Potent Pleasures

  “Do forgive me. It is a letter from your brother. He reports that he won’t be able to return from Italy as early as he planned. In fact”—she frowned—”he doesn’t exactly say when he thinks to return!”

  “Kicking up a lark!” Alex’s brother said knowledge-ably. Then he caught Charlotte’s eye and almost blushed himself. “No, no,” he said. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sure Alex will be on the first boat back to England.”

  Charlotte’s heart felt very light. “You think he’s gone on the mop?” she asked cheerfully. “Or piked the bean?”

  “One ‘pikes on the bean,’” Patrick corrected, a large grin splitting his face. He had suddenly discovered that his new sister-in-law was not only lovely, but enchanting as well. “And, no, my elder brother has definitely not run off. Alex was always the more responsible of the two of us. But where in the world did a well brought-up young lady learn those terms?”

  “From our third housemaid, whose name is Mall,” Charlotte replied.

  “Mall … Mall is a good friend of yours?”

  “Oh, yes. We have spent quite a lot of time together. Mall is from the Welsh border.” Charlotte smiled at her perplexed brother-in-law. Served him right for treating her as if she were a silly nincompoop.

  “Well,” Patrick said finally, when it became clear that she was not going to explain any further, “why don’t I look out the servants’ entrance, and if I don’t see anyone I’ll lope off and if I’m lucky no one will smoke me!”

  Charlotte laughed. “I shall have to ask Mall for an appropriate retort to that proposal.” She got up cautiously and held out her hand. Her eyes danced.

  Patrick was surprised to feel a twinge of jealousy of Alex. What on earth for? He didn’t intend to get married, even to a lovely girl like this one.

  “Here’s my famble,” he said jokingly, taking Charlotte’s delicate hand in his. He stooped and kissed her cheek. “I am very glad you have joined the family,” Patrick said in an entirely different tone. “Alex deserves the best, and I think he might have found it.”

  Charlotte smiled into Patrick’s dark eyes, eyes so alike Alex’s and yet so different. It was odd that she could find one face soul-shatteringly beautiful, and the other—practically identical to Alex’s—just a nice, handsome face.

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I hope when all this fuss has died down we may come to know each other better.”

  “As do I, my lady.” Patrick bowed formally, and left the room. When he didn’t return in five minutes, Charlotte assumed he had found the coast clear. It was time to think about moving the household to the country. She had been waiting for Alex, hoping not to have to supervise such a large, complicated endeavor by herself, especially without a butler. But what could she do? Clearly Alex didn’t have any idea when he would be returning to England. And now that winter was drawing in, coal smoke was starting to darken the streets. She remembered the article she had discussed with Alex long ago, about the black little lungs of autopsied babies, and shuddered. They would wait one more month for Alex to return, but then she and Pippa must leave London.

  Meanwhile Mr. Peter Taffata, better known as Taffy Tatler (one of The Tatler’s best rattlers, as they were called) waited patiently outside Sheffield House. He knew that the Earl of Sheffield and Downes had a younger brother named Patrick, and he knew that this Patrick was inside the house, doubtless being entertained by the young countess. Taffy had no personal animosity against either of these two people. As a matter of fact, he had a good deal of sympathy for the countess. It was a crime that her parents had married her off to an impotent man. Still, all this hobnobbing with her husband’s brother looked as if it might warm up to a really good story, perhaps even a whole page to himself.

  He’d been puzzling over one question for the last hour or so, rather like a terrier with a cow bone. That’s why I’m so good, Taffy thought absently, because I keep at a problem when I find one. And the problem here was: Why hasn’t a fancy butler come out of the house and told me off soundly? Usually Taffy had to deal with butlers who were more puffed up than their masters, their noses so far in the air they couldn’t smell their own toes. But this house didn’t seem to have a butler. In Taffy’s experience, that meant that the butler had either scampered—or got himself fired. And Taffy fancied the latter idea. Because, he thought, who ever left the employ of an earl? The three footmen who had tried, very inefficiently, to get him to move his stumps had looked well-fed enough, and they were dressed in spry uniforms.

