"You do remember me, don't you?" Her pink lips held a tempestuous curve, and he had the jarring memory of thinking that he'd do anything for the favor of that smile. "Because I certainly haven't forgotten you, my love."
"Rosalind?" he said blankly. "Why aren't you in Scotland?"
"Oh, Paul. You haven't changed," she said with her light, intoxicating laugh. "You're
exactly
as I remembered."
"But what ... what are you doing here?"
"I came to talk to you."
"Why?" He couldn't think, so dazed that he might have been half-seas over.
"'Tis a matter best discussed in private." She signaled one of her liveried footmen, who jumped from his perch and opened the door. "Come for a ride, darling."
Paul took in the sumptuous red velvet interior, the plush cushions, the sensuous fall of Rosalind's silk skirts.
"I'm married," he blurted.
"I know." Her lashes lowered, and the droplet that tracked down her cheek wracked him with guilt. "But you made a promise to me as well. You do remember what you said to me, don't you? That last day by the Serpentine?"
He stared at her beautiful, upturned face. This woman who had haunted him for so long. He couldn't form a coherent response.
"All I'm asking for is a few minutes of your time. Surely you can give me that much?"
He didn't move. "Rosalind, I'm not certain—"
"Please, Paul." Her peerless gaze glimmered. "For old time's sake? After the promises you made, you owe me this, at least."
Remorse weighted his chest. He
did
owe her this, he thought miserably. And seeing the looks of passersby, he knew this wasn't the place to dredge up old wounds. The last thing he needed was to set more tongues wagging.
"I have a short while only," he said.
Her brilliant smile flashed like the sun after the rain. "This shan't take long. I promise."
THIRTY
The next morning, the tinkling of the bell jarred Charity from her glum state, and she sat up straighter on the stool behind the counter. Mr. Jameson had gone out to fetch some supplies, leaving her to tend the shop on her own for a few minutes. She'd assured the clerk that she was up to the task. She'd volunteered to be here today; 'twas the only way she could persuade her father to rest the morning before coming to work in the afternoon.
She discreetly dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as a customer entered and browsed through the displays. The lady wore a flower-laden bonnet that obscured her face, a trio of large footmen trailing in her wake.
Hold it together. No waterworks in front of customers.
Yet Charity couldn't stop the worry wringing her insides. Paul hadn't come home last night, and she didn't know where he was. She told herself that he must have gone to stay with his family, Mrs. Fines or Percy. But the fact that he hadn't bothered to let her know of his whereabouts ramped up her anxiety.
How angry was he at her father? At her?
Remorse gnawed at her. She'd known Father was in the wrong, but she hadn't known how to stop him. She never had. And she'd been so worried about his health that she hadn't left with Paul ... she'd been so torn and confused at the time! The ugly revelations in the scandal sheet had hurt; though the pain remained, she told herself,
What's done is done
. She knew the man he'd been before they'd married. He'd promised to change, and as far as she knew, he'd kept his vows to her.
The past was over; it was time to move forward. She needed to explain to Paul that she
was
grateful for all that he'd done, the compromises he'd made for her. Only she wasn't certain how to do so. Loyalty made it difficult for her to say,
Please, please forgive my father. He doesn't mean to be difficult.
But surely she could beg forgiveness for herself? Paul
would
forgive her, wouldn't he? He wouldn't toss her aside over a disagreement, the way her father kept insisting he would.
He walked out, just as I predicted
, Father had said.
It's off to another lark for him—or to another fancy piece. Good riddance, I say.
"Is that you, Miss Sparkler?"
Charity gave a start. The customer had approached the counter, regarding her with a quizzical smile. In the next instant, she recognized the auburn curls and petite, striking features.
"Mrs. Stone." Hastily, Charity hopped off her stool. "I beg your pardon. I didn't recognize you from afar."
"It's quite alright. You seem preoccupied." Astute hazel eyes studied her. "Is something amiss?"
The other's direct manner summoned an alarming heat to Charity's eyes. She blinked quickly and forced a smile. "Just woolgathering, I'm afraid. Are you, um, shopping today?" That was an asinine thing to say. Why else would the actress be here? "I mean, is there anything I can assist you with?"
