Chapter One

The Breeding Season, from A Mother's Way Romance Anthology

Chapter One
Bath, England
1750

"It's not that Evelina is a bad girl.  She has no wickedness in
her," Mrs. Johnson said, and worked her lips over her false
teeth, testing the firmness of their seating before taking a sip
of her chocolate.

"No, of course not," her good friend Mrs. Highcroft replied,
trying to disguise a delicate scratch at her scalp as an
adjustment of her pristine lace cap.  Mrs. Johnson was not
fooled.  "She has high spir-wits and no discipline, is all."

Mrs. Johnson frowned at the implied criticism, and sat
straighter in her stays.  She could never decide if her friend's
lisp was real or affected, and at the moment the sound of it
annoyed her greatly.  "I was as strict as a general.  I sent her
to that boarding school that promised the severity of a convent.
I kept my eye on her every waking hour, I lectured her on morals
and propriety.  I did everything a mother could!  It is not my
fault that she behaves with all the breeding of a common country
wench."

"I was not faulting you.  Never you, my dear!  You know I would
not, not when I have such a failure of my own, in Char-wles."

"And he such a handsome boy," Mrs. Johnson said, and shook her
head over the tragedy.  She still held her cup of chocolate, and
the movement sent a wave of it sloshing onto the skirts of her
gown.  "I would never have thought he would grow to be so awkward
and retiring."

Mrs. Highcroft narrowed her eyes.  "He is not awkward when in
his element."

"My dear, I meant no offense --"

A tight smile twitched at Mrs. Highcroft's lips.  "Although even
I admit that his element is most often the barnyard."

"Oh, dear."  Mrs. Johnson smothered a smile that would have
shown her teeth.  She shifted, trying to rearrange herself within
her dress.  A bit of boning was poking her most cruelly under her
arm.  "Tell me again that this will be the solution to both our
problems."

"It will be.  It has to be.  Our child-wren are misfits of
society, and it would be too cruel a God who would not let them
balance and improve each other, and give us surcease from our
worries."  Mrs. Highcroft half-turned in her seat, her perfectly
pressed silk gown rustling, and searched the parlour as if truly
expecting to see her son standing like a side chair in the
corner.  "Now where has my Char-wles gone to?  He's likely
wandered off to your back garden to converse with the chickens."

"And I fear it may be another two hours before Evelina considers
herself garbed for visitors."  Mrs. Johnson gave up on finding
comfort within her stays, and sagged against them.  She noticed
the fresh spot of chocolate on her skirts, and dabbed at it with
a handkerchief.  "Neither Evelina nor Charles is going to come
easily to this."

Mrs. Highcroft turned back to her, and lifted her chin, her tone
imperious.  "They are our child-wren.  They will do as we
direct."

Mrs. Johnson murmured a noncommittal sound.  She wished she
could be so sure.

*     *     *

"A pox on it!  Sally, come help me.  I can't get the cursed
thing off my fingers," Evelina said, fingertips sticking and
coming undone, then sticking again as she transferred a
paste-covered scrap of black taffeta from one digit to the next.

"Miss, you've been summoned three times now.  Your mother will
be cross if you do not descend at once."

"I cannot go down with this great, red spot upon my forehead --
Mrs. Highcroft has brought her son.  He will stare at it."  She
tried to press the moon-shaped black patch over the blemish, but
it wouldn't stick.  "It is not fair, I tell you!  By the time I
grow out of blemishes, I will have wrinkles and grey teeth."

Sally came and peeled the patch off Evelina's paste-smeared
fingertip, and with an extra dab of fixative settled the patch
into place over the blemish.  "There now.  All hidden."

Evelina frowned into the mirror.  The center of the forehead was
not the most seductive of locations for a crescent moon, but what
else was to be done?  Mama had taken away all of her ceruse, that
mixture of white lead and vinegar that gave a porcelain
complexion to those who used it.  Mama had said it would destroy
her skin.

Pah!  Destroy her skin?  How could you destroy that which was
already riddled with blotches?

