She cast a longing glance back at the cherry tarts and mince pies. And then set out across the street. Her maid hurried to match the pace. As Patrina crossed the pavement, two passing ladies eyed her a moment. They jerked their attention forward, whispering to one another. Shame burned her skin, but she tilted her chin up a notch and stepped by them, having if not grown immune, at least accustomed to Society’s obvious disdain. She paused outside the doors a moment, and looked about in one last hopeful attempt at locating the marquess.
With a sigh, she entered the bazaar. She searched the crowded room. The chatter of lords and ladies as they moved between the vendors echoed throughout the high-ceiling space. She wandered down, past a row of tables, and ignored the glances tossed in her direction. As she made her way through the hall, the impulsiveness of her actions occurred to her. Surely the little girl knew well where her father or nursemaid was, and Patrina was merely worrying needlessly. She gave her head a rueful shake. She expected she should have learned the perils of impulsiveness from her mistake with Albert Marshville.
Patrina made to turn on her heel and mind her own affairs, when she caught sight of the little girl at the edge of a too-high table. The back of her golden-curls was presented to Patrina, as she seemed to study the miniature theatres on the table in front of her.
Alone. Charlotte studied the miniature theatre alone. Sans father, brother, or nursemaid.
With a beleaguered sigh, Patrina abandoned her attempt at escape and walked over to the child. Charlotte had her palms resting on the edge of the table, and leaned up on tiptoe to better view the replica of the cutout characters in Hamlet, with a vividly painted red curtain framing the proscenium and scenery. Patrina waved off the approaching vendor and placed her hands alongside little Charlotte’s. “Hullo,” she greeted.
The girl shrieked and jumped. She slammed a hand over her heart, in a flourishing manner similar to Patrina’s youngest sister, Poppy. “Goodness. You star—” Her green eyes narrowed. “You,” she groaned.
Patrina smiled. “Me. And where is your father, Charlotte?”
“My father?” The girl scratched her brow.
A wave of mortified heat climbed up Patrina’s neck at her specific inquiry into the marquess’ whereabouts. “Hm, er, yes, that is, your family,” she amended. She hadn’t given the aloof bounder another thought after their unpleasant exchange in the park. Not a single thought. Outside of her inability to sleep from wondering as to a man who seemed so gentle with his children and so cold with everyone around him. Nay, not everyone, she couldn’t speak to that. Perhaps, it had just been her who’d earned his stern disapproval.
The little girl blinked. “My family?” she blurted.
And it occurred to Patrina in that moment… “You don’t know where they are, do you?” she asked gently.
Green eyes widened like full-moons. Charlotte frantically shook her head, even as she stepped around Patrina, who matched the little girl’s quick movements. “I…I…” Charlotte looked back at the miniature theatres with tear-filled eyes. “I w-wanted to see the toys, but n-nurse s-said no…and…” She made another move to go around, but Patrina settled a hand on a slender shoulder.
“Do not worry,” she said in the tone she’d adopted over the years in addressing heated arguments amongst her three spirited sisters. “We’ll find her.” She glanced over the crowded tables and bit the inside of her lower lip. “Er…did you leave the young woman in here?”
Charlotte shook her head. A golden curl fell over her eyes. She blew at it, but the blonde tress fell immediately back into place. “I was outside and she insisted on looking at a bonnet shop, but I know it was only because there was a man she was making eyes at because she wasn’t paying attention and…” The girl continued rambling, her words running together.
Patrina gave her shoulders a light squeeze. “Whoa,” she urged, feeling the faint tug of a smile at her lips. The girl fell silent. “I’ll help you home,” she assured her.
Charlotte’s eyebrows lowered and leaning away from Patrina, she folded her arms over her chest. “Why would you do that? Are you going to lure me away and cook me and eat me like the witch?”
A burst of startled laughter escaped Patrina. “That is horrid. Whatever are you talking about?”
The little girl tossed her hands in the air. “The witch in Hansel and Gretel. She lures the children away and—”
“I have no intention of luring you away and eating you,” Patrina said with deliberate somberness. She schooled her features into what she hoped was a serious mask.
The girl appeared to be weighing the validity of her assurance.
Goodness, someone really must speak to the marquess about the appropriateness of his children’s reading material. With talks of vile witches and their plans to eat a child, little Charlotte was surely kept awake by night terrors.
At long last, Charlotte nodded. “Very well, then. I give you permission to help me.” She extended a hand and stared pointedly back at her.
Patrina glanced at the tiny fingers encased in white gloves. She swallowed a pain of longing for the life she’d imagined for herself.
“Well, are you going to hold my hand or not,” Charlotte said a touch impatiently.
“I am,” Patrina said and placed her hand inside the girl’s.
Charlotte closed her fingers about Patrina’s, and that blasted lump in her throat threatened to drown her with regret. The girl stole a sideways glance up at her. “Are you all right?”
“Certainly,” Patrina said quickly.
“Because you do not seem all right. You seem all quiet and sad like Papa in his office at night when he thinks I’m abed, but I’m really hiding behind his curtains.”
At the girl’s words, something tugged at Patrina’s heart. She imagined the tall, powerful Marquess of Beaufort with the hard planes of his face set in grief, unguarded and hurting, so vastly different from the commanding lout who’d dared insult her for reprimanding his children.
Charlotte scratched her brow. “In thinking on it, you seemed sad at the park as well. Do you go to the park often, miss?”
“Every day,” Patrina confessed. Not even her sisters and mother knew of her morning jaunts. When the sun was just peeking over the horizon, ushering in the morning, she reveled in the stillness of the park, away from Society’s prying eyes.
“Oh, dear, now you’ve gone all quiet. Just like Papa.” Her little mouth quivered.
“I’m fine,” Patrina hastened to assure her. “I’m merely trying to determine the best manner in which to return you home,” she lied.
“And you do not intend to eat me?”
She shook her head. “I have no intention of eating you.”
The girl nodded, as pleased as if Patrina had offered her the last cherry tart.
Patrina gave the fingers in her hand a gentle squeeze and started toward the exit of the bazaar. They continued in silence until they reached the last table at the front of the building. Charlotte dug her heels in and tugged her hand free. “Look!” she jabbed a finger over toward a table littered with ribbons. “Might I look, my lady? Might I? I imagine Papa will not allow me to look at ribbons for a very long time after this.”