Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"The evening was a success then, my Lord," Harold asked, as he helped Jacob get ready for bed.

Jacob sighed and shook his head. He had not thought the evening to have been a particular success–it had been far from enjoyable. Olivia had been difficult, and Jacob had found himself feeling humiliated at the thought of the power Thomas Davidson now held over him. He had tried to make an effort with Charlotte–she was attractive and had considerable skill in conversation–and yet his thoughts had always returned to Olivia.

"Well… I don't think there's any doubt as to my marrying the merchant's daughter. It's all arranged," Jacob said, holding out his arm for the valet to remove his cufflinks.

He had chosen the gold ones that evening–tired of showing he was poor as well as knowing himself to be. It was a miserable situation. A man like him should not have to beg and borrow–or rely on a merchant to offer him his daughter's hand in exchange for the settling of his debts. What had the world come to? It was as though the old order was being turned upside down.

On the continent, they were beheading the aristocracy with the guillotine, but in England, they were merely strangling them with new wealth–forcing the last of the noble families into submission to ever growing middle classes. It was an unbloody revolution, and Jacob had found himself on the losing side.

"But you don't want to, my Lord?" the valet asked.

He had a gentle way of questioning Jacob–his words couched in such a way as to make the question as much a piece of advice as an enquiry.

"I… well, she's nothing like me," Jacob said.

He did not want to like Charlotte–he wanted to like Olivia. She was the one he was in love with, or so he had told himself repeatedly during the carriage drive home. And yet Jacob had known Olivia long enough to know she did not share his feelings. If she had done, she would have done something about it by now. They were friends–though there were times when Jacob even wondered if that was the case. Olivia could be difficult–cruel, even–in her words.

"No, my Lord–but does that matter?" Harold asked.

"Well… I suppose not. But one needs things in common. I don't just mean interests, but there're certain ways of doing things," Jacob replied.

The valet nodded.

"And you don't think Miss Davidson does things in that certain way?" he asked–still with that tone of advice and question.

Jacob faltered. It was not that he disliked Charlotte. He did not know her well enough to form an opinion. She was pleasant enough, and their conversation, though stilted, had passed the evening adequately. But they came from such different worlds–though money, or a lack of it, was a common denominator. Jacob had a title and was respected for that.

Charlotte's father had money, and was making ever more and more of it, and he was respected for that. Those without a title but with money would covet those with a title. A title was a mark of success–of good breeding and status.

And yet without money, a title really meant nothing. The two went together, and it was for that reason the agreement between Jacob and Charlotte's father had been made. There was mutual benefit in it–as much as it pained Jacob to admit it.

"I suppose I don't know her well enough. But they're new money, aren't they? People like that never really know how to behave, do they?" Jacob replied.

He knew he was being a snob–it was the sort of thing Olivia would say. In the past, such words had not disturbed him. But if he was to marry Charlotte, he, too, would be viewed with the same disdain.

"He married beneath himself"–that was what they would say. To marry beneath oneself was at times a necessity for a woman–the third daughter, or the ugly duckling. Such things were acceptable, if smirked about behind the person's back. But for a man to do so–and a man of Jacob's position, too…

"Have you given her a chance, my Lord? She might surprise you. If anything, perhaps she'll behave better than Lady Olivia does," Harold said, raising his eyebrows.

Jacob sighed. He might have admonished Harold for his words–had he not counted him as a confidant, and had his words not had a ring of truth about them. Olivia was rude. She was rude to the servants, rude to her father, rude to those whose opinions differed from her own, and often rude to Jacob, too.

Jacob made excuses for her, apologizing to the likes of Mrs. McDonald when Olivia's words went beyond what was acceptable. Harold was right in his suggestion–it would take a lot for Charlotte to be worse than Olivia.

"Yes, well… Olivia… Lady Olivia speaks her mind. I don't know what Miss Davidson thinks. She hasn't revealed a great deal about herself. I think she likes books–reading and writing," Jacob said, and the valet nodded.

"She sounds the very opposite of Lady Olivia…" Harold said, raising his eyebrows.

Jacob looked at him pointedly.

"You don't think much of Lady Olivia, do you, Harold?" he asked.