But there was no more time to fuss about it.  The Highcrofts
might leave before she managed to get herself arranged to her
satisfaction, and that simply would not do.  She wanted to see
Charles.

She had met him twice or thrice before, when they were children,
but had not seen him for many years.  He had been lately at
Oxford, and she, of course, had been locked up in that horrid
boarding school with teachers who would have been better employed
as Newgate prison guards.

She didn't remember much about Charles:  he was four years older
than she, and it was enough of an age difference that as children
they had paid no attention to one another.  She doubted she would
recognize him. 

 
Old memories were not the reason she was eager to see him,
though.  He must be twenty-two now.  Full grown.  A man.  That
was reason enough.

Heart thumping in anticipation, she stood and gave one last
check to her flowered, cherry-red gown.  Doubtless Charles would
appreciate her French tastes, unlike Mama.  He had been out in
the world, not mired in the country, and would recognize
sophistication when he saw it. 

She descended the white stone staircase to the first floor,
imagining how he would be dressed.  He probably wore only the
most expensive imported powders on his wig, and a waistcoat stiff
with silver lace.  His jacket and breeches would be a peacock
blue velvet, he'd carry a cocked beaver hat under one arm, and
his stockings would be a spotless, blinding white with a trace of
embroidery up the sides.  He would smell of the finest perfumes,
and be wearing shoes with red heels and silver buckles.

Not that any of that really mattered.  He was a man.  It had
been at least a week since she'd been allowed near a young one.

It really was trop mal that Mama had caught her kissing that
Kingston boy, and thrown such a fit.  And even worse was that the
kiss had hardly been worth it -- Kingston's lips had been as wet
and soft as a raw oyster, and just as cold.  She would have to
rank that kiss near the bottom of her list.

If Mama knew just how much she loved men -- their smell, their
height, their strength, the deepness of their voices and the
hunger in their eyes -- she'd be shipped back to that dungeon of
a boarding school, immédiatement.  Girls were not supposed to sow
their wild oats and follow where their lusting bodies led them:
only boys were allowed such fun.

A pox on that!  When the time came, she had every intention of
being an honorable, faithful wife, but that meant that her only
freedom was now.  Her only chance to steal kisses was now.  Her
only opportunity to flirt and cast glances, to allure and seduce,
to know men in all their glorious variety, was now, before the
chains of matrimony forever locked her away from such
entertainments.

And now here was a man, in her own home.  Manna from Heaven!

"Mama!  Mrs. Highcroft.  Please forgive my tardiness," Evelina
said, prancing with what she hoped was an elegant step into the
parlour.  "And Mr. Highcroft, what a... pleasure to see you
again," she trailed off, her voice dying and her steps slowing as
she took in the sort of man that Charles Highcroft had grown to
be.

Oh dear.  Perhaps someone had let a field labourer into the
parlour by mistake?

He wore no wig.  His dark brown hair was pulled back by a ratty
old ribbon and left to hang like a horse's bobbed tail, and there
was not so much as a speck of powder upon it.  Locks of his heavy
hair had come loose around his face, and with his head bent shyly
forward they half-concealed his features.  His lashes were dark
and lush beneath arched brows, his nose straight, his jaw strong
and with a clean, lean line.

He might almost be a handsome man, if he had a bit of grace or
self-assurance.  Her assessing eyes roamed over his body, taking
in the broad shoulders and trim waist.  His figure was not bad,
for all that it was languishing under drab brown garments that
were two decades out of date and looked twice as old.  The man
wore his stockings over the knees of his breeches, for heaven's
sake!  That mode had gone out during her father's time.
And he wore boots.  Boots!  She was better off not looking at
those, or at the bits of dried muck that clung to them.

She continued to stare at him, and without so much as a bow in
her direction or a word of greeting, he turned away, going to
stand at the window that overlooked Queen Square.  Her lips
parted in astonishment at the blatant rudeness.

"Evelina, dearest, we'd about given up hope of you," her mother
said, and patted the space beside her.  She obeyed the summons
and sat, happy to ignore the country clod at the window, and the
faint odor of farm that lingered after him.  Perhaps she would
have to rethink adding Charles to her list of conquests.  She had
standards, after all.

