Chapter 5

Chapter Five

M iss Marshall chuckled as they walked arm in arm through the park.

"I think you made your point very clear when you refused to offer him your dance card last evening."

Charlotte laughed along with her friend, recalling how Lord Kentmore's expression had melted into a thinly concealed anger, his coldness towards her evident.

"I do not care what a rogue thinks of me," she declared. "I know that I am not to be in company with any rogue and–"

"Lord Kentmore is not a rogue!"

Glancing over her shoulder to where her sister walked alone – having refused to come into company with Charlotte and Miss Marshall – Charlotte resisted the desire to roll her eyes. "Yes, my dear sister, he is."

"How can you say such a thing?"

"Oh, it is well known," Miss Marshall put in, bringing a scowl to Lillian's face. "He is not someone that I should be glad to associate with."

Lillian sighed heavily and Charlotte shared a look with Miss Marshall, trying her best to hide her smile. Lillian had been somewhat exuberant when being introduced to the gentleman and had clearly found him more than a little delightful. She had berated Charlotte for not dancing with the gentleman when she had the chance, and Charlotte had chosen to remain silent on the subject. Now, however, Miss Marshall was doing the answering for her.

"Lord Kentmore is a Marquess, and they have high standing in society." Lillian sounded as though she was pouting. "I cannot imagine for a moment that a gentleman such as he would ever dream of behaving in an improper manner."

"And yet, he does," Miss Marshall said, firmly. "You may ask your friends, or mayhap even your Mama, for no doubt she has already heard his name spoken throughout London. Did you know that he was seen in the company of a very wealthy widow of late, pulling her into the shadows of the ballroom?"

Charlotte glanced at her friend, her eyebrows lifting.

"Indeed? During a ball?"

Miss Marshall shrugged lightly.

"He is a rogue, after all."

"Mayhap he can be reformed." Lillian's voice was quieter now, sounding rather resigned and disappointed. "Mayhap it only needs one young lady for him to fall quite in love and then, never turn from her again."

"My dear sister, you would be better finding a suitable gentleman who does not need to be reformed," Charlotte told her, glancing back over her shoulder. "The Marquess may be handsome and charming, but his character is not at all desirable. You would not be happy on the arm of a gentleman who looked at every other lady aside from you, would you?"

A long, heavy sigh came from her sister by way of an answer, and Charlotte nodded to herself, believing that Lillian now accepted what she had been telling her.

"It is a great pity that he is a rogue, given that he is so highly titled," Miss Marshall said, a little more quietly so that Lillian could not overhear. "Though his friend, Lord Glenfield, was quite delightful, I must say. We lingered in conversation for some time, and I found him very amiable."

"As did I," Charlotte agreed, smiling. "We danced the country dance, and he was excellent both in conversation and in manner. I was surprised to find him so, I confess, given that he is good friends with Lord Kentmore. He informed me that they have been very closely acquainted for a long time."

"Just because one is a rogue does not mean that the other will be also, I suppose," Miss Marshall answered. "I do hope that he is a respectable sort. I did find myself a little intrigued by him, I confess."

Charlotte looked back at her in surprise, though she said nothing. Miss Marshall had never once mentioned a single gentleman in such warm tones before now, but after only one dance and one conversation with Lord Glenfield, it appeared that she was a little taken by him.

"Goodness, whatever is the meaning of this?"

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, Charlotte came to a stop as she, Miss Marshall, and Lillian looked at the small, gathered groups of both ladies and gentlemen. There were some respectable fellows standing to one side of the paths, however, holding out copies of something, and for whatever reason, ladies were rushing up to them, taking a copy, and then returning to their group.

"I do not know," Charlotte murmured, a light smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "Though it does seem to me that there is some great excitement."

A loud gasp came from Lillian and, after a moment, her sister grasped her arm, hard.

"It must be the next poem!"

Charlotte made to reply only for Lillian to let out a quiet squeal and hurry across to the men selling whatever it was they held.

"The poem?" Miss Marshall sounded confused for a moment. "Does she mean–"

"It must be The London Chronicle," Charlotte answered, linking her arm with Miss Marshall's again. "The second poem from whoever wrote the first one must be printed in this issue, given the amount of excitement here!"

