Chapter 5

“Why haven’t you just asked her?”

Ethan looked up at his sister across the breakfast table. His food sat untouched before him as he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to even contemplate food. He gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Words, Ethan. For heaven’s sake. Use words!”

He threw his hands up in frustration. “There wasn’t an opportunity!”

“Make an opportunity,” Regina insisted. “If you want to court her, to wed her, then you cannot sit back and wait for her to simply fall into your lap. Miss Mulberry is an attractive woman. There are other unmarried men in Ambleside. And she, Ethan, is old enough to feel a bit desperate. If you do not ask her, someone else will.”

He shoved his plate away, perhaps more forcefully than he should have. It clattered loudly as it banged against his cup, sloshing tea onto the linens. “I know that, Regina. Should I declare myself to her in a room full of people—people that include the Cranfords?”

“It isn’t ideal, no. But it is better that than a lifetime of regret,” his sister stated firmly. “You’ve been miserable and unhappy for the last seven years. Indeed, from the very first day that you came to Ambleside and first encountered Miss Mulberry.”

That wasn’t entirely true. He’d been quite happy when they first encountered one another. The moment he’d laid eyes on her, his heart had gladdened. It simply hadn’t stayed that way for very long. Perhaps ten minutes. He’d had ten minutes of true happiness in Ambleside.

“Only ten minutes?”

Realizing that he’d uttered that aloud, he gave a shrug. “Perhaps a quarter of an hour,” he corrected ruefully. Only one corner of his mouth lifted in a self deprecating manner. He could admit that it was ridiculous. He’d affected his slightly, or perhaps more than slightly, moody demeanor as a way to dissuade others from matchmaking when there was only one match he would ever be interested in. “However long it took for Mrs. Whitlow to inform us of Charlotte Mulberry’s betrothal to Arliss Cranford. Long enough for me to realize she would never be mine.”

“You can have her now,” Regina insisted. “You can make her your marchioness, but only if you ask.”

Ethan knew she was right. He also knew that there was a reason for his hesitation. Not a particularly good reason, but it existed all the same. If he asked and she refused him, all hope would be lost. It was a fool’s gamble, to deny one’s self the real possibility of actual happiness in order to hold onto the hope of it. Yet, he was doing just that. “You’re right, of course. And if opportunities to speak with her do not present themselves, I should create those opportunities.”

His sister smiled. It was a rare occurrence for her. Many people found Regina to be cold, but he knew the truth of it. Her late husband had been a bounder through and through. Lies and infidelity, too much drink and too much gambling. He’d taken every opportunity to make her unhappy and then to lambast her for that unhappiness. Regina was not cold and unfeeling, but she was wounded. And like a cornered animal, she would not show fear or weakness to anyone. “That was a remarkable number of words. More than I’ve heard from you at one time in years. You’re remarkably articulate when you choose to be.”

“Let us hope I am as articulate when I speak to Miss Mulberry,” he said.

“Sometimes gestures speak louder than words. Cut a bouquet of roses from the hot house and pay her a visit. When a gentleman drops by with flowers, his intentions are usually unmistakable. Her reaction to that will tell you what you need to know about moving forward.”

Charlotte all but floated down the stairs the next morning. The thrill she’d felt when the Marquess had gazed at her so intently, when she’d thought, for the briefest of moments, that he meant to kiss her, had remained with her. Now, with the new day beginning, she felt invigorated and hopeful. Perhaps it was presumptuous of her to assume that the Marquess had any real interest in her, but it had been a definite flirtation and that was enough to keep her going for a while.

The house was still quiet. Her uncle never rose before noon. He claimed his old bones disliked the damp morning air. Perhaps that was so, but she strongly suspected he simply liked having their few servants fuss over him while giving him his breakfast in bed. For herself, she rarely ate a large meal in the mornings, preferring tea and toast. The mornings were her time to herself, and she had no wish to waste them in the dining room.

After finishing her light breakfast, Charlotte spoke briefly with the three servants who worked for her uncle about their tasks for the day. Then she shifted her attention to her own work in the garden. While not at all to the level of Mrs. Whitlow’s, she was quite proud of her little flower garden. So proud of it, in fact, that she very often got her own hands quite dirty in it. But not that day. She would pull some weeds and be certain all her lovely flowers were free from any pests that might harm them. But she would not be digging in the dirt because, at some point that day, she hoped, the Marquess of Aimsbury would come to call.

It was probably a futile hope. She certainly recognized that. The man did not pay calls. Not on anyone. He’d given no indication of his intent to do so, but he’d been so attentive. But as the morning dragged on and the calling hour approached, her hope began to dim. Had it only been pity on his part, or had there been something more?

Charlotte understood well enough that she was an object of pity to some and amusement to others. But she’d sensed neither of those things from the Marquess. It had seemed, at times, as though his interest in her had been decidedly romantic. Was she so hopeless that she saw flirtation where it did not exist? Did gentlemen flirt? Likely not. They simply stated their interest and went on about their business. Only ladies, not permitted to be so obvious in their desires lest they face public censure, had to resort to the not-always-subtle art of flirting.

Plucking at a particularly stubborn weed in the midst of her newly budding crocuses, Charlotte was forced to face an uncomfortable fact. She was not upset to have her betrothal with Arliss broken at all. She was only upset because he’d done it in a manner that left her subject to ridicule. It was not her heart which had been injured at all, but her pride. And if that was the case, then wasn’t it far better to have been left at the altar than forever married to a man she did not truly love?