"What a curiously vibrant color you are wearing," Mrs.
Highcroft said, in her thin, nasal voice.  "I don't know that
I've ever seen the like."

She sensed that the comment was not entirely complimentary.  The
purse-mouthed old hen!  But she smiled sweetly when she replied.

"Thank you.  I have always admired your own sense of style, and
like to think that I model my choices after yours."

"Ahh... thank you, my dear."

Ha!  There was nothing like a compliment to confuse an enemy.

 
Although Mrs. Highcroft had always been friends with Mama,
Evelina had more than once thought that Mrs. Highcroft considered
herself superior to the Johnsons, and in a position to cast
judgments.  Nevermind that Mr. Highcroft had made his fortune as
a merchant -- a peddlar of pots and candles! -- whereas Papa was
a gentleman, with lands that had been in the family for five
centuries.

A look passed between Mama and Mrs. Highcroft, and Evelina
narrowed her eyes, sensing that mischief was afoot.  No doubt
Mama had been speaking about her in her absence, asking her old
friend for advice on how to handle her wayward daughter.  She had
long suspected that the boarding school had been Mrs. Highcroft's
idea.  Mama was too soft-hearted to have come up with such a
draconian notion on her own.

Mrs. Highcroft raised her pointy nose and called her son.
"Charles, come here.  Don't hide behind the curtains like a sulky
child."

Evelina peered over her shoulder a him, feeling a twinge of
sympathetic embarrassment for the fellow at being ordered about
like a five year old.  With Mrs. Highcroft as his mama, he was
probably under tighter rein than even she was, as a girl.

With his gaze on the floor he slowly walked back to their little
grouping -- he might as well have been approaching his
executioner, Evelina thought -- and sat next to his mother,
perching on the edge of the settee as if afraid of breaking or
soiling it.  He rested his hands on his knees, one of which began
to bounce up and down with nervous agitation. 

What a backward sort of creature he was!  If a girl ever kissed
him, he'd likely fall to the ground dead of the fright.  It was
cosmic justice that immaculate, socially ambitious Mrs. Highcroft
should have a son such as this. 

Evelina smiled to herself, and touched her mother's arm in a
gesture of solidarity.  She and Mama were more than a match for
Mrs. Highcroft et fils. 

Mama patted her hand and smiled at her.  "Dearest, we have a
wonderful surprise for you.  For both you and Charles."

"Oh?"  She was wary of surprises.  The boarding school had been
a surprise.  From the corner of her eye she saw Charles's knee go
still.  Maybe he had learned to be wary of them, himself.

"Charles is going to be your escort."

"He is?  To where?"  What manner of evil was this?  God in
heaven, let it not be to someplace her friends might see her.

"Not to one place, dear.  Everywhere, for as long as we are in
Bath.  Balls, musical evenings, house parties, shopping, rides
into the countryside, visits to the baths.  Any time you leave
this house, Charles will be at your side."

"I do not think so," Charles said, his deep voice rumbling into
the daintiness of the parlour, startling them all.  A pocket of
silence formed where his words ended, as they gaped at him.  It
was as if a horse had spoken, so unexpected were words from that
quarter.

"Neither do I," Evelina said into the silence.  "What a
ridiculous idea.  I shouldn't think that either one of us would
like such an arrangement."

She briefly met Charles's eyes, seeking confirmation, then
blinked.  She'd thought his eyes would be brown, but they were
blue-green, set off by his thick lashes.  Boys should not be
allowed to have eyes like that:  they were much too pretty.  She
should have eyes like that.

He looked away, his cheeks coloring with what was either
embarrassment or anger.  She wondered if he often defied his
mother, and guessed that he was more the type to avoid
confrontations by staying out of her sight.

"What either you or Charles want is not our concern," Mrs.
Highcroft said.  "This is what you both need.  Charles, you have
spent entirely too long in fields and stables.  It is time you
pwac-ticed those social skills I have tried so hard to teach to
you.  You need to be looking for a wife, and you will never find
one if you don't learn how to speak to young ladies."

