Not Quite a Lady (The Dressmakers 4)

Kenning had done his work, then. Pip was on his way to Ireland.

Colonel Morrell had saved Lady Charlotte from herself.

To a point and for a time, at any rate.

One must simply hope that, given time to calm down and think, she would see the folly of her decision…about the boy, if not about Carsington.

The colonel’s relief lasted until late in the evening, when Kenning came home.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I had it all arranged with Mrs. Tyler. She made up errands for the boy, like I told her to. It was for after he’d delivered the dog, like you told me we should do, so as not to cause a stir at the Hall until we was well out of the way. But he never came out where he was supposed to. I been back and forth, between Beechwood and Altrincham. I looked everywhere. Then I heard he was still on Lord Lithby’s property. I don’t know whether the boy got the wind up or what it was, sir, but there he was, the one place I couldn’t get at him, and he never came out. Shall I try again tomorrow, sir?”

“No,” said Colonel Morrell. “It’s too late.”

After Mr. Carsington had gone, Charlotte went up to her son’s room. She’d already kissed him good night, but she couldn’t stay away.

Though his candle had been put out, the moonlight streaming through the window showed her his face, the great black eye stark against his pale skin.

She bent over him, and lightly stroked his forehead. A tear trickled down her cheek. She couldn’t help it. She’d ten years of tears to spend, and it seemed she wasn’t quite done yet. The tear fell upon his cheek, and his hand came up to brush at it. He came awake, blinking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not usually a watering pot,” she said. “You needn’t worry that I’ll be blubbering over you all the time.”

“Mr. Carsington said you were emotional,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”

The boy rose up on his elbows. “You don’t scream,” he said. “That’s good in a mother.”

“You’ve overcome your skepticism, then,” she said. “I am your mother, after all.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry I laughed. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.”

“My feelings,” she said. “Oh, Pip.”

“Don’t cry,” he said.

“I’ll try not to,” she said. “I’m just so glad I found you. And so sorry I ever let you go.”

He stared at her for the longest time. Then, “Why?” he said. “Why didn’t you keep me? Was it because of my eyes?”

Why. The question she’d dreaded. Hearing the question hurt even more than she’d expected, more than the hurt of telling her father the truth.

She wasn’t sure how to answer, but she must try.

“Girls aren’t supposed to have babies when they’re not married,” she said. “I was afraid of all the trouble. People would be disappointed in me and hurt and—”

“Crying,” he said. “There would be a lot of crying, I expect.”

“Yes,” she said. “It wasn’t a good reason, Pip, I know. I was sorry afterward, but I was sick for a long time.”

“But you didn’t die,” he said. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

She wouldn’t cry again, but she would brush his hair back from his face. Mothers were permitted to do that. “No, I didn’t die,” she said. “And by the time I was well, and wishing I hadn’t let you go, you belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Ogden. Even if I dared, it would have been unkind to take you away from them. You were their child, and they loved you. I did believe you’d be better off with them. I wish I’d done it all differently, love. I wish I’d been braver, but I wasn’t.”

He considered. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know about these things. I don’t remember when I was a baby. I hardly remember my father and mother—the other father and mother. I remember Mr. Welton. That was good.”

“The workhouse wasn’t good,” she said.

“I pretend it was a bad dream,” he said.

“It’s going to be good from now on,” she said.

“I know,” he said. He settled back on the pillows. “Maybe you should pretend those other things—the ones that make you cry—pretend that’s all part of a bad dream.”

She smiled and stroked his cheek. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

“Maybe you could kiss me good night again, too.” He grinned. “I like that very well.”

She laughed and kissed her son good night.

Darius went himself to his family, to request their attendance at his wedding. As one might expect, they were all at Hargate Hall in Derbyshire—all but Rupert and his wife, who were still in Egypt, along with Benedict’s nephew Peregrine.

What Darius didn’t expect was to find his grandmother there, too. She rarely left London. Her friends the Harpies lived there year-round, and even in summer London was more entertaining. The country, she said, bored her witless.

Yet this summer she’d come with her offspring to Hargate Hall.

She wasn’t in the drawing room when Darius announced his betrothal. His parents and assorted family members were there, though. They bore the news of his coming nuptials with straight faces for the most part. He went on to explain how and why he was going to begin wedded life with a ten-year-old son.

They bore this stoically, too. None of the ladies present fainted. None of the brothers present commented. They all looked to Lord Hargate for his reaction.

He said, “Darius, I shall expect you in my study in a quarter hour.”

A quarter hour later, Darius stood in the study, an almost exact replica of the Inquisition Chamber at Hargate House in London.

The meeting began, as one would expect, in the usual infuriating way.

“Couldn’t make a go of the property, I see,” said his father.

“My year isn’t up,” Darius said, drawing on all his willpower to remain unruffled—outwardly at least.

“But it hardly matters now, does it?” said his sire. “The prize was not having to marry. Since you are now engaged to be married, what is the point?”

“The point is, I can revive Beechwood, and I shall,” Darius said. “Now, thanks to my wife’s immense dowry, I shall have the wherewithal to do it quickly and efficiently. I am confident of recovering the investment and more within the time we set. It can be done, Father, and I shall do it.”

“I don’t doubt you will,” said his father.

Darius blinked. Twice.

“Lady Charlotte is a good girl,” his father said. “A good girl and a brave one. I am glad you had the wisdom to see this. I am proud of you.”

Darius did not faint.

He did open and close his mouth several times, to no audible effect.

“You’d better see your grandmother now,” said Lord Hargate. He waved his hand, dismissing his bewildered son.

Darius went up to his grandmother’s apartments with about the same level of happy anticipation King Louis XVI must have felt as he climbed the steps of the guillotine scaffold.

He found her as one usually found her, in her boudoir. This room, like its counterpart in London, was decorated in the style of her youth, reputedly, though he’d always thought it resembled a brothel.

Her person, too, was adorned in the style fashionable many years ago. She sat among her numerous pillows, dripping lace and jewels.

He placed a dutiful kiss on her wrinkled cheek and gave her the fan.

“What is this, a bribe?” she said, wasting no more breath than he would on preliminaries. “You want me to lend countenance to your soiled dove, is that it?”

Though she hadn’t been present for the announcement, Darius wasn’t surprised she’d heard the news so quickly. It was more than possible she’d known all along about Charlotte’s secret since Grandmama knew everything about everybody.

He wasn’t at all surprised, merely irritate

d.