Annie Burrows - Four Regency Rogues

Charlotte did not stay long talking to William Brock. She listened to his explanation of why he had laid off so many hands, then told him that in future he was not to do so without consulting her. ‘We nearly had a riot on our hands,’ she told him. ‘If it had not been for the Earl, they might have come to violence. It is not unknown for a disgruntled mob to set fire to a mill. And it was all so unnecessary. You knew I had gone to buy cotton, you could have waited.’

He mumbled something about petticoat government, but she chose not to hear him, though he would bear watching. There might come a time when he would have to be replaced.

‘Now, go home, Mr Brock, it is late. We will plan what to do tomorrow.’

She left him to secure the premises and drove out of the gate and made for Mandeville. She was aware of being followed by Roland and though she was tempted to turn round and send him on his way, she was strangely comforted by his presence. It did not matter what she did—he was determined to look after her. She laughed aloud and urged the pony onwards. It was a cat-and-mouse game, but who was the cat and who the mouse?

Charlotte was busy all the following week. The cotton mill was once again in full production, though she was still left with the problem of more supplies once those Mr Temple had sent were used up. A letter from the Liverpool harbour master had informed her that the captain of an incoming schooner had seen what he believed was the Fair Charlie dismasted and wallowing in heavy seas. Struggling with his own vessel, he had been unable to get close enough to hale the stricken ship and had no idea what had happened, but she was so low in the water he could not think she could make landfall before sinking. Quite apart from the loss of the crew whom Charlotte genuinely mourned, it was a blow from which it would be difficult to recover and she would be at the mercy of independent importers for her cotton and exporters to take her finished cloth. She felt as if she were losing control, but she could not allow that to happen and spent days searching out contracts. For the first time she felt her gender was against her, but she persevered. Not to do so would mean throwing her mill hands out of work. In comparison to everything else, the coming ball seemed unimportant.

Lady Ratcliffe, of course, did not think so. As far as she was concerned, it was to be the event of the year and nothing less than Charlotte’s betrothal to the Earl of Amerleigh would satisfy her. Charlotte had given up protesting; her great-aunt would see her error in the fullness of time.

When at last she found time to go into Shrewsbury to choose a costume, there was very little left; everyone had been there before her. She was offered elaborate gowns, which needed no end of corseting, and coiffures that would take hours to create—that is, if they could be created on her wild hair. She could just imagine Meg’s dismay at being asked to do it. The alternatives were flimsy bits of nonsense that were hardly respectable. Or animals. She chose to dress as a black cat, hoping the disguise would be complete enough to hide her anguish. The anguish would be engendered by the sight of Roland Temple and the knowledge that, whatever happened, she must keep him at a distance. It was the only way to stay in control.

The week had been wet but the day itself produced thunderstorm after thunderstorm all day long and Charlotte wondered aloud how many of her guests would be put off by the weather. ‘None,’ Emily said. ‘Everyone is agog to see Mandeville and as the Earl is coming…’

‘Perhaps he will not.’

‘Nonsense. Of course he will. He has accepted and I do not believe he is a man to go back on his word.’

Her great-aunt had no idea what had transpired between her and the Earl, that they were in a state of open warfare. And for what? A little strip of land? A grudge held for years? Or a kiss that had set her in such inner turmoil she could hardly go about her daily business for fear of coming upon him, or sleep at night for reliving it? ‘No, I am sure he never does,’ she said, thinking of other words spoken in the heat of the moment years before. ‘And neither am I.’

Emily looked at her sharply, wondering what her great-niece meant by that. ‘I hope you are not going to keep worrying about business all through the evening, Charlotte. The mill is not going to fall down simply because you take a little time off. If you want to be accepted in society, this preoccupation with business must surely stop. Ladies do not interest themselves in such things.’

‘And who is to do it if I do not?’

‘Your husband.’

‘But I have no husband.’

‘Nor will you have unless you observe the proprieties and learn to conduct yourself in a more fitting manner.’

Charlotte gave up the argument and her aunt was soon distracted by other things. Given a free hand, she had the servants scurrying hither and thither with vases of flowers and trays of glasses, urging people to do several jobs at once and scolding them when inevitably they failed. The maids, on hands and knees, had polished the floor of the ballroom until it gleamed like a mirror. The footman, even the temporary ones, had been given new livery, and the butler stood in his pantry, counting bottles of wine and champagne. Lamps had been strung up in the trees in the garden and a double row of them illuminated the drive.

Afraid that the weather would delay the musicians she had hired for the evening, her ladyship had sent a message requiring them to come early and they had to be fed along with everyone else and Mrs Cater was throwing a tantrum. How could she be expected to cook for the army of helpers at the same time as overseeing the caterers who were providing the elaborate supper to be served to over a hundred guests? she demanded to know.

‘It is time you were going up to change,’ her ladyship said, coming upon Charlotte in the kitchen with an apron tied round her business dress, helping Mrs Cater, an activity her ladyship deplored. ‘Your guests must not find you unprepared to receive them.’

She went up to her room, stripped off her dress and lay down on the bed to wait for Meg to bring her hot water to wash. She had hardly slept the night before and had had such a worrying day, sleep overcame her. She was woken by the maid at seven o’clock.

‘Why, you have not even taken your costume from its box,’ Meg said, pouring hot water into the bowl.

‘There was no reason to do so before I was ready to put it on.’ Charlotte said, stripping off the underwear she had been sleeping in and washing before putting on a thin chemise and drawers and reaching out for the costume Meg had taken from its wrapping. It was of black velvet, very tight fitting, covering her from head to toe, far too daring for a country ball and, according to Lady Ratcliffe, to whom she had shown it when she brought it home, positively indecent and would horrify the Earl. That last remark was enough to strengthen her resolve to wear it.

There was a long black sarcenet pelisse to go over it, which would float around her and the mask would hide everything but her eyes and mouth and that was good. She did not want to betray what she was feeling to anyone, least of all the Earl of Amerleigh. It needed no jewellery, no trimming, no anything, except a small pocket for her handkerchief. Even her hair was covered by the velvet head and so all she had to do was brush it and push it up out of the way. She looked plain, simple and anonymous. Taking a deep breath, she left the sanctuary of her room and went downstairs.

Miraculously the rain had eased and the guests were arriving. Lord and Lady Brandon and Martha were the first. Sir Gordon was in ordinary evening dress, but her ladyship was dressed as Queen Elizabeth in a huge brocade farthingale with a stiff lace ruff around her plump neck. Martha was dressed as Columbine, making Charlotte wonder if the Earl might arrive as Harlequin. He would not be the only one, she realised, when the Reverend Mr Elliott, Mrs Elliott and Martin arrived. Martin was Harlequin.