“Heavenly Father, guide us, protect us. Please protect Barrack …”
He slapped the reins and the horses found further momentum, as if sensing his desperation to find shelter and help. In the distance he could see a glimmering light.
“Thank You, God.”
By the time they reached the village boundary, the horses had assumed a walking pace. By the time they reached the Old Crown, he’d managed to halt them.
“Hello there!”
The inn door opened, and a swarthy-faced man appeared. His jaw sagged. “Your Grace!”
“Send for the doctor.” Shivers wracked his body. “We need him.”
Within minutes Barrack was being tended in the inn’s snug before a freshly lit fire—and a gaggle of interested spectators.
The villagers’ commentary swirled around him: “Looking like demons were a-chasin’ ’em. And ’im, a dook!”
“Never thought I’d see the day!”
“Aye, but there’s something smoky ’bout this, mark my words.”
William slumped in his chair, fingers wrapped around a mug of hot spiced ale, watching the doctor continue his ministrations. The villagers were right; something was suspicious. Who had done such a thing? Why?
His skin prickled. Was Jensen correct in assuming this attack was against him?
“Your Grace?”
William placed the mug down and pushed to his feet. “How is he?”
“Not good. He should be removed someplace where he can remain undisturbed for some time. I’m afraid it might be a very long time.” Dr. Lansbury looked up sharply. “Has he family?”
“No. We at Hartwell are Barrack’s family.”
“Hmm.”
“We will take care of him there.” William scrubbed a hand over his weary face. “I gather he can stay here until you deem it safe for travel?”
“Of course.” The doctor peered at him, frowned. “You look a trifle poorly yourself, sir.”
“I feel a trifle poorly.” William managed a hollow smile.
“Perhaps it might be best you should rest for a while. Stay the night also.”
And miss his own comfortable lodgings? He fought a groan, the effort causing him to totter.
“Sir.” Jensen cupped his elbow, leading him back to his chair, gently shoving him down. “The doctor is correct. You’re in no fit state to return.”
“I suppose if we stay then we’ll remain best apprised on how Barrack fares.” William glanced at the landlord. “I gather you’ve adequate space?”
“Of course, sir. And very nice accommodation it is, too, if I might say so. Just … how many more of you are there?”
“I travel light. Just us four.” William motioned to Jensen and the footman.
The landlord beamed. “No trouble at all, then. You’ll have the best rooms.” He moved to the door, then paused. “I gather you’ll be requiring a meal?”
William nodded, smiling inwardly at the way the man’s eyes lit up, as if he had already started counting the coins soon coming his way.
That night, sleep took a long time coming, not least because the bed was the most uncomfortable he’d ever had the misfortune to lie upon. Dim light peeked around thin curtains, splintering up the wall to show the dusty lacework of ancient spiderwebs. He forced himself to relax in the method once taught him by Dr. Blakeney, physician to the royals and the very rich: clench his hands, shoulders, his back, legs, and feet, before slowly releasing the pressure, section by section, limb by limb, as he deliberately exhaled. Once he’d completed the routine, he intentionally forced his thoughts from the welter of confusion and thought on good things.
Good things, like the fact the doctor had been home and not out attending a birth in the rural byways of Northamptonshire. Good things, like the fact the meal tonight had at least been hot. Good things, like tomorrow they would be at home again at last. Good things …
He yawned, closed his eyes, and dreamed of a girl with compassion in her eyes, and candor on her lips.
CHAPTER TEN
Hampton Hall
June 8
CHARLOTTE’S NOSE WRINKLED as the sound of retching reached through the closed door.
“Poor pet,” Mrs. Florrick murmured, casting Charlotte a worried glance. “She’s barely kept a bite down these past days.”
The door opened, and Lavinia emerged, hair bedraggled, looking wan and thin. Her maid bustled past them, holding a chamber pot.
“Poor thing,” Mrs. Florrick said again. “Come lie down, my lady. You really should—”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Florrick,” Lavinia said, with a most unconvincing smile. “I would much prefer to return downstairs. If I stay here, I shall only mope, and feel even more wretched.”
“Oh, but—”
“I will keep her company, Mrs. Florrick,” Charlotte said firmly, at her cousin’s look of entreaty. “She will not do anything strenuous, I assure you.”
“But my lady—”
“Come,” Charlotte said, throwing the housekeeper her sweetest smile, even as she guided Lavinia from the room.
“Thank you,” Lavinia whispered. “I can’t think where all my energy has gone.”
“Can’t you?” Charlotte said, with a none-too-subtle glance at her midsection.
Lavinia chuckled. “I didn’t know increasing would make me feel so wretched. I don’t know how women manage without such friendly faces and people so willing to help.”
“Yet somehow those without servants still manage to survive, otherwise the population would be decreasing. Now, let’s get you settled.”
After ensuring her cousin was comfortably ensconced on the sofa, a pile of correspondence before her, Charlotte picked up her embroidery from earlier. Soon all thought of sickness faded as quiet calm filled the room.
