Page 13 of The Wilful Widow
For a moment, she kept her eyes on his beautiful, familiar face. How different things would have been if Alexander had been early.
Or if the mail coach had been late.
For, when it had arrived, ten minutes before its allotted time, and Mr. and Mrs. Stiles, her old neighbors, had been aboard, Mr. Stiles leaping out to help her inside, her bag being summarily hoisted up to the roof and strapped on, the carriage door effectively locking her inside, she’d been powerless to resist.
All she could think of was to send word to Alexander to tell him what had happened.
But by the time her letter would have reached him, he had gone. And she had no idea where to start looking for him.
“Alexander, I—” She opened her mouth to pour out her story. She had to tell him, if only so he knew she had not reneged on their arrangement; that she hadn’t been easily led, or inconstant, or persuaded again of the merits of her match with titled Lord Busselton over penniless Alexander Pemberton.
“Mr. Pemberton! There you are! Did you find—Oh, Mama!”
Beatrice’s dark hair appeared level with Alexander’s hip, and her daughter sent her a nervous, gap-toothed smile. But when she raised her face to speak to Alexander, all fear was gone. How Charlotte wished Lord Ashbrook had that effect on Beatrice. He seemed kind enough, though perhaps a little short and gruff, but Beatrice had not warmed to him as Charlotte wished she might have.
Considering Charlotte was going to marry him after all.
For, one look at Alexander’s face, unaffected by his meeting, told her that this was still her only way forward.
Chapter 8
“You’re very busy, Katherine. I thought you’d finished writing your script for Rapunzel.”
Katherine looked up from her chair at the little writing desk in the blue drawing room and smiled at her mother. “It’s more complicated when I have to mix Rapunzel up with Little Red Riding Hood because I have to make the villain work in the same two stories.”
“And who’s the villain?”
“Why, Lord Ashbrook of course.” Katherine watched the thoughts flit across her mother’s face. Dear Mama was so easy to read.
“I’m glad that you’ve found a part for Beatrice. That was kind of you.” Her mama hesitated. “Poor Beatrice seems such a sad child. You’ll make her so happy to be in this play.”
Katherine nodded. “I thought the same, Mama.” And she did mean it. But while she really did want to make Beatrice happy, so much better was the fact it was going to make everyone happy.
AndKatherinewould be the person who would execute the grand plan that would put things to rights among the adults.
Katherine lowered her head to return to her task of writing out the script for the adults while her mother continued to look over her shoulder, murmuring, “It is a lot of work to write out a script for everyone. You’re doing a wonderful job, Katherine.”
Katherine’s heart swelled. “Thank you, Mama. It is a lot of work. That’s why I’m saving time by writing individual scripts for everyone, but only putting in the lines they have to say.”
“I daresay that makes sense since everyone knows the story and what the other person is likely to say.”
To mitigate the obvious doubt Katherine heard in her mother’s voice, Katherine raised her head and said firmly, “That’s exactly right. And it makes it so much more fun for the adults, too, don’t you think? You were very kind to let the children have some fun with the adults, and I know not all of them want to do it. Lord Ashbrook certainly doesn’t for I heard him sounding very grumbly when he knew I could hear. I think that’s very rude, don’t you, Mama? That’s why I’ve made him the wolf.” She stood up. “Now, I must find Beatrice and George and tell them what they have to do.”
However, George’s loud, bossy tones in the passageway heralded their arrival into the drawing room, accompanied by their nanny. But, as Lord Ashbrook in company with a chattering Miss Huxtable made their appearance shortly afterward, Katherine’s mother shooed all the younger ones upstairs.
Katherine was quite happy about this. There were things she couldn’t possibly tell Beatrice and George in adult hearing.
* * *
Meanwhile,Alexander was on his own mission to make someone happy.
But though his mission was on young Beatrice’s account, he couldn’t help but take advantage of this extraordinarily sanctioned foray into Charlotte’s inner sanctum.
If he’d been able to, he’d have taken his time to see how Charlotte laid out her brushes on her dressing table, or to pick up the bottle of scent she’d favored when he’d first met her. Every time he smelled roses he thought of Charlotte.
It speared him with longing, in fact.
Just as it did when he’d faced her in such intimate proximity on the staircase. It had taken the skills of the great bard himself to have hidden how affected he’d been. In the intervening years, her lovely face had, if anything, only bloomed into a more mature loveliness with a hint of sadness he’d have done anything to have erased with a kiss.
