“Now,” her mother said, brisk and businesslike as she rose from her chair. “Put that book away and get your cloak. We’re going to start as we mean to go on. I’ve received an invitation to meet some friends at the Frost Festival. It opens today, and there will be lots of people there with whom to mingle. All the most fashionable persons will turn out for the occasion. I will expect you to be polite to those we meet. In fact, say as little as possible, and you’ll be fine. Dress warmly. I can’t remember a winter this cold, and it’s bound to be worse on the river.”
Charlotte had about as much experience holding her tongue as she did flirting. She set her jaw mutinously, but she obeyed, taking the book along with her to her room, lest her father come across it and confiscate it.
An hour later when Charlotte stepped out of the carriage at the top of the steps leading down to the Thames, her mother’s claims of cold seemed an understatement. Icy wind scudded over the cobbles and whipped at her bonnet ties. For the first time in years, the weather had been so bitterly cold that the river had frozen completely. Enterprising souls had used this phenomenon to revive the Frost Festival, and crowds had gathered for the entertainment.
“Come. I’ve arranged to meet someone on the quay.” Her mother gathered her woolen cloak about her, her cheeks already pink with cold but her eyes bright and eager. Mother, like the rest of the ton, loved any reason to socialize, and the temperature wouldn’t daunt her if it meant a chance to gather with friends.
Charlotte burrowed her hands into her knitted muff and followed Mother down the steps, careful where she placed her feet on the uneven stone. All around her, people laughed and called, vendors hawked their wares, and children wove and dove between the revelers.
Smoke from braziers and campfires whipped around, propelled by the stiff breeze, and the aromas of cooking meat and yeasty ale enticed investigation.
A small city had sprung up on the solid surface of the river—booths, tents, shacks. Straw had been strewn in paths to make impromptu “streets.” Standing as they were above the icy surface on the pier, Charlotte observed a juggler entertaining a crescent of onlookers, and she spied a thin urchin dipping into the pocket of one jovial man while he was distracted.
She checked that her reticule was secured around her wrist and nestled deep into her muff. All summer long she had been saving to purchase a subscription to a lending library for the time she would be in London. Her father rarely turned any money over to her, and she’d had to hoard and scrape to purchase each of the treasured books in her collection. She couldn’t afford to be robbed if she was to have new reading material this Season. A subscription would allow her to read as much as she wanted of books she could never afford to purchase.
“There they are.” Mother took Charlotte’s elbow and tugged her toward the end of the pier. “And they’ve brought Dudley.”
A groan worked its way up Charlotte’s throat, and her shoulders sagged. They were meeting the Bosworths? Dudley Bosworth? Mother hurried toward her friends while speaking in a low tone. “If you won’t take care of the matter of finding a husband yourself, I’m going to have to intervene. Now, be nice.”
All too soon Dudley was bowing over her hand, his rounded face parting in a reluctant smile. “H … hello, Lady Charlotte.”
Was his face red from cold, or was he blushing?
Remembering her mother’s admonition to keep her mouth shut, Charlotte said nothing, only nodding to him. He’d paid some court to her last Season, probably pushed into it by his mother, for he suffered greatly from awkwardness around girls. Charlotte hadn’t been interested then. She wasn’t interested now. Dudley was nice enough, she supposed, but he was about as exciting as blancmange.
“Charlotte was just telling me how eager she was to see you again. She couldn’t wait to come to the festival, knowing you’d be here,” Mother said, sending a warning glance Charlotte’s way, forbidding any contradiction to this bald-faced lie.
“We were delighted to know you were coming, my dear.” Mrs. Bosworth looked fondly from her son to Charlotte. “Dudley was most anxious to see you too.” She inclined her head a little, as if encouraging Dudley to say something. He shot a startled glance at his mother and then covered it up by nodding vigorously.
So that was the direction in which the land lay. Ambushed by their parents. Charlotte turned away under the guise of dealing with the wind wrapping her plain woolen cloak around her, and a bookseller’s stall caught her eye below. If only she could escape to that little oasis in the crowd.
“Let’s take in some of the festivities, shall we?” Mr. Bosworth clapped his gloved hands together and then rubbed his palms against one another, as if anticipating all he would see and do.
Dudley stood between Charlotte and her mother, shifting his weight. He half offered his arm to Charlotte, and the other to her mother, then stilled.
His father solved the dilemma. “You escort Charlotte, my boy.” He held out both elbows to his wife and Mother, and they strolled back along the length of the pier, leaving Dudley and Charlotte to come along behind.
Taking his arm meant removing her hand from her muff, a proposition she didn’t relish. She was more than capable of walking without support, and her hand would freeze through her glove. Still, proprieties. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.
“It … it’s good to see you again,” Dudley said. “I hope you had a pleasant Christmas.”
“Yes, thank you,” she lied, remembering the strident irritation of Aunt Philomena’s petulance. She would be good. She wouldn’t say or do anything to embarrass her mother or Dudley. She would hold her tongue. She would not be packed off to Yorkshire like a naughty child.
She hoped she was up to the task.
People jostled and pushed in around them, and Charlotte felt her muscles tightening. She didn’t like crowds. Her eyes darted, looking for avenues of escape amongst the throng.
The descent from the pier to river level brought a new perspective. She now looked up the embankment at the street, a view she’d never had before. Dudley proved useful, guiding her through the shoppers and revelers to one of the straw-strewn paths. Her mother and the Bosworths had stopped at a cart to admire a display of silk shawls, but Charlotte pulled gently on Dudley’s arm in the direction of the bookseller she’d spied from above. If she had to be here, she was going to see something she liked.
The man minding the bookstall doffed his cap and blew on his hands. His gloves had no fingertips, possibly to make him more adept at picking up and leafing through his merchandise, and as a consequence, his fingers were red as cherries.
“Sir, you look like a scholar. Are you hoping to stock your library? I’ve several impressive volumes that would look magnificent on your shelves.” He spoke to Dudley, ignoring Charlotte.
Dudley shook his head, sputtering. “No, no, sir. I’m not looking for books.”
A pity.
Charlotte touched the spines of a tray of books set at an angle to display their titles. She loved everything about books—the beautiful bindings, the mesmeric endpapers, the heft, the smell. And that was not even counting the words and worlds they held. Her own small library of getting on for a dozen volumes was her most precious possession, each book carefully saved for, pored over, and treasured.