Miss Charity's Case

Miss Charity's Case

A Regency Romance

Jo Ann Ferguson

With thanks to the wonderful staff of the Attleboro Public

Library and the ABLE system. You have never once flinched

when I've come to you with a list of books for ILL
.

I couldn't have done this without your help
.

One

It was a dismal day, the kind of day meant for warm hearths and the sound of rain stroking the windows in a library. It was a day for sweet tea and flickering candles and the comfort of knowing that Mrs. Wrentham would be loath to venture out to call on her nearest neighbor. It was also the day after Miss Charity Stuart's beloved papa had been laid to rest in the churchyard next to the cozy vicarage she had called home for the past five years.

If it had been any other minister and any other church, mayhap Miss Charity Stuart would not have been riding in the crowded mail coach from a small town along the southeastern shore to London. Another church vestry might have taken pity on the minister's two unmarried daughters, but the Reverend Mr. Stuart had died in a way that brought no honor to either Bridgeton's church or his family. There had been stories—whispered behind a gloved hand—about the minister who chose to ignore the lessons he taught each Sabbath, but no one had substantiated them until he was found dead of too much drink and too much sin.

The elders wished to cleanse Bridgeton of any residual stench left by their wayward rector. Although they could not erase his name off the stone that would be set over his grave in a shaded corner of the churchyard, they intended to make a new beginning. The elders had made that quite clear when they had come to call the previous evening, and Miss Charity Stuart had urged them to sit in the small book-room of the vicarage.

Charity had served as her papa's hostess each time the elders arrived to remonstrate with Mr. Stuart about his habits that did not meet with their approval. The elders considered her properly meek and ladylike, despite the unseemly shade of her hair, which in bright sunshine had the misfortune to become a warm red. Yet, she was not at all like the stubborn, bright-eyed Miss Joyce Stuart.

Last night, Mr. Wheeler could have found nothing amiss with either Miss Stuart as he sat on the threadbare sofa in the book-room which was filled with the scents of the dishes the ladies of the church had so generously provided for the mourners. Both young women were models of propriety. He was sure some Divine Providence had guarded the charming daughters from the sins of their father. Neither Miss Stuart had been altered from her gentle self by the news that her wayward father had met his end—by, if rumor were to be believed, murder—in the doorway of a brothel on the shore.

Accepting a cup of tea from Charity, Mr. Wheeler said, “We must apologize for intruding upon you during your time of grief, but the church board needs to know your plans.”

“We have given our future little thought.” Charity's voice was as sweet as her appearance, but she kept her eyes lowered. “We wished only that Papa be given a fine burial in the yard of the church he loved so much.”

Charity saw the elders glance at each other, but none of them spoke. They could not guess she was not fooled by their swift appearance at the vicarage in the aftermath of Papa's demise.

Her finger tightened on the fragile handle of her teacup. For five years, she had provided stability in the vicarage. She had baked for church dinners and supervised the children in their annual choir at Christmas. While her papa had been involved with projects he never discussed—and which apparently were quite unspeakable, if she were to believe the stories circulating the shire—her sister had been enjoying the attention of numerous admirers, as suited a pretty maid.

For Charity, there had been none of that. She had assumed the responsibility of watching over both her sister and her father. Making them a fine household and overseeing little projects about the church had endeared her to the parishioners, but now she intended to broaden her world beyond the small village.

As her sister shifted uneasily on the settee, Charity sighed. Joyce was the reason why they must escape from the close confines of Bridgeton. Her younger sister was a raven haired beauty whose genuine warmth always attracted a collection of admirers, even in church. Just that afternoon, a message—or a command, to be more truthful—had come from Graystone Manor, the country home of their late mother's maiden aunt, Lady Eloise Anthony. Lady Eloise had insisted that they come to her town house on Grosvenor Square in London.

Charity hoped they would find a haven there and more. A hint that Lady Eloise was anxious to sponsor Joyce during this upcoming Season was the most welcome news Charity could imagine. In London, surely, Joyce would gain a new collection of
beaux
.

She had no such aspirations for herself. She was a spinster, nearly six-and-twenty. Once she had had hopes of a wondrous marriage, but that had been ended just before she had come with Papa and Joyce to Bridgeton. No one in Bridgeton knew about the shameful incident, and she had disillusioned none of them. If she could find the proper husband for her sister, there might be a place for Charity in her sister's household. A besotted groom would not deny his new bride the companionship of her sister.

“Miss Charity,” began the eldest of the elders who was bent like the trees along the sea coast, “you know the Reverend Mr. Tristram has been interested in this parish for the past year.”

Offering a plate of cakes to the old man, Charity said smoothly, “Make yourself easy in the head, Mr. Wheeler. I assure you that we shall be able to vacate the parsonage within the month. You are most fortunate to obtain the services of such a well-respected parson.”

Again the covey of black coated elders glanced at each other as Charity blinked back her tears. Not one of them had expressed more than cursory regret at Papa's death. No matter how Papa had lived and despite the circumstances surrounding his death, it would have been the sparsest politeness for the elders to offer sympathy.

“Miss Charity,” Mr. Wheeler mumbled, “the new parson expects to move into the vicarage by week's end, so he may prepare for his sermon on the next Sabbath.”

“'Tis only three days away!” gasped Joyce, her voice sharp with dismay. “Are you tossing Charity and me to the winds?”

Charity put a soothing hand on her sister's arm. Somehow, she must convince Joyce to think before she spoke if she were to be a success in London. As pretty as her sister was, she must not turn away a prospective suitor by voicing her opinions impetuously. She had to learn to be circumspect. Charity knew she must as well, starting now.