  So it was just a question of catching one of the kitchen maids and getting her to cough up the name of the exbutler, and then he, Taffy, could get a real story.

  Taffy looked at the unwelcoming eyes of Sheffield House. He had a strong sense that the footmen had tattled on him, and that Patrick Foakes had snuck out the back of the house. Of course, he could report that Foakes never left, but stayed the night…. He chewed this over for a while, but finally dismissed it. Too risky. What if Foakes had gone off to his club? Bound to have. In six years of chasing gossip Taffy had noticed that gentlemen headed back to their clubs like flies to a horse.

  He needed to find that ex-butler. Taffy headed around the back of Sheffield House with renewed energy. One hour later he was possessed of a trembling, weeping kitchen maid who kept protesting how she shouldn’t ’av, even as she hotly clutched ten shillings in her hand. And from the kitchen maid had come a name, Staple, and his favorite pub, The Raven.

  Taffy knew The Raven well; it was a rather less than reputable place, on a dingy street called Ram Alley. Not the kind of place your better butlers would frequent, that was for certain sure, Taffy thought. Why, most of these butlers were stuffier than their masters; you never caught them taking a pint of th’best in the local, with a baker on one side and a wagoner on the other. No sir, butlers gathered in flash pubs and traded discreet gossip amongst themselves. He felt a glimmer of hope about Staple. This was likely to be a man influenced by a bit o’th’ready, in Taffy’s opinion. Fired by the mistress herself, the kitchen maid had said, delight stiffening her tone. Fired for not behaving like a gent, it sounded like.

  Better and better, Taffy thought. Butlers what as thought themselves one step under God Himself were likely to get their noses out of joint when they were told they weren’t acting like gentlemen. Taffy cast one more look at Sheffield House. Patrick Foakes must be gone by now. Taffy set off for The Raven.

  Chapter 18

  Two weeks later Taffy achieved what he felt sure was the apex of his career. He unfurled his morning Tatler and looked at it lovingly. He had the whole gossip section to himself, just as they had promised him. He checked his own name first. There it was: Mr. Peter Taffata. He sighed in satisfaction. Last time they had spelled his last name with one F and it gave him indigestion for days. “Butler Tells All,” he read. “Honeymoon Crisis; Wedding Trip Canceled, the Countess’s Tears.” Lovely. Really lovely. And then his favorite headline: “All’s Well That Ends Well: the Countess and the Twin.” Taffy really liked the literary touch—using the title of a Shakespeare play. He thought it gave the article a touch of class that The Tatler didn’t usually get. His thoughts wandered to a dream of writing for The Times.

  Charlotte took one look at the paper that Molly silently brought to the breakfast table, and almost gagged. Her wedding night was down in black and white where everyone could see it. A wave of humiliation flooded over her. She couldn’t even read the whole page; she pushed back her chair and ran upstairs, tears prickling her eyes.

  At the top of the landing, Charlotte stopped. Where was she going? She turned into her room, picturing the eager faces of ladies reading the gossip column, and shuddered. I have to leave immediately, she thought frantically. What if someone calls around to sympathize? Or to ask questions? Charlotte clenched her teeth together, hard, and ordered herself fiercely not to cry. She had to leave now, within the hour.

  The only refuge was outside London. She would go to their country estate. If only A
lex were here! Alex would find their ex-butler Staple and put him in jail. Despite herself, tears filled Charlotte’s eyes. She didn’t want to arrive at Downes Manor by herself, a countess without a husband.

  She fought to control her raging emotions until finally the look in her eyes turned from anguished mortification to determination. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte battered back the hysterical wish to throw herself onto her bed and cry. Instead she rang the bell, summoned Marie, and calmly told her that the entire household must be ready to leave in one hour.

  She had last seen Pippa two hours ago, when Pippa toddled into her room for their early morning hot chocolate. They had snuggled together in the bed, Charlotte tickling Pippa’s round tummy.

  Charlotte walked quickly down the hallway to the nursery, and told Katy their change in plans. Pippa was sitting on the ground, clanking spoons together in a businesslike way. She looked up, sensing a new tone in Charlotte’s face.

