An American Duchess

by Caroline Fyffe

  “Because of what the dowager said? Just because one person has come forward to say they saw him doesn’t make him guilty. Your brother said he was fishing that day. Far from where the event happened. You shouldn’t worry so much. He’ll answer a few questions, then Kerrigan will have to let him go. I wish the duke would stop his questions. What good are they doing except upsetting people?”

  The sound of his voice, and the words said so confidently, lulled away her fear. She raised her lashes to find him watching her intently. His gaze caressed her face. Without saying another word, he lowered his lips to hers.

  She shuddered as he slowly laid her back in the hay. Her breathing quickened, and she wondered what on earth she was doing. This felt right and good, not the way her insides had tightened when Mr. Winters had touched her palm. Tristen gathered her closer until she was floating on air.

  When he drew away, she slowly opened her eyes.

  “I apologize,” he said quickly. “I took liberties. I’m not what you need, Charlotte. Far from it. I took advantage of your grief.” Tristen stood and brushed off the hay. “I’ll go down to the constable’s office and see what I can find out about your brother. I’m sure your fears are for naught.”

  Why had he kissed her? And why was he recanting now? She didn’t understand men at all. She glanced away from his penetrating gaze. “You’re wrong. They’re not for naught,” she said softly, wondering how much she should say. She climbed to her feet and brushed the hay from her skirt as well. “I was picking mushrooms that day in the forest. I saw Thomas myself, sneaking through the brush as if he had something to hide. My brother is in more trouble than we know.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Come on,” Tristen said. He reached out a hand for Charlotte to take. “I want to show you something.”

  “What?” Charlotte said, still reeling from everything—her fears for her brother, the kiss. She was afraid Tristen might try to kiss her again. Part of her wanted him to, and yet part of her feared it would only wound him more, knowing she’d kissed him while all the time she’d been contemplating turning his uncle in to the constable.

  “Don’t be shy,” he said, and the warmth in his eyes assuaged her. She let him take her hand, noticing how his work-roughened skin slid against hers. He gently led her over toward Romeo.

  “Keep your hand in mine,” he said. And lifting her arm so that they were making the same movement in unison, he extended her pointer finger, then made a soft whistling sound.

  To Charlotte’s astonishment, Romeo hopped from his perch onto their fingers. “Oh!” she exclaimed, conscious of the unfamiliar feeling of the pigeon’s talons and Tristen’s nearness behind her.

  “He has to get used to you,” Tristen said softly. “To obey your commands, much the same way I imagine you trained Sherry.”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Next time, I’ll teach you to whistle, but for now, do you want to see how far he’s able to fly and still return home?”

  Charlotte’s heart thrummed with delight. “Do you mean you’ve trained him so quickly? Should I write out a message for the duchess?”

  “Not quite yet,” Tristen said. “My uncle told me that it’s best to get him used to flying along a particular path first. A little farther each day for him to fly and then return here, so he doesn’t lose his way. Eventually, I’ll show you how to attach a message to his leg so he gets used to flying with it. Ready for the next step?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  Tristen slid their arms toward the loft window, gave another whistle, and Romeo flew off in a flutter of wings.

  “Now come on!” he said, pulling Charlotte toward the ladder.

  They raced down the ladder and out of the barn. High overhead, she could see Romeo veering toward the creek. Laughing, she followed Tristen, ignoring the startled looks of people milling about the town as they ran toward the forest. Keeping Romeo in sight was difficult once they entered the woods. When he finally landed on a branch in an open area by the creek, they stopped as well. Charlotte laughed again and pointed as Romeo watched them from the top of a tree. The bird seemed content to bob on the swaying branch far above the earth. She imagined the air tickling him and what it must feel like to be free for the very first time. The air was cool and crisp, and she filled her own lungs with goodness. Did Tristen feel the same jubilation she was experiencing?

  “Here, sit.” Tristen motioned to a fallen log. “I’ll let him catch his breath as well before I whistle and see if he flies home.”

