Chapter V
The days at Langburn turned into weeks and Melissa, or Charlotte as we know her now, settled into life at the great house with ease. Her role as the youngest daughter of the Dowager Duchess and late Duke, and sister to Ellen, Isabella and Freddie played out with considerable ease, despite the occasional slip up or faux pas on her part, usually involving a turn of phrase, or ignorance at social custom. The lead up to Christmas had been a season of balls and parties, with the people of the local district enacting customs and traditions dating back several hundred years, amongst these the Boxing Day hunt stood out as a highlight of the season at which anyone who was anyone, and many who were no one, made it their business to be present at.
The reader will be pleased to note that Charlotte passed a most pleasant Christmas with her new family, though she often wondered what those in her present, or rather the future, were thinking and doing right now. Did they think she had run away? Were there missing posters up around the neighbourhood? Was her mother sitting waiting anxiously by the phone for news? It was thoughts like this that made her shed the occasional tear, though she righted herself with the knowledge that she did not know the exact circumstances which were, at that moment, occurring back in her own time period, if indeed any circumstances were occurring at all since it was still a very long time until her own birth, at least from her perspective. In short it was most confusing, and she tried her best not to think about it.
Fortunately, there was plenty to keep her mind occupied, and the glorious Christmas celebrations overawed her as the house was beautifully decorated, and the days of feasting and merrymaking began.
The Boxing Day hunt began on the green in Langburn village, and that morning the ladies prepared to depart in order to watch the gentlemen ride out. The Duke would be at the head of the pack, befitting his position, and he would be joined by none other than Cecil, Duke of Hareburn, a fact which Charlotte had noted with some interest.
At this point it might be of value to give the reader a little background as to the person of Cecil himself. He had grown up happily on the estate at Hareburn, just outside the city of Bath, his childhood largely carefree, surrounded by the love and joy of his family which included his younger brother Edward and older sister Ann. His father, the Duke, was a somewhat aloof figure who had married his much younger mother after he himself had become a widow, his first wife having died in childbirth.
Cecil had first met Freddie when they were children, moving in the circles of the English aristocracy and the two had remained firm friends, attending school at Eton together and then going up to Oxford where both had been Christ Church men. But it was during their time at Oxford that tragedy had struck them both, Freddie’s father dying in a horse riding accident on the estate at Langburn, and Cecil’s father meeting his end thanks to a life given over too much to the finer things rather than physical exercise and a good diet.
Thus, it was that both men had found themselves their father’s heirs, much sooner than had been expected; a fact which produced a considerable camaraderie between them, as well as engendering a certain abject terror.
It was because of this that both men made it their business to spend time with one another, and the long-established Boxing Day hunt at Langburn provided just such an opportunity with Cecil arriving early that morning having overnighted at an Inn between the two estates.
~
‘Do come along now dears or we’ll be late,’ the Dowager said as her daughters busied themselves with their cloaks and mittens.
‘It’s so terribly cold though mother,’ Ellen said, ‘we must be suitably attired.’
‘I am sure old Mrs. Thwaite will be selling hot chestnuts on the green today,’ her mother said, ‘and if it’s that cold we shall see to it that you can pass your time in the parlour of the Duke’s Head.’ And then turning to the housekeeper ‘it wasn’t like this when we were girls now was it Mrs. Harlow.’
‘Indeed, it was not ma’am,’ the housekeeper said smiling. She had been with the family nigh on twenty-five years and had watched the girls growing up, ‘certainly in your youth you liked the snow Miss Ellen.’
‘Well I don’t like it now,’ Ellen replied.
The carriage was waiting for them at the front of the house and the four women, now suitably clad, made their way out onto the snow-covered forecourt where Freddie was waiting for them on his horse.
‘I’m going to ride ahead, no doubt Cecil will be on the green by now and I want to be there ready for the muster,’ he said, and with that he turned his horse and made a quick pace towards the village.
Charlotte found herself sat between her two sisters, her mother, wrapped in furs, sat opposite, and as the carriage made its sedate way into Langburn the four considered the day’s coming events.
‘Do you think they’ll catch anything mother?’ Isabella said, looking out of the window at the snowy landscape around them.
‘Oh, they never catch a thing dear, it’s just for the show really,’ the Dowager replied.
