“Y-yes, Madame?” Charity’s voice was hesitant. She truly
hadn’t
been paying attention to the lesson. It was all Mercy’s fault, of course. The wretched child kept appearing at the window, making faces and taunting her with the evidence of a freedom to enjoy the day as she saw fit. Charity had tried—truly she had!—to pay attention to the etiquette classes her elder sister Patience insisted she and her twin sister Amity attend before they went to London for the Season. But the classes had droned on for hours, and Madame Capdepon quite obviously did not like her.
“Am I expected to believe, Miss Ackerly, that you’re so adept at knowing which utensil is the proper one to use at every course of a formal dinner, you have no need for further instruction?”
Charity bit her lip. She most certainly knew no such thing. And, while she recognized the fact that knowledge of this sort might come in handy at some point in her life, she had full confidence in her ability to adapt to any given situation without the necessity of enduring this wretched, endlessly boring class.
Unable to respond with anything except an admission of her ignorance, Charity raised her chin, stared belligerently back at her nemesis, and did not answer.
Amity groaned inwardly. When backed into a corner, Charity would come out hissing, and Amity recognized quite well the militant look in her twin’s eyes. She hastily spoke up before Charity could say something to fan the flames of the developing situation. “We will go over the lesson at home tonight, Madame. Papa likes to see us apply
what we’ve learned.” She hoped the insinuation that they demonstrated her invaluable instruction to their learned parent might mollify the older woman.
Not a chance. “I’m quite certain, Amity Ackerly, that you have
not
been addressed.” The imposing matron stalked around the circular tables at which the young ladies of Pelthamshire were seated, bearing down inexorably on the twins. “Class!” she boomed out, the spectacles she kept hanging on a ribbon around her neck bouncing off her rather ample bosom as she moved. “Gather around, please. Quickly.” She fixed Charity with a triumphant glare. “Miss Ackerly—Miss
Charity
Ackerly—is going to astonish us with her extensive knowledge of formal place settings.”
Charity knew next to nothing about place settings. She sent Madame Capdepon an imploring look, but the angry instructor was not to be appeased. In desperation Charity tried to visualize the way the table had looked at her older sister Grace’s wedding a couple of years earlier. A plate . . . she was quite certain there had been a plate, and that the utensils went on the sides of the plate.
She stood and walked to the front of the class, chewing on her lower lip. She’d simply have to bluff her way through.
“Well, the plate is, of course, the most important piece.” She picked one up and put it on the table, then surveyed her silverware options. A couple of girls in the front row stifled giggles. Charity glared at them. They simmered down as she reached hesitantly toward the utensils. Her eyes found those of her twin, hoping she’d receive some guidance.
Amity shook her head slightly as Charity’s hand hovered over a stack of forks. She moved her hand toward the spoons, a bit to the right. Again, Amity shook her head.
Madame Capdepon crossed her arms. “Enough stalling, Miss Ackerly.”
Charity grabbed a fork.
“No.” Madame’s voice was sharp.
Charity reached for a knife.
Madame sighed. “No,” she said again.
Charity scowled, grabbed one of each and plunked them haphazardly to the left and right of the plate. She looked at the place setting and recalled something resting horizontally at the top. She picked the longest utensil, moved it above the plate, and then stepped back.
Madame Capdepon didn’t even look at her handiwork; she stared directly at the younger girl until Charity began to fidget uncomfortably. When she’d made her student suffer a sufficient length of time, she delivered her sentence with the daunting finality of a bewigged judge at trial. “Miss Ackerly, I would like for you to leave my class and not come back.”
A collective gasp rose from the room. Charity lifted her chin, glared back at the older woman, and then grasped the sides of her skirt to sink into a beautiful but incredibly mocking curtsy. Without a word, she straightened and left.
All eyes swiveled to Amity, who, blushing hotly, picked up her things and Charity’s, nodded coldly at the instructor and followed her sister from the building.
When Amity emerged into the sunshine, Charity already had a good lead, her anger making her strides almost impossibly long. Mercy appeared out of nowhere and took Charity’s reticule and lesson book.