  Alarmed, she gaped at him. “Will he do it?”

  Tristen lifted a shoulder. “Not sure. But he knows where his coop is, and homing is bred in his blood. We’ll know soon enough.”

  Watching Tristen next to her, Charlotte felt certain this moment would be seared in her mind, heart, and soul. It had been the perfect antidote to her melancholy worries about Thomas.

  “Romeo is making great strides,” Tristen said. “I’m not as sure about Juliet. She seems to be a bit slower to catch on.”

  He glanced at Charlotte and winked. His hair brushed his forehead, and she thought she’d never seen such a handsome man.

  “Tomorrow I’ll take them both out about a mile and see how they do getting back to their coops. If that goes well, I’ll switch them before long and try the opposite way. Shall we walk back ourselves?” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Ready to go?”

  She nodded. “Yes, by now Aunt Ethel will be furious that I’m gone.”

  Tristen whistled, and Romeo took flight. For a moment she held her breath, worried the bird would fly off, but he circled three times above their heads and then headed back toward Brightshire.

  They’d started walking back that way themselves when, ten feet ahead at a turn in the narrow path, Mathilda stepped out of the brush, the basket on her back filled with grasses and plants.

  “The forest is busy today,” Tristen said. “And to think I imagined we were all alone . . .”

  “Good day, Mathilda,” Charlotte greeted her, happy to see the midwife. She hadn’t seen her since the scene in the bakeshop, but the woman had been on her mind. As she’d been thinking more and more about independence from her aunt, she thought that she might finally be ready to learn what Mathilda knew about her mother. Whether her mother was alive, whether she’d loved Charlotte and hated to give her up, or whether she’d been happy to be rid of her. It was a question she wanted answered, but she no longer worried it would define her the way she once might have. Between Tristen and the duchess, she knew who she was, and she knew she had friends who loved her.

  “Hello, gamekeeper.” The midwife bobbed her head. “Greetings, my little baker.” Her eyes twinkled, but there was a very intense look there. “I have something important to share.”

  Charlotte’s first thought was one of dread, the earlier events of the day coming back to her: Thomas! More people have come forward. Or did Mathilda herself see him that day?

  Mathilda stepped forward and took her hands, something she’d never done before. “Wipe the dread off your face. You have nothing to be frightened of.”

  The old woman let go of one of her hands and reached deep into her cloak pocket. “I’ve carried this with me every day for almost twenty years. Today is the day to give it to you. I would’ve waited for your birthday, like I was told ta do, but after the row Ethel Smith put up the other day, the time has come.”

  “What is it?” Charlotte asked, unable to stem the quiver in her voice.

  “Look and see.”

  With shaking hands, Charlotte unfolded the time-yellowed paper, the edges worn and tattered. She couldn’t imagine what it was.

  She glanced to the signature.

  With all my love, Florence Witherspoon, your mother.

  Charlotte gasped, and her legs buckled.

  Tristen jumped forward to catch her and ease her to the ground. “What is it?” he rasped. “Who’s it from?”

  Mathilda crouched to the ground as well, and Tristen
followed.

  “My mother,” Charlotte squeaked out, and her hands began to shake.

  “Before you read, I’ll tell you how I came to have it,” Mathilda said, wrapping her cloak more closely around her frame.

  Charlotte waited with bated breath.

  “The evening in late April was mild, and I was out searching for plants, as is my way, preparing to assist the widow Ruby Aldridge of Brightshire who was due to birth soon. I wasn’t in these woods, but south of Brightshire a good hour. A snap of twigs made by a human foot caused me to hide. Many don’t like me. I have to be careful.” She looked straight at Charlotte. “But it weren’t no man come to tar and feather me for a birthing gone wrong, but a small slip of a girl with a huge belly and a bright scarlet face. I didn’t even have to touch her to know she was burning alive, and not from her labor. She reached out a hand, but before saying a word, she fainted straightaway.”

  Tristen scooted closer and draped his arm around Charlotte’s shoulder, lending her strength.

