The Indebted Earl

by Erica Vetsch

  Not that he himself had succumbed to the charming missives beyond a mild interest. They were always sunny, always encouraging, bits and bobs of life in their Oxfordshire village. The concepts were mostly foreign to Charles, who had known no other life but the sea since he was a child. He’d joined the Royal Navy at twelve, making his way up from powder monkey to captain over the span of twenty-four years. As such, he was almost a foreigner in his own country when he found himself ashore in England.

  Here in the hospital, as Rich’s condition had worsened, the major had asked Charles to read the letters aloud, and eventually to pen the replies. The last letter Charles had composed had been almost entirely his own creation, Rich being too weak to contribute much to the epistle.

  Charles had described the flowers outside the hospital, the orange blossoms’ overpowering scent from the grove near his billet, and the bustle of the port—anything he thought might interest the young noblewoman. Was it lying not to reveal Rich’s true condition? A bond existed between Charles and this woman he had never met, for they both cared for Rich. Charles had never written a letter to a young lady before, and he wasn’t sure if he was executing the task correctly. He felt odd ending the letter with an endearment or two, hoping he could put into words what he knew Rich felt for his lady.

  He sighed. If it weren’t for him, Rich would be hale, hearty, and most likely walking up that drive in Oxfordshire, ready to resume his life as a baron and marry Lady Sophia.

  Charles’s fingers brushed the signature on the letter. Unlike himself, Lady Sophia Haverly wrote a beautiful hand, and her name was as feminine and appealing as her correspondence. Her words and the images they created set up an odd longing in his heart that he didn’t quite know what to do with, making him homesick for a place he had never been. As a battle-hardened sea captain, full of salt and tar, he shouldn’t be interested in the words of a young woman he’d never met, a woman more than a decade younger than himself, and most importantly a woman betrothed to a dying man who was his friend.

  Such thoughts were both frivolous and unworthy. He shook his head, reminding himself he had no attachment to this young woman in her bucolic village. He was a mere conduit at this point, taking dictation to send to her, reading her words aloud to her intended. Her letters were a pleasant distraction from the tedium of hospital life, a bit of a novelty in his seagoing experience. Anticipated and enjoyed now but soon forgotten once he was aboard ship once more.

  Even as he told himself this, he knew it wasn’t true. He would not forget Lady Sophia, nor the light she had brought into the lives of himself and his officers through her words.

  Tucking her letter into its envelope, he placed it with the others back into Rich’s sea chest—locker, he supposed it was called on land. The movement caused tightness across his shoulders but not the agonizing searing of previous weeks. The long wound had needed two separate surgeries to open, clean, and drain, but he had finally reached the point where every movement wasn’t torture.

  He checked the clock on the opposite wall. If he had been aboard his beloved HMS Dogged, the duty officer would be sounding the changing of the watch. Sadly, with the injury to her captain, the Dogged had been turned over to another’s command. By this time she was probably berthed at Plymouth or Portsmouth with only a skeleton crew, the rest of his men ashore and scattered.

  Would he get his ship back, or, with the cessation of hostilities, would he be set ashore as well? If he were beached for any length of time, what would he do with himself? His life was at sea, and it was all he wanted.

  The surgeon entered the ward. Why did the man always appear to have been dragged through a gun port backward? Hair on end, clothes rumpled, instruments spilling from his pockets. Nothing shipshape about his appearance. He’d soon find himself on the wrong side of a disciplinary hearing if he were in Charles’s chain of command.

  “Good day, Captain.” The surgeon consulted a small notebook. “I didn’t expect to see you here now that you’ve been cleared for release back to England.”

  Charles shot a glance at Rich, but the major didn’t appear to have heard. “Pettigrew.” He dipped his chin in greeting.

  “I was thinking of you earlier today as I performed a procedure on a cavalry soldier who isn’t progressing as well as I had hoped. He, too, had a saber slash, but on his chest. I had to reopen him and extract a piece of his uniform embedded deep in the wound. Now the debris is removed, I can only hope he heals as well as you have.”

