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“You see, Father,” Charity explained. “I do not love James Poppy; and he loves Flora Muirwood. I believe she loves him too, so I am happy for them. However, you are right, James is a decent fellow and so I had considered him as someone who might bring me, if not a lifetime of happiness, at least no sadness or pain.”
“I see,” her father replied as he bit into a cucumber sandwich that he had just unwrapped with nimble fingers. Charity gave silent applause for the feat. He had yet to spill food on himself. She hoped she could take him home with his cravat intact.
She smiled happily. This was turning out to be a wonderful afternoon. She had her Father back from the fog that plagued him.
“I am happy that you are not hurt by his loving another,” Lord Shalace spoke with a mouth full of food. His lack of care harkened to the weeks and months even, spent isolated from society. Charity glanced about, but there was no one to see him. She would not point out his error. Instead, she allowed him to eat and speak on.
“Not in the least,” she promised.
“It is a shame,” Lord Shalace mused. “James is a steady fellow. I feel that we might have got on well together.”
“Mother would not rejoice,” Charity laughed. Her father joined her, for there was truth to the words.
“Especially not with James being the second son. What of the other one?”
“What other one?” Charity inquired, but Father went off speaking as if she had not questioned him.
“Perhaps if James were to inherit…” Lord Shalace agreed. “As the second son to a family with more children than means, I fear he will need to marry a Lady of fortune if he wishes to remain in fashion.”
“His brother will not leave him destitute,” Charity assured. She understood her father was speaking of Michael, and she was overjoyed that he actually remembered the Poppys well enough to remember James and Michael were brothers.
“No?” Lord Shalace asked. “What of his brother’s wife? Shall she approve of her husband distributing their fortune when she has children of her own that should be put before some aunt or uncle or other?”
Charity had not thought of such things. She guessed that Michael would never marry a lady that did not agree with his support of his family. Perhaps that was why he was so dire. She considered the brooding fellow for a moment.
“Perhaps she will bring a fortune of her own,” Charity offered. “Then Michael might not need argue for their fortune, for the lady shall have her own.”
“He should have to marry a lady of great wealth,” Lord Shalace replied. “One as rich as you, or more.”
“I have given the thought consideration,” she informed her father.
Her father looked up with a grin. The prospect of a husband to his daughter pleased him.
He ate the rest of his sandwich and grinned through the food. “James will make a fine match,” he said, “though your mother will not approve.”
“Not James, Michael.” Charity chewed her lip. Father had confused the gentlemen and repeated himself. It often made for an awkward exchange when others were about, no one was here with them now. Charity was used to her father’s mind wandering, so she gave him a gentle reminder that they had been speaking of the elder brother, Michael and explained, to refresh his memory.
“Ah yes,” her father fudged. “Well, they are so similar in features that I had mixed the names.” In truth, the brothers looked nothing alike, barely passable as siblings. Charity knew it, but would not correct him. She allowed her father the out. He then began to go on about Michael being the second son, which he was not, and she was forced to sit in silence as he prattled on about the baby.
“What baby?” she asked at last.
“Why, Francesca of course!”
Charity sucked in her breath. Francesca was having her first season. She reminded her father of this, but he was inclined to argue the fact, so Charity let it go. What difference could it make if he thought Francesca Poppy still an infant?
She thought it was time to go home. She broached the topic to her father, but he refused. “I want to listen to the music,” he said.
As long as they sat still and quiet, she supposed there was no harm.
Charity looked up and groaned.
“What is it?” her father asked. If she had been thinking, Charity would have claimed she was unwell and they could have left, but she did not.
“It is Lord Wentwell, Father.” She gave a pointed look at a group several yards away but made no other gesture that might reveal of whom she spoke.
“The cad?” her father asked without hesitation, for Charity had complained much about The Earl of Wentwell in his presence, without much expectation that her father would remember.
“I shall give him a piece of my mind,” Lord Shalace said, struggling to his feet.