The tall case clock near the door provided a reassuring tick. The crackle of flames gave heartening warmth. The yellow drawing room might not be as large as the one in the Grosvenor Square house, but the view, over fields and distant hills, was a much pleasanter prospect, and made the room seem more spacious.
Charlotte glanced back at the embroidery, stifling a sigh. Sewing had never held much pleasure. These past few days had only reinforced her fears about country living. When Mama had seen just how dull the earl and Lavinia lived, she had quickly relinquished her chaperonage to escape back to London. A niggle of resentment flared; subsided. She couldn’t blame Mama for leaving, nor, she supposed, for carrying out her maternal duty. It wasn’t like Charlotte could do anything about it, anyway. Wasn’t like she could make choices about anything.
She stabbed at the scrap of silk. What if Henry—unfeeling, unreasonable Henry—had never said anything to Mama? Could Charlotte have said anything to change Mama’s mind? Why did Father always follow Mama’s lead? The heat spiking her chest suddenly turned to ice. What if Lord Markham had found a new lady interest?
No. No! Charlotte forced herself to breathe, to think on other things. Lavinia’s challenge about childishness had sparked resolve to not live from her emotions quite so much. If she behaved with dignity and decorum, Mama might not think her so spoiled and silly. But it was very hard!
Smothering a yawn, she peeked up to meet Lavinia’s smiling glance before her cousin resumed reading her letters. At least Charlotte’s time here had proved of some benefit. Apart from comforting Lavinia, Charlotte had been forced to act as a kind of gatekeeper, doing her best to shield her cousin from the servants’ fuss and worry, while secretly sharing Mrs. Florrick’s concern about just how thin the countess was becoming. And Charlotte’s presence meant the earl had felt easier about leaving his wife for a few days while he returned to London for some important parliamentary function to do with the peace.
“I hate leaving you, especially now, at such a time,” he’d avowed yesterday, clasping Lavinia’s hand, moments before he was due to drive away.
“I’ll look after her,” Charlotte had said. “Stop worrying.”
“You remind me of yo
ur Aunt Patience,” Lord Hawkesbury said, with his easy chuckle. “Thank you for staying, Charlotte.”
“Where else would I go?”
Lavinia smiled. “You’re a pearl amongst women, just like Aunt Patience.”
The memory of the compliment drew heat to her cheeks again.
She’d rarely met the woman who had raised Lavinia from the age of nine, apart from that brief stay last November, when the discovery she possessed an aunt and cousin had transformed her world. Brusque, bluestocking Aunt Patience was like a force of nature, speeding headlong into situations and wreaking change—havoc, Mama would say—wherever she went. To be compared to such a capable, intelligent woman caused her heart to glow. She smiled, resuming her stitching. Her boring stitching. Her tedious, dull, and dreary—
“Good gracious!”
“Yes?” Charlotte glanced up eagerly. News, even of the “good gracious” kind, had to be better than this mind-numbing stupor. “What is it?”
“Nicholas writes … oh my!”
“Lavinia?”
“Oh, thank goodness!”
“Lavinia, stop being so cruel.”
“Oh!” Her cousin glanced up from her letter, gray eyes wide. “I’m sorry. But it is just so dreadful.”
“Really? I wouldn’t know.”
Lavinia’s mouth pulled to one side. “Sarcasm does not become you, dear Charlotte.”
“Neither does intentionally withholding exciting news, dearest Lavinia.”
Lavinia’s brow puckered. “I don’t know if I would describe it as exciting.”
“I wouldn’t know how to describe it at all, seeing as I don’t even know what ‘it’ is!”
“Oh! You don’t, do you? I’m sorry. Read this.” She handed over the letter, the firm bold scrawl denoting a masculine hand. “Second paragraph.”
Charlotte read the missive, dated the day before:
I regret to inform you of a matter of a most alarming nature. Only days after leaving us, Hartington was involved in a terrible incident. A rock was thrown at his coach, injuring his coachman and causing the horses to run away. H. was fortunate (we would agree blessed) to find help at a nearby village, and it seems the coachman will make a slow recovery. I have this on the word of H. himself, whom I met at White’s last night. Seems he has managed to keep much of this quiet (amazing what enough gold lining hands will do) and would prefer people not to know. Please pray for him, and for his household, who are understandably shocked and worried. Join me also in praying for H. whose matter-of-fact attitude toward it all concerns me not a little, as I cannot but wonder if this “accident” was more intentional than otherwise.
Charlotte glanced up and met Lavinia’s troubled eyes.
“We should pray,” her cousin said.
“Er, yes?”
“Let’s pray now.” Lavinia bowed her head, and Charlotte followed suit. Such open prayer was a little extreme, but it couldn’t do any harm—
“Dear Lord, we thank You for Your protection for the duke and his servant …”
As Lavinia continued, Charlotte forced herself to focus on the good intention, not the awkwardness of hearing something so personal expressed aloud. Wasn’t praying supposed to be a private thing? Lavinia prayed like she was engaged in normal conversation. Charlotte shivered. She hoped her cousin wouldn’t ask her to pray out loud!
