Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"I don't understand why you find it so difficult, Charlotte–one foot, two foot, and back, repeat," Charlotte's mother said, tutting and shaking her head.

The two of them were riding in a carriage to Harlow, and the home of Lord and Lady Styles, who were hosting a ball for the great and the good of the district. Charlotte's mother had been boasting of the invitation, telling anyone who would listen of her rising social status in the eyes of the aristocracy.

Charlotte was less enthusiastic about the prospect of the ball, and about encountering the earl again. She simply did not know what to say to him, and she feared the interruption of Olivia, too.

"I don't know, mother. I just… well, it doesn't come naturally to me," Charlotte replied, and her mother rolled her eyes.

"Nonsense–any young lady can learn to dance. No one's born being able to dance. It's what one applies to oneself that matters, Charlotte. You chose books over… well, everything else. But look what good it's done you. None. We've got a lot of catching up to do. But thank goodness we have the earl and his proposition," Charlotte's mother said.

"A proposition I still don't understand…" Charlotte said, for it was still not clear to her what arrangement had been made between her father and the earl.

What could the earl possibly give to a man who had more money than most? Her father was rich, successful, and set to become richer and more successful. He did not need the aristocracy to further his prospects, and while Charlotte knew her mother would delight in styling herself "the mother of the Countess of Swadlincote" it was hardly a reason for going to so much trouble. But the alternative was even more curious – was it the earl who would benefit from the match? And if so, how?

"Well, it doesn't matter, Charlotte. What matters is you're making a good match with a good man," her mother replied.

"A man I hardly know, a man…" Charlotte began, but her mother was not listening, changing the conversation to a discussion about dresses as now the carriage drew up outside the imposing home of Lord and Lady Styles.

"Look at this – isn't it grand? I shall tell the Princess Louisa all about it," Charlotte's mother said, as now she opened the carriage door to climb out.

A footman had come hurrying to assist, but Charlotte's mother was too quick for him, and Charlotte shook her head, preferring to get herself down, rather than rely on anyone else. Several other carriages had now pulled up outside the house, and out of them climbed fashionably dressed men and women, nodding to one another and calling out greetings.

Charlotte was resigned to an evening spent doing all those things she would have preferred not to be doing, and as she followed her mother up the steps, she thought longingly of Isabella and the manuscript of her novel. She had completed nearly ten chapters, and with the hero and heroine introduced, the stage was set for the romance to begin.

"Mrs. Davidson, Miss Davidson, welcome," Lady Styles said, greeting Charlotte and her mother at the door.

It was an imposing entrance hall, lined with portraits, and Lady Styles and her husband were standing at one side, greeting the guests as they filed past.

"It's the greatest of pleasures, Lady Styles," Charlotte's mother said, gushing over their hostess, as Charlotte held back.

She could see into the ballroom through a door at the far end of the hallway, and now she noticed Olivia, standing with her back to her, surveying the scene. Was she watching the earl? Was he already here?

"And we understand you're to marry the Earl of Swadlincote, Miss Davidson," Lady Styles said, and Charlotte was brought back to her senses.

"What… oh, yes… I believe so," Charlotte said, glancing at her mother, who grimaced.

"What Charlotte means to say is how happy she is at the prospect of marrying the earl. The proposal came quite out of nowhere–but we're very blessed by it. Aren't we, Charlotte?" her mother said, and Charlotte had no choice but to nod and smile.

Mercifully, another set of guests had just arrived, and Charlotte and her mother now moved towards the ballroom.

"Charlotte, try to show some… decorum," her mother whispered.

The ballroom was already full, and a dance had just finished, the couples bowing and curtseying to one another as they stepped back from the throng. Olivia was now nowhere to be seen, but Charlotte noticed the earl standing by himself over by the refreshment table. She had expected him to be dancing, but now she wondered if he had been waiting for her…

"I am, mother," Charlotte said, and her mother shook her head.

"Then you and I have very different ideas as to what decorum means, Charlotte. But look, there's the earl–he's coming this way. Please, I beg you, don't make a fool of yourself–or of me," Charlotte's mother said, as now she forced a smile to her face, greeting the earl with gusto.

"I wasn't sure if you'd come. You've not been before, I take it?" the earl asked, and Charlotte's mother shook her head.