‘I wish they wouldn’t even try,’ Charlotte said.
She had found, in the past weeks, that at times certain practices deemed entirely acceptable in the period she was now living somewhat railed against her modern sensibilities. A few Sundays previously a line in one of Mr. Ramsbottom’s sermons had made her blood boil, after he had referred to the fairer sex as being in need of ‘direction and purpose given by a man,’ and today the thought of attending an event in which an innocent creature was chased, before being torn limb from limb did not exactly fill her with zeal.
‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ Ellen said, ‘you do have some funny ideas at the moment Charlotte.’
‘It’s just her age,’ her mother said, ‘she’ll grow out of it.’
And that was the end of the conversation as the carriage ride continued in silence towards the village.
Upon arrival it seemed as if the entire estate had turned out for the spectacle, as indeed it had, for what else does one do in a rural English village on St Stephen’s Day in this time and place? Old Mrs. Thwaite was indeed selling roasted chestnuts on a little stall to the side of the green, and around her others were peddling their wares too. The children from the estate were performing a dance on the snow covered green, the more mischievous amongst them using it as an excuse to kick up clouds of snow. There was an atmosphere of celebration and in its midst the muster of the huntsman was taking place.
Mounted on their steads, with some on foot handling the hounds, the men were dressed in red coats and white breeches with knee length black, well polished boots, the metal work on their saddles glinting in the winter sun.
Amongst them was the Duke and there too was Cecil, surrounded by the gentleman of the hunt, including Lord Carshaw and the Marquess of Collingdale.
As the ladies’ carriage drew up outside the Duke’s Head Freddie trotted his horse over to greet his mother and sisters.
‘What took you so long?’ he said, ‘I’ve been here almost half an hour.’
‘We prefer to spare our horses, rather than run them into the ground,’ his mother replied as she tottered from the carriage followed by the young ladies.
‘Come and see the hounds Charlotte,’ Freddie said as her sisters made for Mrs. Thwaite’s stall.
The hounds were excitable, knowing that the hunt was close to its start, and several of them jumped up at Charlotte as she approached.
‘Down there, lads,’ one of the huntsman said, ‘begging your pardon ma’am.’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ Charlotte said, ‘I love dogs.’
‘No finer pack than the Langburn’s,’ he said, as the dogs continued to scamper around her feet.
‘Charlotte,’ a familiar voice behind her said, ‘I’m so glad you’ve come.’
It was Cecil, now approaching on his own horse. He looked quite magnificent, dressed in the finest huntsman’s livery and mounted on a beautiful chestnut stead. He climbed down and brought the horse close to Charlotte who patted its nose and smiled at Cecil, waiting for him to speak again.
‘Aren’t you terribly cold?’ he said.
‘I’m alright, it’s worth a little cold to see such a spectacular sight.’
She wondered if he thought she was talking about him or the hunt, but at that moment another voice came from behind.
‘Charlotte, I’m pleased to see you accepted the invitation to come,’ the Marquess of Collingdale said approaching on his own black horse.
‘It is a pleasure to be here,’ she said, as he gazed down on her from above, whilst Cecil stood awkwardly to the side.
Despite outranking the Marquess in aristocratic prowess the Duke was many years his junior and despite his athletic physique he still felt a little intimidated by this thoroughly unpleasant man who had now interrupted his meeting with the woman that he had fallen so desperately in love with.
‘Is your mother here?’ the Marquess continued.
‘She is yes, you will find her with my sisters by the chestnut stall I think,’ Charlotte replied.
But at that moment Freddie blew the horn to signal the final muster and the Marquess turned his horse away from them.
‘Some say,’ Cecil whispered, ‘that a kiss is a sign of good luck to a huntsman, but I feel perhaps such a thing would be improprietous for a gentleman, so I ask you merely to wish me good luck.’
Whilst Charlotte would have happily kissed him, she knew that social etiquette forbade it, and thus she contented herself with wishing him it as he asked before he mounted the chestnut stead and turned away from her, glancing back over his shoulder as he did so.
Charlotte rejoined her mother and sisters, who by now had furnished themselves with the requisite chestnuts and were observing the muster from chairs set up by the footman who had accompanied them with the carriage.