  Charles quelled a shudder. Lord willing, he would never have to endure such medical treatment again. The second surgery to drain and clean the wound had nearly done him in. It had been all he could do not to disgrace himself by crying out during the procedure.

  “I envy you returning to Britain soon. I shall be posted here until the last man either recovers or passes on, I suppose.” The surgeon heaved a martyred sigh that set Charles’s teeth on edge. “What wouldn’t I give to be home right now.”

  Home. The word set up a restlessness in Charles that he didn’t know how to sort. His home was at sea aboard whatever ship he served. There was the ancestral estate in coastal Devonshire, but he had never been there. And the old earl, his uncle, wouldn’t want to see him anyway. In a few days, Charles would arrive ashore in Britain, a stranger in the land of his birth, with no plans beyond trying to get back to sea as quickly as possible. Pray the good Lord would show favor and have him commanding a deck again soon. This lack of direction was most disturbing.

  The doctor moved to Richardson’s side, his expression grave. Lifting the man’s wrist, he felt for a pulse. The major’s breaths were shallow, barely enough to stir the sheet across his chest.

  “Has he awakened at all today?”

  “I gave him a sip of water and read a bit of one of his letters to him not long ago.”

  After consulting his notebook once more and jotting a few lines, the doctor stuffed it into his bulging pocket and dragged his hands down his face. “I expect to receive notice he’s slipped away every time I make my rounds. He’s got a tenacious heart, but his systems are shutting down. It won’t be long now. Probably tonight or tomorrow.”

  When the doctor left, Charles sat quietly beside his friend, his thoughts drifting like flotsam on the tide as he listened to Rich’s quick breathing and shooed away flies. When an orderly wheeled the dinner cart down the row of beds, Charles stirred. Long hours had passed with barely a notice from him.

  “Sir?” The orderly raised his brows. “The night doctor doesn’t like visitors staying into the evening.” He spoke hesitantly, his eyes moving between Richardson and Charles.

  “Understood.” Charles made no move to rise.

  The orderly dithered, tugging at his earlobe.

  “Corporal, if the night doctor has a problem with my presence, send him to me.” Charles made up his mind he would stay with his friend until the end. He owed the young man that and so very much more. If the sawbones posted to this ward didn’t care for his presence here, it would be too bad for him.

  The orderly nodded. “Very good, sir. Can I bring you anything?” He inclined his head to Rich’s frail form. “I’m glad someone will be with him, sir.”

  “A pitcher of fresh water wouldn’t go amiss, Corporal. When you’ve time.”

  The man knuckled his forehead and pushed the dinner cart down the row.

  Rich’s hand fluttered, and Charles touched the paper-dry skin.

  “Yes? What is it?” Charles asked softly.

  “Promise me …” The young major’s throat lurched, and his tongue darted out to touch his cracked lips.

  Charles gave Rich a few drops of water, their heads close together. He startled when Rich’s eyes flew open and bored into his from such close range. With a surprisingly strong grip, the marine grasped Charles’s wrist.

  “Promise me …” He stopped, clearly gathering his wherewithal for one last charge. “Promise me you’ll go see Sophie. Tell her … what happened to me.”

&nbs
p; Go see his fiancée? No. Charles wanted no part of that. Rich wouldn’t let him tell her via letter, and now he wanted Charles to go see her? How could he possibly? If he faced her, he would have to tell her the truth … that Rich had lost his life protecting him.

  But Richardson wasn’t finished. Gasping, as if determined to speak his piece before it was too late, he said, “Promise me you will tell her how much … I loved her. Take her my things … and tell her I was thinking of her when I died.”

  No. Please, no. Don’t ask it of me. If you ask, I will be honor bound to say yes.

  Despite being parched as an old gunnysack, tears formed at the corners of Rich’s eyes and slowly rolled toward his ears.

  Then he fired the shot that hit Charles amidships and holed him below the waterline.

