The Indebted Earl

by Erica Vetsch

  “Of course not. I’ll read the cards aloud while you work, and you can help me answer them.”

  They spent a quiet hour responding to the letters until Mamie flagged.

  “You go upstairs and rest, love. I’ll finish the last of these. There are only two, and I know both the senders.” Sophie returned a card to its envelope.

  “You’re a dear. I don’t know what I would do without you here.” Mamie rose and touched the flowers she’d gathered, releasing the heady aroma of summer and sunshine even as the rain continued and the sun hid behind sullen clouds.

  Sophie kept on with the writing, repeating the same phrases on the black-edged stationary. Thank you so much for your kind note. We cherish his memory and are grateful that you do as well. She had just replaced the stopper in the ink bottle and checked the condition of her quill when wheels crunching on the drive drew her attention.

  Her shoulders drooped. Had the vicar decided to call? Or was it Marcus and Charlotte, come once more to convince her to move back to Haverly? Sweet as they were, she wouldn’t give in. Her place was at Primrose with Mamie. It was right, and she was at peace with her decision, if not with her circumstances.

  Please pray the visitor wasn’t Mother. Sophie didn’t have the energy to deal with the dowager today. She often had to remind herself that Mother’s overbearing, pedantic nature came from a place of care and concern … and a wee bit of bossiness. If Mother didn’t care, she wouldn’t meddle. At least that was what Sophie told herself.

  She parted the curtains and peered through the raindrop ribbons on the window glass.

  A carriage and four entered the gate and headed up the drive. Her fingers curled on the drapes. Bags under a canvas cover were fastened atop the coach. Whoever it was, they had come a fair distance. Perhaps they were lost and needing directions?

  Please, Lord, let this visit be brief. At least it was nearly teatime. Refreshments would help the visit pass more easily, and whoever it was could be on their way shortly thereafter.

  Sophie hurried to the door. Primrose boasted no footman or butler. In an effort to keep expenses down while Rich was away, Mamie had not filled the post when the butler retired. They would have to be even more parsimonious in the coming days, though Sophie’s allowance from the Haverly estate would help. She kept their financial situation from Marcus’s notice, knowing he would swoop in with aid and she would feel beholden.

  Her independent streak might someday be her downfall, according to her mother, but it was sustaining her through this difficult time. Sophie couldn’t muster a smile for company, but she hoped she had at least a neutral expression. Marcus teased her often about how she should never play cards for money, because her every thought shouted from her face as loudly as a town crier. Mother said much the same thing, but without the indulgent humor.

  A tall, austere-looking man in a dark cloak emerged from the coach, putting on a bicorn as he stepped to the ground. A bicorn meant navy, didn’t it? His eyes locked with hers, and she felt an odd sensation. Though she was sure they had never met, there was something familiar about him.

  He paused on the bottom step, rain pelting his shoulders and hat. He had a narrow face, a longish nose, and fine blue eyes. His hair appeared to be brown, but with some gray at the temples and a touch of unruly curl. He must be her senior by a score of years or better. Older even than Marcus. His cloak parted, and she glimpsed gold braid on blue wool. Definitely naval. Was this a courtesy call or an official visit?

  Sophie stepped back. “Please, sir, come in out of the rain. And tell your coachman to pull around to the carriage house. No need for him to wait in the elements. If he comes to the back door, he’ll find warmth and refreshment.”

  The officer motioned to the coachman, who touched his hat brim and shook up the reins. Without a word, the navy man gained the threshold and stepped inside. With a practiced hand, he removed his bicorn and fished beneath his cloak, removing a card. “Captain Charles Wyvern, milady.”

  Sophie’s fingers went numb, and she fumbled the card. It fluttered to the floor. “Oh dear. I’m sorry.” He retrieved the card, and she took the bit of stiff paper once more as a stab of pain shot through her.

  Captain Charles Wyvern, who had commanded the ship on which Rich had served. Who had been billeted next to him in hospital in Portugal. No wonder she had half recognized him. Rich had described him in detail when first being posted to his ship and had mentioned him frequently. The captain looked exactly as she had imagined he would, though older and more drawn.