  “Mamaaa!” Pippa said gaily.

  “Of course, my lady,” Katy replied. Katy never seemed to be ruffled by anything, not even when Pippa had upended a chamber pot on the kitchen cat.

  Charlotte smiled at Pippa and then knelt down beside her as Pippa held out her arms. Somehow with Pippa’s tight grip around her neck, the scandal didn’t seem so insurmountable. Who cared what the ton thought of her? After this scandal, Alex would probably banish her to Scotland anyway … but she would have Pippa. And her baby. Charlotte’s new, gently rounded tummy was evidence that Alex’s child was nestled under her heart.

  In her rush Charlotte completely forgot that Chloe van Stork had been asked for tea that afternoon. But her oversight was just as well. Because Mr. van Stork read Taffy’s entire article, thoroughly, and then laid down his paper and announced that Chloe was not going to Sheffield House for tea, not now and not ever. His daughter’s protests left him unmoved. He wasn’t going to risk Chloe’s engagement to Lord Holland—and that’s just what might happen if she were associated with someone like the Countess of Sheffield and Downes.

  “Not that I blame her, you understand,” Mr. van Stork explained ponderously. “Though why all the tears on her wedding night? I can only assume that her parents explained nothing to her!”

  “Explained what?” Chloe cried in frustration.

  Mr. van Stork looked at her in exasperation. “Alexander Foakes is not wholly a man,” he said and then closed his mouth firmly. Chloe knew that was all he was going to say on the matter. She turned to her mother, who was slowly digesting the article.

  “It is the fault of her parents,” Mrs. van Stork exclaimed. “All this fuss is clearly the result of the girl not being informed. I never understood their decision, never,” she said. “Why marry your daughter when there will be no grandson?”

  “The settlement,” Mr. van Stork replied. “You send her a note, miss,” he said to Chloe. “You’ll have to cry off; you can use any excuse you want.”

  “Poor girl,” Mrs. van Stork said with a sigh. “It’s not the only excuse she’ll get in the next few days.”

  Chloe was tremendously relieved when the footman returned with her note still in hand, saying that Sheffield House was closed up and only a skeleton staff left in residence. Perhaps Charlotte didn’t even know about this terrible article. Chloe had finally managed to coax the paper from her mama, who felt that she shouldn’t read those kind of details. But Katryn van Stork had reminded herself that Chloe was grown-up now, engaged to be married, and it might not be bad to read about wedding nights. After all, if Lord Holland kept his word, Chloe herself would be married by next year. So Chloe read, horrified.

  Yet to her mind the article didn’t make much sense. Her beloved Charlotte had had an argument with her new husband; that was clear. Someone had thrown a jar of cream against the wall. The family had abruptly changed their plans, not gone to Italy, and Alex had made Charlotte ride in the servants’ carriage.

  “Why?” she asked her mama. But Mrs. van Stork didn’t know.

  “I can only suppose that the poor girl was not told,” Mrs. van Stork said heavily, “that the earl cannot have any children.”

  “But they are so happy together!” Chloe objected. “You have not seen them together since they were married, Mama. She loves him.”

  “I assume the countess came to terms with her husband’s disability—as is appropriate,” her mother said. “But her behavior now is most improper. She should not be associating herself with the earl’s brother. The author of this article says that she entertained Patrick Foakes in her house. If she were a true lady, she would not welcome a man into the house when her husband is not in the country. And it doesn’t matter if the man is her brother-in-law,” Mrs. van Stork said, in answer to Chloe’s unspoken challenge. “She is in a most delicate position, given her husband’s incapability. Her behavior must be above reproach.”

  “It’s not fair,” Chloe protested. “I’m sure Charlotte has done nothing untoward with her husband’s brother. She is not that sort of person!”

  Mrs. van Stork looked at her. “You will have nothing to do with Lady Charlotte from now on, Chloe. Your own reputation is most fragile. When you marry the baron, everyone will be watching to see whether your ‘city’ birth comes out, and you show yourself to be less than a gentlewoman. Lady Charlotte may well be innocent, but she is ruined now. If you are not careful, the same injustice could happen to you.”