‘Oh, Charlotte there you are,’ her mother said, ‘are they prepared for departure now?’
‘They are mother yes, I saw Cecil and he has the most glorious horse I have ever seen.’
‘The Marquess of Collingdale is here too, I do hope we shall have a chance to converse with him later on,’ the Dowager continued.
The hunt had now departed with a great volley of cheers and the sound of horns, making its way out of the village and into the surrounding fields. The tradition dated back several centuries and Freddie was proud to be upholding his family’s part in it. As predicted the hunt itself was less than successful, the scent of several foxes lost in the snow, and the final chase ending with the fox escaping into a copse of trees, the hounds being unable to penetrate the briar patches.
It was some hours later that they returned to the village, tired yet happy, the horses trotting at a slower pace than they had departed. On the green the local people remained, for this was as much a social occasion as it was a sport and today being a day of rest for most they intended to take full advantage of the opportunities afforded them.
The ladies had retreated to the front parlour of the Duke’s Head, accompanied by Mr. Ramsbottom the curate, and Lady Carshaw who had arrived later in the day. Freddie and Cecil joined them once the formalities were over, and thus it was a merry party who entertained themselves in those most pleasant surroundings, Cecil, finding himself, as if by design, sitting next to Charlotte.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘we were so close to catching that fox, he was just a few yards away, I could almost see the whites of his eyes.’
‘It does sound terribly exciting,’ Charlotte admitted, though she still felt uncomfortable at the idea of the hunt, nevertheless it clearly gave Cecil pleasure to recount the events to her, and so she humoured herself by remembering that she was the only person in the room, if not the country, to have the words ‘animal rights’ in her vocabulary.
The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough as Charlotte sat with the others in the cozy parlour of the Duke’s Head. The curate regaled them with an account of his attendance at the consecration of the new Bishop of Salisbury, and Lord Carshaw made known to the company that his latest visit to court saw the King having increased in size by at least a half.
‘You should see the table at Breakfast, it positively groans. There is a pie, much favoured by his majesty containing no less than twenty different sorts of birds, have you ever heard the like?’
‘And does his majesty consume the entire thing?’ the Dowager asked in great bemusement.
‘No,’ Lord Carshaw replied, ‘he consumes two!’
The room rang with peels of laughter, and Charlotte resisted the urge to pass comment upon the number of unidentifiable meats in the pie as resembling an offering from McDougall’s back in New York City.
Despite her moral objections to the hunt itself she had realised that day just how many friends she now had here, and as they sat around the fire regaling one another with stories she thought to herself that she really did feel truly happy to be there.
~
St Stephen’s day soon gave way to the New Year and Charlotte continued to be amazed at the volume of food and feasting which was occurring around her. In New York the Christmas decorations were cleared away almost as soon as Santa’s sleigh had disappeared back to the north pole, replaced by the signs signalling the beginning of the holiday sales, encouraging the whole country to run itself into yet more debt, as if Thanksgiving and Christmas hadn’t been enough.
But here amongst her Regency friends’ material excesses seemed largely replaced by the simple enjoyment of each other’s company, though on Christmas day itself she had received two particularly fine gifts, the first a black jet broach inlaid into gold from the Marquess of Collingdale and the other a set of the most handsome volumes of Miss Austen’s works accompanied by a necklace which the attached card informed her had belonged to the sender’s grandmother, the former Duchess of Hareburn.
Charlotte was certainly touched by both gifts, though the first seemed more intent upon winning favour than sentimental affection. The second, however, was a gift which appeared both heartfelt and genuine, and after the hunt she had thanked the Duke for his kind gift, the Marquess receiving only a handwritten note.
~
The events which now followed could fill another volume, as Charlotte attended parties and balls, spent time with her mother and sisters and even made a trip up to town with her sisters where she stayed at the London home of Lord and Lady Carshaw, and attended a ball at Buckingham House, in the presence of the king himself. An account of any of these many events would make for interesting reading, but suffice to say that Charlotte’s life here amongst her Regency friends continued apace, and although she missed her life in New York, and not a day went by when she did not wonder whether they thought of her and missed her, the life she now lived was anything but unpleasant.
