted brows and narrow straight nose, in the contrast between his blue-black hair and fair skin, for he tanned golden, not dark. He and Anna had an Italian mother, Charity recalled suddenly.

She heard Italy in his voice, too, now that she listened for it. Having studied Italian in school, Charity recognized that the usually crisp English consonants were a little blurred, the vowels more musical. She could almost hear him whispering silken endearments—
mia cara, mi' amore
. . .

She dropped her head to hide her blush and returned to her innocent table setting. The spoons were not precisely parallel to the knives; she rectified this as she puzzled over his greeting.

"Oh, you heard my song!" There was no reason now to blush, for she had always been told she had a pretty voice and had been lead contralto in the children's choir for six years. But she felt her cheeks burn anyway and hastened to explain. "The Bonnie Prince isn't the Charlie I meant. My younger brother is named Charlie, and I was singing it this morning to tease him. It drives him mad, as you might imagine. And Francis, too, for he's the very opposite of a Jacobite. He can't abide the Stuarts, says they were a cursed family that visited a curse on Britain."

"Infuriating two brothers with the same tune—quite an accomplishment, I'd say. Sir Francis has opinions about such subjects, does he? And I thought only agriculture kept his attention.

Charity looked up to his sardonic gaze and returned in sharp defense, "You are wrong. He may look like a mere farmer, but Francis took a First in history at Oxford." She was about to add that Lord Braden would do well to try to rely less on first impressions where people were concerned, but the hesitance in his dark eyes made her pause.

He was unsure of himself here in the country, that was all, unused to helpful and interfering neighbors, uncertain how much gratitude or irritation to feel. So he had retreated into that arrogant observer role so common to city folk, and to artists too, she supposed. If she didn't understand his reasons, and if his black hair didn't curl so wantonly over his forehead, she might take offense. As it was, she immediately went to work soothing over the discord.

"Though, of course, farming is his first love. He was up at the crack of dawn, plotting out his campaign to save Haver's harvest. He has always believed he could do better with the land than the Havertons have done. It's so seldom that one gets the opportunity to make good on such boasts." Her warmer tone worked, for Lord Braden smiled, genuinely this time.

"It's kind of you to pretend we are doing you a favor letting you work so hard. What a pretty table you have set."

"Careful. The flagstones aren't quite dry yet." Then Charity felt those flagstones wet under her own feet and drew in her breath. Her sandals were there on the wall, just beyond Lord Braden. At least she had put the mop and pail away before her host had arrived.

But he had caught her quick glance at the wall and followed it. When he saw the sandals he considered them thoughtfully, and even in her embarrassment Charity was fascinated. He had a wary face, his dark eyes shadowed by long lashes, his expression ever watchful. She supposed it was the artist in him that made him pause to study things so.

But his study now brought him right to the conclusion she had hoped would escape him. He transferred his gaze to her bare feet, just visible under the ruffled hem of her gown. "You washed the flagstones yourself, didn't you?"

Charity only shrugged and, slipping past him, retrieved her sandals. She sat on the wall and put them back on, taking great diligence to fasten the buckles so that she wouldn't have to face that delicious scowl.

"You shouldn't be doing such work yourself, Miss Calder. We don't use our guests as scullery maids." He was angry now, his dark eyes flashing, and Charity suppressed a sigh of pure delight. The Italian was there, surely, in his sudden passion, the fire burning in his eyes like the Mediterranean sun.

She rose, shuffling a little to adjust her sandals, joy blossoming in her heart. Oh, perhaps he was the one. She answered distractedly, "I don't mind in the least pitching in. There's nothing shameful in housework, after all—oh, I wish my mother could have heard me say that! I doubt she ever imagined all her lectures on the subject would ever take root!"

Lord Braden's anger had dissolved into consternation—almost as enjoyable, as it introduced the most intriguing frown between his dark brows. "You are surely not accustomed to doing your own housework there at the Grange?"

"We have a staff, of course, but I supervise them. I can hardly assign duties to a maid without knowing what it is she must do. Else how will I know what standard I can expect her to attain?"

Charity shrugged and began dusting the chairs off with her handkerchief. "At least if my fortunes turn sour, I shall be able to hire myself out as a scullery maid! Or as a cook!" Her laugh faded as she saw the puzzlement in his eyes. She shook out her handkerchief, observing, "I wouldn't feel right watching others work while I was idle."

He would consider her a drudge, the sort who liked working better than waltzing. And she wasn't really that way at all. But she had never been good at self-defense. "I'll go entice Anna out of bed. Do you think she will be able to walk down the stairs?"

In the end, Anna had to be coaxed out of her room and Lord Braden had to carry her to the terrace. Though she was a tall woman, Anna had always been willowy, and she was lighter than ever now. Charity kept up a steady stream of chatter as they walked, but faltered when he carefully set his sister in a chair. In the black wrapper she insisted on wearing, Anna looked as pale and lovely as Ophelia, and just as distraught. She shrank back against her brother, whispering, "The sun is so bright."

From the picnic basket, Charity produced a dashing black bonnet with a high brim and dangling black ribbons. "I'm just out of blacks myself—my father died only Christmas last—so this is the latest crack in mourning fashion."

Lord Braden courteously stepped out of the way so she could kneel and place the bonnet on Anna's dark hair. She tied a big bow under Anna's chin then sat back on her heels to survey her work. "Oh, you look lovely. Your skin looks just like pearls, so deep and glowing. Now, would you like some lemonade? Some ham? Try the melon. I found it in Folkestone yesterday, shipped all the way from Morocco. Fit for a princess!"

Apparently Anna never suspected the motives of flatterers; those pearly cheeks were pinking now under the dramatic black bonnet. Thus did Kenny keep her in thrall, Charity thought cynically, taking the adjacent seat. She hoped she would be more skeptical, did anyone ever compare her skin to pearls. She looked up to meet the enigmatic gaze of Lord Braden and flushed. He was not so easily gulled as his sister. He knew that Charity's compliments were mere manipulation, if of the kindest sort.