Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"I think we got away with it," Charlotte said, as she and Sara returned to the house later that afternoon.

They had spent the afternoon in the blissful seclusion of the vegetable garden, disturbed only by white cabbage butterflies and an inquisitive robin, who had hopped right into Charlotte's hand. But it would soon be dinner time, and Charlotte knew she could not hide from her mother indefinitely.

She had made no progress on the opening line of her novel. But closing her eyes in the warmth of the sunshine, she had imagined herself in one of Isabella's adventures, lying in the heather on a highland moor, or standing on the highest turret of a magnificent castle looking out over a sparkling loch.

"We delayed the inevitable, Miss Davidson. But you'll have to speak to your mother, eventually. You can't hide forever," Sara replied, shaking her head.

"I'm going to ask father who that man was - the one in the garden earlier on who bumped into me," Charlotte said.

Her daydreaming about Isabella had been interrupted several times by thoughts of the encounter she had had earlier on with the stranger. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered why the man had been heading towards the house through the garden - why not simply knock at the door? He had not even had the good manners to introduce himself.

"He was probably just a business associate of your father. There're always people coming and going. Your father's a very important man," Sara said, and Charlotte sighed.

"Yes, sometimes I wish he wasn't quite so important, or busy, or well known. I'm a disappointment to him, Sara - I know I am. To them both. They wanted a boy. Someone they could leave his business interests to. Not a silly girl who spends her days with her nose in a book," Charlotte replied.

She had been thinking more about disappointment over the past few weeks. Her mothers was obvious, her father's more subtle. But there was no denying the fact of it. Charlotte knew she was loved, but she also knew she was not proceeding through life as her mother and father would have wanted. She refused the matches they made, made no attempt to further introductions for herself, and had far more interest in the characters in her head than the characters in her own life.

"You need to make a good match, Charlotte," her mother often repeated, but making a good match was not as easy as simply making a choice - it had to be mutual, and so far, no man had pursued her further than an initial introduction.

"Don't be saying that, Miss Davidson. You're nothing like that. Your parents are proud of you," Sara said, but Charlotte smiled and shook her head.

"It's kind of you to say so, Sarah, but it's not true. They wanted a boy, and failing that, they want me to marry someone who can prove worthy of my father's ambitions. But I just don't want that. I want to write my novel and… well, I don't really know. Perhaps that's the problem. I spend all my days dreaming of other things, and never what I'm supposed to be thinking about," Charlotte replied.

They had come to the steps leading onto the terrace, and in a few moments, Charlotte knew her return inside would attract the attention of her mother, who would no doubt be waiting for her. But her escape, though brief, had been blissful, and despite having made no progress whatsoever with the first line of her novel, Charlotte had at least enjoyed the peace of the garden, and the warmth of the sun.

"It's sometimes more pleasant to exist in our dreams than in our waking," Sara said, and Charlotte nodded.

"You're right - but I shouldn't complain. Lots of women would give anything for a life like mine. I should be grateful. But… well, that's it - I should be, but I'm not," Charlotte said, shrugging her shoulders, as she made her way up the steps to the terrace.

The doors into the drawing room were open, and Charlotte stepped inside, expecting to find her mother waiting for her. But to her surprise, the room was empty, and now she sank down into a chair, closing her eyes, and imagining Isabella walking by a loch.

But the thought was suddenly interrupted by the image of the stranger, colliding with Isabella on the shore of the loch. Dreams were mixing with truth, and Charlotte opened her eyes with a start, realizing she had fallen asleep.

"But why am I thinking about him?" she asked herself, angry at herself for having allowed the stranger's image to enter the pristine world of Isabella, where everything was precisely as she desired it.

Sara had gone upstairs, and Charlotte was alone, her mind now filled with thoughts of the stranger. She smiled to think of his shirt covered in ink - it served him right given the way he had chastised her. And yet there was something about him she found curious - he had been around her own age, handsome, with an almost aristocratic look about him.

Charlotte was certain she had never seen him before, even as she wondered if their paths might have crossed at one of the interminable balls or soirees her mother so often forced her to attend.

"We aspire to better ourselves," her mother would say, and mention of their royal connection was never far behind.

But try as she might, Charlotte could not determine if she had ever seen the man before, and she wondered what he had said to excuse the ink covering his shirt. The thought of it made her smile, even as she knew it was wrong to do so .

"He was angry with me," she reminded herself, still smiling as the drawing-room door opened and her mother entered the room.

"Charlotte, there you are. I've been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?" she exclaimed, glaring at Charlotte, who blushed, trying hard not to smile as the image of the stranger covered in ink persisted in her mind's eye.

"Oh… I didn't realize, mother. I was in the library, and then I was in the garden. You should've called. I wasn't avoiding you," Charlotte said, with a tone of feigned surprise.

Her mother glared at her.

"Well… you might've told me you'd be outside," she said, sitting down opposite Charlotte by the hearth.

"Was it something specific you wanted? I'm here now," Charlotte said, for she did not intentionally set out to anger her mother, even as she often managed to do so.

"Oh… it doesn't matter now. I… well, your father has something he wants to say to you. But it can wait until dinner, or are you going to disappear again?" Charlotte's mother asked.

Charlotte shook her head. She knew better than to push her luck, knowing she would not get away with being absent for the afternoon and missing dinner.

"No. I'll be at dinner. I can tell you and father about my novel. I've been trying so hard to think of a good opening line," Charlotte said, but her mother groaned.

"Oh, Charlotte, really. Must we listen again to such flights of fancy? Why must you insist on living in this dream world you create? Women don't write novels. It's… not right," she said, glaring at Charlotte, who returned her glare defiantly.

