“Ma’am, the novels are over here. I’ve a nice selection.” He directed her to a shelf to the right of the booth.
Charlotte enjoyed a good novel, but at the moment she was interested in something more scholarly to sink her teeth into. “Do you have anything on Greek history?” She’d love to read a few pages, snatch a few moments, a few words and paragraphs to savor later.
The bookseller put on a patronizing grin. “Are you buying for a gentleman friend? Surely a mere woman wouldn’t be interested in something as taxing as Greek history?” He shook his head, winking at Dudley. “I have some manuals on home management and a few recipe books here somewhere that might suit a lady like you.”
Frustration burned its way up her chest.
“What utter twaddle. I may be a ‘mere woman,’ but I am certainly capable of comprehending a history book for my own education and enjoyment. Women aren’t relegated to only perusing recipes and fiction, you know.” The words flew out in a torrent, and her voice rose. “Of all the idiotic—” Charlotte broke off when she became aware she was drawing attention.
The merchant held out his hands as if to plead innocence, glancing at the audience that had stopped to see what the fuss was about, and Dudley hunched his shoulders under his many-caped cloak, as if he wanted to disappear.
She pressed her lips together. So much for holding my tongue. When are you going to learn? She should apologize, but righteous indignation clamped her throat tight. It wasn’t the bookseller’s fault, not really. It was society … and the women who played along and perpetuated the notion that no female could have a thought deeper than a finger bowl. The vendor had merely voiced what most people assumed, and by doing so, carried the trope further.
“Charlotte Tiptree.” Her mother’s low voice cut across the ice. “Come with me, please. There’s something I wish to show you.” Her hand came up and clamped on Charlotte’s arm, drawing her away from the books. “Excuse us for a moment, Dudley.”
When they were a few yards away, in a blind alley between two vendors, Mother gripped Charlotte by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “You haven’t heard a word I said today, have you? I leave you for one minute, and you start spouting like a broken vessel. You’re embarrassing yourself. I’ve a mind to send you home so you can do no more damage to the Tiptree reputation. We have generations of prestige and good standing in London society, and I’ll be blessed if I’ll let you and your unblunted tongue ruin it for us.”
If she weren’t so cold, Charlotte would’ve been able to feel the blood rush to her cheeks. She’d done it again. Let her feelings get the better of her and take the restraint off her tongue.
She saw a long future with Aunt Philomena stretching ahead of her.
“Now, you’ll stay close to me, and if I hear you say more than ‘yes, ma’am’ or ‘no, sir’ the rest of the afternoon, I’ll put you on the first coach to Yorkshire myself. I intend to enjoy myself today, and you will do nothing more to prevent that. Do you hear me?” She gave Charlotte one more shake, her voice never rising above a harsh whisper, all the more piercing for it.
“Yes, ma’am,” Charlotte muttered past her clenched teeth.
She followed her mother over to the Bosworths, keeping her head bent, determined to walk small. Before they moved on, she stopped before the bookseller. He stiffened, as if bracing for her next onslaught.
“My apologies, sir.” She kept her voice low, but she met his eyes. “I spoke out of turn. You have beautiful books here. I hope the festival brings you great success.”
He nodded sharply but said nothing, no doubt fearful of incurring her wrath once again.
With a weight in her chest, she hurried to catch up to her mother before her absence was noted.
Booth after booth, stall after stall, they moved up and down, watching the entertainers, listening to music, admiring the wares. Dudley bought Charlotte a cup of hot chocolate and a Scotch egg served in heavy paper to catch the grease. The chocolate warmed her temporarily, but her toes were numb, and her cheeks stung in the stiff breeze. If only her clothing allowance would stretch to a fur-lined cloak like those other women in society wore … How long must they stay?
At last Mother declared they would have to depart, and Charlotte barely stifled an exclamation of relief. She’d adhered strictly to her mother’s mandate and said nothing most of the afternoon. Being so vigilant exhausted her.
At the base of the embankment stairs, Mrs. Bosworth embraced Mother, kissing her cheek. “Verona, it was a pleasure, as always.” She looked over Mother’s shoulder at Charlotte, her eyes clouded with indecision. Perhaps she was rethinking trying to matchmake for her son, at least where Charlotte was concerned.
Dudley shook Charlotte’s hand, formal and stiff, and Mr. Bosworth did the same. “Very nice to see you, Lady Charlotte. Lady Tiptree.”
“Lady Tiptree?” A woman in several layers of shabby clothing nearly stumbled to a halt on the ice near them. “Are you the countess?”
She must’ve been a handsome woman in her prime, but now she looked gaunt and thin. A streak of dirt decorated her cheek, and she clutched her cloak about her, no gloves on her hands. Her head was bare, her raven hair streaked with silver and clutched into a knot, drawing attention to her sharp cheekbones and her dark brown eyes.
Mother frowned. “Yes, I am the countess. My husband is the Earl of Tiptree. Who are you?”
The woman reared up, her eyes sparking. “Who am I? Who am I?” Her voice ricocheted off the stone steps leading up to street level, and it seemed everyone in a wide radius stopped to hear. “I’m the woman who kept your husband satisfied and happy for twenty years before he abandoned me. I’m the woman who bore Joseph Tiptree, the earl himself, a daughter only to see him turn his back on us and put us out on the street—that’s who I am.” Her hands came up, bare fingers curled like claws, and fisted at her temples, as if her outrage consumed her.
Charlotte inhaled icy air that froze her lungs. The woman swayed, and people drew back, as if getting too close might contaminate them. Mother stood rooted to the spot, the color draining from her face.
A whirl of questions roared through Charlotte’s mind. Was this woman telling the truth? Her father had kept a mistress? Or was she a lunatic, raving nonsense? But the woman had known her father’s name. His name and his title. Of course she could’ve learned them from anywhere. Was she only looking to force money from the Tiptrees? Or was she being honest?
“Aye, that’s right.” The woman spun around to glare, spitting the words to the onlookers. “Back away. Act like I’m not good enough to wipe your shoes.”
“Madam, this is neither the time nor the place.” Mr. Bosworth frowned at her, his side-whiskers bristling.
“When is the time then? Joe dumped me in the street, after I was loyal to him for years. Turned me out of the house he kept me in. He won’t see me. He won’t return my letters. And now Pippa, our daughter, is forced to make her own way.” Her body quivered as a gasp went up from the onlookers and many heads bent to whisper behind their gloves. “After he promised me he’d take care of us forever. That he’d see Pippa had a good life. I’m trapped in St. Giles trying to keep body and soul together, and my daughter is … has become …” She covered her face for a moment, but then her chin rose. “I just wanted you to know what kind of man you are married to. You have everything you need, and your daughter here will never have to worry about having food or warmth or a roof over her head, thanks to her father. But my girl, his second daughter, is forced to sell herself, something I vowed she would never have to do—” A sob cut off her voice.