“Come on,” she said to Amity with an impish grin. “You don’t need those silly lessons anyway. Neither Grace nor Faith had etiquette lessons, and they did just fine.”
Amity looked grim. “Grace was lucky. And Faith was born knowing how to behave correctly.”
Mercy shrugged, utterly unconcerned.
They caught up to Charity, who’d finally realized they were behind her and stopped to wait. Amity took one look at her sister’s face and knew she was already beginning to internally berate herself. She felt a twinge of remorse for second-guessing her sister’s headstrong ways. “Don’t even
think
about apologizing to me, Charity. There’s no way I was staying in that horrible woman’s class after she kicked you out.”
Charity smiled gratefully, but the guilt didn’t leave her eyes. “She hasn’t liked me since the day we learned how to dance, anyway.” She scuffed at the dirt with the toe of her shoe, sending up little puffs.
Mercy laughed. “Well, you showed up dressed as a boy!”
Charity looked indignant. “Because there are only girls in the class. How would we ever learn to dance with a boy if someone didn’t play the part?”
Amity smiled. “Come on.” She tugged Charity’s arm. “We’d better get home and face Patience.” Their older sister was not going to take this well. “I’ll go in first and tell her. Maybe she won’t be quite so angry if I give her the news and explain what happened instead of you.”
They all turned when they heard a vehicle coming down the lane. It was Madame Capdepon’s curricle. She’d obviously decided to let class out early, and was now apparently headed to the Ackerly home.
The sisters stepped aside to let it pass, then stood in the swirling dust and watched the vehicle disappear around a bend. Mercy linked an arm through Charity’s. “Maybe, when we get home, you can ask her to stay to dinner.” Her lips twitched. “You can tell her it will be no trouble to set an extra place.”
Charity lunged and swatted at her, but Mercy ducked and took off running, musical laughter trailing behind.
Charity chased her a few steps, then gave up and returned to her twin.
Amity hid a smile and tried to keep from laughing as they walked. She glanced at Charity out of the corner of her eye and bit her lip. Her blue eyes danced. And then, because there was nothing else they could do, both girls succumbed to the hilarity of the situation and continued on their way home, wiping away tears of mirth.
“She is a hoyden, entirely undisciplined, and I will not have her in my class! Furthermore, Mr. Ackerly, I have to say that I despair of her ever making a decent match, despite the fact that her older sisters have been so fortunate in their marriages. I can’t imagine anyone of breeding accepting her as his wife.”
Charity pressed her lips together in an effort to control her temper. Seated on a bench outside her father’s study with Amity and Mercy, she held herself stiffly erect, her head high. In her mind, however, she was drowning in mortification at the etiquette instructor’s harsh description.
They couldn’t hear their soft-spoken father’s reply, but the modulated, gracious voice of Patience came to them quite clearly. “I’ll be happy to show you out, Madame Capdepon.” The doors to the study opened and Patience appeared with the still quite indignant woman. Neither spared a glance for the trio seated on the bench.
After a few moments, Bingham Ackerly stepped out and stopped, regarding the three girls steadily for a moment. He shook his head and smiled. “Well,” he said. “I suppose that is that.”
Charity chewed on her lower lip and stared up at her father, her cerulean eyes filled with remorse. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
He smiled fondly and shook his head. “It was likely a
mistake to send you to those classes in the first place. Patience meant well.”
“I don’t have to go to London, Papa. Amity can go without me.” Even as she said the words, though, Charity felt a pang of regret. She really
did
want to have a Season, to dress up in beautiful gowns and be presented to Society. And she knew—she
knew
—if she tried hard enough, she could manage to play the part of a demure debutante for three whole months in a row.
Bingham reached down and rumpled her hair. “I have every confidence that Faith will steer you in the right direction. Of course you can still go to London.” He wandered back into his study, his mind already back on his current writing project. To his way of thinking, the problem with Charity was resolved.
She watched him go, her expression troubled.
“Why are you still frowning?” asked Mercy. “You heard him. You’re going to London.”
