Mistress by Mistake

From what Charlotte had seen already, the only thing apt to be tired was Deb’s tongue. A small battalion of men moved to and fro up and down the stairs, loading the cart. “Mr. Frazier, perhaps you and Kitty and the coachman can refresh yourselves at the Pig and Whistle. They do a very nice lunch.”

“Are you sure, Miss Fallon?” He seemed suspicious of Deborah, having heard all of Mrs. Kelly’s and Irene’s tirades against her. Deb had not made herself popular in her brief tenure on Jane Street.

“Perfectly. You might do a bit of shopping as well, after. We’ll need something for dinner and breakfast.”

“I don’t like to leave you alone with these people,” Frazier mumbled for her ears only.

“I’ll be fine,” Charlotte said stoutly. Arthur could always hit any intruder in the head with the parrot.

“I know you’ve been sitting a spell, but you haven’t been sleeping well. You take care of yourself, too.” Frazier warned.

Charlotte was tired. She missed the length of Bay’s body against her in the night. Sleeping with Kitty in inns was not the same at all. Arthur tucked the parrot awkwardly under one arm and assisted Deb back into the cottage as though she were made of spun sugar. Following, Charlotte bit her lip as Deb milked her maternal status for all it was worth.

Mercifully, everything in the parlor was just as Charlotte had left it, except now Arthur propped the parrot on the mantel. Its malevolent beady eyes took in the comfortably shabby room, no doubt wishing for her sister’s more familiar exalted objets d’art. Deb kicked off her fancy embroidered slippers and lay back on the sofa, putting her feet up on a cushion.

“Be a dear and massage my feet, Arthur. Now, tell me. Who was that funny-looking red-haired man? And who is Kitty? Never tell me you were travelling with one of your cats. What a nuisance they’ve been, by the way, yowling at all hours ever since we arrived, getting underfoot of the removal men. Nasty creatures. I don’t see how you can stand the little beggars.”

“Prefer a dog, myself,” Arthur interjected as his hands smoothed over Deb’s stockings. “A nice beagle. Had one when I was a boy.”

“Yes, yes.” Deb waved her hand vaguely. “You may have one when we get back to Bard’s End, but it is not to come into my house and mess on my carpets. Nor will it nip my precious baby. Arthur, you must see to its training.”

“Yes, my love.”

Charlotte suppressed a giggle. For all Deb’s domesticity, she had not lost imperious sway over her husband. Arthur was completely in her thrall, no doubt pinching himself several times a day that he was actually married to London’s most sought-after courtesan.

“What has happened, Charlie? I even stopped at Jane Street and inquired of your neighbor Lady Christie. What an elegant woman she is, even if her life’s a scandal. I do wish I’d gotten to know her when I was there. She told me you simply disappeared, the house was shut up, and if I was to find you to send her felicitations. Oh! And she said she bought a red dress and her husband was apoplectic. Very odd, that. Anyway, tell me everything.”

“Well.” Charlotte wondered about Deb’s reaction when she told her about the engagement. Arthur compared rather unfavorably to Sir Michael Xavier Bayard, and Deb would think if she had played her cards patiently, she might have been Lady Bayard instead of Mrs. Bannister. She might as well get it over with. “I was with Bay at his estate in Dorset. He’s asked me to marry him, and I’ve said yes.”

Deb jerked her foot out of her husband’s hand. “Don’t be ridiculous, you tease. Where have you been really?”

“I’ve just said, Deb.”

Deb sat up. “I can’t believe it! Where is your ring?”

Charlotte looked at her naked hands. “I-I don’t have one yet. A ring isn’t the important thing anyway.”

“Oh, you are so naive. Look what Arthur gave me.” She leaned over and thrust a good-sized winking sapphire under Charlotte’s nose.

Charlotte felt a twinge of spite. She untied her fichu, revealing the magnificent ruby necklace.

“My necklace!” cried Deb.

“My necklace,” countered Charlotte. “And you know you took it without permission.”