The kitchen door opened and one of the maids appeared. Her eyes were wide in shock as she said, “You’ve a visitor, Miss Charlotte.”

Pleasure spread through her, along with no small amount of excitement. Removing her gardening gloves, Charlotte dropped them in the basket by the door and then headed in through the kitchen. But when she reached their small drawing room, her heart sank and her stomach knotted with tension. It wasn’t the Marquess at all, nor any welcome and pleasant caller. It was a sour-faced Mrs. Georgianna Cranford.

“Good morning,” Charlotte finally managed.

“Good morning to you, Miss Mulberry.” Her emphasis on the word ‘miss’ was both unmistakable and quite pointed. This was not a friendly or even social visit, and no coerced olive branch would be extended.

“Your call is rather unexpected,” Charlotte said, electing not to acknowledge the jibe. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Let us not beat around the proverbial bush, Miss Mulberry,” the other woman said in a sharp tone. One might even call it shrewish. “I know what you’re trying to do. Somehow you’ve secured the Marquess’ aid and are now attempting to make Arliss jealous enough to cast me off and take you back!”

It was such a shocking claim that Charlotte could do nothing but laugh. Try as she might, she found it impossible to force out a denial when peals of giggles had rendered her breathless. At long last, once she had regained some degree of composure, she countered, “Mrs. Cranford, you could not be more wrong. I wish only happiness for both you and your husband. And I’ve no desire to interfere in your relationship. Even if Arliss were free, I would not have him back. I’ve come to realize that we were not well suited at all. He is ambitious and wishes to build his fortune, and I am content with a simple life. You are much more suited to his aspirations than I ever could have been.”

“I don’t believe you!” the other woman protested. “You are a liar, Miss Mulberry. No woman, slighted as you have been, could simply turn the other cheek and wish us well.”

And that was the real problem. Charlotte recognized in that moment that Georgianna Cranford would never believe her because she herself was incapable of forgiving, forgetting, or moving on. The woman was petty and obsessive and jealous—and because of that, she saw those traits in others even when they did not exist.

“You may believe as you like, Mrs. Cranford,” Charlotte stated calmly. “But you may not accuse me of such perfidy in my own home. I think our visit is at an end.” There was no heat, no hint of anger. Only quiet resolve echoed in her voice, along with relief. It was clear to her that Georgianna Cranford would not see reason on the subject. But then she supposed that if one intentionally pursued a man who was obligated to another, then one might naturally assume that obligations were a trivial thing to said man. Of course, the woman felt insecure in her marriage. Who would not?

But if there was one truth in Charlotte’s life, it was that things never went according to plan. Just as Mrs. Cranford was about to leave, a knock sounded at the door. The other woman whirled toward Charlotte once more as she all but crowed, “I knew it. I knew when he left the house this morning that he intended to come here!”

“There is no planned assignation with your husband, Mrs. Cranford. I assure you of that.”

“A likely story,” Mrs. Cranford sneered. “We shall see soon enough because I will not leave until your other guest is shown in and I am proven correct in my suspicions!”

Charlotte said nothing. Nothing was required of her. At that very moment, the same wide eyed maid who had fetched her from the garden opened the drawing room doors and announced, “The Marquess of Aimsbury to see you, miss.”

Charlotte did have the satisfaction of watching all the smugness disappear from Georgianna Cranford’s face for just a moment. Then the Marquess stepped into the room bearing an enormous bouquet of roses. To call it excessive would have been an understatement. There were no less than two dozen blooms in a range of colors, from the palest ivory to a deep, deep crimson.

Charlotte blinked in surprise. It was an unexpected gesture, but most welcome. “Oh, my word! Those are lovely.”

“They are from the hothouse at Aimswood Hall,” he said. The entire time he spoke, he was staring at Mrs. Cranford with barely concealed hostility. “If you are engaged, Miss Mulberry, I will wait until you have finished your business with Mrs. Cranford.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Mrs. Cranford was just leaving, my lord. We have concluded our visit.” To the maid, Charlotte added, “Mary, would you please put these lovely roses in water? I’ll arrange them later, but I should hate for them to wilt. They are truly magnificent.”

“Certainly, miss. My lord.” The maid bobbed a curtsy, glanced at the Marquess and blushed to the roots of her hair, before accepting the bouquet with a giggle. Accepting the bouquet, she cast one last glance from the Marquess to her and then quickly departed.

Then they all stood there in the parlor, silently waiting for Mrs. Cranford to make her departure. After one long moment stretched into several, she finally huffed out a breath and turned to exit. Her skirts swished like the tail of an agitated cat.

“A remarkably unpleasant visit,” the Marquess observed.

“Indeed. The most unpleasant call I have ever received.” Charlotte sighed, then gave herself a slight shake, as if divesting herself of that unpleasantness. “Won’t you sit down, my lord?”

As he moved to do so, she continued, “The nature of the unpleasantness is most absurd. Mrs. Cranford seems to believe that I have both the desire and the ability to make her husband set her aside in order to reconcile with me.”

“Do you have the desire to reconcile with him?”

Charlotte shook her head in immediate denial. “I do not. Perhaps that makes me seem quite fickle, but I’ve come to realize that my feelings for Mr. Cranford were not the sort one ought to have for the person one is to marry. I had a fondness for him, certainly, but not the sort one wishes to have for their husband… At any rate, she imagines that the two of us—you and I—are colluding together to carry out this diabolical scheme. That your kindness to me yesterday was, in fact, nothing more than a bit of theatrical flirtation carried out for his benefit.”