Miss Marshall leaned into her for a moment as they continued their walk.

"Will you think ill of me if I admit that I am a little interested in seeing what the new poem says?"

Charlotte laughed.

"No, not in the least. My interest is piqued also, though not in the same way, mayhap. I should like to see if there is a name to the poem, or if the anonymous author has gone on to reveal themselves to the ton. Given the reaction of society, I would think that they might now be bold enough to declare themselves."

"Shall we go and purchase one, then?" With a nod, Charlotte walked alongside Miss Marshall – though not with any haste – and together, they collected a copy of The London Chronicle, with Miss Marshall paying the fellow for it. Unhooking her arm from her friend, Charlotte waited until her friend had found the page and watched her face as she read the poem. "It is certainly longer."

"Oh?" A little surprised at how interested she was in the poem, Charlotte tried to push her curiosity down a little. "In what way?"

"It has four verses," came the reply, "and each one is beautifully written, I must say."

"It is on the same theme?"

Miss Marshall lifted her head.

"It is about love, if that is what you mean." She dropped her head again to read, only to suck in a breath. "Goodness! There is no doubt now as to the author."

Charlotte moved closer at once, looking down at the paper as Miss Marshall pointed to the bottom of the poem.

"It has a name?"

"No, but it states that it is by an anonymous gentleman." Miss Marshall's eyes rounded just a little. "Clearly this person wants to make sure that everyone knows that it is he who has been writing these poems rather than a lady. Mayhap he heard society whispering about the confusion and wished to bring clarity."

"Mayhap he did," Charlotte agreed, refusing to let herself read the poem until Miss Marshall was ready.

It was a strange thing, she considered, finding herself very eager indeed to read it, but also battling within herself not to do so. She had thought the last poem very pretty, though she had not felt the same overwhelming excitement as others, nor had she had the great swell of emotion in response to the penned words. Mayhap it was because she was so well read… or, she considered, turning her head away, she had never permitted herself to imagine what it would be like to be in love. She had always been quieter in nature and studious in her character, choosing practicality where she could and thus, she had considered her marriage would be so too. A suitable match over a love match and, thus, Charlotte had never permitted herself to even imagine what a love match would feel like. Dare she open her heart to the possibility? Dare she read that poem and let herself feel more than she had ever done before?

"I think there is more passion here now." Lifting her head, Miss Marshall handed Charlotte the paper. "Should you like to read it?"

Charlotte took it from her friend.

"Yes, of course."

Taking a small breath, she set her shoulders and began to read.

‘ A sweet melody strums my heart,

Echoes in the corridor of my soul.

A joyous symphony that can never depart

It binds my pain and makes me whole.

Love's song you sing to me alone,

Your eyes hold fast to mine.

And with each word, my love is sown

My heart to yours entwined.

My very soul is clung to thee.

Do not turn your eyes away from me,

The thought, it tears my heart.

We must endure a little while

The pain of being apart.

To be so far and yet so bound,

No threat will make me flee.

I cannot forget what we have found,

My whole self is one with thee.'

"Well?"

Charlotte lifted her head, considering.

"It does appear to me that this is written by a gentleman who is seeking to communicate with his love, does it not? Especially now that he has signed it!"

"It is hardly a signature," Charlotte replied, with a roll of her eyes. "It states simply that it is by an anonymous gentleman, that is all! I cannot think that makes it particularly clear as to who it is that has written it."

"All the same, it is better than it simply being written as anonymous," Miss Marshall answered, coming to the defense of the writer and making Charlotte smile. "I think this gentleman, whoever he is, has written to The London Chronicle purposefully so that his lady love – whom he is kept from, it seems – knows of his love and affection."

"Mayhap."

Miss Marshall took the paper from Charlotte again and read over it slowly.

"I think it is quite beautiful. The words that he speaks are words of devotion and affection."

"And of hope," Charlotte conceded, "though you are right, it appears that he is set apart from the lady."

Miss Marshall's eyebrows lifted.

"Then you think well of it?"

Charlotte shrugged lightly.