“It was an accident. I was in such a hurry to marry my Arthur I didn’t pay attention when I was packing. What a lot of trouble the silly thing caused. That man who interrupted our blissful honeymoon at Patrice’s chateau put a damper on us for days. It looks very nice on you,” Deb said grudgingly. “But that dress-don’t you have anything more suitable?”

“You know I don’t. Look, Deb, I’m happy for you. Please be happy for me.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I have everything I’ve ever wanted-a house of my own and a child on the way.” This was news to Charlotte, but she held her tongue. After a pregnant pause, an embarrassed Arthur cleared his throat. “And you, of course, Arthur! That goes without saying. But Charlie, are you sure Bay will marry you? He’s not a marrying kind of man.”

“I’m sure,” Charlotte said, praying that it was true.

The next hour passed as Deb gave orders from the couch while Charlotte brewed up tea and a fierce backache. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief when the cart rattled off, taking the clomping, stomping men with it. Arthur and Deb repaired to the relative luxury of the Pig and Whistle, saying their good-byes as they were making for Kent with all the treasure at first light. Charlotte was spared sharing her supper with them-fresh bread, ham, and beans from her garden, which were running riot up over the poles. She and Kitty and Angus had dined in the cozy kitchen together, and the couple was now readying the two cleared-out attic rooms for nightfall, although Charlotte imagined just one of the pallets would be slept on tonight. Frazier’s arm was fully healed, and there was no reason why he could not consummate his engagement. Charlotte had no objection, as long as they weren’t too noisy. She was looking forward to sleeping undisturbed in her own bed beneath her own worn quilts.

By now Little Hyssop’s rumor mill was working overtime. First there had been Charlotte’s sudden departure, then her sister’s arrival and the removal of a king’s ransom worth of oddities from the tiny cottage, then Charlotte’s return with two servants in tow. She’d have a lot of explaining to do in the morning and needed all the rest she could get.

She went into her little back bedroom off the kitchen and opened the window to the summer night. Her hollyhocks had grown up taller than she was and mostly blocked her view of the stars. But she made her wish anyway, undressed, and crawled into bed. Fingering the heavy necklace still at her throat, she was reassured. She may not have a ring, but she had something better-a man who swore he loved her and would protect her always.

She woke in the middle of the night to loud growls. The sound was not at all catlike, and it came from indoors, not out. Frightened, she grabbed a trusty candlestick and tiptoed through the dark to the parlor. Angus Frazier had angled the sofa against the hall entryway, and was guarding her noisily against nighttime visitors in his sleep. Either that, or Kitty had thrown him out for the ruckus. Charlotte noted on her way back to bed that the kitchen door was blocked with a chair. No Little Hyssopian would gain access to her cottage tonight. She fell back asleep with a smile on her face, and woke to the smell of frying bacon, which gave her stomach only a minor lurch. It was to be one of the good mornings. She pulled on her gray robe and stepped into the kitchen.

Sunlight streamed in through the open back door. A jar of fresh-cut flowers was centered on the set table, and Kitty was in total control. A pan of eggs bubbled on the stove, and bread had already been buttered. “Good morning, miss! Did you sleep well?”

“Like the dead. This looks lovely, Kitty. The food and the flowers. Thank you.” She sat down like a true lady of leisure as Kitty poured her a cup of tea.

“Oh, your garden is a wonder, Miss Fallon. I could be happy living in a cottage like this. It’s just perfect.”

“It is, rather. Not fancy, but I’ve been happy here.”

Or as happy as one could be, lonely and more or less poor.

She would miss her cottage when Bay came for her, silly as that was. Bayard Court was beautiful, and she was sure his house in town was as well, with its fabled French chef, but Little Hyssop had been her home for a decade. Charlotte looked at Kitty’s shining face as she stirred the eggs. “I say, I’d like to make a wedding present of it for you, when Sir Michael and I marry.”

Kitty dropped the wooden spoon. “You’re joking!”

“I’m not. But perhaps I spoke too soon. Mr. Frazier might not like it. I don’t know what he could do to keep