It was no secret–the servants all hid from Olivia whenever she came to the house, and two of the maids had been reduced to tears after Olivia had shouted at them over trivial matters in the past. Jacob made excuses for her–she knew her mind, she was a forceful woman…

"What I think hardly matters, my Lord. But if I might venture to say… you've been presented with an opportunity–one Lady Olivia hasn't shown any signs of offering you. Miss Davidson might not be titled, and her father's money might've been made not inherited. But a bookish young lady, pretty in her looks, and capable of maintaining a fruitful conversation can hardly be dismissed as a poor prospect. There're far worse," Harold said.

Jacob nodded. It pained him to admit it, but his valet was right. Try as he might, Jacob had never been able to convince Olivia of his own merits — certainly not in romantic terms.

There were times when she had toyed with him–leading him on–but there had never been any question of anything more than friendship between them. And even that was strained at times. But Jacob had become so used to his pursuit of Olivia, he had forgotten the possibility of other women reciprocating.

"No… perhaps not. But… I still don't like it. I feel humiliated by the whole thing," Jacob said.

Whatever Charlotte's relative merits–and Jacob had to admit his valet had a point about her being markedly different to Olivia–it was still the case that marrying her was not a choice Jacob would have made for himself.

"My Lord–needs must. But you can still make the best of it, can't you? Why not get to know her? You might be surprised. It takes two to make a marriage. She might be thinking just the same thing. But if I can be so bold as to say, Lady Olivia hasn't given any indication of her willingness to respond to your advances. If anything, she treats you with only thinly veiled contempt. I'd suggest the greater humiliation lies there," the valet said, and Jacob blushed.

It was a difficult thing to hear, and yet there was a ring of truth in the valet's words. Humiliation could come in many forms, and Harold was right–Olivia had humiliated him. She had led him in a merry dance, and there were times when she had embarrassed him, too–refusing to dance with him at a ball or ignoring him at a dinner. It was as though she liked to play games with him–and this, too, was a game.

"Well… we'll see, won't we? It's not easy, Harold. You're right, I need to get to know Miss Davidson better before I can make a judgement," Jacob said, and the valet nodded.

"That's very true, my Lord. Goodnight," he said, and with a curt bow, he left the room.

Jacob shook his head. He did not want to believe what the valet had said, and yet he could not disbelieve it, either. Olivia was a puzzle–or rather, Jacob treated her as such. He liked to think she would eventually reveal her true feelings for him.

But the longer he waited, the more he was coming to realize there were no feelings. He had waited so long–hoped so much–and yet Olivia had shown no signs of desiring anything but the benefit of his acquaintance.

Sometimes I wonder if she even likes me at all, Jacob thought to himself, as he pulled the blankets around himself in bed a short while later.

It saddened him to admit as much–just as it saddened him to think he had no choice but to go begging to a merchant to help settle his debts. The price to be paid was a high one–marriage to a woman he did not know, and with who he believed he had nothing in common.

But the alternative was just as painful, too–to wait for something he knew would never happen, and to expend his feelings, his emotions, on a woman who did not share those feeling, and never would. It was a sad and lonely position to find himself in, and as Jacob fell asleep that night, he lamented the many mistakes he had made, and feared he was about to do the same again…

***

"Good morning, Miss Davidson. It's a beautiful day," Sara said, drawing back the curtains to let the morning sunshine into Charlotte's bedroom.

Charlotte had been dozing–that pleasant place between deep sleep and awaking, when it becomes possible to direct one's dreams in such a way to make them pleasant. Charlotte had been dreaming of the Scottish Highlands–following Isabella along a moorland path, where bees buzzed over the heather, and a sweet scent hung in the air.

Isabella was on her way to bring down her flock for lambing, and it was here, on the lonely moorland path, she was to meet the laird for the first time…

"Oh, Sara… what time is it? I was having a lovely dream," Charlotte said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

"It's nearly ten O'clock, Miss Davidson–I thought I'd come and wake you before your mother does. Oh, and I've got good news–I finally got the ink out of your dress. It's as good as new," Sara said.

Charlotte smiled at her. Sara was as much her friend as her maid, and she always went the extra mile to do things well.

"Aren't you clever? How did you do it? I thought it was ruined," Charlotte replied, but Sara shook her head and smiled.

"Vinegar, Miss Davidson–I soaked the stain in vinegar and boiling water, then scrubbed and scrubbed," she said, holding up the dress.