"No… one needs the correct… association," she said, and the earl nodded.

Charlotte was standing behind her mother, and she now had the opportunity to observe the earl a little more closely. There was no doubting his handsome looks, and it seemed strange to think he needed any help in finding a wife. Was there not someone here who would fit his expectations better? He caught Charlotte's eye and smiled.

"Good evening, Miss Davidson. We have a dance this evening, I believe," he said.

"Do we?" Charlotte asked, for her dance card was still unmarked–after all, they had only just arrived.

Charlotte's mother now cleared her throat.

"Yes, my Lord, that's right–you and Charlotte will dance the next dance, and the dance after that, and… well, courting couples don't really need dance cards, do they?" she said, and the earl smiled.

"No, I suppose they don't, do they? They'll be starting shortly–the musicians, I mean. They're just tuning up their instruments," the earl said, glancing over his shoulder.

Charlotte felt awkward. She was certain she would step on his feet, or lead left when it should be right, or make some other mistake, leaving her open to ridicule. The earl now offered her his arm and smiled.

"I'm really not much of a dancer," she said.

Her mother glared at her.

"You might not be the most experienced dancer here this evening, Charlotte, but don't talk yourself down. She's really quite good, my Lord," Charlotte's mother interrupted.

The earl smiled, still offering Charlotte his arm.

"Please… I'd be glad if you did," he said.

Again, Charlotte wondered about his words. Did he really mean it? Or was this all just a show–but to benefit who? Was he perhaps trying to make Olivia jealous? That would have made a fine plot for Isabella–the laird, torn between two women, trying to discover which of them favoured him.

But in truth, Charlotte thought the answer was probably more mundane. The earl was being polite, and if they were to be married, they would have to get used to dancing with one another–and a great deal more, too.

"Yes…" Charlotte replied–before her mother could do so for her.

The ballroom was large and imposing, and a throng of couples now gathered for the next dance, with others making a semi-circle around them to watch. The musicians had finished tuning their instruments, and Charlotte took the earl's hand in hers, curtseying, as they assumed their positions.

She already felt confused, not knowing how to set off or when to step back. Charlotte hoped it would soon become clear, but as the music began, she feared making a terrible mistake and embarrassing herself in front of everyone.

"There're a lot of people here this evening," the earl said, and Charlotte nodded. Could she dance and talk at the same time?

"Yes, I've never been to this ball before. It was kind of Lord and Lady Styles to invite me," Charlotte replied, glancing down at her feet.

She had come precariously close to treading on his toes, and as she looked up, she stepped forward, bumping into him, their lips almost meeting as she did so.

"Steady on… haven't you learned to dance?" he asked.

"Yes… well, my mother tried to teach me, but… as I said, I'm not very good," Charlotte replied.

Again, she thought back to the novels she had read–to the effortless manner in which any woman asked to dance by a handsome man glided across the dance floor. They always made it seem so easy–dancing, talking, laughing, and ending with a kiss. But this was nothing like Charlotte had read about. It was awkward, and it would be a miracle if she survived without tripping over her own feet–or those of the earl.

"A few more lessons wouldn't hurt. Keep your chin up. Don't keep looking at your feet–you'll only bump into me again. Let me guide you," he said, and Charlotte did so.

This advice improved matters a little, and it was the earl who now led the dance, the two of them twirling and whirling in what might charitably have been a waltz. But as the music came to an end, Charlotte let out a sigh of relief. The earl raised his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean… it's just… I'm not very good at this," Charlotte said, as they stepped back from the throng.

The earl shook his head and smiled. He had a pleasant smile–he smiled with his eyes as well as his mouth–and Charlotte blushed, knowing she was making a fool of herself, even as she could not help it.

There was no escaping the fact she found situations such as this difficult. Books, libraries, armchairs to read in, the hush of whispered conversation beneath a willow tree–these were things Charlotte imagined when she was asked what her pleasures consisted of in.

A ball, the liveliness of a dance, the exuberance of a social gathering–these were all things she feared because she had no experience of them. Here, she was out of her depth, and longed to escape back into Isabella's world–or that of any number of the heroines she read about.