"And why not? Isn't father a self-made man? Didn't he achieve everything he has because of hard work and determination? Can't I have dreams, too?" Charlotte asked.

She was tired of being told what she could not do - of having limitations placed on her dreams and ambitions. If she wanted to be a novelist - or a painter, or a musician, or a poet - why could she not be?

"Your father's business gave us this," Charlotte's mother replied, pointing upwards and looking around the drawing room.

"Yes - happiness and contentment. And if I want to find happiness and contentment in writing novels, why shouldn't I?" Charlotte retorted.

Her mother shook her head and sighed.

"Because it won't find you a husband, Charlotte. That's why. But fear not—if you won't do it for yourself, you'll be relieved to know there're others who have your best interests at heart. Your father and I. That's why I've invited Lord Baxter to dine with us tonight. And your father, too, has a… suggestion," she said, smiling at Charlotte, who groaned.

Lord Baxter, the Earl of Chester, was a family friend. He was the same age as her father, though unmarried, and a man of dubious qualities - ambitious and arrogant. Charlotte had long been suspicious of him - and not only for his motives towards her.

He was a man who liked to get what he wanted, and a man who could not be trusted when it came to matters of business. She was certain he had designs on her father's investments and was biding his time in the hope of personal and financial gain, waiting for his chance to take advantage.

"Why can't you see what kind of man he is, mother? He's not interested in anything but himself. I detest him," Charlotte replied, folding her arms.

Her mother rolled her eyes.

"Well, he's dining with us tonight, whether you like it or not," she said, as Charlotte now rose to her feet.

"Very well. Since there's nothing I can do about it, I'll just have to be polite to him, won't I?" she said, rising to her feet.

As she did so, the unfolding of her skirts revealed the ink stain from her encounter with the stranger in the garden that afternoon, and her mother tutted.

"Oh, Charlotte - what have you got down you? Is that ink?" she exclaimed, and Charlotte looked down at her dress and shrugged.

"I've been writing, mother - a few stains are inevitable," she replied, and her mother shook her head.

"I despair of you, Charlotte. Go and get changed. And please - try to act normally this evening. Don't talk about your novel," she said.

Charlotte made no reply, leaving the room with a scowl on her face. Her mother's idea of "acting normally" was to behave like any other silly young woman - not having an opinion on anything, speaking only when she was spoken to, and limiting her comments to agreement with whatever the man she was supposed to be impressing might say.

It angered Charlotte, and she could only feel aggrieved at the thought of having to appease Lord Baxter in just this way filled her with dread. And then there was her father, too - what was it he intended for her? The question was one she did not look forward to knowing the answer to, fearing it would be another attempt at matchmaking.

"Why can't they just leave me alone?" she asked herself, as she made her way upstairs to change for dinner.

***

"Personally, I think there's a market to be had on the Indian subcontinent, too. Tea could be grown there with great success, and it would be far easier to import, particularly given our growing interests there," Lord Baxter said, raising his wineglass as Charlotte's father nodded.

"Yes… a solid investment. It's worth considering," Charlotte's father replied.

"You need to consider it, Thomas - we both do. Think of the money that could be made. I've taken the liberty of making some initial enquiries. There's so much land there - we can take what we want," he said, smiling, as he glanced at Charlotte, who was sitting opposite.

Charlotte found him vulgar. He dominated the conversation, speaking only of what interested him, and never listening to what others had to say.

"What right do you have to take land that doesn't belong to you?" Charlotte asked.

The thought of empire, of the seizing of territories in far-flung lands, had always felt uncomfortable to her. Did those who already lived there not have a say in their own destiny? Lord Baxter laughed.

"Oh, Charlotte, how na?ve you are. Do you know the size of the Indian subcontinent? It's vast. And those who live there are primitive people, hardly worthy of our consideration. They require civilizing. And that's what business ventures like that your father and I are involved in do," he replied.

Charlotte was about to respond, but her mother interrupted.

"I think we'll go through for coffee now - we'll leave the two of you to talk over the port and your tobacco," she said, rising to her feet.

Charlotte was glad to be leaving the table, and yet she felt angry at the dismissive and patronizing tone adopted by Lord Baxter. He had arrived that evening boasting of his most recent acquisition - an artwork by some notable artist he intended to put on display for public benefit - and had proceeded to boast in his achievements, telling Charlotte he intended for his legacy to be an enduring one.

"They'll probably raise a statue to me in Parliament Square - for philanthropy and the furtherance of the common good," he had said, as he had escorted her into dinner.

Charlotte now nodded to him, glad to have an excuse to leave his conversation behind.

"We'll join you momentarily, Brenda. I want to speak to Charlotte again," Lord Baxter said, before Charlotte and her mother left the dining room.

Out in the hallway, Charlotte's mother turned to her angrily.

"Why do you have to speak so rudely to our guest? Can't you make a good impression for once?" she demanded.

Charlotte glared at her.

"He's awful. I can't stand him, mother," she replied, and her mother sighed.

"If you married a man like him… well, perhaps it doesn't matter now, not if your father… but please, don't be impolite," she said.

Charlotte did not know what her mother meant by these words, but she was not about to back down from giving her opinion on the matter - or on Lord Baxter.

"Well, I'm not waiting for him, mother. I'm going to the library to work on my novel," Charlotte said.

Inspiration for the first line had finally come - inspired, ironically, by Lord Baxter - and Charlotte was eager to begin, knowing the first line was always the hardest, and it would not be long before Isabella's first adventure was written down, ready for others to read. Her mother sighed.

"Do as you wish, Charlotte. There's no point in arguing with you further, is there?" she said, and smiling at her mother, Charlotte nodded and hurried off upstairs, excited at the prospect of finally writing that elusive first line.