  Chloe nodded. But silently she decided that after she married Will she would not repudiate Charlotte. Her mother was wrong. Chloe had made plenty of friends among the aristocratic girls she went to school with, and Charlotte was different from most of them. You could read her heart in her eyes, Chloe thought, with an unfamiliar touch of poetry. The sight of Charlotte and Alex’s first dance together as a newly married couple had emblazoned itself on her mind. Charlotte loved Alex. She would never, never betray him, even if she did discover that they could have no children. Of that Chloe was sure.

  Mercifully, Charlotte herself found so many aspects of her husband’s country estate needing attention that she had little time to think about wedding nights, brothers-in-law, or ruined reputations. Alex’s father had spent almost no time at his county seat, Downes Manor. The curtains were moth-eaten and in some rooms wallpaper was actually peeling from the walls. Charlotte hired an army of local women and had all sixty-five rooms cleaned from top to bottom. She spent hours with Percy Rowland, a representative of one of London’s best fabric houses. True, Percy eyed the notorious countess curiously on his first visit to the estate, but after the first few minutes Charlotte’s meticulous eye for color absorbed all his attention.

  With Percy’s help, she refinished three sitting rooms, the grand dining room, and the ladies’ parlor. Items of furniture were hauled off to be re-covered, only to return a few weeks later swathed in dull gold or plummy crimson. Charlotte’s stomach grew large and her back twinged protestingly every time she rose from a chair; she turned her attention to the nursery. The nursery became a charming fairy castle, its walls covered with fanciful murals—but Charlotte was starting to view the stairs up to that nursery with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. She had a water closet installed on the first floor of the house and began thinking about the moldering, dark master bedchamber. And by the time Alex’s bedchamber had been transformed into an elegant, airy set of chambers, papered in a Florentine design, Charlotte was heartily tired of both Percy and pregnancy.

  The weather grew warmer, and she and Pippa spent the afternoons wandering about the grounds of Downes Manor. Charlotte was slowly introducing new ideas about gardening to the ancient, clutch-mouthed gardener who ran the outdoor staff. After much coaxing he put up an airy lattice frame south of the house and began to train roses to grow over it. Charlotte hung the inside with light pink cotton and she, Pippa, and Katy would escape the afternoon sun by sitting in rosy shade. After a while she asked the footmen to bring them tea there, and one day the three of them even stayed through a brief March shower. Pippa shrieked
and shrieked with delight as water pummeled the light roof, making a sound like hundreds of grenadiers beating drums.

  Charlotte was trying to paint a landscape for the first time: the gentle slope of the hill down from the summer house to the river at the base of the garden. But it wasn’t terribly satisfying. She missed the struggle and frustration of drawing faces, trying to catch a kernel of emotion that was present one minute and lost the next.

  The portrait of Mall was finished. In the end, Charlotte set her in a little courtyard, outside. Somehow what finally came through in the picture was not the young, strong, funny Mall that she wanted to catch, but the bone-weary, exhausted Mall at the end of a hard day. The Mall who had polished too much silver and carried too much hot water. Charlotte showed it to her tentatively, afraid that she would think it ugly. But Mall burst into tears. She stood in front of the picture, choked with sobs.

  “But, Mall …” Charlotte wasn’t sure what to say.

  “It’s her,” Mall gulped. “It’s me mum.”

  Charlotte looked back at the portrait. She looked through Mall’s eyes—and there was a tired, rather fierce, angular Welshwoman staring back at her.

  Mall had stopped sobbing and was just staring at the picture. “She died after me brother John was born. It was just too many: eight children, just too many. I couldn’t do anything. She never even got to see John….”

  “Take it. Take it home to John.”

  “Oh, my lady, I couldn’t!”

  “Yes, you can. I am giving it to you. And I am going to send you to Wales, Mall. Did I tell you that I own a house there? Well, I’d like you to go with Keating and see what shape my house is in,” Charlotte said steadily. There was an acid tightness at the back of her throat. She knew what it was: just a little fear. Women died in childbirth all the time. That didn’t mean she would.