She nodded hesitantly, and watched Charlotte sprint over to the table of ribbons.
“Miss, is everything all right?”
Patrina started at the appearance of her maid, Mary. “Fine,” she said, following Mary’s gaze to little Charlotte lifting and studying each ribbon within her reach.
“You must do me a favor, Mary. She’s become separated from the Marquess of Beaufort. You must make inquiries as to the gentleman’s residence so we might return her to her family.”
Mary gave a brusque nod, and with a determined step, set out to make her discreet inquiries.
Patrina returned her attention to Charlotte, just as the girl held up an emerald green ribbon. “Miss, have you ever seen a more beautiful ribbon?”
She walked over and accepted the small scrap of fabric from the girl, turned it over in her hands. The vibrant green hue put her in mind of the marquess’ striking eyes. She murmured, “It is assuredly the most beautiful ribbon here.”
Charlotte’s smile widened and she nodded in agreement. She made to set it down, and her smile dipped.
“Just a minute,” Patrina said, before she fully realized what she intended. The vendor hurried over.
“May I help you, miss?”
“Just the green ribbon,” she said, and withdrew a coin from her reticule. After all, it was nearly Christmas.
The young man’s eyes went wide at the gleaming sovereign handed over to him. “Thank you, my lady. Thank you,” he repeated.
Patrina returned her attention to Charlotte. “It is yours.”
Instead of girlish excitement or any hint of appreciation, a mistrust far more befitting a girl of more advanced years, returned to her eyes. “Why would you be nice to me? I threw snowballs at you.”
“I threw snowballs back at you,” Patrina felt inclined to remind the girl.
Three lines wrinkled the girl’s brow. “You want me to buy you a ribbon, then?”
Patrina laughed. “No, I do not expect you to buy me a ribbon.” From the end of the room, she detected her maid, Mary weaving in and out of lords and ladies shopping throughout the bazaar. They eyed her with curious annoyance, as she slowed to a halt in front of Patrina.
Mary’s chest heaved up and down from her exertions. “I’ve determined the gentleman’s residence,” she said and then glanced around quickly, as if to ascertain whether her scandalous words had been overheard.
“Come along, then,” Patrina said hurriedly. Not out of any attempt at concealing her efforts. After all, not much further damage could truly be done to her reputation. She held a hand out and Charlotte slipped her fingers back into Patrina’s. On the heel of that, were the stirrings of guilt for the repercussions her actions would surely have for her sisters in future years.
Charlotte tugged at her hand. “Do you intend to tell my papa?”
Patrina tamped down a smile, knowing the prideful little girl would not welcome any amusement on her part. “I do not see how I can keep any of this from your papa,” she said.
Charlotte worried the flesh of her lower lip. “I suppose that is true,” she muttered. “Perhaps I can say nurse left me to—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No,” Patrina said a touch more firmly. “You should never hold others to blame for your own actions, Charlotte.” The words intended for the girl, as much as they were for Patrina herself.
Charlotte sighed and fell silent.
As they walked out of the bazaar onto the bustling pavement, toward Patrina’s waiting carriage, she reflected on the unspoken resentment she’d carried for her sister-in-law. Poor Juliet, whose only mistake in life was the blood she shared with Albert Marshville, which was certainly no fault of her own. Since Albert’s deception, Juliet had moved around Patrina with silent guilt in her eyes.
The driver scrambled from the top of the box and hurried to open the door. He eyed the child a moment, and then averted his gaze. Patrina murmured her thanks and handed Charlotte inside. She accepted the driver’s hand and allowed him to help her up. She settled onto the bench beside a now quiet Charlotte.
Only now, in speaking to the little girl, did she acknowledge the truth to her own gentle recrimination. Her actions that day, the decision to elope with Albert, no one had forced her into his carriage. No one had demanded she go along with his vile plans.
Mary gave the driver their directions and scrambled inside. The driver closed the door behind them, and a moment later, the carriage rocked forward.
Not even Albert could be wholly to blame. Not when Patrina had known the scandalous nature of her actions and had instead allowed the desperate need for love and affection to fuel her flight to Gretna Green.
Charlotte shifted on the bench, until her red cloak brushed alongside Patrina’s. “You look sad again,” she observed.
That would be because she was more often sad than not. “I’m sorry,” Patrina said, instead.
The girl lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “You needn’t be sorry for feeling sad,” she said with that far too-mature tone Patrina was coming to expect from the small girl. “Is it because those ladies were whispering about you?”
Patrina proceeded to choke. The Marquess of Beaufort’s daughter seemed far more astute than most ladies of Patrina’s acquaintance. A knot formed in her belly. Well, the former ladies of her acquaintance. All general friendships she’d known had died a swift death after news of her elopement had become information for public consumption. “No, that is not why,” she lied. Though, there was merit to Charlotte’s claims.
“Did your husband die like my mama?”
Her heart cracked at the unflinching directness of such words from a little girl. Goodness, the girl had a tenacity to rival all the Tidemore sisters combined. “No,” she said gently. “I’m not married.” Nor would she ever wed.
Charlotte’s brow wrinkled again. “Why? You seem old.”
From across the carriage, Mary buried a laugh in her hands.
Patrina gave Mary a pointed frown and then turned back to Charlotte. “I’m not old.”
The little girl angled her head up. “No, not old like Mrs. Watson.”
“Mrs. Watson?”
“Our housekeeper,” Charlotte said as though there were never a sillier question uttered.
“Oh, er…yes, Mrs. Watson.”
“But you should have a husband,” Charlotte said with a nod.
“Should I?” Yes, of course she should. It would seem even a young child should know that very obvious fact. Patrina should have a respectable gentleman who’d if not love her, hold her in his affection and protect her. Alas, Patrina had given up the right to all those simple things she’d taken for granted until they’d been forever snatched from her grip by her recklessness those many months past.
“Oh, yes,” Charlotte went on. “You should be married, and have babies, and go to grand balls, just as Mama did.”
Patrina bit back the urge to ask the girl questions about her now departed mother, a woman who’d been wed to the cold, curt marquess. Had he been a different man before that loss?
The little girl studied her a moment, as if silently weighing her. “You’re pretty enough. Not pretty as Mama, of course, but pretty enough to find a husband.”