Dewhurst’s mother was staring at Charlotte, by all appearances speechless, but his sister Lydia said, “I simply adore your accent, Miss—?”
“Burton,” Charlotte said at the same time Freddie interjected, “Lady Dewhurst.” That slip earned her another painful squeeze.
Lydia ignored the obvious tension. “Where are you from? I would guess Scotland.”
Charlotte frowned at her. George, did this girl really believe she was from Scotland?
“I think Charlotte hails from an area rather more west,” her husband said in a pained voice.
“Wales?” Lydia said, her cerulean blue eyes blinking rapidly. “Ireland?”
“Now I understand why some animals eat their young,” Freddie muttered. Lydia gave him a predatory glare, and Charlotte quickly stepped in.
“I’m from Charleston,” Charlotte supplied.
Lady Dewhurst threw an alarmed look at her son. “Where is this Charles Town, Freddie?”
Freddie scowled and Charlotte scowled back at him. Had he really hoped to keep her nationality a secret? He might be ashamed of it, but she was more than happy to announce her birthplace from the highest church spire.
Dewhurst slumped slightly, looking resigned. “I’m afraid Charlotte hails from the colonies, madam.”
His mother looked as though she’d been hit by a strong wind, and she toppled into a chair.
“Colonies?” Charlotte said tersely, ignoring the woman’s labored breathing and Lydia’s confused expression.
Her husband looked heavenward. “Forgive me, darling. Charlotte is from the state—the Americans do not call them colonies anymore—of South Carolina. Or perhaps North Carolina?” He looked at her for clarification.
“Oh, dear, how many Carolinas are there?” his mother said placing her hands over her heaving bosom.
“Just two, I think.”
Charlotte bristled. “There are eighteen states at present, and I will have you know South Carolina was the first state to ratify the Articles of Confederation.”
Dewhurst’s mother appeared not to have heard. She looked at Charlotte, then Freddie, and shook her head. “But—but what can you have been thinking of? Marrying a colonist? The last I heard, we were at war with the colonies!” She looked to her son for confirmation. He nodded.
Charlotte reached for the teapot and refilled her cup. If this woman did not stop insulting her soon, she’d find herself in the same predicament as her son. Only this time one linen napkin would not be enough to hide the damage.
But surprisingly, before Lady Dewhurst or her son could attempt to toss her out on her ear, Lydia spoke up. “Well, I for one think her accent is charming, whether she’s from Wales or Ireland or even France.” She rose, came around the table, and knelt beside Charlotte’s chair. “You’re Freddie’s wife, and that makes you my sister.”
Charlotte smiled. Perhaps the British were not all bad. After all, her own mother had been British, so the species couldn’t be completely evil. Of course, Katherine Burton had given up her country and her nationality when she’d married George Burton, but there was still this girl, who Charlotte could not deny was perfectly charming. Her husband, on the other hand, looked ready to throttle his sibling.
Lydia put her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Oh, but I’ve always wanted a sister!”
“Lydia,” Dewhurst said in an exasperated tone she was coming to recognize. “You have three sisters.”
The girl tossed her hair. “I know how many sisters I have. The problem is the one brother too many.”
Charlotte covered her mouth to hide a smile, but she could understand why Dewhurst was losing patience. His sister was sweet but not the brightest firefly in the night.
“Oh, do let’s try to stay focused,” his mother interrupted. “What are we to do about this crisis?”
Charlotte bristled. Obviously her husband had learned his manners from his mother. “I am hardly a crisis, Lady Dewhurst.”
Freddie closed his eyes, while his mother widened hers. “On the contrary, young lady, you are becoming more of a crisis each time you open your mouth. Freddie, how could you do this to me—to us? A colonist? I insist you rectify this situation.”
Charlotte lifted the teacup with malicious intent, but Dewhurst pushed her wrist back down and snatched the cup from her grasp. He sat back in his chair, looking like a man used to feminine ultimatums. “What would you have me do, Mother?” he asked, absently turning a fork up and over. “Divorce her?”
The look of horror that crossed his mother’s features would have been comic, if not for the fact that Charlotte could see the idea had not been a complete shock to the woman. “Divorce is rather extreme, do you not think? I meant to suggest a more palatable solution.”
