Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Jacob was in good spirits as he returned to Downside that afternoon. He had not expected to meet Charlotte. His words to Lord Baxter about coming to see her had been entirely fabricated. But despite their initial encounter having left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, what had happened next had served to give him hope and perspective as to what was to come.

"Your Lordship seems in good spirits this afternoon," Mrs. McDonald said, when she met Jacob in the hallway to take his coat.

Jacob smiled and shook his head.

"I don't think it's going to be as bad as I feared, Mrs. McDonald," he said, and the housekeeper raised her eyebrows.

"You mean with Miss Davidson? I never know how to refer to her," the housekeeper replied.

"Yes. I'm the same. I want to call her Charlotte. I met her today. She sprained her ankle. It sounds strange to say, but her incapacity allowed the two of us a moment to talk properly. We found common ground, and I was able to offer her some reassurance as to what life would be like once we're married," he said.

"And what will it be like, my Lord?" Mrs. McDonald asked.

Jacob smiled.

"I think it'll be rather nice," he replied. Nodding to the housekeeper, he made his way to his study, his mind filled with thoughts of what was to come. A growing, unexpected sense of gratitude as to the solution to his problems.

***

"Lean on me, Miss Davidson. If it starts hurting, tell me," Sara said, as Charlotte took the first tentative steps on her sprained ankle.

It was difficult to put weight on it. The pain was still there, but there was marked improvement, and Charlotte was able to go a few steps forward before sitting down again.

"Little by little, I think," she said, looking up at Sara, who nodded.

"I think so, Miss Davidson. But it won't be long until you're walking normally again, I'm sure. Besides, it'll give you plenty of opportunity to read and write," Sara said.

Charlotte smiled. The maid was right. Her incapacity was the perfect excuse for doing just what she wanted. They were in the drawing room at Thrushcross Grange, and Charlotte wanted to go outside. Having sat for a few moments to recover her strength, she was about to get up when the drawing-room door opened and Charlotte's father appeared.

It was rare for him to make an appearance in the drawing room during the day. Usually, he confined himself to his study, where he would receive important visitors and deal with the mountain of correspondence involved in running his businesses.

"Father! What a pleasant surprise," Charlotte said.

"I've come to say goodbye. I leave for Liverpool later this afternoon. I presume your mother told you." He said, and Charlotte nodded.

Her father imported tea from the Orient, and a great deal of it arrived in Liverpool for distribution as far north as Aberdeen and the Scottish Highlands.

"She did, yes. But you won't be gone for long, will you?" Charlotte asked, knowing the arguments between her and her mother were always more pronounced when her father was not there to provide a balancing force.

"A few weeks. Your mother tells me you and the earl are getting on well. I'm glad to hear it, Charlotte. He represents an excellent prospect for you," her father said, and Charlotte smiled.

"I'm beginning to like him," she replied, for she was not about to commit to any definite decision, even as the signs were increasingly positive.

"And I'm sure he already likes you. You're a delightful young woman, Charlotte. But I still fear your obsession with writing could be your downfall. I just don't think it's the sort of thing a woman should pursue," he said, but Charlotte shook her head.

"You haven't even read a single page of anything I've written, father. How do you know it's the preserve of a man if you don't ever read something written by a woman?" Charlotte asked.

Her father smiled and shook his head.

"Other women, perhaps, but not my daughter," he said, and Charlotte now held out the first pages of the chapter she was currently working on.

Winter had come to the Scottish Highlands, and after an attack by marauders on her croft, Isabella had been forced to seek refuge in the safety of the castle, and with the laird as her protector.

"Read it, father. If you think it's bad, tell me. But if you think it's good, tell me, and be honest," Charlotte said.

She had not mentioned the earl's insistence on her pursuing her writing, and now she was curious to know what her father would say when he read her work. His eyes narrowed, darting across the page from side to side. He nodded.

"It's quite good. Though it's not the sort of thing I'd choose to read myself," he said.

Mr. Davidson was not a man given over to the expression of strong emotions, and Charlotte took his word as a compliment, rather than a reserved judgement.

"I think it's good enough to publish," Charlotte said.

She had read enough romantic novels to know what was good and what was bad. For a first attempt, Charlotte did not think her effort was a poor one. She was working hard on her novel, making progress chapter by chapter, and slowly, but surely, Isabella's story was unfolding.

"Charlotte, women don't publish novels. Not respectable women, at least. I don't want you to be disappointed. Your mother and I only want what's best for you, and I can't imagine the earl being very pleased at the prospect of your intending… this," he said, holding up the pages of the manuscript.

Charlotte was trying hard not to smile. She was thinking of the earl's words of encouragement. He was the only man, the only person, apart from Sara, who had ever encouraged her in her writing.

"Would you wager on it, father?" Charlotte asked, and her father looked at her curiously, raising his eyebrows.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, if I can have this novel published by the end of the year, you and other will agree never to criticize my writing ever again," Charlotte replied.

Her father smiled.

"And if you don't?" he asked.

"Then I'll give up writing. I won't ever put quill to paper again. I'll admit you were right and live the rest of my life as a miserable wife who has nothing better to do than pay calls on equally miserable women," Charlotte replied.

Her father shook his head and laughed.

"Very well, Charlotte. You have your wager. But it's a foolish one. Mark my words," he said, and with that, he said goodbye.

When the drawing-room door had closed, Sara looked at Charlotte incredulously.

"What were you thinking, Miss Davidson?" she exclaimed, and Charlotte now explained what the earl had said to her when Sara had gone off to fetch help on the day she had sprained her ankle.

"He knows several publishers–he has contacts who could read my work and comment on it," Charlotte said, and Sara smiled and shook her head.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Miss Davidson. You've set yourself quite a task," she said.

But Charlotte had every confidence in herself and in the earl's promises. His words had been sincere, and though she was still undecided as to whether to marry him, the thought of doing so was becoming ever more appealing. The contrast between the earl and Lord Baxter was obvious, and Charlotte knew the former would never have permitted her the freedoms offered by the latter.

"I think I'm doing the right thing, Sara. The earl and I… well, we seem to get on well," Charlotte said.

"Until Lady Olivia arrives, that is," Sara pointed out.

As ever, she was right. Olivia remained a thorn in the side, and the question of what life would really be liked married to a man whose feelings, whatever he might claim, clearly lay elsewhere remained.

"I don't know. Perhaps it won't be so bad," Charlotte said, and Sara shook her head.

"Only you can decide that, Miss Davidson. As long as you're happy, that's all that matters. But I do worry, wasn't it rather rash to make such a wager with your father? He's a man of business. He'll hold you to it," Sara said.

But Charlotte had known what she was doing. It was all a wager marrying the earl, embarking on a new life, and challenging her father, too. Would it pay off? Only time would tell, and as Charlotte sat in the garden that afternoon, scribbling across page after page with her quill, she wondered what Isabella would have done in her place.