"It is a poem about love and the hope of continued affection," she said. "I cannot see that it is any worse or any better than any other poem I have read." She laughed as her friend sighed heavily. "But I do not know much about love, and I will admit that I do not often read much poetry on the subject so I cannot be the very best judge of it." She tilted her head and studied the poem again for a moment, as Miss Marshall held it in her hands. "To me, there is something a little lacking though I do not know what it is."

"Lacking?" Miss Marshall scoffed and shook her head. "My dear Charlotte, there is nothing lacking in this."

"You are probably quite correct," Charlotte answered, with another smile. "I, however, feel as though it lacks a little passion, as if it is the imagining of the writer rather than a true circumstance."

Miss Marshall frowned.

"And by that, you mean to say that you do not believe his words to be genuine."

"They certainly do come across as though they are, of course."

"But you have said that you have no experience of reading such poetry and know very little about love. You have never been in love, have you?"

Charlotte shook her head, a little embarrassment coming into her chest as she saw Miss Marshall frown. Perhaps she had spoken a bit too boldly, a little too firmly, sounding arrogant rather than considered.

"I have not been."

"Nor have I." Miss Marshall's tone had softened now, her lips curved into a small smile. "But I do permit myself to imagine what it will be like. I long for a gentleman with a kind heart and a steady character to speak such words to me!" She tipped her head, looking back at Charlotte carefully. "Do not you?"

Charlotte hesitated.

"I–"

"Good afternoon, Miss Marshall, Miss Hawick! How delightful to see you in the park this fine afternoon."

Dropping quickly into a curtsey, Charlotte smiled at Lord Glenfield, though she saw that Lord Kentmore was slowly approaching also, his hands clasped behind his back and a slight pull of his lips downwards informing her that all was not well. Perhaps he did not want to be in her company, but was still eager to speak with Lord Glenfield and thus felt himself pulled in two directions.

"Might I take a turn about the grounds with you, Miss Marshall?" Lord Glenfield asked, making his interest in the lady very obvious indeed. "Your chaperone is–"

"My mother is a short distance behind us," Miss Marshall interrupted, her eagerness making itself very plain indeed. "Might you excuse me for a moment?"

"But of course!" Lord Glenfield beamed at the lady and then turned his attention to Charlotte. "I do hope that you will forgive me for desiring to steal Miss Marshall from your company for a time, Miss Hawick."

Charlotte smiled back at him, finding him to be a very amiable sort, not at all surprised that Miss Marshall had taken to him so quickly.

"I quite understand. Miss Marshall is a very dear friend of mine, and I think very highly of her. I am sure that you will find the same."

Lord Glenfield nodded, perhaps hearing the slight hint of warning in Charlotte's voice.

"I am certain that I shall. I – oh, there you are, Lord Kentmore. I did not see you there."

"I have come to talk with you, as you asked." Lord Kentmore's tone was a little sharp, his eyes darting towards Charlotte's for a moment, though he inclined his head towards her just as he ought. "Good afternoon, Miss Hawick. Forgive me for interrupting your conversation. It is only that Lord Glenfield and I were to be talking about various things which is precisely why I came to the park in the first place."

Charlotte, a little surprised by his rude manner, lifted her chin.

"I shall not delay your conversation any longer, Lord Kentmore. Do excuse me."

"Please, there is no need," Lord Glenfield exclaimed, quickly. "I am to walk with Miss Marshall, and I am sure that Lord Kentmore would be glad to take a turn with you also."

With a shake of her head, Charlotte looked to Lord Kentmore who was slowly beginning to turn a strange shade of red.

"It is not necessary," she said, though she forced a smile to her face so that Lord Glenfield would not think her rude. "I think I shall return to my mother for the time being, and permit Miss Marshall to walk with you without my company." She inclined her head, then turned on her heel and walked back towards her mother, passing Miss Marshall as she went. The bright, beaming smile on Miss Marshall's face and the light which shone in her eyes was quite at odds with what Charlotte herself felt and, recognizing that her irritation with Lord Kentmore grew all the more. Why did he have to be so unpleasant? Why were his words so harsh, his tone so disinterested? He was meant to be a rogue, a tease, a flirt – so why, then, did he appear to be so at odds with her?