Charlotte House Affair 01 - My Particular Friend by Jennifer Petkus
Authors: Jennifer Petkus
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such excitement than at Charlotte’s side? I have helped expose a future lord as a monster and helped a woman cruelly wronged obtain a measure of justice. And who knows what else I might do?’
‘But you must confront Charlotte. I did not teach her to behave in this way.’
‘Confront her? What on earth for? When did you find this?’
‘This morning before I left.’
‘Good, Charlotte has not been in the library, I think. Put it back where you found it. It will vex her more and more each day as I refuse to acknowledge it.’ I smiled at the thought of it.
Mrs Fitzhugh looked at me strangely. ‘You become more and more like her, you know,’ she said and then left to return the letter.
After the door closed I relaxed and found my glass of port, which Mrs Fitzhugh left close at hand. I took a sip—my friend kept an excellent liquor cabinet—and closed my eyes and despite my aches I found myself exceedingly pleased and at home.
The Affair of the Reluctant Bachelor
I t was two weeks after our confrontation with Mr Hickham, while I was sitting with Charlotte and Mrs Fitzhugh, that Charlotte quietly said, ‘Bored, bored, bored.’ We ignored her, as it was not the first time we had heard this. Seeing that we ignored her, she continued, ‘Are there no problems? Hasn’t a curate been seen with an unchaperoned daughter? Isn’t there a fishwife somewhere who wants her daughter to marry a duke?’
‘You’re being silly, Charlotte,’ Mrs Fitzhugh said, not looking up from her correspondence.
‘You urged Mrs Chandler not to pursue Mr Simpson for her daughter,’ I said.
‘Oh please, he cheats at cards to cover his debts, although I admit he is clever to have established his reputation of a nervous constitution. His constant fidgeting conceals the dexterity with which he marks cards. He will be found out all too soon.’
‘We still have plenty to do,’ I added. ‘We go to a
soirée
this evening.’ #
Charlotte gave a disgusted sound and I think I heard the word
‘soirée’
muttered under her breath as if it were the most disgusting word in the language—or at least in French. I knew the relative inactivity chaffed her. For several days after that fateful night, Charlotte was busy doing what she could to see that Mr Hickham’s disgrace was firmly established—‘A word here, a word there, soon it spreads like the pox’—while attempting to conceal our rôle and that of Miss Winslow.
And soon enough her prediction came true and rumours about Mr Hickham, wildly distorted from the facts, circulated about the town. Callers to our home even related these rumours to Charlotte, who found herself in the position of defending Mr Hickham—‘I cannot believe what you say, Mr Hickham seemed such an amiable fellow’—while able to fan the flames at the same time—‘and I am sure the rumour that he struck a servant so savagely he almost died a monstrous calumny.’
I, of course, remained at home until the bruises about my neck faded, and I soon found myself wanting to rejoin society. I especially hoped I might have the society of Mr Wallace but apart from a few letters inquiring as to my health I had not seen nor heard of him since.
Charlotte also found herself increasingly restless once the rumours had established their own momentum. After she and our mutual friend had resumed their regular visits and entertainments, Charlotte declared again and again that she now found our routine tiresome.
‘Your problem, Charlotte, is that our encounter with Mr Hickham has excited you. You crave adventure but all you find is the mundane, while I, for one, find some comfort from it.’ I brought my hand to my neck hoping that I could draw some sympathy from her.
‘Oh please, Jane, you have gone to the well one too many times.’
Mrs Fitzhugh gave a little laugh that confirmed my ploy had indeed outgrown its usefulness. I laughed as well and Charlotte at least smiled. Then came a knock at the door and the footman
‘But you must confront Charlotte. I did not teach her to behave in this way.’
‘Confront her? What on earth for? When did you find this?’
‘This morning before I left.’
‘Good, Charlotte has not been in the library, I think. Put it back where you found it. It will vex her more and more each day as I refuse to acknowledge it.’ I smiled at the thought of it.
Mrs Fitzhugh looked at me strangely. ‘You become more and more like her, you know,’ she said and then left to return the letter.
After the door closed I relaxed and found my glass of port, which Mrs Fitzhugh left close at hand. I took a sip—my friend kept an excellent liquor cabinet—and closed my eyes and despite my aches I found myself exceedingly pleased and at home.
The Affair of the Reluctant Bachelor
I t was two weeks after our confrontation with Mr Hickham, while I was sitting with Charlotte and Mrs Fitzhugh, that Charlotte quietly said, ‘Bored, bored, bored.’ We ignored her, as it was not the first time we had heard this. Seeing that we ignored her, she continued, ‘Are there no problems? Hasn’t a curate been seen with an unchaperoned daughter? Isn’t there a fishwife somewhere who wants her daughter to marry a duke?’
‘You’re being silly, Charlotte,’ Mrs Fitzhugh said, not looking up from her correspondence.
‘You urged Mrs Chandler not to pursue Mr Simpson for her daughter,’ I said.
‘Oh please, he cheats at cards to cover his debts, although I admit he is clever to have established his reputation of a nervous constitution. His constant fidgeting conceals the dexterity with which he marks cards. He will be found out all too soon.’
‘We still have plenty to do,’ I added. ‘We go to a
soirée
this evening.’ #
Charlotte gave a disgusted sound and I think I heard the word
‘soirée’
muttered under her breath as if it were the most disgusting word in the language—or at least in French. I knew the relative inactivity chaffed her. For several days after that fateful night, Charlotte was busy doing what she could to see that Mr Hickham’s disgrace was firmly established—‘A word here, a word there, soon it spreads like the pox’—while attempting to conceal our rôle and that of Miss Winslow.
And soon enough her prediction came true and rumours about Mr Hickham, wildly distorted from the facts, circulated about the town. Callers to our home even related these rumours to Charlotte, who found herself in the position of defending Mr Hickham—‘I cannot believe what you say, Mr Hickham seemed such an amiable fellow’—while able to fan the flames at the same time—‘and I am sure the rumour that he struck a servant so savagely he almost died a monstrous calumny.’
I, of course, remained at home until the bruises about my neck faded, and I soon found myself wanting to rejoin society. I especially hoped I might have the society of Mr Wallace but apart from a few letters inquiring as to my health I had not seen nor heard of him since.
Charlotte also found herself increasingly restless once the rumours had established their own momentum. After she and our mutual friend had resumed their regular visits and entertainments, Charlotte declared again and again that she now found our routine tiresome.
‘Your problem, Charlotte, is that our encounter with Mr Hickham has excited you. You crave adventure but all you find is the mundane, while I, for one, find some comfort from it.’ I brought my hand to my neck hoping that I could draw some sympathy from her.
‘Oh please, Jane, you have gone to the well one too many times.’
Mrs Fitzhugh gave a little laugh that confirmed my ploy had indeed outgrown its usefulness. I laughed as well and Charlotte at least smiled. Then came a knock at the door and the footman
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