Cocky Earl - Annabelle Anders Page 0,35
“It’s not my favorite,” she said ruefully. “But it’s better than Madeira wine.”
Chapter 10
MUTUAL SENTIMENT
In a most unusual turn of events, Charley had been seated directly to the left of the Countess of Westerley, who sat at the foot of the table, nearly twenty feet distant from her son, perhaps more than that.
As usual, the countess appeared in all due finery, feathers in her upswept hair and elaborate jewelry on her ears, fingers, and around her neck. Charley wondered if her own mother might have appeared thusly if she’d not married Charley’s father and moved to America. What if her own mother had been alive to come to England with them? The thought caused her throat to thicken, and for a moment she wondered if her grandmother had not been disappointed in her arrival, a reminder that their own daughter would never come home again.
Her mother had been Lady Miranda, daughter of the Earl of Thornton. She’d never missed informing people of this and rather than take any pride in her mother’s title, Charley had been embarrassed.
She swallowed hard. Even knowing her mother likely would have driven Charley mad with criticism and theatrics, it would have been nice to have her mother here with her now.
Charley glanced halfway down the table to where her father sat. Was England a giant reminder to him of the wife he’d lost? It was possible he felt guilty for taking her so far from home. Was that why he was becoming so insistent she marry?
Conversation drifted around her as the idea formed in her mind. Because she was stubborn but not as stubborn as her father. If he was intent upon leaving her here, it was going to be difficult to thwart him.
She would ask Daisy to pack all her belongings and rise early and beg him to take her to Scotland. She needed to prove to him that even if he didn’t want her at his side, he needed her.
Didn’t he?
“Are you enjoying yourself thus far, Miss Jackson?”
Clasping her hands in her lap, Charley blinked and nodded. “I am.” The woman tilted her head with questioning eyes, obviously expecting more of an answer. “Your daughters have been most kind.”
“I am pleased to hear that. I expect all my guests to feel quite at home throughout their visit. Tell me, do you attend house parties in your part of America? Philadelphia, if I am correct? Thank you, Martin.”
Although the countess was addressing Charley, she seemed completely aware of the conversations going on all around her as well as the efficiency of the footmen. Lady Westerley unfolded her napkin and dropped it to her lap, which reminded Charley that she ought to do the same. She had dined formally on a number of occasions, and she wished she didn’t feel as nervous as she did.
Spending more time with the countess made it easy to see where Lord Westerley had gleaned some of his arrogance.
“I’ve visited a few large estates with my father on occasion.” It had never been for pleasure, however. Other considerations, such as commerce and political issues, had always come first.
“When I was younger, I imagined that everyone in America lived in log cabins,” offered the matronly guest seated across from Charley. Charley inhaled and then smiled. She would get through this meal, then go upstairs and ask Daisy to begin filling her trunk.
“Not everyone. Many of the farmers we purchase barley and corn from do, however. The insulation provided by the logs keeps the cold out and it isn’t as though people require large manors in order to be happy.” She clamped her mouth shut tight in order to keep herself from saying more. Because she couldn’t even begin to guess how many of those little log cabins could fit inside of this manor.
“I’ve seen a few paintings of the mansion where your president lives. Opulence manages to find its way everywhere. Would you not agree?” Lady Westerley asked.
“It does.” Charley squirmed in her chair.
“It is a shame about your new president’s wife,” the Earl of Stokely, an elderly gentleman beside her commented, surprising Charley.
“Mrs. Jackson was a kind woman. Do the English follow American politics then?”
The countess stared at her. “I hadn’t thought until now. But you are not relations, surely?”
“Not that I am aware of, but my father and President Jackson are well acquainted with one another. Before the campaign, we visited he and Mrs. Jackson at their home, The Hermitage, on more than one occasion.” Charley stabbed her fork