  “I made a bed from sweet grass and flowers. I bathed her face with cool water and wished I had some willow bark, although there weren’t time much for a fire. When her pains woke her, I gave her water and had her suck tuber roots for energy. The little food I carried was gone in the blink of an eye, she was that ravenous. Maybe if I hadn’t been so far from my home, and I could have dragged her there, I might have saved her.” Mathilda glanced at the clouds, shaking her head. “I guess God had other plans. She birthed you with little problem, and when I put you to her breast, she seemed to revive. Rarely did she take her eyes from you or stop fondling your wheat-colored hair. When you finally stopped suckling, she nestled you to her side and asked if I had any paper and a writing tool. Me, I thought, I never had any until that day. Given to me in payment for a tincture. I gladly handed over what she’d requested and watched her write that note. I’ve never read it, mind you. She made me promise to find you a home if she died. And to give you this note on or around your twentieth birthday, or sooner if you married. I figured now was the right time.”

  When Mathilda had finished, she nodded, as if agreeing with herself about something as she gazed at Tristen. “Go on and read the letter, girl. Then if you have any questions, I’ll do my best to answer.”

  Filled with a deep hurt but also excited to learn about her mother, Charlotte first studied her mother’s beautiful handwriting, blessing her for the valiant effort she’d left behind for her daughter. There were no words to describe the love that had expanded her soul.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Tristen’s mind churned. After reading the letter Mathilda had given Charlotte, she’d wanted to speak with the duchess immediately, so they walked on to Ashbury. Tristen had thought he had all the time in the world with Charlotte, that she’d be working in Brightshire and he’d be seeing to the duke’s forests, their paths crossing often since the duke and duchess had taken them both under their wings.

  That would not be the case now at all.

  He studied the elegantly furnished parlor of Ashbury Castle. This was where highborn people lived, not Welshmen who had done a stretch in prison. He didn’t belong here—of course he enjoyed sitting on these expensive chairs and admiring the fine artwork on the walls, but he knew his place. Everyone else in the room had a right to be here, including the duke, the duchess, the duchess’s friends from America—and Charlotte too.

  It was easy to think Mr. Winters would turn on the charm in earnest now that there was nothing standing in his way. Charlotte, Mathilda’s letter had revealed, was highborn, just like Winters. Tristen certainly couldn’t object to the man making her his wife. He’d give her a fairy-tale life, something akin to one in a storybook.

  Feeling cantankerous, Tristen sat back, staring at the flames crackling in the fireplace. The duke and duchess were doing their best to make sense of the new revelations. The two cowboys—the duchess’s friends from America, whom they’d just been introduced to—sat silently in opposite chairs, looking totally out of place. And what about Thomas at the constable’s? Charlotte seemed certain he wasn’t capable of killing someone. And yet, he couldn’t help feeling she’d been holding something back. Did she know more about the day of the duke’s death than she was saying? What could he do to help?

  In astonishment, Beranger gazed back and forth between Charlotte and Emma. “Let me see if I have this straight. Your mother was the daughter of a well-off baronet. When she announced she was about to marry a young naval officer, without much to his name, her parents objected and disowned her. Your father went to sea never knowing you’d been conceived. A few months after, your mother received two letters, one from your father saying that his ship happened upon a shipwreck on the rocks that had an untold amount of gold aboard. In return for giving the treasure to the government, the entire crew earned a considerable prize, and his share of the prize money had made him a rich man. The second letter was an official announcement that proclaimed he had died at sea the day the HMS Driver wrecked on Mayaguana Island.”

  Beranger shook his head. “The same ship we spoke of over dinner. What are the odds of that? So your mother traveled to Kent in search of his family. But your uncle, his brother, had already taken possession of the prize money.”