  “Promise me you will take care of her after I’ve gone. She always tries to take care of everyone else, but promise me … you’ll look after her. I trust you, Charles. You’ve always been a good friend to me. Be a good friend to Sophie … Take my place …”

  His eyes pled with Charles, his hand shaking. How could Charles refuse his friend’s dying request? And yet how could he fulfill it?

  “Rest easy, Rich. I promise I’ll call on her. I’ll do whatever I can for her.”

  The words had barely escaped Charles’s lips when Rich’s eyes closed, his grip slackened, and he let out one last, long breath.

  Lady Sophia Haverly shook the vicar’s hand, barely seeing him through her black lace veil as they stood on the steps of the little chapel on her brother’s estate.

  It had been decided the memorial service should be kept small, with only a handful of mourners, and Sophie was thankful. She couldn’t have borne it if the chapel had been crowded with the merely curious.

  Sophie descended the stone steps, not feeling her shoes on the treads. Sunshine filtered through the oak trees, creating dappled patterns on the crushed-stone path leading toward the lych-gate into the cemetery. The lych-gate where no bier would be placed. Rich had succumbed to his wounds in Portugal, and he had been buried there.

  They had no body to commit to the ground here in England.

  As a Royal Marine, Rich had done his fighting mostly at sea, and she had known the war could take his life at any moment, and if that occurred when he was aboard ship, he would be buried at sea. That there would be no graveside service for his mourners. She had thought she was prepared for this.

  She had been wrong. Nothing had prepared her for this.

  Sophie felt as if her insides consisted of a carefully assembled house of whist cards, and if she moved too quickly or even stepped too firmly, the cards would tumble and flutter away. Since learning of Rich’s death, she concentrated nearly every minute of every day on not letting the cards tip.

  The rest of the mourners filed out behind her, Mother and Cilla, Marcus and Charlotte, and Mamie. Each dressed somberly, careful of what they said so as not to cause more pain.

  Sophie didn’t know if more pain was possible.

  Mother stalked forward and embraced Sophie awkwardly. She was not one to show physical affection, but Sophie appreciated the attempt.

  “I hope you’ll soon give up this nonsense about staying on at Primrose.” Mother stepped back, adjusting her veil to frame the gray curls clustered around her face. “There’s no need to continue living there when you have a family to look after you.”

  “Thank you, Mother. I am content where I am for now.” Sophie couched her refusal as kindly as possible.

  With a concerned frown, Mother turned to her carriage. Cilla sent Sophie a compassionate look and a small wave before following her mother-in-law.

  Charlotte was next, and she hugged Sophie tight, a gesture that nearly did Sophie in. “I’ll call tomorrow. Try to rest.” Charlotte’s jade-green eyes were full of words she wanted to say, but she was kind enough not to let them out just now. Sophie squeezed her fingers and nodded, blinking hard.

  She took Mamie’s hand, tucking it into her elbow, and walked toward the carriage her brother had provided for the day. Black paint gleamed, the horses’ black hides too, and the ostrich feathers fastened to their bridles were black as ink. And yet the sun shone and the wind rustled the leaves overhead. Water splashed in the distance, where it tumbled over the mill wheel. How could the rest of the world go on when hers felt like it had ended?

  “I remember when we brought him here for the first time.” Mamie, her shoulders bowed under her shawl, took small steps, and Sophie shortened hers to match. “The baby I thought I would never have. I was well past forty, after all. But then God answered my prayers, and there I was, old enough to be a grandmother, bringing my newborn son to this chapel for his christening.” Her voice held no sorrow, only memory. “It was a warm day, like this. Warm enough it rained in the afternoon, and all the guests scurried inside the house like chickens into a coop.”

  Her soft lips twitched, and her blue eyes, faded now but reminiscent of Rich’s, sparkled. “I wasn’t sorry Lady Gainsford was the last into the house. Her hat was properly destroyed by the rain. She kept asking all day, wasn’t I just mortified to be having a child at my age and didn’t I think it a bit irresponsible of me? The woman hadn’t an inkling how long I had prayed for a baby of my own, and how I had given up hope of ever being a mother. That woman always had something spiteful to say, though she phrased it as concern.”

