Charlotte Drake knew she was treading on thin ice again. Not only by pointing out that her mistress’s eyes resembled a faded flower, but by addressing Lord Mapleton in the first place.
Oliver would throttle her if she got sacked again. As it was, her brother and his wife, Betsy, barely had enough room to accommodate their own family. They certainly didn’t have additional provisions to care for her.
She would never forget her brother’s horrified expression when she’d shown up on his doorstep thirteen weeks ago. They’d expected she would dwell with father for another decade or two, possibly three, at the vicarage. Not one person could have predicted his untimely death. He’d only been fifty-three, for heaven’s sake! It was circumstances such as these that had Charlotte questioning God’s judgment at times.
Especially his taking her mother’s life upon her own birth.
Dismissing the painful thought, her mind wandered.
She should have married Jonathan Birch when he’d offered four years ago. Surely being a wife could not have been worse than catering to the demands of Miss Susan Fairchild.
She shrugged off her musings, all too aware that Lord Mapleton watched her warily.
“Are you going to make and offer then?” Charlotte could not help but ask. It was all Lady Denton and Miss Fairchild had been talking about since Charlotte took up her post this week.
Again, Lord Mapleton raised his brows at her words. She eyed their fullness, the dark brown color, and their finely shaped appearance. Just beneath the tall hat perched atop his person, dark blond hairs framed his perfectly sized head. As far as gentlemen went, he really was one of the finer looking ones. Miss Fairchild could do much worse, that was for certain.
Any of the husbands of her former employers caused Lord Mapleton to shine in comparison. And not just in looks, either.
In character… She had a sense about such things.
She’d sensed that Mr. Merkle was trouble at the onset of that particular post.
A tremor of disgust ran through her at the memory of her last employer’s hands ‘accidentally’ brushing across the tops of her breasts. And Mrs. Merkle had shown no sympathy whatsoever. In fact, she’d blamed Charlotte for her husband’s nefarious behavior.
“Did you seriously take it upon yourself to ask me if I was going to propose to your mistress, Miss…?”
“Drake.” She supplied, holding out her hand. “Charlotte Drake.”
Again, with those eyebrows of his. But oh, dear. The nearby group silenced as they stared back at them. Of course, a servant did not offer her hand to a lord!
Class distinction. Class differences. She’d experienced it all of her life, with her father’s parishioners. How different it was to now endure the subtle and not so subtle differences from an even less advantageous perspective.
She dropped her hand and began reaching into the pockets of her coat. “I had one somewhere, my lord.” She spoke in her most obsequious voice while withdrawing a handkerchief. She handed it to Lord Mapleton who then slowly took it. Although he looked startled, he stuffed it into his pocket without contradicting her.
Ah, she’d known he must be something of a good person.
“Thank you, Miss Drake.”
And then he bowed.
What was he doing?
He failed to comprehend the huge blunder he was making until too late. This time he was the one forced to recover. Fumbling back into his pockets, he withdrew the handkerchief once again and then dropped it to the ground. He then bent the rest of the way down and scooped it up.
Charlotte slid a sideways glance at the new arrivals. Had they noticed? One of the older women narrowed her eyes in their direction. Did the woman think Charlotte was flirting with an earl? Instead of allowing her inclination to return the lady’s scowl, Charlotte dropped her gaze submissively.
She could have choked on a sob in that moment, because God help her, she didn’t know if she could do this.
Miss Fairchild marched over. “Go inside, Drake. And advise my mother that I no longer have need of a chaperone.” Miss Fairchild ordered. “I no longer have need of you.”
Oh dear!
The older woman who’d seemed suspicious made a few tsking sounds but the younger looking women gave her a sympathetic smile. She seemed familiar, somehow.
Blondish hair. Friendly eyes. Oh, but she must be Lord Mapleton’s sister. And the man beside her was obviously his brother. They all exhibited the unmistakable aristocratic demeanor, but not in the same way as other members of the upper class she’d met. Their expressive eyes lacked the arrogance of the likes of the Fairchilds, the Merkles and the Smythes.
“Yes Miss Fairchild.” She uttered the expected words, and then catching herself, curtsied quickly before turning for the house.
“Miss Drake.” It was the earl’s voice which halted her. “Your handkerchief.”
Keeping her head down, she scrambled back and swiped it from his hand. Only when she had returned to Miss Fairchild’s chamber did she realize he’d given her one of his own.
The small cloth had obviously been laundered numerous times, as the embroidered designs had long since faded. Delicate leaves were sewn around the monogram. Far more than would have been considered adequate.
Someone had made the handkerchief specially for him, Charlotte surmised. She wondered if it had been his sister, or his mother, or some other special lady.
Stuffing into her pocket, she made a mental note to herself to return it.
“What did he say to you?” Two hours later, Charlotte endured Susan Fairchild’s inquisition as she assisted the girl out of her day dress.
She had already received a sound scolding from the housekeeper. Mrs. Gibson had warned her that if she spoke up without being asked one more time, Lady Denton would send Charlotte away immediately and without a reference.
“I caught you speaking with him.” The girl’s voice was muffled by the material draping over her face. “I demand you tell me what he said.”
So, Susan was not perhaps so very certain of Lord Mapleton’s intent. Charlotte thought quickly of anything to reassure her. “He asked me if I thought you would have him.” It was a lie but… a harmless one. One that might improve Charlotte’s own position in that moment. “He asked… um, if you were excited at the prospect of becoming Countess, um… Mapleton.”
Susan’s head emerged, a satisfied expression on her face. Charlotte’s fabrication had accomplished exactly what she’d hoped.
“He did? I wondered if that was what he was saying. What else would an earl have to discuss with a servant? And what did you tell him?”
“What would you have had me tell him?” She countered. For until today Charlotte had only heard talk of his estate and his money and how all the debutantes this spring would be most jealous that Miss Fairchild landed one of England’s most sought-after gentlemen.
Susan bit her lip. “I suppose I would have you tell him that, of course, I would accept him. Why ever would I not? He is an earl! I shall become Lady Mapleton.”
Charlotte could almost feel sorry for these nobs. They married for reasons other than love and then sought pleasure elsewhere. “I told him you found him utterly handsome and kind—that you thought he had the warmest eyes and lovely hair. I told him you could hardly wait to be caught under the mistletoe…” Had she gone too far?