Charlie got up as if she were sleepwalking. She came back to the table with a jar of golden plum jam, centering it in front of her. Bay’s stomach rumbled. Surely she was not going to eat without offering him anything. The knife still lay on the floor where she had dropped it earlier. He rose, picked it up, and sliced another piece of bread. “Where do you keep your cutlery?”
She pointed silently to the Welsh dresser. He opened a drawer and took out a spoon from the modest collection of coin silver and tin. Grabbing two plates, he went to work making a jam sandwich for each of them. He gobbled his in three bites while she stared at hers as if she wasn’t quite sure what it was.
“Why?”
Bay swallowed the last chunk. The jam was delicious. He’d seen the plum trees in her front garden. He actually did have an interest in gardening; he was Grace’s grandson, after all. This jar was probably the last of the previous summer’s bounty. A few more mysterious glass containers were lined up on the dresser. Charlie probably put them up herself. “Why what?”
“You have your pick of any lightskirt in London. You own a house on Jane Street, for heaven’s sake, a guarantee that you can attract the most discriminating whore. And I know there is such a thing. I got to know the neighbors a bit. It was-they were astonishing.”
Bay smiled to think of Charlie in the midst of a group of courtesans. He knew there were regular entertainments on Jane Street. He just hadn’t imagined his Charlie being entertained.
“I prefer you, Charlie. We were becoming well used to each other, and not in any sort of boring way, I might add. If you are worried about your reputation, don’t be. Bayard Court is somewhat isolated. Frazier and Mrs. Kelly and Irene will be on hand to provide discreet service. I let most of my grandmother’s staff go when I shut up the house-and found them all employment, so you can wipe that sneer off your face,
“Whatever makes you think I want to get to know you better?” Charlie’s face was bright red again, not a good omen.
Bay shrugged. “You must admit we were getting on quite well toward the end. I was on my way to visit you when I was kidnapped that night, you know.”
“Rubbish. You were going to France to see my sister.”
“No. I changed my mind. I decided to let Mr. Mulgrew’s operative earn his fee. I didn’t want to leave you, Charlie. Didn’t want to leave your bed.”
She was silent, her hands trembling around the teacup. She must have heard the sincerity in his voice, must understand that he wasn’t ready to leave her behind in Little Fillup forever just yet. A summer idyll would be just the thing for both of them. They’d had a difficult time and deserved some restoration of their spirits. Even if it cost him the earth.
A part of him wished she’d come even without the enticement of a fortune. He glanced around the simple room that was dominated by the large stove. A streak against the whitewashed wall showed where the stove smoked, but the rest of the kitchen was spotless. A gleaming copper teakettle sat atop its surface. The space was cheery without being one bit ornate, much like the parlor he’d had trouble standing upright in. Perhaps her head wouldn’t be turned by money-she was nothing like her sister.
“You tempt me,” she said at last.
“Good.” He grinned at her.
“Oh, not
“I mean the money for you, Charlie, for your future.”
“Little Hyssop
A prickle of unease swept from his neck down his spine. Of course he couldn’t offer to marry her, not that she wouldn’t make some man a happy husband. Judging from the condition of her cottage, she was an excellent housekeeper, not that any wife of his would ever have to lift a finger-his nabob grandfather had ensured that. And he knew from experience her performance in the bedchamber was every man’s dream. She’s certainly bedeviled his nights since they’d been apart.
She stacked and carried her dishes to the slate sink. He pushed his arctic tea aside and stood. “Think about my proposition, Charlie. I’ll be at the Pig and Whistle until I hear from you.”
She continued the washing up, not acknowledging his departure. Fine. Let her stew over it for a day, a week, however long it took. He’d wander about the countryside on his garden tour until she came to her senses and into his arms.
Chapter 18
Charlotte spent a sleepless night, counting the raindrops as they fell on her roof. The man was impossible, the devil himself, to taunt her with such an enormous amount of money. She would be set for life, never wondering whether she should sell one of Deb’s castoffs, never tatting another inch of lace if she didn’t want to. The banknotes she had in the ginger jar could fall into the fire and she needn’t deign to singe her fingers to rescue them.
A summer by the sea as well as a fortune-she realized she missed her childhood home, hearing the slap of waves against the rocks, feeling the sharp wind against her face, seeing the gilded ribbon of moonlight on the water on a calm night. When her parents had drowned, she’d turned her back to the ocean, hating what she once had loved. But a decade had passed. She would love a beach holiday-she’d even contemplate going for a sail should the opportunity present itself.
But if she had felt guilty taking money from Mr. Frazier, however could she reconcile herself to Bay’s offer? She would be a true prostitute, bought and at his every beck and call. No one could possibly refuse any demand he made after he had paid such a wicked sum. She would be completely at his mercy. The situation was absurd.
Let him cool his heels at the village inn. He’d soon grow bored waiting to hear from her. He’d simply have to find another woman to captivate. She would not succumb to his allure. Not again.
Grumpy, Charlotte tumbled out of bed and straightened the covers. She always made the bed first thing. She had her routine, and she stuck by it. Today was Monday, which meant she would clean her clean kitchen, then walk to the village shops. It had turned out to be a fine day for a change. She could finally get at her overgrown garden this afternoon, work up a sweat, and work out the irritability she still felt for Sir Michael Xavier Bayard. She wrapped her hair in a clean kerchief, tied an apron on over an old brown calico work dress, and entered her kitchen.
She stopped still. There on the table was Bay’s mug, the tea still in it. She had been so distracted when he left yesterday, she’d gone straight into her parlor and wound lace on her bobbins, weaving and twisting and pinning the thread to her pillow until her hands cramped and it was too dark to see. She’d gone to bed without supper, her toast and the jam sandwich the only thing she ate all day yesterday. She was famished.
Sweeping the mug off the table, she opened the back door and tossed it into the garden, where it bounced along the lawn. It wasn’t fit to be used anymore. She sometimes kept spare coins or pins in it. Perhaps Bay had swallowed one.
She stoked the stove, adding a shovelful of coals, boiled her water, scrambled her egg. When she finished breakfast she tidied the kitchen and set to scrubbing the stubborn long gray stain on her wall. If she had six thousand pounds, she could buy a new stove that wouldn’t smoke. If she had six thousand pounds, she could hire Mrs. Finch from the village to scrub walls and sweep floors while she read one of Caroline’s naughty novels in her back garden.
No, she was not going to do it.
She made herself presentable for her walk to the shops, gathered her basket by the front door, and went outside. Her plum trees were bursting full with green fruit. In a few weeks it would be time to make jam. If she were at Bayard Court, all those delicious plums would drop to the ground for the birds and the worms, and then what would she have for her bread come winter? She’d miss the raspberries and blackberries too. She’d been in the middle of making strawberry preserves when Deb’s letter had come, so at least there was that, although she’d promised a dozen jars to Mrs. Kemble for the church fair in August.
