Miss Charity's Case (4 page)

“Joyce,” she whispered, “I vow to you that it shall come to rights.”

“How can it? Lady Eloise Anthony is of first respectability, and we shall appear on her doorstep with nothing but the clothes on our backs.”

“Then, if she wishes to bring you out—as she has intimated—she must see to a wardrobe for you. Think of it, Joyce! A wondrous Town wardrobe, and how lovely you shall look.”

Joyce turned and folded her sister's hands between hers. “Dear Charity, you are sweet. Mayhap this is for the best. As you said, our clothes belonged in the parsonage, not amid the Smarts.” Standing, she smiled as she whirled so her muslin gown belled about her ankles. “That's just the dandy, Charity! She will have to have new clothes made for us, even if her
modiste
must work day and night. No one from Bridgeton shall recognize us when we are the Pink of the
ton
.”

Charity let her sister prattle on. Only when she blew out the candle and settled beneath the worn coverlet with her back to her sister did Charity let her cheerfulness fall away. She could not share her sister's anticipation of the life waiting for them in London, but she must remember her plan had not seemed so
de trop
earlier. Then she had been sure that finding Joyce a husband who was plump enough in the pockets to allow Charity to live with them would be the best solution.

As she stared into the darkness, she feared it was the only one.

Three

An unsmiling footman bowed Charity and Joyce into the grand sitting room in the house overlooking Grosvenor Square. Charity wanted to put her fingers under Joyce's chin to close her gaping mouth, but understood her awe. Although she had warned her sister that their imaginations might not be able to match the truth, she could not have guessed anything might be as palatial as this house.

Friezes and wood moldings traced a pattern across the ceiling and down the gold silk walls. Tables—the legs carved in intricate patterns—surrounded a settee and chairs like lackeys awaiting their master's command. Each table was topped by beautiful
objets d'art
. Books were imprisoned behind glass doors in cabinets along the wall. Charity wondered if her great-aunt would allow her to have a key to the doors.

A scratchy voice bid them come closer. Charity's hands tightened on her small bag as she stared at a brown-haired woman sitting on a lyre backed chair. Was
this
Lady Eloise Anthony? The full-faced woman appeared no older than Joyce. Her plumpness was emphasized by her gown, which was the color of spun sunshine with its bodice high beneath her generous shelf of bosom.

A second command rang with impatience, and Charity turned to see a withered woman on the settee. Gray hair was twisted in a cascade of curls. Pearls drooped from her neck to accent her blue gown. A cane topped with a carving that looked like a bird's beak peered out through her fingers. She rapped it against the floor.

“Don't stand there gawking. I assume you have been taught the rudiments of manners.” She pointed a gnarled finger, topped with a large ruby ring, at Charity. “You must be the elder.”

“Yes, my lady,” she said, meekly, although she seethed at the insult she knew was aimed at Papa. She wanted to tell Lady Eloise that the highest level of decorum had always been practiced in the parsonage, but she dared not infuriate the old woman when they came as petitioners.

“Your name is Charity?” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Most unfortunate. Suzanne was ever a feather-brain.” Lady Eloise gave Charity no chance to vindicate her mother. “Not only do you have the misfortune to be too old, but you have been inflicted with your father's coloring. Red hair is so vulgar.” Her lined face creased in a smile as she said, “This beauty must be Joyce.”

Joyce glanced at Charity. Wishing she could let Joyce know that she was unhurt by Lady Eloise's comments, because they were, without question, the truth, Charity motioned with her fingertips for her sister to answer.

“Yes, my lady,” Joyce said dutifully.

“You look just like your mama,” Lady Eloise said as she held out her hands. “I lost Suzanne to foolishness, but Sweet Providence has returned you to me! Come here, child.”

Charity watched as her sister edged forward with as much eagerness as a child about to suffer a scold. Joyce grasped her hand with shaking fingers. This meeting might be too much for Joyce. Charity should ask if her great-aunt had smelling salts nearby.

Joyce accepted a buss on the cheek from Lady Eloise and sat next to her as requested.
Ordered
, corrected Charity in her mind.

“Do sit, Charity,” Lady Eloise continued, but her smile remained focused on Joyce. “It is impolite to cause your elders to crane their necks to look up at you.”