“Mr. Wheeler did not mean that, Joyce,” Charity said as she placed the tray of cakes on the low table. “However, we shall leave tomorrow, as soon as we finish packing.”

“You have a place to go?”

She smiled at Mr. Dumont's gentle question. When she had quickly explained the invitation from their great-aunt, the men relaxed. No doubt, the elders had been apprehensive about confronting the minister's orphaned daughters like this, for even the wicked Mr. Stuart's daughters deserved better than eviction.

Wicked Mr. Stuart!
How many times had she listened to that cruel title dropped on her late father's head? Charity's hands clenched in her lap as she rode in the coach bouncing along the country road leading inland toward London, her favorite book of sonnets open and unread on her lap. She had to be glad the farewells had gone so smoothly. She had maintained her composure through the tribulations of the funeral while her sister sobbed with abandon and through the horrible disclosures about Papa, and she had been determined not to shatter at the moment they left Bridgeton.

A new chapter of her life was about to begin, and she hoped it would be happier than her years in Bridgeton. She had arrived there in grief and had left in mourning. On such a gray day, feelings of sorrow seemed so appropriate.

She sighed, anxious to stretch cramped muscles. The coach rolled to a stop before a hostelry that was as dreary as the day. A sign over the front door announced it was The King's Heart Inn. With a blade laid across the painting of some nameless sovereign's heart, it offered little welcome.

Even before the door was opened by the coachman, Joyce said, “Oh, Charity, look at the mist. I shall look a complete frump when I arrive in London. Every feather on my hat shall be drooping.”

Charity ignored her with the ease of years of practice, for Joyce's twittering, which so delighted her admirers, often made little sense to her sister. There was no changing the weather, and to own the truth, Charity thought the hat with its flurry of feathers defined silly. She kept her thoughts close to her aching heart.

Dear Papa!
She could not believe the prattle flitting about the village. Papa had been a sweet soul—the pattern-card of a devoted father, the bereaved widower who had buried his wife years before, and the compassionate pastor who had sympathy for the wanderings of his flock from the straight path to salvation.
When he was home
. The niggling thought had plagued her all day. But how could Papa have been in Old Nick's pocket as his elders labelled him? She yearned to find out. She sighed. That would be impossible now. The truth was concealed deep in the earth, buried in Papa's silent heart.

Bustling activity filled the inn's yard as they were handed down from the coach by the mud-splattered driver. Linking her arm with her sister's, Charity urged Joyce toward the porch. The inn must be better than the muddy yard. Teamsters shouted profane oaths, bringing heat to her cheeks. Not that she was unaccustomed to such language, for Papa had believed even a churchman could swear as long as he did not use the good Lord's name in vain, but she was sorely tired after a long day's ride in the springless carriage.

The interior of the inn was surprisingly clean. Although simple in design, the hall's wide board floors were being swept by a lass as they entered. The serving maid glowered at them, even though Charity had endeavored to scrape all the mud from her shoes. A bench was set near the base of a staircase that curved steeply out of sight between two doors. One was closed, but the other opened into a public room where she could see a half score of people gathered. She suspected the crowded chamber was where meals were served.

An emaciated man came to greet them. If his meager girth were a sign of the quality of the food served at his hostel, Charity guessed there would be scant relief for her empty stomach tonight.

“G'd evening,” he muttered.

“Good evening,” she replied. “If you would be so kind as to have us shown to our room—”

Charity was astonished when he cut her off. “'Tis not ready.”

“But, sir—”

“Cat chased a rat in there this afternoon. The remains have to be cleaned out.”

With a shudder, Charity nodded. She nodded again when he told them supper was being served even as they spoke. “Then, by all means,” she said, “please take us to where we might eat.”

“Through there,” he said with a diffident shrug.

“But, sir,” she argued when he started to turn away, “that is a public room. My sister and I should—”

“Yer choice.” He added as Joyce gulped a sob of dismay, “After ye eat yer fill, there be a small chamber there.” He pointed to the closed door, “—where ye can sit while yer room is readied and a fire laid.”

Joyce said in a fragile voice as she smoothed her abundant curls back from her face, “I vow I'm nearly vanquished by hunger, Charity. I doubt I have strength to walk farther than the nearest table.”

“Then we'll eat as soon as the innkeeper can bring us his fare,” she replied, putting her arm around her sister's trembling shoulders.

Charity soothed herself by recalling that they would need unpack only the small bag she carried. It contained their linens and the few mementos she could not bear to leave behind in the parsonage. The large trunk, which would be taken to their room, then loaded on the next coach in the morning, need not be opened. By eating now, their room would have a chance to warm.

She rubbed her arms that were bare beneath the chenille trim of her short sleeves. Even the black merino was not thick enough to combat the chill. Tonight they would have to huddle under the blanket to escape from the last cold breath of the winter that had been worse than any in recent memory and now stretched into spring.

She heard Joyce's tired sigh. Joyce had wept a river of tears since Papa's body had been returned to them, and anything could begin those tears again. Although Charity wanted to beg Joyce to stop being a wet goose, she said nothing. Her sister was unable to disguise her suffering, and Charity was as helpless to ease their grief.

As Charity and Joyce entered the public room, silence oozed through it, suffocating any conversation. She understood why when she discovered that, save for the serving lasses, she and Joyce were the lone women in the room. Uneasily she threaded her way past the other tables.