  She gathered herself. “Please allow me to take your cloak. Do come into the parlor. We can lay a fire if you’re chilled. It’s not a pleasant day for traveling. I never expected you to call upon us here at Primrose. I hope your journey was pleasant in spite of the rain. We’ll have tea soon.” Sophie stopped short. She was babbling. The captain hadn’t moved, as if waiting for her to pause so he could speak. He glanced to where she had his card clutched to her chest, and she lowered her hands. Her nerves had been stretched taut for so long, it seemed any little thing would upset them. Even a visit from a … stranger? Was Captain Wyvern a stranger? He didn’t seem like it, and yet he was. Marcus would quiz her, if he were here, about how she could bounce from full spate to woolgathering in the same breath.

  With long, tapered fingers, the captain released the frog closure at his throat and removed his cloak. Water dripped in a circle on the stone-flagged floor, and he held the garment away from himself. “I apologize for calling unannounced. It is most presumptuous of me, but I needed to speak with you.”

  Mrs. Chapman’s quiet footfalls sounded, and she stopped a few feet away. “Lady Sophia, I’ll take the gentleman’s cloak. Shall I bring in tea right away?”

  The captain handed the housekeeper the cloak and his hat with a small nod.

  She leaned in close to Sophie. “Should I wake the mistress?”

  Sophie shook her head. “Let her sleep. If you wake her, she’s liable to be upset and foggy.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Sophia moved across the hall. “Please, sir, come in and be comfortable.” She led the way into the drawing room. Halfway across the rug, she realized she’d left something out. “Oh, forgive me. I’m Soph—” Her mother’s chastisements rang in her ears. “I’m Lady Sophia Haverly.”

  The captain, with movements that could only be described as punctilious, bowed with a small click of his boot heels and moved to the wing chair in front of the fireplace. A jab struck Sophie’s heart. Rich’s favorite chair.

  As the captain was waiting for her to take a seat before he did, Sophie adjusted her skirts and settled into the corner of the sofa.

  He straightened his white breeches, his shining black Hessians gleaming and dotted with raindrops. “Lady Sophia, I came to express my condolences.” He pressed his lips together, and his Adam’s apple lurched on a swallow. “Major Richardson was an excellent marine, and an excellent officer, and an excellent friend. He served his country and his ship honorably. On behalf of myself and the crew of the HMS Dogged, you have our heartfelt sympathies.”

  Pride and grief clashed in Sophie’s breast. And jealousy. This man had spent more time with Rich over the past three years than she had. They had shared meals, laughter, danger, duty. Even pain and suffering.

  “Rich spoke highly of you, Captain.” Sophie clenched her fingers in her lap. “Thank you for writing to us on his behalf when he was not able to pen words himself.”

  Mrs. Chapman entered, gripping the handles of a large tray. Sophie moved a stack of books on the low table between them to make room.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Chapman. Have you seen to the captain’s coachman?”

  “He’s eating scones as we speak. Donnie is tending the horses.” Mrs. Chapman held Sophie’s gaze. Would their guest be staying for supper? Possibly for the night? What arrangements should she make?

  Sophie gave a small shrug and shake of her head.

  When the housekeeper had gone, Sophie pour
ed a cup of tea, inhaling the fragrance and dropping in two spoonfuls of sugar before handing it to the captain. His brows arched as he took the cup.

  A smile, the first she’d felt like issuing in a long time, tugged at Sophie’s lips. “I must have remembered from one of Rich’s letters how you take your tea. He remarked often how supplies would run short and you would bemoan the lack of sugar for your tea.” Rich had portrayed the expression on his captain’s face in quite a humorous manner, and now that Sophie had met him in person, she could see it clearly.

  He nodded, shifting his shoulders and wincing, though he tried to hide it.

  Was it good manners to ask after a man’s war injuries? Was it bad manners not to? “I hope you are recovering from your wounds?”

  “I am managing well, thank you.” He took a sip from his cup, rested it on his knee, and looked at the floor. Then he raised his chin. “It’s because of my injury that I am here.”