"And you, Evelina," Mama said.  "I'm afraid that you need an
escort to keep you out of trouble.  After that last incident, I
simply cannot trust you out of my sight, not even if you have
Sally with you."

"Mama!  It was only a kiss!"

Mama's hands fluttered.  "Only!  Only, you say!  It was far too
much, and well you know it.  Well-bred young ladies do not
exchange kisses with men to whom they are not married."

"Then how am I to know which one is worth wedding?  I shouldn't
like to go through life enduring clammy, sloppy kisses each morn
and night."

"Evelina!  You will not speak of such things!" 

But the devil was in her, and she would not stop.  "Charles
would not be scolded so if he did the same.  He would be praised,
I think." 

"Licentiousness is never to be praised!"

She cocked her head, and smiled at Charles.  "Perhaps I should
turn my attentions to him," she threatened.  He met her gaze with
widened, horrified, beautiful blue-green eyes.  His lips looked
like they might be rather fine to kiss.

"You will do no such thing!" Mrs. Highcroft said, puffing up
like an angry bird.  Then she looked at her son, and settled her
feathers.  "But if you did, I doubt you would have any success.
Charles has yet to show the wre-actions of a normal man."

Charles abruptly stood, hands clenched at his side, the muscles
of his jaw flexing.  Evelina's heart skipped a beat at the size
of him, standing over them all.  He looked so gloriously angry,
so poised for action, she forgot for a moment the disgraceful
state of his yellowed stockings.  He should get angry more often,
if this was the transformation it wrought.

"Enough, Mother.  I am no longer a child, and will not stay here
to be treated with such disrespect in front of your friends."  He
turned and stalked towards the door.

"Yes you will!" Mrs. Highcroft shrieked, panicked by the
unexpected rebellion.  "Or you can bid farewell to your mares and
foals!"

Charles stopped and turned back to stare at her, in his eyes a
hardness that had not been there before.  "They are mine," he
said, his voice a cold threat.

Evelina shivered, enjoying the spectacle.  What would it be like
to have a man be as possessive of her as Charles was of his
horses?  It really was a pity that his attachments apparently ran
more to animals than to women.  There appeared to be a certain
attractive potential to the man, under the shyness.

Mrs. Highcroft continued screeching.  "The line was not started
with your money, nor are they fed with it.  Your father will give
way to me in this.  We'll auction every one of them, and he'll
invest the money wherever he wishes.  You know how much he adores
any chance to invest money."

Charles's stance was rigid, and he took no further steps towards
the door.  Evelina guessed he was assessing the truth of his
mother's words, and not liking the answer he reached.  She waited
to see what he would do, and as the moments stretched out the
tension grew.  It got to be too much for her, and she had to
break it.

"You may be able to force Charles to your bidding, but there is
no such hold on me."

"Isn't there?" Mrs. Highcroft said, and Evelina heard her mother
sigh beside her.  The sound sent a rush of cold anxiety through
her.

"If you do not leave the house with Charles," Mama said, "then
you do not leave the house.  You do not leave your room.  You do
not receive letters or visits from friends."

Evelina gaped at her mother, who gave her an apologetic smile
before continuing.  "And there will be no new clothes."

She gasped.  "Mama!"

"I am sorry, but you leave me no choice.  And truly, dear, would
it be so terrible to do as we ask?  Left on your own, you would
shortly be left without a reputation.  You will be the better for
a bit of restraint, and will thank Mrs. Highcroft and myself for
this, in time.  It is for your own good."

"Like the boarding school was?"

Mama squirmed at that, but her lips held the stubborn line that
said she would not budge.  Evelina had learned long ago how to
read the nuances of her mother's expression, and this was going
to be one of the rare times she could not be persuaded out of her
decision.

She sank, her shoulders slumping, and looked again at Charles.

His eyes met hers, and they exchanged a silent cry of
helplessness.  Their mamas had won.