Mrs. Stone hesitated, her gaze circling the shop. "Are there no clerks at present?"
Flushing, Charity realized how incompetent she must appear, first staring off into space and now babbling and on the verge of tears.
She drew her shoulders back. In a polite, brisk voice, she said, "I'm the only one here at the moment. I'd be happy to show you whatever you'd like."
"In that case, I'd like to see the silver vinaigrette. The one with the grapevine motif."
Charity fetched the item from the case. "It's a lovely piece, as you can see," she said, holding it out to the other, "made by one of our most popular artisans. The silverwork is sturdy yet exceedingly intricate. If you look closely, you can see the veins on the leaves."
"Indeed. Quite lovely."
"And if you like the vinaigrette, there's a chatelaine that would suit it most admirably."
A smile hovered on the actress' mouth. "I suppose I'll have a look at that, too."
A while later, Charity was quite pleased with herself as she wrapped up the other's purchases. She handed over the package, and as she did so, the lady's gaze caught on her hand.
"That's a pretty ring," Mrs. Stone said. "Opal, is it?"
Charity's heart gave a painful squeeze. "Thank you, yes. But it's not our stock. My husband gave it to me."
"You are recently wed?"
Charity began to nod … and, to her mortification, a tear escaped.
"Oh, f-forgive me. I think I have something in my eye …" She fumbled in her skirt pocket—where was her blasted handkerchief?
"Here, take mine. And then take a nice, deep breath."
Charity accepted the handkerchief, blotted her eyes. She tried to calm her fitful respiration.
"And another breath ... doesn't that feel better? Breathing calms the nerves. 'Tis what I do before a big performance," Mrs. Stone said.
After a few more breaths, Charity was able to say, "I'm fine. And ever so sorry. I don't know what came over me."
"There's no shame in tears, my dear. Marital woes?"
Charity's lips quivered again. Was the reason so obvious?
"I've been married myself," the lady said wryly, "and I recall those early days. Full of fire and passion—that desperate, terrifying, wonderful feeling of being alive."
Charity felt her jaw slacken. Not because this veritable stranger was talking about passion, but because the words resonated within her. She did feel alive—terrifyingly so. She loved Paul with all her heart and soul … but what if he never returned her love? What if he tired of her? What if he was tiring of her
at that very moment
? What if yesterday's conflict had damaged their fledging marriage irreparably?
"I've frightened you." Clearly misinterpreting Charity's reaction, Mrs. Stone said, "Forgive me. Being in theatre, I tend to forget that passion is not a topic of everyday conversation. That not everyone believes, as I do, that life is too short to be lived for anything but happiness. You see, I—"
The tinkling bell cut the actress short. Jameson entered with parcels in hand. "Good day, ladies," he said on his way to the back room.
After returning his greeting, Charity prompted, "You were saying, Mrs. Stone?"
But the other woman's gaze had flitted to the door, her demeanor suddenly restless. "I'm afraid I must go. An appointment I just remembered."
"Oh. Well, it was a pleasure to see you," Charity said. "Do come again."
"I would like that." The wistful smile transformed Mrs. Stone's face into one of unforgettable beauty. With a graceful inclination of her head, she made her exit, her footmen flanking her.
Too late, Charity realized that she hadn't returned the other's handkerchief. She looked down at the fine linen, her finger tracing Marietta Stone's initials, exquisitely rendered in silver thread. As she did so, the actress' words raced through her head.
Life is too short
… and suddenly she knew what she had to do.
*****
"I'm so glad you came to call, Charity."
Percy was glowing in a sunny frock that hinted at the slight rounding of her figure. The two were sitting on a settee in Percy's study, a spacious room that Mr. Hunt had dedicated to his wife's sole use. It was a feminine version of his own office, furnished with daintier furniture and done up in pretty shades of ivory and primrose. Eyeing the shelves stuffed with books and piles of parchment and paraphernalia occupying every surface, Charity thought love might not have been Mr. Hunt's only motivation for giving Percy a space of her own: the study kept the clutter from spilling over into the rest of the house.