  Sophie set the teapot down. His injury? Was he seeing a specialist in the area?

  “I first must make my confession to you.” His expression became bleak, his eyes far away, as if remembering something painful. He sat at attention even though he remained in his chair. She imagined he would look much the same if facing a firing squad. What had he to confess?

  He took a fortifying breath and set the teacup back on the tray. “I must apologize, because I bear responsibility for your loss. If it weren’t for me, Rich would still be alive and would be home with you now.” He gripped his knees, the skin taut over his knuckles.

  Stunned at this admission, Sophie shook her head. This man was Rich’s friend. He couldn’t possibly have caused Rich’s death.

  “Sir, I am sure you are mistaken. We understood that Rich had been shot. Are you saying you are the one who shot him?” Was that it? And if so, how was she going to bear it? It must have been an accident. But … surely God wouldn’t take Rich from her by accident? If You are sovereign, nothing happens by accident, right? Sophie dreaded what the captain would say, yet she longed to know.

  Captain Wyvern shook his head. “I’ll start at the beginning. Our ship, the Dogged, was stationed off the coast of France. On April twelve, the same day Wellington was capturing Toulouse, we spotted a sail on the horizon. A Téméraire class, the Bravoure.”

  As if he could no longer sit still, he rose and went to the window, legs braced apart, hands clasped behind him. She could envision him aboard a ship, commanding, issuing orders, watching the horizon.

  “The Dogged is a swift vessel, and it was natural we should give chase. It is a tactic of French ships to show themselves and then race for the coast and the protection of the batteries there. However, with favorable winds and a well-trained crew, we were able to reel in the Bravoure well before we would be in any danger from the coastal guns. A brisk battle ensued, and though we had taken some damage, we were able to draw alongside and batten the Bravoure to the Dogged.”

  Sophie listened intently, but it was as if he wasn’t really speaking to her. In some ways it was like listening to Mamie spin yarns about her childhood. Far away and vague on some points, piercingly accurate on others.

  “When the grappling hooks were shot across, that was the signal for the marines to board the Bravoure. Major Richardson … Rich … was always the first to advance in those situations, and his men followed. I remained in command aboard the Dogged. Though the fighting was fierce, Rich soon had the French crew disarmed and assembled on the deck. The French colors were struck, and the enemy ship was ours. The men cheered. It was our third such battle in as many weeks, and each time we had been victorious. I suppose it was our run of wins that caused our … my … complacency. After assessing the damage to the Dogged and issuing orders to begin repairs, I boarded the captured vessel. I should have checked that a thorough search of the ship had been done, that all the prisoners had been accounted for, but I did not.”

  For long moments, the only sound in the room was the rain washing down the window glass and the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel. A chill, slithery feeling invaded Sophie’s insides.

  At last the captain stirred, rousing himself to finish the tale. He turned and faced her, not flinching, though the task clearly pained him.

  “I was lax in my duty, and two French sailors burst from their hiding places on the foredeck. One had a cutlass and one a pistol. The one with the saber swung with the intent to take off my head, and if it wasn’t for the quick actions of Rich, I would be dead now. Rich launched himself toward me while firing his pistol at the swordsman, causing my assailant’s arm to drop at the last instant, and I suffered a slice across my back.”

  Again he twitched his shoulders and grimaced. “Because Rich was intent upon saving me, he neglected to save himself. The Frenchman with the pistol fired and caught Rich in the side. By the time the rest of my crew understood what was happening and apprehended the enemy, Rich and I both lay on the deck with severe wounds.”

  Sophie’s fingers came up to cover her lips. Rich had been wounded saving his friend’s life. And the captain admitted that it was his fault. He should have made sure the captured ship was secure before relaxing his guard. His admission floated in her head, shock making it difficult to attend to the accompanying emotions.

  Deep creases etched into his cheeks, his mouth a grim line. “We were taken to the military hospital in Oporto. Rich apologized over and over, but it wasn’t his fault. The ultimate responsibility lay with me, and I failed him. It is a burden I shall bear for the rest of my days.”