  Charlotte nodded, her face and eyes dark with emotion. “Yes, that’s what the letter says. Because they’d disinherited her, my mother’s parents never knew of my existence. This uncle, this evil brother of my father, let my mother know if she didn’t leave and take her unborn child away, neither one would live to see another day. Florence, my mother, was in labor when Mathilda found her wandering the woods. She was ill and lost in her efforts to find a place to have her child after my father’s brother turned her away, intent on keeping the inheritance that was rightly hers. Fearing she would die, she shared everything with Mathilda and wrote this letter.” Charlotte held out the correspondence. “She begged Mathilda to find a safe place for me with instructions to tell me everything when either I married, so I would have protection, or when I reached my twentieth birthday. My mother thought I’d be old enough by then to make a sensible decision on what to do with the information. A few days after I was born, Mathilda delivered to Ruby Aldridge an infant girl who died moments after birth. Mathilda helped Ethel Smith bury the babe in a small box in the corner of the churchyard, and they agreed that I should be given to Ruby in her place. Ruby Aldridge never even knew I’d been substituted for the child she gave birth to. And that’s where I’ve been ever since.”

  Tristen couldn’t tear his gaze away.

  A light came into Charlotte’s eyes. “Mathilda marked my mother’s grave and has promised to take me there someday soon.”

  “Does Ethel Smith know your history?” Beranger asked.

  Charlotte shook her head. “No. Mathilda told her she found me abandoned under a log soon after I was born.”

  Mr. Winters took that moment to appear in the doorway. He was in his riding clothes and looked dashing, even to Tristen. Winters stopped and glanced around at the eclectic group gathered.

  “What’s this, Brig?” he asked, a broad smile on his face. “Have I missed something important? By the looks on your faces, I believe I have.”

  “There’s been a revelation about our dear Charlotte Aldridge,” the duke said. “She’s really Miss Charlotte Witherspoon, the daughter of a sea captain who was the recipient of a grand reward. She’s also the granddaughter of a respected baronet from Essex, Sir Luther Hastings. Have you heard of him?”

  Tristen nearly rolled his eyes at the look of ecstasy that transformed Winters’s face. He could practically read the man’s thoughts: perhaps there would be some money involved if he chose to make a union with Charlotte. She’d suddenly become a good match for a languishing noble who hung on to the coattails of the Duke of Brightshire. How fortunate. The man always seemed impressed with everything having to do with money. Tristen crossed his arms and slumped in his seat.

  Winters strode forward as
if staking claim to his property. “That name does sound familiar. I’m not sure from where, but finding out won’t take long. I’ll go immediately—”

  Charlotte reached out a placating hand. “Please don’t, Mr. Winters. Not until I decide when and how I will contact my family. I just can’t seem to believe what I’ve so recently learned.”

  The way she said the words my family so reverently, anyone could tell she was still in shock over the disclosure. Why had Mathilda chosen that moment in the forest to deliver such earth-shattering news? Why with Tristen there? He’d been enjoying the day with Charlotte, replaying the kiss over and over. Moment by moment, he began to feel grumpier. He’d been no good match for Charlotte even before she’d come up in the world. But that didn’t stop his heart from wanting her.

  Winters looked bemused. “But you must be so thrilled, dear Miss Witherspoon. You’ve been elevated, I can easily—”

  Before Tristen realized what was what, he was on his feet and held Winters’s arm in a tight grip.

  Winters jerked back, trying to pull his arm free.

  “Tristen, stand down!” Beranger ordered.

  Tristen released Winters and stepped back, putting a foot between them. “You heard Miss Witherspoon! This is her business—not yours!” He could feel a truculent frown pulling his mouth. Shame for letting his temper take charge grounded him. How far had he been ready to go to protect Charlotte? Hadn’t his ten years behind bars taught him anything about the uselessness of violence?

  The duchess stood wide-eyed, as did Charlotte. Trevor and KT had jumped to their feet and stood at the ready to do whatever was needed to keep the peace.

  Tristen flushed. “She needs time,” he said in a more controlled tone. “Don’t you, Charlotte?”

  “What’s gotten into you?” the duke said. “My cousin won’t do anything Charlotte does not desire him to. Easy, man.”