Chapter Twenty

V anessa read aloud to Charlotte and Sweet Kate, pleased that Charlotte was peering over her shoulder, picking out words. A knock on her front door interrupted them.

“One moment,” she called, rising. She handed the book to Charlotte. “Save the page.”

She exited the kitchen and went through the parlor to open her door. Lydia stood there, framed against the gray sky and dirt road, an odd expression on her face. She wore a crumpled bonnet, a dusty yellow dress, and her usual weathered boots. But the boots now sported tooled butterflies on the toes.

“Lydia!” She wasn’t expecting a visit. Lydia was generally too busy to walk all this way. “Come in. Have tea with us. Charlotte is here.” She waved her inside and closed the door. Vanessa felt a little embarrassed by the spaciousness, the spare cleanliness of her parlor. She hardly ever used it. It seemed an extravagance when compared to the clutter and crowding of the Compton home and workshop. “What brings you?”

“Charlotte is here?” Lydia frowned and lowered her voice. “I-I have news.”

Vanessa paused, made wary by Lydia’s caution. “News?”

“Mmm-hmmm. About the boots Jon sent to that couple you met in Binnings.”

Bitter had shown her the boots, artfully engraved with lilies. Lady Georgiana was sure to love them.

“What about them?”

“This morning, Sherwood brought over a letter.”

“A letter?” Vanessa’s heart sank. She had thought it safe to allow Jon to send the boots to ‘Lady Georgiana’ at Crumbley House in Cambridge. Georgiana and Reginald would learn only that the bootmakers were in Cartmel, but wouldn’t necessarily conclude that she lived here as well. If they did, she supposed she had to trust that Reginald would say nothing to Jasper. But she certainly never thought Georgiana would write back to the Comptons. “What did it say?”

“Only that the lady was well pleased with her boots.” Lydia’s smile was strange. Strained. “And that her friends were agog. They sent six pounds and two tracings with a request for two more pairs. One customer asked for kingcup. The other could not make up her mind and said any flower would do. Vanessa, six pounds for two pairs of boots!”

Vanessa’s heart swelled. She wished she could embrace Georgiana. She wished she had embraced her.

“Can Bitter make them?” It seemed to her it must be a tremendous amount of work.

“Oh, the others will make them. Bitter will do the decoration—and quicker now he’s not hiding his efforts. Jon is…well, you can imagine. Thank you. Even if this is the most that comes of it, the work could not have come at a better time. It’s only…I’m not sure they should be too hopeful.”

Vanessa nodded. “Yes, I understand. There is no guarantee there will be more.”

She would write to Rose and Effie. Today. But she wouldn’t say anything yet to Lydia. She didn’t want to raise hopes and then dash them. If only Lady Georgiana would parade the boots around London.

She took Lydia’s arm. “Come in. We’ll celebrate. Charlotte brought over a couple of buns, drizzled with honey. Dan’s hives are doing well.”

Lydia resisted. “I won’t interrupt.”

“Nonsense.” Vanessa’s smile faded at the expression on Lydia’s face. Questioning. Concerned. Perhaps even a little irritated.

“Vanessa.” Lydia spoke quietly but there was an underlying hardness to her tone. “The letter was from a Mr. Reginald Taverston.”

Vanessa froze.

Lydia waited, then pressed, “Any relation?”

Vanessa was caught. Caught. “A brother.” She hurried to try to explain. “The meeting was coincidental. But I suppose their kindness was not.”

Oh! How foolish. So anxious to do a good deed, it had made her careless.

“I see.” Lydia’s expression was doubtful. “But you said nothing. I agreed when Jon said if it was happenstance, it was odd you made no mention it. And the corporal said he does not believe in coincidence where Lieutenant Taverston is concerned.”

It could not be any worse.

“You all discussed this?”

“Only to scratch our heads. If Lieutenant Taverston is involved, it seems wisest not to ask too many questions.”

“It is nothing secretive. Good Heavens. How ridiculous.” Vanessa scrambled. “It’s only that the corporal tried to get a small contract from the army and Lieutenant Taverston was unable to help. He wrote to his brother, suggesting that he buy boots and encourage his fellows to do so. But when Mrs. Taverston saw my boots…”

Was she making any sense at all?

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “So you have been in touch with the Lieutenant?”

“No. Well, yes. But only once in a while. I saw him a couple of times in London. And he wrote to me once here. After Vitoria.” Vanessa swallowed hard. Tallying her lies and half-truths. “It must appear strange, I suppose.”

“Not so very.” Lydia smiled smugly. “He was always politer to you than to most—well, most of us weren’t always so polite to him, if you take my meaning.”

Women in camp flirted outrageously. They meant nothing by it. It was a means of coping. But she had never been able to talk salty or swish her skirts. On campaign, she had only rarely spoken with Crispin. When they did speak, he’d always treated her with respect. As if she were a lady.

“Lieutenant Taverston was not interested in me.” How often must she say that?

“Yet he found you in London. And wrote to you here? Lovey—”

“I-it’s because of Henry.” Vanessa remembered something strange that might serve as an excuse. “Henry was a physician. That is, his father was, and Henry had been apprenticed to him. Lieutenant Taverston was not feeling well one day, and Henry advised him. I think Lieutenant Taverston felt he owed Henry something.”

Lydia’s expression softened. “Your Henry was always helping like that. He was a good one.”

Vanessa started to relax, but Lydia put a hand on her arm.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I don’t know.” She couldn’t think of any reasonable excuse, so she just piled on. “I suppose I didn’t want you or anyone thinking Lieutenant Taverston favored me.”