  Sophie squeezed Mamie’s hand. “How could anyone be spiteful to you, pet? And thank you for telling me about Rich’s christening. I hadn’t realized it had taken place here. Mine did too, you know. Not that I remember it.” She smiled, though she didn’t want to. She carefully raised her heavy veil—provided by her mother for the occasion—and draped it back over her bonnet and away from her face. She took a deep breath. Or at least she tried to. It seemed she hadn’t been able to breathe properly for days.

  When the news had come—brought by her brother, Marcus, the Duke of Haverly—Sophie had known before he spoke what he would say. The look in his eyes was enough. Her tears had started before a word was said. Marcus had taken her into his arms and held her tight, his chin resting on her head. Rich would not come home. All their plans were shattered, as was her heart.

  Over the past few days, Mamie had fluttered and gripped Sophie’s hands until they hurt, staring into her eyes, searching for reassurance and clarity. She spent much time in silent grief, remembering, and some retelling stories of Rich’s childhood. Sophie worried the sorrow would have her retreating from reality into those shadowy places where she couldn’t remember the present and lived solely in the past.

  As a result, Sophie determined to carry her sorrow inside, to not let Mamie see her distress. She would allow Mamie to relive her happy times, and she would carry her own grief quietly. Sophie had promised Rich she would take care of his mother, and she intended to keep her promise. Her responsibility didn’t end with Rich’s death. If anything, it was greater now.

  The gravel crunched behind them, and Marcus caught them up as they reached the carriages. “Are you going to insist upon returning to Primrose Cottage?” Brotherly concern laced his words.

  “We’ve been through this, Marcus. I don’t know who is more strident on the matter, you or Mother.” Sophie kept her tone patient and calm.

  He raised one eyebrow, tilting his head in mock censure. “There’s no need to go that far, comparing me to Mother. I am aware we’ve discussed this several times, and yet you still remain obstinate. Your rooms are ready at Haverly, and Charlotte wants you to come to us.” He spread his hands in appeal. “How can I convince you? Tell me what to say to make my argument, and I will say it.”

  “You’re a dear, Marcus, but my place is with Mamie, and Mamie’s place is at Primrose. I gave my word. You must understand that.”

  Mamie’s head came up at the mention of her name, and her eyes, so innocent and childlike, searched for Sophie’s.

  Sophie patted Mamie’s arm gently and nodded to the footman who stood ready to help
her into the carriage. “Why don’t you get in, and I’ll join you shortly.”

  Sophie turned back to her brother, tucking her arm through Marcus’s, pressing his elbow into her side. “Thank you for being such a rock. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through this week without you.”

  Her brother pulled her into his embrace, his chest rising on a deep breath. “I wish I could do more. I wish you didn’t have to walk down this path at all, and I wish you wouldn’t insist upon walking it alone. I wish you would come home where I can look after you properly.” He spoke into the top of her bonnet, hugging her as if he would take her pain upon himself if he could.

  She chuckled, her laugh shaky. “That’s a lot of wishes.”

  “You know you could bring Mamie with you.”

  She leaned against him, drawing strength, as she had so often over the years. Before Rich had stolen her heart, Marcus had been the center of her world: brother, best friend, confidant, partner in crime. The two of them, second and third children of the Duke and Duchess of Haverly, had relied upon one another for affection and attention, since little was forthcoming from their parents. Eight years apart, Sophie had needed Marcus more than he did her. When he’d gone to university and then into the military, she had ached with the loss.

  Then she had met Rich, the boy who lived next door to the Haverly estate, and in him she had found a kindred spirit. Her loneliness had vanished, and their friendship had blossomed into something more.

  Son of a baron, he had not been her mother’s idea of a suitable match for a duke’s daughter, but when Sophie refused to be moved on the subject, the duchess had raised her hands in surrender. Father hadn’t cared much one way or the other, happy enough to have her future settled.