She selected a chair by her sister and folded her hands in her lap as she listened to Lady Eloise quiz Joyce. To each question about their journey, Joyce answered only “yes” or “no.” Charity frowned. It was unlike Joyce to be so reticent, although she had almost refused to speak to those who criticized their papa. Dismay flashed through Charity. If Joyce had taken such a quick dislike to their great-aunt, Charity must disabuse her of her misapprehensions. No matter how sharp Lady Eloise's tongue might be, they must never forget her kindness, for she could have left her two grandnieces to fend for themselves in Bridgeton.

“Joyce is fatigued,” Charity interjected when Lady Eloise paused to take a breath.

“Bah!” the old woman retorted. “Your trip was no more than a jaunt. Now, Joyce, tell me what dances you know.”

Charity accepted the rebuke in silence. Not that it was easy. Lady Eloise made it clear Charity possessed as little importance as the brown-haired woman who had not spoken. Sneaking a glance in the woman's direction, Charity noticed she was smiling like the baker's wife when she managed to squeeze a few extra pence out of a deal.

“Joyce, Charity, this is my dear friend Leatrice Hoyle,” Lady Eloise said suddenly, warning Charity that her great-aunt missed little of what took place around her. She motioned to the brown-haired woman as if she had just noticed her. “Leatrice, this is a day for celebration. Did I not tell you that someday that frightful parson would cock up his toes and leave me this dear girl to fire off as I did her mother?”

Leatrice's smile broadened as she leaned back in her chair. The motion shimmered along her gown and revealed her kid slippers. “She will need much work, Lady Eloise, before the
ton
meets her.”

Before Charity could come to her sister's defense, a serving maid murmured from the doorway, “My lady, Mr. Hoyle is here for Miss Hoyle.”

“Do send him in.” Lady Eloise smiled, her eyes settling on Charity with satisfaction. “Yes, do send Mr. Hoyle in. I know Charity will be pleased to meet him.”

Understanding what her great-aunt did not need to say, Charity's stomach tightened. It did not ease when she was introduced to Booth Hoyle, who was as round as his sister. His collar climbed his full cheeks and was tied with a wide cravat. Wearing a sedate fawn coat, he flipped back the tails as he bowed toward them.

When he eyed Charity, her great-aunt gushingly announced that Charity must go riding soon with Mr. Hoyle and his sister. The words confirmed Charity's fears. A convenient, quiet marriage to a family friend for Charity would allow Lady Eloise to concentrate her attentions on a glorious match for Joyce. It made sense, but it also meant she and Joyce would be separated. That must not be. She had promised to look out for her sister. She could not renege on that pledge.

“How wonderful you could join us for the Season,” Mr. Hoyle said in a rumbling voice, which under other circumstances would not be unpleasant. He selected a chair not far from where Charity sat. She suspected he would have bounced it closer to her, if he had thought Lady Eloise would allow such a breach of etiquette. If he had not been targeted as her future husbands—and, oh, how she hoped she was mistaken—she would have found Mr. Hoyle's puppyish smile engaging.

“Joyce and I are aware of our good fortune in having such a beneficent connection as Lady Eloise,” she answered and was rewarded with a triumphant smile from her great-aunt.

“Beneficent and wise.” He puffed out his chest until it strained the gold buttons on his waistcoat. “You must come for a ride with us, Miss Stuart. I know you and Leatrice shall become the dearest of bosom-bows. Think of the fun we shall have introducing you to London!”

“I do need an introduction,” she said faintly. “I fear I know nothing of Town.”

“Then I shall be your teacher.”

“Thank you, but I think it would be the wisest course for Joyce and me to rest a bit before we make plans.”

He did not accept the hint as he continued to stare. “You are dashed well the most handsome woman I have ever seen, Miss Stuart. May I call tomorrow to escort you on a ride to Hyde Park?” He swallowed harshly, a flush climbing from his collar to his dark hair. “I mean, of course, may Leatrice and I call?”

Joyce interrupted, “Charity is too kind-hearted to wish to injure your feelings. She
is
fatigued. It was a most tiresome excursion with difficulties we could not have envisioned when we began.”