“I know.” Charity sighed heavily and looked at her twin. “Do you think what Madame said is true? That I’ll never find a husband?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Amity slipped an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “We’re going to find a couple of lovely gentlemen with whom we’ll fall hopelessly in love, we’ll have our perfect double wedding, and they’ll build us quaint little country homes right here in Pelthamshire so that we never have to be away from one another or our family. Just like we’ve always planned.”
Charity gave both of her sisters a smile that only wobbled a little. “Yes. Just like we’ve always planned,” she echoed, but there was still a tiny shade of doubt in her voice.
Four
Scotland, 1815
Asheburton
Keep, after a couple of hundred years of neglect and misuse, was once again a sight to behold. A jewel nestled in the emerald hills above the small Scottish village of Ashton, the ancient castle managed to be both intimidating and stunning. It was a far cry from the near ruin in which Lachlan had been raised.
Mounted on his favorite stallion, Apollo, aptly named for the god of the sun because of his glowing golden coat, the Marquess of Asheburton gazed across a small valley at the home he’d restored. So regal was his bearing, pride stamped into every inch of his powerful frame, one could easily have pictured him in full armor, preparing to storm the castle upon which he set his sights. It was time to think of the future.
Well pleased with the empire he’d created, Lachlan now longed for more. He wanted the laughter of children ringing through the hills surrounding the keep.
His
children. He would wait no longer.
Two years ago he had almost married, choosing a young girl from the village named Beth Gilweather, daughter of the blacksmith. She was a beautiful young woman with the coloring prominent in Ashton, pale hair and light eyes, but in her case her hair was the golden blonde of newly minted coins, and her eyes flashed a brilliant green that rivaled the
emerald hillsides of Scotland. He’d fallen hard for her, but when he approached his parents with his intentions, his mother’s reaction had been instantaneous and negative.
“Out of the question! You will not marry a commoner from the village.”
He’d bitten back the retort that rose to his lips. It would not do to remind Lady Eloise Kimball that she was once a villager herself. Not when the stakes were so high. Instead, he’d looked to his father, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Perhaps if you traveled a bit first, my boy. Go to London, or Edinburgh. Meet women of your class.”
“I don’t consider Beth below my class, Father.”
“Then you’re a fool, Lachlan, who cannot see past her physical beauty and understand that she sees you as nothing more than a way to improve her circumstances. Especially now that both the keep and the village are prospering.” Lady Asheburton had folded her lips and stared at him. The marquess had looked as though he might speak, but Eloise placed a restraining hand atop his. He’d closed his mouth and given Lachlan a look of apology.
Without another word, Lachlan left the room. He’d stalked out to the stables, saddled Apollo, and rode to the village. When he saw Beth sitting outside her father’s shop, he’d reined in the stallion and swung down. He approached and knelt before her. “Marry me, Beth. Today.”
She laughed softly. “Lachlan, my goodness! You look like a thundercloud. A girl likes to be asked for her hand in marriage, not have it wrenched from her arm.”
He stood and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and looked back up the hill to the distant keep that overlooked the village. “I know,” he said. “My parents oppose the match, Beth.”
The blonde girl paled. “So if we marry . . .” She left the sentence unfinished and frowned. Such an eventuality apparently had never occurred to her.
“We could live anywhere—here in the village, or we could go to England if you like. I’m not afraid of hard work, and I’m sure I would be successful eventually.”
When he turned to face her, she pasted a supportive smile on her face. “Perhaps they’ll come around if we give them time.”
He tilted his head and studied her expression. His mother’s words rang through his head.
Understand that she sees you as nothing more than a way to improve her circumstances
.
Seeing his expression darken, she’d hastened to explain. “I don’t like the thought of our marriage dividing your family, my lord.” She laid a soft hand on his cheek and raised soft eyes to his. “I’ll marry you no matter what happens, Lachlan. But let’s give them some time to come around.” He didn’t respond, so she took his hand and began to draw him inside the cottage. “My father is in Edinburgh for two days,” she said with a coy little smile.
Lachlan flicked a glance up and down the street. Nobody was about. “Apollo,” he’d said, indicating his very visible stallion. He didn’t want to sully Beth’s reputation.