His morning had begun in a manner one could only call trying. When he arrived at Ned's manor, he discovered that Ned had quite unexpectedly gone back to London, apparently suffering from more family togetherness than he could handle.
Consequently, Charles was obliged to deal with Miss Wadsdale without the coercive presence of the man who paid her room and board. It became obvious, almost immediately, that Ned had shamelessly bullied his mother's companion into making the journey in the first place.
On Charles's arrival, she informed him that she never travelled in the depth of winter, unless, of course, her dear Lady Conisbrough required it of her. Then she examined him upon the degree of comfort likely to be found inside his carriage: the number of lap rugs, the quality of his carriage springs; whether there were warming pans into which Ned's servants might add coals.
Charles assured her of all these, keeping Eliza's presence a secret. Then, when she appeared at least somewhat satisfied that she would not be required to sacrifice herself to extreme discomfort, he set himself to the task of weaning her from the household.
First, there were her numerous boxes and portmanteaus to find space for. When Charles expressed surprise that she should choose to encumber herself to such a degree for what would prove to be only a moderately long journey, she took offence. She made him privy to the information that Lady Conisbrough would not think of asking her to undertake a trip at such a dreadful season unless she could provide her with ample room for her baggage.
“Be assured, my lord, that her ladyship would stint
Charles hastily withdrew his objection and prepared for the next ordeal. That was to get Miss Wadsdale to depart. She seemed convinced that her presence would be sorely missed, that none of the servants could be trusted to see to her patroness's wants in her absence, and that Lady Conisbrough would pine without her enlivening presence.
To ward off this last calamity, she spent an absurd amount of time bidding a touching farewell to her ladyship- Lady Conisbrough, by contrast, appeared to be totally unaffected by the parting-issuing commands to the various servants with regard to her normal duties, sniffing into her handkerchief and, in general, making a scene that was intended to impress Charles with her usefulness in the household.
Her efforts had quite the reverse effect, however. Charles formed a deeper understanding of Ned's desire to be rid of the woman and a suspicion that Miss Wadsdale's tears were due more to a fear of being dismissed than of being missed. He could scarcely tolerate her himself, and he dreaded the thought of being shut up in a carriage with her for even two days. He flirted briefly with the idea of leaving her and setting out for London with Louisa alone.
The thought of how pleasant the journey would be tempted him greatly; but Charles knew what was due to the proprieties, and to Louisa's consequence, so his good sense eventually won out. He resigned himself to a frustrating two days, with the promise of another blistering headache at their end.
Finally, Miss Wadsdale and her baggage were loaded aboard, but as the result of so much delay, Charles found they could not hope to leave the inn before noon. Once in Snaithby, they would be obliged to load Louisa's baggage, which might take some time, now that all available space had been appropriated. But it could not be helped. Charles spent a few moments marshalling the reasons he would use later for not breaking their journey too often.
On the way back to the village, he had a solitary preview of the hours ahead of him. Miss Wadsdale took immediate exception to Eliza. And, although she did not demand that the dog be expelled-Charles divined she had already come to blows with Ned on this issue and lost-she did treat Charles to her opinion that it was against basic Christian precepts to treat “beasts” as if they were humans.
Charles listened politely, suppressing a growl. He only hoped Louisa would contrive to charm this woman and shield him from the worst of her character. Upon reflection, he thought that she just might manage it.
Still, in spite of this more hopeful outlook, he arrived back at the inn in an almost desperate state.
It did not help his humour to discover that the private parlour was empty and that neither Louisa nor the Spadgers were anywhere in sight. Charles ushered Miss Wadsdale into the hallway, for it was not to be hoped that she would wait outside in the carriage for them. As soon as they entered they were welcomed by a hideous cacophony issuing from the direction of the kitchen.
Charles called for Sammy repeatedly, but to no avail. Understanding that his voice could not be heard over the noise, he determined to go in search of anyone who could explain Louisa's absence, at the same time dreading to find that she was the cause of the hubbub. In vain, he tried to dissuade Miss Wadsdale from following him, but she refused to be left alone in a house which, she said, echoed with the very cries of Bedlam.
A shrill wail greeted them as they passed the threshold to the kitchen-a noise Charles might have mistaken for a cat in the throes of love if he had not seen its instrument. A small boy struggled to escape from a brimming tub of water, in which, it appeared, a drenched Jim Spadger and an equally soaked Louisa were trying to drown him. Sammy stood close at hand with buckets of more water and, even as they entered, poured a fresh one over the boy's head to renewed cries. Nan tried helplessly to cope with the puddles of water and mud on her floor.
“Louisa!” Charles called, his temper flying to the surface at the sight of her on her knees in a pool of sudsy water. “What in heaven's name-?'
Behind him Miss Wadsdale shrieked, “God in Heaven! Oh, I never…! And to think…!'
As her outcries pierced the level of noise already prevailing in the room, Nan and Sammy turned around. Their dismay upon seeing both his lordship and the companion of their local doyenne showed in the roundness of their eyes.
Mrs. Spadger curtsied, albeit with a sopping mop in her hand. Sammy put the bucket down before he bowed.
“Yor lordship-Tha mus'na think-'
Charles ignored Sammy's protests. The sight of Louisa's back still turned to him aroused his deepest ire.
He strode to the tub and grasped the boy's chin in one hand, even as Louisa first perceived him.
Her happy cry of “Charles!” he ignored as well, until he could plug the sound of this wailing. Mingled with the boy's sobs, he realized, had been efforts to calm him, both affectionate condolences from Louisa and promises of treats on Jim's part. Neither, he reasoned, would have any effect.
With the child's chin gripped firmly between his fingers, Charles forced his gaze up to meet his own and said, “If you do not stop this infernal caterwauling, I shall drown you myself. You will stop it now.'
“Charles!” Louisa's shocked exclamation fell into a blessed silence. The boy's mouth hung open, but it made no further noise. With a quick pinch to show he meant what he said, Charles released the child and turned his full attention on Louisa.
“Perhaps you will have the goodness to tell me what it is you are doing?” he said with biting cordiality.
“I'm bathing Bob,” Louisa answered matter-of-factly. “But, Charles, do you think it charitable to threaten him so?'
“Charitable or not, it appears to have been effective. But that is beside the point! I can see you are bathing this child, though who he is, and why you should be doing something so outrageous, I cannot imagine!'
Louisa rose to her feet in front of him. Charles automatically put out a hand to help her, and found that his sleeve was made wet just by this slight contact. Her arms up to her elbow still had soap bubbles clinging to them. In deference to his clothes, she held them up and away.
She seemed oblivious to the fact that in spite of her apron, her gown was drenched and clung to her most improperly. Her red hair had been loosened from its ribbons and fell in dampened ringlets about her flushed face.
Charles tried not to stare at these signs of dishevelment, but a quick heat, caused by embarrassment-nothing more, he told himself-invaded him merely at the sight.