“Difficulties?” demanded Lady Eloise in her raspy voice. “Pray tell me, child, how difficult can it be to take the mail coach from Bridgeton to London?”

Charity gasped as her sister launched into the tale, but she quickly came to see Joyce had been right to explain about the loss of their trunk. Joyce's sweet voice soon enthralled her listeners.

When Leatrice and Lady Eloise began to coo consoling sounds, she relaxed and dared to believe all would come to rights now that they had found a home with their irascible great-aunt. Or, she cautioned herself, as she found Mr. Hoyle staring at her again, as right as she could expect.

“Charity, find your sister! We have an appointment with the
couturière
within the hour. Her gown must be ready for our
soirée
. She must look perfect for her introduction to the Polite World.”

At Lady Eloise's order from the doorway of the pale yellow breakfast-parlor, Charity rose, her nuncheon untouched. She had not finished the morning paper, but it must wait. In the fortnight since they had arrived on Grosvenor Square, Charity had learned Lady Eloise's will was not to be disregarded.

The lady supervised her grandnieces as she did every other facet of her day. Not a figurine on any mantel in the house was rearranged without her permission. Woe to the maid who ignored that injunction! Lady Eloise corrected Charity and Joyce as sharply as she did the servants. Knowing how much they depended on their great-aunt's benevolence, Charity silenced her retorts.

Charity was not surprised her sister was avoiding their great-aunt today. No doubt, Joyce was as weary of the raised voices as Charity was.

Charity searched the house, a cramp of disquiet growing in her middle. For the past three days, Joyce had often vanished for up to an hour at a time. Charity had been able to keep Lady Eloise from discovering her sister's absences until now, but Charity vowed to reprimand her sister. Enjoying a walk was something Joyce could do freely in Bridgeton, but not in London.

Quickly she discovered Joyce was not in the house. Rushing up the stairs to her bedchamber, Charity collected a startled Hélène, the abigail she shared with her sister, saying, “Ask no questions. I must go out, and I do not want to make matters worse by doing so alone.”

The abigail nodded, her dark eyes dim with anxiety, but paused long enough to hand Charity a bonnet. The high crown was of pink straw, a color Charity detested, but Leatrice had lent it to Charity until the milliner could finish the walking hats Lady Eloise had ordered. Tying the checkered ribbons under her chin as they went down the back stairs, Charity herded her abigail toward the stable. She called for the gig, which her great-aunt seldom used.

“
Mademoiselle
Joyce is out by herself?” Hélène's full moon face became a sickly shade of gray. “What will Lady Eloise say?”

“She shall have no need to know if we can find Joyce right away.” Rubbing her hands together, Charity murmured, “If only I knew where to begin looking.”

“In Hyde Park.”

Charity turned to meet the age-sunken eyes of Oswald, the tiny man who ran the stable. “How do you know that?”

“She asked for a horse to take to the Park not ten minutes past.” The elderly man scowled. “I tried to convince her not to go out by herself, but she was set in her head, so I threw her up in the saddle.”

Smiling gently, she said, “Mayhap
I
can convince her to be more sensible.”

“Good idea,” he grumbled as he turned away to relay her order for the carriage to the stableboys.

Charity said nothing as Oswald handed her in and gave her the reins as Hélène sat next to her. Charity grimly urged the horse toward the street. She wanted to whip up the horse to race along the street, but no one must suspect she was doing anything but taking an early turn to enjoy the air.

What could have possessed Joyce to ride out alone? Charity's hands tightened on the reins. Hélène remained silent, but disapproval had drawn her lips into a straight line. Charity must swear her to silence. If Lady Eloise found out the truth … If the truth were discerned past the house … Charity shivered at the unthinkable thought.

She despaired more when they drove along the crowded promenades in the Park. Although she knew the
ton
enjoyed a drive before and after calls, she could barely see the trees and flowering bushes past the thick river of those savoring the warm sunshine. How would she find her sister amid this congregation?

Charity smiled absently at the men who tipped their hats to her. She had no time to dally to enjoy a conversation. Even if she had not been searching for Joyce, she was ill-dressed for the Park. A quick glance told her that her simple white muslin dress was out of place among the glorious riding habits and silk gowns.