Or so she had been told.
Hensh was like a brother to her, and Michael was, too. More so, even, for Michael had been her friend since they were children. And he scolded her like a brother, as if there needed to be more discipline in her life.
Not that her own brother had scolded her, for Charles was far too obtuse and obsessed with his own entertainment to care about her antics. Unless they interfered with his wishes, and then they would have a perfectly frightful row until he gave in and stormed off.
They were due for another soon.
But yes, she could send for Michael. If nothing else, she could regale him with tales of all that he missed while he was away. He wasn’t as dedicated to Society as she was, but he was just as informed. His opinions on the recent actions they had taken for Edith, for example, would be most interesting to hear. He had been away for their attempts to show her off in Society, for their escape to Lord Radcliffe’s country estate, and for the dramatic manner in which Edith had finally been freed from her lascivious cousin by marriage. It seemed impossible that he could have missed so much, or that he could have stayed away so long, and yet…
Settling it in her mind, Charlotte rose and moved to the door of her parlor.
“Annie! Annie, are you still out there?”
“Yes, Miss Wright!” came the distant reply. Footsteps soon echoed in the corridor.
“No, don’t come to me,” Charlotte called back. “Will you see that Mr. Sandford is sent for, please?”
“Yes, Miss Wright!”
“Charlotte, must you bellow?” her mother moaned from somewhere nearby in the house.
Charlotte grinned, eyeing the massive ancestral portraits hanging on the walls above her as though her mother were among them. “You bellowed too, Mama!”
“Lottie, leave Mother alone,” her father’s voice echoed, his amusement evident.
“Sorry, Papa!” Charlotte snorted a laugh, covering her mouth.
“You are all mad!” Charles hollered, no humor to be heard in his voice.
Rolling her eyes, Charlotte ducked back into her parlor and flopped onto a divan. There were not as many benefits to having a fine house if they all stayed in rooms close enough to hear each other. It was trouble enough to manage privacy with their ingrained level of curiosity, but to be cloistered in such proximity?
She adored London, but one must surely go to the country to find any space to breathe.
Her eyes widened. She must truly be bored beyond reason if she was wishing herself at Brancombe Park. The place was expansive, sprawling even, but it was also in the middle of Oxfordshire with nothing at all to amuse anybody for ten miles around it.
Unless one enjoyed quaint villages, busybodies, and hordes of local children that seemed to increase in number at an exponential rate. Her annual visits with the family had long given Charlotte the opinion that the village of Cambryn was in desperate need of a gamekeeper to control the number of locals. And perhaps to stock some strapping men of a certain attractiveness to work at the blacksmith’s or stride out in regimentals or farm the lands.
She’d never marry one of them, but at least the drive through Cambryn would be more appealing.
It was not long after her note had been sent that Michael was announced, and Charlotte picked up a book to hide her grin and her state of utter boredom.
“What are we reading today?” Michael asked, striding into the room with his usual easy lope.
Charlotte pointedly turned a page. “Shh. This is the best part.”
“I’m sure it is. And if I actually thought you were reading, I’d ask you to read it aloud so that we both might enjoy it. But since you were not actually reading, and your eyes are not actively moving across the page, I’ll thank you to lower the book and tell me what I’m doing here.”
Slowly, Charlotte lowered the book, scowling darkly at her oldest friend. “You are distinctly less entertaining than when you left, Michael.”
Michael’s clear blue eyes surveyed her without rancor, his mouth quirked in the slight smile he was never without. “I’ve never been known for my entertainment value.”
“No surprises there.” Charlotte tilted her head at him, smiling in earnest now. He had been gone several months, and it was remarkable how pleased she felt at seeing him now.
He, at least, wasn’t married. There was that.
“How was the country?” Charlotte asked, softening even in her pretense of cynicism and indignation. “And your family?”
If Michael noticed anything, he kept his opinions to himself. He only smiled at her question. “Perfectly quaint, if you must know. My sisters much prefer the country to London, and I think my brother may turn out to be a great sportsman.” He chuckled and shook his head. “He’s already a better shot than me.”
Charlotte smirked. “Good for Peter. Did your mother try to convince you to stay again?”
He nodded, still looking almost whimsical. “Of course. And took me to several events in the surrounding area, introducing me to any young woman over the age of sixteen.”
“It’s fortunate she is not desperate,” Charlotte muttered dryly, a feeling of disgust welling up. “One might do something drastic otherwise.”
Michael snorted a laugh. “Quite. But, alas, none of the young ladies were to my liking. Pleasant enough, but…” He shrugged, unconcerned by his apparent failure.
The irony between his lot and Charlotte’s was not lost on her.
“How many young ladies of adequate fortune and breeding are there in Oxfordshire?” Charlotte lifted a dubious brow. “And how many of those possess fair enough looks to be really considered?”
“You’d be surprised,” Michael assured her.