The ink stain was gone–the dress looked like new.

"Goodness me–that's remarkable," Charlotte said, and Sara smiled.

"Will you wear it today, Miss Davidson?" she asked, and Charlotte nodded.

She got out of bed and crossed to the window, looking out across the garden, where a morning dew still lay on the grass, though the sun was already becoming warm. It would be a beautiful day, and Charlotte hoped to spend the day hidden away in a shady corner of the garden, writing her next chapter.

"I suppose I should go down and see mother, shouldn't I?" Charlotte said, after Sara had helped her put on the dress and had brushed her hair for her.

"She'll be waiting for you in the dining room, Miss Davidson. Did you enjoy the evening? What was the earl like?" Sara asked.

Charlotte sighed and shook her head. It was a difficult question to answer. She had spent time with the earl–they had passed the evening pleasantly enough, and there had been the moment when Charlotte had tripped and fallen into his arms. But as for what the earl was like, Charlotte found it hard to say.

She did not feel she had got to know him any better. She knew hardly anything about him, and the fundamental question as to why he wanted to marry her remained.

"I couldn't really tell you, Sara. I know that sounds strange. But it's the truth. He was… pleasant enough. But as for anything more… well, I really don't know. We kept getting interrupted by that awful Olivia woman–Lady Olivia Wright. It was as though she was jealous of us. Perhaps she was," Charlotte replied, musing on Olivia's strange behaviour.

The pair were not a couple–they could not be. The earl had made his intentions very clear–he wanted to marry Charlotte, though the reasons for him doing so were unclear. But despite this fact, there remained an obvious connection between them, but one Charlotte had observed was imbalanced.

The earl was always trying to please Olivia–he pandered to her–but in return; she treated him with only thinly veiled contempt. It was obvious to anyone–expect, it seemed, the earl himself…

"But he could've married her if he'd wanted to. Why did he choose you, Miss Davidson?" Sara asked, and Charlotte shrugged.

She did not know why the earl had chosen her to make a match with–if anything, she would have much preferred it if he had not done so, and again she reminded herself it was as much her own decision as his. Charlotte's mind was not yet made up when it came to the proposed marriage. Would she marry the earl or not?

"I don't know–I tried to find out, but all he would say is an arrangement was made. And before I could question him further, she'd appear. She was always there. It was very odd. Anyway, I'd better go down for breakfast, hadn't I?" Charlotte said, adopting an air of resignation.

She knew her mother would be waiting for her, and that the tide of questions, of opinions, of instructions would hit her as soon as she entered the dining room. And so, they did.

"Well, have you thought about it?" her mother asked as soon as Charlotte stepped over the threshold.

"Thought about what, mother?" Charlotte asked, in what she hoped was a neutral tone.

"Marrying the earl–you want to, don't you? I'm going to write to Princess Louisa and tell her. She's bound to want to come to the wedding. Marrying an earl isn't just marrying anyone, is it?" Charlotte's mother said, as Charlotte sat down at the table.

"Mother, has Princess Louisa ever written back to you?" Charlotte asked, but her mother ignored her.

"We'll have to start making the arrangements immediately. There's no point in waiting any longer than we have to. I'm sure he feels the same. There's a ball at Harlow on Thursday evening–he'll be there, and so will we. Now, it's all arranged, of course, but that doesn't mean you don't need to make an effort, Charlotte. No more writing and reading. You need to learn to dance properly. I don't know why you haven't made the effort before… well, I suppose… anyway, it doesn't matter now, does it? The important thing is, you're going to marry the earl, aren't you?" Charlotte's mother said.

Questions, opinion, and instructions–those were Charlotte's mother's stock means of conversation, and as breakfast continued, so did the diatribe. By the time they rose from the table, Charlotte felt quite exhausted, and even more disinclined to the idea of marrying the earl than she had done before.

But she knew she would have no choice but to attend the ball with her mother–and do as she was told once there. That day, Charlotte hid herself away in the garden with her notebook, lost in Isabella's adventures. But despite this escape, her thoughts were never far from what was to come, and her confusion over what was to be if–and when–she married the earl.

It's nothing like a story, Charlotte said to herself, closing her notebook and leaving Isabella behind amid the rolling hills and heather-clad hills–but that was the point, life was never really like a story, even as Charlotte not to allow her own story to be written for her…