"You'll have to learn, then–it's not difficult to learn to dance," the earl said, and it seemed he had somewhat missed the point as to what she meant.

Charlotte nodded.

"I think I'll go and get some refreshment–a glass of cordial, perhaps," she said, for she did not like the idea of drinking the punch she could smell so potently in the glasses of those around her.

"I'll come with you," the earl said, and he accompanied Charlotte across the ballroom to an anteroom where refreshments were being served on an ornately decorated table, at the center of which was a large, glass punchbowl.

"Just the barley water, thank you," Charlotte said, as the earl offered her a drink.

"Nothing stronger?" he asked, pointing to the punchbowl, but Charlotte shook her head.

"No… it doesn't agree with me," she replied.

Charlotte did not like to drink–a glass of wine was enough to send her to bed with a headache–but to his credit, the earl nodded, helping himself to punch after pouring Charlotte a glass of barley water. There was all manner of dainty treats on display–cakes, tartlets, and savouries, all beautifully arranged–and Charlotte helped herself, before joining the earl at a small table in the corner of the room.

"There, now–it's nice to get away from the crowd," he said, sitting down opposite her.

"You don't like crowds?" she asked.

Charlotte was surprised–she had assumed a man like him would be a sociable type. The sort that thrives in the company of other people and finds their own company unbearable. But now he nodded and smiled.

"Yes, I don't get on well with crowds. I'm not a very sociable person. I never really know what to say in a group. By the time I've thought of something interesting to say, the conversation's moved on," he said, shaking his head.

Charlotte knew just how he felt. Whenever her parents hosted a dinner or soiree, she would sit and listen to the conversation, building up to the moment when she would be emboldened to speak. But inevitably, the point would already have been made, and her own interjection would be lost. It was refreshing to hear she was not the only one who struggled with such things.

"I feel just the same. Whenever my mother gives one of her awful dinner parties… well, I don't mean…" Charlotte said, blushing at her own over-familiarity.

She hardly knew the earl, and yet now she was talking to him on familiar terms. But, of course, if they were to be married, she would come to know him very well–it was a strange feeling: a stranger who also an intimate.

"I understand–you don't need to explain," the earl said.

This was a different side to him–one Charlotte had not expected. She had thought him to be something of a rake–she had certainly assumed as much. But in contrast to the arrogant aristocrat, she had taken him for–the incident with the ink not having given her a favourable opinion of him–he seemed to prefer the company of one, or even just himself. Charlotte was curious, and for the first time since they had been introduced, she found herself interested in him, and in keeping his company.

"And what do you like to do in your solitude?" Charlotte asked.

She knew her mother would not approve of such a question, leading as it would do to the same question for her. She would tell the earl about writing, and how she was planning to publish a novel. She would tell him about the books she liked to read–and the books she intended to read. But what would he think of her then?

"I like to think–I know that sounds foolish, perhaps. But I find the world to be so noisy. A moment alone is a moment of peace — a time to think. I'm always so busy–an earl finds himself demanded by so many. It's not often I just get a moment to think," he replied.

Again, Charlotte was pleasantly surprised. She had not expected him to say this. It seemed at odds with the character he displayed in public, and perhaps this was just an act — a mask disguising the man he was beneath. It was refreshing, and despite herself, Charlotte was beginning to enjoy his company. She was intrigued by him, and it was obvious he was trying to make an effort with her.

"It's very true. I feel the same sometimes–I even try to escape from my maid. She's a friend to me, but sometimes I just want to be on my own. I can only imagine what it's like to bear the responsibilities you have," Charlotte said.

A shadow now came over his face, and he nodded.

"Yes… it's not always easy… but I shouldn't trouble you with such things," he said.

"Oh, but if we're to be married…" Charlotte began, but before she could continue, a familiar figure appeared in front of them — it was Olivia.

She was dressed in a green gown with lace trim and had a shawl around her shoulders. She had an imperious–judgemental–look on her face, and she glared at the earl, who immediately tried to appease her.

"Oh, Olivia–I… won't you join us?" he asked.

Charlotte forced a smile to her face. She did not particularly relish the thought of Olivia joining them, though it seemed she would have no choice but allow her to do so, given the earl was now pulling up a chair for her. His attentions were now entirely directed towards her, even as she continued to glare at him. It was a remarkable transformation; one Charlotte could not understand.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," Olivia said, tutting and shaking her head.