“Well, if that isn’t the silliest thing. Lovey, it isn’t anything to be ashamed of. You’ve been a widow for four years! That’s more than long enough. Lordy, the corporal said it was past time for Lieutenant Taverston to stop fiddling around. He’s ready to write him to come claim you before Sherwood makes a bigger fool of himself than he already has.”

“No!” Vanessa shuddered. “Good God, no. Don’t let him write to Cr—Lieutenant Taverston. He isn’t going to come claim me. I cannot imagine anything more ridiculous.” Or humiliating. Crispin would be appalled. Or laugh himself sick. “Lydia, he was a friend to me. That is all. Please do not embarrass me. Please!”

“Calm down. I won’t embarrass you. I wouldn’t have said anything at all, since you seemed so determined not to. It’s only that Bitter is so convinced there is a market for his boots. And even Jon is hopeful. But if this is just Lieutenant Taverston’s charity…”

“No. It isn’t.” What had she said? About Crispin and the boots? Oh! She could not keep her stories straight. “It wasn’t charity. It might have been if Mr. Taverston bought three pairs of plain boots. But Mrs. Taverston was truly charmed by mine. And I didn’t ask her to show them to her friends. She just did. I can’t promise there is a market beyond this, but there may be.”

Good Lord. Now even she had doubts. It was a coincidence. It had to be. Reginald said Crispin had property in Binnings, but he couldn’t have known she was going there. Not even Crispin could read her mind from Spain.

“I-I thought I could write to a few friends in London who might be interested. I think Jon has reason to be hopeful. If more ladies wear the boots, more ladies will see them.”

“You have such wealthy friends in London?”

Oh! She should keep her mouth closed. “Acquaintances, only. Of course, nothing may come of it.” She wrung her hands and tried to smile.

“Well, we’ll keep our fingers crossed.” Lydia gave Vanessa a long look and seemed poised to say more. But she tossed her head and said only, “I suppose I should get back. I’ve a pot bubbling on the stove and the corporal never remembers to stir. I don’t mean to intrude on your visit but tell Charlotte I say hello.”

Vanessa let her go, not wanting to continue the conversation. How stupid she had been. She should have recognized the risk that the Comptons would find out the boots had gone to a Mrs. Taverston and make the connection to Crispin. But perhaps it wasn’t so bad. Of course, they gossiped about her. Speculated. But no one knew .

With a heavy sigh, she returned to the back room. Charlotte looked up abruptly. Her eyes were wide and her jaw slack. The book fell to the floor.

Charlotte’s head dipped. “I-I didn’t. Vanessa, I didn’t mean—I just peeked ahead.”

“And lost the page?” Vanessa asked. Why on earth was Charlotte so pale? “No harm done, Charlotte. I read a bit ahead myself the other night when—” When she’d cut the pages. Oh, God. Oh, God, no.

Vanessa dashed around Charlotte’s chair and knelt on the floor. She lifted the book hesitantly. There, beneath it, lay the slip of paper she’d used to mark her place. Intending to read a bit more in the morning. But she had not. In fact, she’d forgotten all about it. Because she had not been as engrossed in the novel as she’d been in her own daydreams. Running her fingers over the bit of foolscap again and again. Tracing the words on the bit of paper she should have burned, but never did. She snatched it up.

Charlotte could not read much. Oh, but the words were simple. I love you. Always.—J.T.

Vanessa crumpled the paper in her hand. Charlotte blinked several times and fixed her gaze on the ground.

In a small, determined voice, Charlotte asked, “What is this Lieutenant Taverston’s Christian name? Who you say does not favor you?”

Vanessa bit her lip. She’d thought they had been talking quietly, but Charlotte must have heard every word.

“Crispin.” It did not begin with a J .

Charlotte’s face fell. “And the other?”

“The other?”

“The gentleman you met in Binnings. With his wife.”

What was Charlotte accusing her of? She snapped, “Reginald. It begins with an R .”

Charlotte scooped Sweet Kate, who had begun to fuss, onto her shoulder and patted her back.

“But Taverston does begin with a T .” She rocked Sweet Kate back and forth. “It isn’t my business who. I know it isn’t. It’s just—” She searched a minute for the words. “It has been more than four years since Henry’s death. And this man loves you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“And you’re holding onto his letter. You must care—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, for pity’s sake, Vanessa. Why not?”

Why not?

“Because,” she said, sitting down heavily. She was so weary of this. “Because he is a gentleman. And gentlemen do not marry for love.”

All Charlotte answered was, “Oh.”

Vanessa kept quiet a moment, waiting for questions, waiting for sympathy, then she spoke.

“I don’t want to be teased or pitied, Charlotte. Can I ask you to keep this to yourself?”

Charlotte scowled. “I’m not going to spill your secrets. It’s just that it makes me angry. He says he loves you, but what kind of love is that?”

“He has obligations.”

“Oh, now, don’t go defending him. He had no business falling in love with you if he was going to cry off.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No? Well, it should be.” Charlotte tossed her head and gave Sweet Kate another bounce. “Put him out of your head. There are plenty of men, good men, who’d marry you in a minute. You don’t want to be alone, do you? No children? A cold bed?”

No, she didn’t.

“Sherwood is a little too full of himself,” Charlotte went on. “And Jon is probably too old. But Tam is good-hearted. Just too shy to ever say much. And over in Barrow—”

“Charlotte, don’t.” The last thing she wanted was a matchmaker. “I’m not ready.”

Charlotte harumphed, then sat back down and loosened her neckline so Sweet Kate could nurse. Vanessa took a sip of cold tea.

“Should I read a bit more?”

Charlotte nodded. “I suppose. But Vanessa, if you just look around, you’ll find someone right quick, and this J.T. will fly out of your head.”

Vanessa was not about to argue. But Jasper would never “fly out of her head.” Or her heart. She loved him. Always. She always would.