  Sophie’s emotions bobbed on a rough sea. If he had seen to his duty, Rich would be alive? And he had the gall to show up here expecting her to … what? Say that she forgave him? Tell him she bore him no ill will?

  Anger flared through her, and she turned away lest her face should declare her feelings. She wanted to rail at him, shout that it wasn’t fair. Shake her fists and demand why. She wanted answers, and not just from the captain.

  Why, God? Why did You allow this to happen? How can this possibly be Your will? She focused on Captain Wyvern’s guilt. For a moment it felt good to have someone tangible to blame, somewhere to put her anger.

  The captain waited, shoulders braced, face grim, anguish plain in his eyes. No doubt he was prepared for her recriminations. But what should she say?

  What would Rich want her to say? By the captain’s own admission, Rich had tried to take the blame for the incident that had cost him his life.

  No, it couldn’t possibly be Rich’s fault. He wouldn’t be so foolhardy when he knew he was coming home to her.

  Yet in her heart she knew Rich would have sacrificed his life if it meant saving another. The fire went out of her, and she took a short breath, sinking once more into sorrow and exhaustion.

  Was she better off knowing the circumstances of Rich’s death? It changed nothing, other than that she was now forced to make a choice.

  A choice that offended her sense of justice. But she could see Rich, compassion in his blue eyes, asking her to do the right thing.

  After a moment, she rose and crossed the room. Captain Wyvern stood his ground, hands once more behind his back. “Captain, I appreciate what it took for you to come here.” She spoke kindly even though she didn’t feel kind. “I am certain Rich did not hold you at fault. He would not wish me to blame you either.” She didn’t say she forgave the captain, because she believed in speaking the truth, and his admissions were too new, too raw for her to process just now. Hopefully, emotion would eventually follow action.

  The captain took a deep breath, his eyes bleak. “I understand. The major was a good man, and I wish God had chosen to take me instead.”

  Sophie needed to free herself from this tangle of feelings. She hadn’t worked through her thoughts on God’s role in Rich’s death, and she wasn’t ready to lay all bare now, especially to this man. “Captain, it is nearly dark. Have you accommodations for the night?” Rich would want her to offer him hospitality, and Mamie would be distressed if s
he learned he had been here and she had missed his visit. “You are welcome to stay here with us.”

  “I had planned to find lodgings at an inn.” His brows knitted. “I do not wish to impose.”

  “Please accept the hospitality of Primrose Cottage tonight. If you have no obligations calling you away, we would be pleased to have you as our guest.”

  “That is most kind, Lady Sophia. I am grateful.”

  Though he looked pained as he said it.

  Lady Sophia was both more beautiful and younger looking than he had expected. Which was odd, since Rich had shown Charles a miniature of her, and Charles had known her approximate age. But meeting her in person, he caught a hint of the restless vitality that her letters portrayed and Rich’s stories had told. He felt like a mossy-backed sea turtle in comparison to her fresh-faced youth. Though she was subdued by her loss, her grief did not dampen the intelligent sharpness in her blue eyes.

  The miniature had been a good likeness, yet it didn’t do her justice. Especially now, in the glow of the candles on the dinner table. Though she wore a simple black dress trimmed with plain black ribbon, her skin glowed and her eyes mirrored the candle flames. Light raced across her dark-brown hair and created shadows along her collarbones. Lady Sophia sat directly opposite him, with Mamie at the head of the table, and he couldn’t stop looking at Lady Sophia.

  He had not asked for her forgiveness, because he could not forgive himself. And she had not offered forgiveness, at least not in so many words. Was it because she could not forgive either? She had tried to hide her feelings, but he had read several emotions on her face: anger, longing, grief, doubt, resignation. Each had played across her features in succession, recognizable because they had mirrored his own. She had said Rich would not hold him at fault. Therefore she would not either. The two had been so in tune that their actions mirrored each other’s. Charles had never had that kind of relationship with anyone, much less a woman he loved. Again that faint pang of yearning struck the corners of his heart.