It was now late spring and Cecil had continued to be a regular visitor to Langburn much to Charlotte’s delight. The two had spent many afternoons walking in the parklands, chaperoned at a distance by Ellen and Isabella who at their mother’s request were to keep an eye on whether the young lady was becoming too romantically infatuated with the young Duke.
Favouring Cecil as a match for their sister over the Marquess of Collingdale the two older ladies made it their business to ignore their mother’s instructions and instead merely observed whether or not the Duke of Hareburn behaved with honour towards their sister, which of course he always did.
With spring came the softening of the weather and the snow, which had lain thick for several months, gave way to the new life of the season. It was around this time that an invitation arrived which caused great excitement in the house, though if truth be told most invitations did.
‘Now look at this crest girls,’ the Dowager Duchess said holding a letter up at breakfast one morning as Charlotte was helping herself to kedgeree from a large tureen, a dish she had grown strangely fond of.
‘Why, it is the Fitzherbert crest,’ she said, ‘it must be from Maria herself.’
‘Or the King,’ Ellen said.
‘Don’t speak such naughtiness dear,’ her mother said, ‘I am sure we do not need to repeat scandal at the breakfast table.’
‘Do open it mother,’ Isabella said.
‘It is addressed to Charlotte,’ her mother said, passing the letter down the table.
The eyes of everyone in the room, including Mrs. Harlow who had just appeared with a rack of toast, all fell upon her as she paused from eating and took the letter from her sister.
The letter was beautifully bound, and the wax seal only added to her excitement as she prised it open.
As she read it silently a smile emerged upon her face such that Ellen reached over and yanked the paper from her hands.
‘Ellen, don’t snatch,’ her mother cried, ‘what does it say?’
‘It says that Charlotte is invited to a spring ball and to take the air with Maria in Brighton in one month’s time, the ball is to be attended by the king himself, oh how wonderful, I did say you made such an impression upon her the likes of which none of the rest of us did.’
‘Well that is just wonderful,’ her mother said, ‘what are the dates?’
‘The 18th to the 21st of May,’ Ellen continued to read, ‘Lady Carshaw is to act as chaperone should Freddie permit it, which he’s bound to do.’
‘Her mother should also permit it,’ the Dowager said, and then let out a small scream.
‘What ever is the matter mother?’ Isabella said, it seemed as if the Duchess had seen a ghost.
‘The 19th of May, it is the Marquess of Collingdale’s birthday that day, he is bound to invite Charlotte to dinner that evening. No, you must stay here Charlotte, write to Maria today and let her know you can’t come.’
‘Oh mother,’ Ellen said, ‘but the spring ball with the king is on the 19th it says here, do let her go.’
‘And spoil her chances of marrying the richest man in the country, I think not.’
‘I’m going to the ball,’ Charlotte said.
A hush descended upon the room.
‘Well it’s not possible dear,’ her mother said, ‘the Marquess will consider it an affront if you are not here for his birthday.’
‘So, will Maria if she refuses,’ Isabella said.
Mrs. Harlow was still standing in the corner with the now cold toast in its rack waiting for the Duchess’ reaction.
‘We’ll see what your brother says, I do not like conflict at the breakfast table,’ the Dowager said, and went back to buttering a slice of toast.
On her part Charlotte had no intention of complying with her mother’s wishes, she still treated much of her life here as something of a game, and annoying the Marquess, who had continued his attempts at seduction as the months had passed, would be an amusing distraction as she looked forward to her trip to Brighton.
That very afternoon she wrote to Maria thanking her for the graciousness of her invitation and informing her that she would be delighted to accept.
Freddie sided with his sister and informing their mother that in this case he outranked her and that since Charlotte wished to go to Brighton then to Brighton she would go.
But unbeknownst to all the household at Langburn Maria Fitzherbert had also dispatched another invitation to her Brighton ball, this time to the estate of Hareburn, near Bath, and for the attention of the Duke therein. Cecil was delighted to receive it and had also replied that same day with similar thanks and gratitude.
Thus, the stage was set for both Charlotte and Cecil to meet once again, this time away from the great house at Langburn with the Duchess’ beady eye, and the sisters’ chaperoning an ever-constant presence, this time on the fashionable south coast where the great and the good, and the great but less than good, would soon gather for Maria’s ball. The stage was set and the actors assembled.