"I've just been here with Miss Davidson," the earl replied, glancing briefly at Charlotte, who once again felt like a spare spoke in a wheel.

It was not fair of the earl to treat her like this–to so obviously display his preference for Olivia's company–and the goodwill he had earlier endeared in her was now lost. Charlotte had no intention of sitting with Olivia for the rest of the evening, and she now determined to excuse herself at the earliest possibility.

"I thought we were going to dance," Olivia said, and the earl blushed.

"Ah… well, I was going to look for you. But we needed some refreshment. It gets so awfully hot on the dance floor," the earl said, and Olivia raised her eyebrows.

"Yes, I'm sure it does. You could get me a drink, Jacob–hasn't it occurred to you I might wish for some refreshment, too?" Olivia asked, and the earl–whom it was strange to hear referred to as "Jacob," blushed.

"Yes, certainly–you there, steward, a glass of punch for my companion," he called out.

The steward nodded and hurried off towards the refreshment table.

"I'm not enjoying the evening, Jacob," Olivia said, though she gave no reason why not.

The earl shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Olivia… I'd hoped it might be…" he began, but Olivia now snapped at him.

"What? Better than this? I find myself abandoned by you. My father allowed me to come this evening in the knowledge you'd be my company for the evening. He trusts you, Jacob. You've let him down. And you've let me down, too. Now, where's my drink?" Olivia demanded.

Charlotte was astonished at this outburst–Olivia was surely the rudest person she had ever encountered–and now she watched as the earl tried to placate her. It was a somewhat pathetic display, and Charlotte had a good mind to get up from her chair and walk away, leaving the two of them to it.

"I think I'll go and take the air," Charlotte said, rising to her feet.

But with her back turned, Charlotte had failed to notice the return of the steward with Olivia's drink on a tray, and as she turned, she collided with him, sending the drink all over Olivia.

"You… you… you foolish little idiot… my dress… my beautiful gown. It's ruined," Olivia exclaimed, and all eyes were now turned to her as she sprang to her feet, looking down at herself before pointing angrily at Charlotte, who now began to apologize profusely.

"Oh… Olivia… Lady Olivia, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean… it was an accident," Charlotte said, as the earl hurried to fetch a napkin from the refreshment table, holding it out to Olivia, who snatched it and began to wipe the punch from the front of her dress.

"It's just punch, Olivia… it'll dry," the earl said, and Olivia turned to him angrily, throwing the napkin back at him, as all eyes remained on the scene unfolding before them.

"Ruined–she threw it at me," Olivia exclaimed, even as Charlotte now protested more forcefully.

She had not intended to embarrass Olivia or ruin her dress. It had been a genuine accident, and she felt terribly guilty about it. But the truth and the appearance were distinct, and Charlotte felt certain she knew just what Olivia was thinking.

"I didn't do anything of the sort. I just collided with the poor steward. I'm really terribly sorry, Olivia. Please… let me help you. We could go to the powder room. Jacob's right–it'll dry," Charlotte said, forgetting herself for a moment.

Oliva let out a further cry–a complete overreaction to the circumstances. She was behaving like a spoiled child, and now she stamped her foot, clenching her fists as she let out another angry cry.

"I don't want to go to the powder room. I want to go home. Take me home, Jacob," she exclaimed.

The earl glanced at Charlotte with an apologetic look on his face. But there was really nothing that could be done except give Olivia what she wanted. It was a pathetic display of self-entitlement and indulgence on the part of the earl, who now nodded and tried to guide Olivia away from the scene.

"Yes, absolutely. Here, let me help you," he said, but Olivia pushed him away.

"I'm not an invalid, Jacob. I can walk. But I don't appreciate being covered in punch by a foolish little…" she began, but her words were lost in the earl's soothing tones.

"There, there, Olivia–it's all right. I'll summon the carriage," he said, and with a final glance back at Charlotte, he led Olivia away.

Around her, others were shaking their heads and whispering to one another, and Charlotte's mother now came hurrying up to her, staring at her accusingly.

"What's happened? Where's the earl gone?" she hissed.

Charlotte did her best to explain, but she knew her mother would take the side of Olivia and blame her–and she did.