Mr. Hunt had a keen sense of self-preservation. More importantly, he seemed to accept his wife's quirks, the same way Percy accepted his. Charity's heart clenched. Her own marriage had yet to achieve such a harmonious balance, but she wasn't giving up.
"How is Mr. Sparkler faring?" Percy asked.
"He's fine now. Back at the shop, against the physician's advice."
"Well, I'm relieved to hear of his recovery. But you, my dear, are looking rather peaked." Percy studied her with concerned eyes. "Is anything amiss?"
Of course her bosom friend would sense her turmoil.
Charity's hands knotted in her lap. "Have ... have you seen Paul?"
"Not recently." Percy frowned, and Charity's heart sank. "Don't you know where he is?"
Charity shook her head, her voice cracking as she admitted, "Oh Percy, I think ... I think I've driven him away!"
Percy gave her hand a comforting squeeze. "Tell me everything, dear."
After providing a halting description of the past week and a half, Charity concluded in tones of misery, "I understand why Paul is angry at me. I should have left with him or at least pleaded harder for him to stay. 'Tis all my fault—"
"It's
not
your fault. As much as it may pain you to hear this, your father is to blame," Percy said bluntly. "He's had it in for Paul from the start. While I can understand his reservations given my brother's reputation and the fiasco with Parkington, I cannot see why he won't at least give Paul a chance now that you're married. And from the sounds of it, my brother has never worked harder in his life."
"Father is worried for me. It's been him and me up until now, and he doesn't want to see me hurt," Charity said in a small voice.
"Then he'd be wise to stop creating trouble with your husband," Percy said tartly, "and putting you in the middle. If anything, there's your fault, dear: you try to please where there's no pleasing. And often at the cost of your own happiness. You've been that way ever since I've known you."
Charity bit her lip. Was that true? Was she overly accommodating … too biddable? Did she fail to take into account her own feelings?
"But Paul has to bear some blame as well," Percy went on. "He ought to have at least sent you a note."
"I think he must be quite angry with me."
I should have thanked him for looking after the shop. For putting up with my stubborn papa. I should have told him how proud I am of him: for balancing Sparkler's with his training, for being the strongest and best man I know.
"It'll blow over. As Mr. Hunt says, one must develop sea legs being married to a Fines." Percy gave her a reassuring grin. "Paul may bluster about, but the storm will calm just as quickly as it started, you'll see."
Charity blew her nose. "I hope you're right."
"I know I am. And I also know that you're the perfect match for my brother: a true port to his tempest. After how steadfast you've been—from Spitalfields on through the business with Parkington—how can he doubt you?"
With a rush of guilt, Charity delivered the truth. "Actually, Paul doesn't know about Spitalfields."
"You haven't told him?" Percy exclaimed. "Why ever not?"
She herself didn't know why she hadn't confessed; at this point, what harm could it do? Most likely, Paul would be apologetic. Yet she held onto the secret like a soiled undergarment she didn't want anyone else to see. Perhaps that was it: she couldn't bring herself to air the ugly past, didn't want her husband to remember how little he'd thought of her ... and how much he'd loved another.
But that was going to change. Because Mrs. Stone was right: life was too short to be lived with regret. If Charity wanted her husband's love, then she would have to ask for it. She couldn't hide her feelings any longer. She would have to take the ultimate risk: she would declare her love for him and ask for his in return.
"I'm probably the last one who ought to be giving marital advice," Percy said, "but the one thing I have learned is that honesty is the best policy. Whenever Mr. Hunt and I keep something from one another, we invariably end up fighting over it."
"You and Mr. Hunt fight?" Charity said in surprise.
Percy's blue eyes shone with amusement. "Of course we do, dear. We're married."
"But you seem so,"—Charity tried to describe the powerful connection she witnessed between the pair—"
blissful
together."
"That is the result of what happens
after
we fight." Clearing her throat, Percy said in an unusually delicate manner, "And from your blush, may I infer that you know the sort of, um, marital bliss I'm referring to?"
Charity was determined to turn a fresh page and be more truthful. So she said simply, "Yes, I do."