"I didn't do it deliberately," Charlotte said, as her mother admonished her.

"Really? Is that so? You didn't do it to get rid of him, then?" she asked, and Charlotte shook her head.

"No, mother, why would I do that? I was enjoying the conversation we were having. Until she arrived," Charlotte replied, glancing over to where Olivia was still berating the earl over her dress and demanding to be taken home.

Her mother glared at her.

"I know you don't want this, Charlotte. I know you'd rather spend the rest of your days reading and writing and not caring one bit about your prospects. But as your mother, I have to care about your prospects. You can't live your life as a spinster–won't allow it. I don't want any more of this nonsense. Do you understand me?" she said, fixing Charlotte with a pointed gaze.

Charlotte nodded. There was no point in arguing with her mother. Once her mind was made up, that was that–and she had made up her mind as to the circumstances that had just occurred. But Charlotte had really not meant to upset Olivia in this way, and now she wondered how a writer might rescue the situation.

"I suppose I could take the blame. But why should I? It was an accident. I could apologize to Olivia–but what would I be apologizing for? An accident doesn't need an apology, does it? Or I could talk to the earl–but he seemed so foolish over it all. Why does he pander to her so? All she does is berate him," Charlotte thought to herself, as later she and her mother rode home together in their carriage

"Do you know much about Lady Olivia Wright?" Charlotte asked.

Her mother had had her eyes closed, but now she looked up with a puzzled look on her face.

"Not really, no. Why? What does it matter?" her mother asked, and Charlotte sighed.

"Mother… didn't you see the two of them together? She has the earl wrapped around her little finger. But I don't understand it–she's not interested in him romantically, but it's as though she's jealous of his being involved with anyone but her. And yet she doesn't want to be involved with him. She knows the two of us are to be married. It's been announced. I just don't understand," Charlotte said, shaking her head.

There was a great deal she did not understand about the arrangement with the earl. But Olivia's involvement was yet another curiosity, one Charlotte could not make any sense of. Her mother shrugged.

"Why must you always concern yourself with things that don't matter, Charlotte? Why can't you just be glad to have a man of title and wealth who wants to marry you?" her mother asked.

"But that's just the point, mother. It's not me he wants to marry. It's her," Charlotte replied.

She had read enough romantic stories to know how easily jealousy could consume a person. It was a horrible, all-encompassing emotion, and not one Charlotte wished to feel. But could she really be jealous of a woman loved by the man who was supposed to love Charlotte, and yet with who Charlotte was not in love with. It was a very curious thought. Her mother raised her eyebrows.

"And what makes you say that?" she asked.

Charlotte groaned.

"Didn't you see the two of them together? As soon as Olivia arrived, his attentions were turned to her–though I can take some solace in the fact her attentions were far less pronounced. She's not interested in him romantically–she just uses him to her advantage. But he panders to her–it's quite remarkable. I've never seen such an obvious division. He's besotted with her, but she shows no signs of reciprocating," Charlotte replied.

The thought of entering into a marriage under such conditions was unthinkable, and yet again, it raised the question of why the earl had made an arrangement with Charlotte's father as to their marriage when his romantic inclinations were so obviously turned in a different direction.

"Well… I don't know. It's you he's going to marry, Charlotte. That's all that matters, isn't it?" her mother replied, but Charlotte shook her head.

"How would you like it if father was always looking to another woman instead of you? Wouldn't you feel somewhat aggrieved?" Charlotte asked.

They had now arrived at Thrushcross Grange, and in the fading light, Charlotte could not quite make out her mother's expression–exasperation? Resignation? She sighed and shook her head.

"I'd simply be glad of a husband, Charlotte. Now, come along, I'm sure you're as ready for bed as I am," the countess said, and that was the end of the conversation.

But as Charlotte lay in bed that night, pondering the events of the evening, she could not help but feel just a little aggrieved. She had enjoyed talking to the earl, and they had even found some things they had in common–not least, a liking for solitude. But Olivia's arrival had changed everything–the earl had changed, and it was as though he could not pull himself away from the past, or the feelings and emotions it held for him.

"But he'll have to if we're married," Charlotte told herself–the "if" remaining the foremost question in her mind.