“And, Lord, please bring whoever is responsible to justice, and help them see Your grace and understand they can live a better way. Amen.”
“Amen,” Charlotte echoed weakly.
“Poor man. I’m so glad he is safe.”
“Yes.”
“It must have been terrifying! The Lord really looked after them.” Lavinia glanced over, as if she expected a response.
“Er, yes.”
“The duke is a man of faith, which is good.”
“Mmm.”
“Forgive me, but you don’t sound terribly convinced.”
“I …” What was she supposed to say? Mama’s mantra on the journey west from London rose again: “The most important things concerning a potential husband are his income, estate, and title. Attractiveness does not matter. Whether you consider yourself in love with him does not matter. Personal qualities such as faith are of little consequence.”
“Charlotte?”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking of Mama.”
Lavinia chuckled. “I can see why talk of the duke must immediately lead to thoughts of your parents.”
“Please don’t.”
“Very well.” But the disconcerting grin remained. “How thankful I am to know he’s safe.”
“It … it must have been quite the adventure.”
“Perhaps the countryside is not so boring after all.”
“Perhaps.” Charlotte shrugged.
Lavinia’s teasing smile faded. “But I do hope whoever was behind this will be soon discovered.”
“Yes, indeed. What was it you prayed? Something about the perpetrator and grace? You did not mean your mother, did you?”
“No. Simply that it’s one thing for a person to commit a crime and be found guilty, but quite another for them to realize their wrong and seek restoration.”
“You don’t honestly think the duke will wish to be restored to this person, do you? You’ve heard the rumors concerning how he treated his wife. I don’t think he’s the saint you make him out to be.”
“I don’t think he’s a saint.”
“No? You seem to be pushing him at me.”
“Really? I did not think my dropping his name into conversation now and then constituted pushing, exactly. Are you perhaps misreading things? Why would that be, I wonder?”
“Careful, else you will sound too much like Mama.”
“And we can’t have that, can we?” Lavinia smiled, her expression one of warmth and affection. “Forgive me if I seemed too forward in my opinions. It was kindly meant.”
Charlotte’s brows rose.
“Truly. If you prefer me to not mention his intelligence, nor his wit, nor how very charming his smile is—”
“Lavinia!”
“Very well. I shall not mention him again. Today, anyway.”
Hartwell Abbey
Two days later
The library’s hush and gloom matched the doctor’s demeanor perfectly. William gestured him to a seat, bracing internally for bad news.
“I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace, but there has been no change.”
William’s heart sank a little deeper. “I know Barrack has not woken, but you hold no hope?”
“He’s not responded in the week since the incident and doesn’t seem likely to waken. As I said, I’m sorry, sir.”
“Perhaps a little more time—”
Dr. Lansbury shook his head. “I do not want to give false hope, sir. I don’t believe anything is likely to change. Poor soul,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
His dismissive attitude fired grit within. Well, prayer could change things. God could. William still believed it, even if some of the prayers he’d prayed in the past few months seemed to have fallen on deaf ears.
“If I may, sir, I would suggest you remove him to a more suitable environment.”
“Such as?”
“The hospital of St. Luke.”
His eyes narrowed. “The one for imbeciles?”
“It is a very good infirmary, and one that promises good care for its inmates—”
“Inmates? Good God, man! Barrack is injured, not a lunatic.”
“And he needs proper medical care—”
“Which he is receiving here.”
“Which he is not receiving here, sir, no matter how good your intentions.”
He felt his choler rise. “I believe I shall seek another opinion.”
“That is your prerogative, of course.” The doctor bowed his head.
He left, and the room became silent again. Too quiet again. Thoughts clattered round his head.
Somehow he needed to find ano
ther doctor for Barrack; he refused to give up hope, no matter what Dr. Lansbury said. He’d rather swing than see poor Barrack placed in a mental asylum.
Somehow he still needed to decide what to do about the child upstairs. In the weeks since he’d been home, it had just felt wrong to send the mite away, his one visit to the nursery only deepening indecision. She’d looked so sweet, peacefully asleep, it had almost made him wish she was his. For all her faults, Pamela had managed to bestow something of her beauty on the child.
He rested his elbows on the desk, pushed his head into his hands. The girl didn’t need him, but she would soon need a mother. And how could he possibly supply one of those?
“Heavenly Father… ?”
Almost as soon as the whisper filled the room, an image hovered, fragmented.
No. He could never do that. Never force motherhood on such a young lady. Besides, hadn’t she made her feelings toward him perfectly obvious?
“Lord, no. It could never work.”
A verse floated into memory: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
A desperate chuckle forced past his doubts. “She’d be the one needing strength, Lord.”
He pressed his fingers into his forehead, as the other concerns of past weeks ate into his thoughts. The assailant, whose identity remained unknown. The experiment for Mr. McAdam, yet to be implemented. The battle for funding for Bethlem’s Hospital for the Insane. His responsibilities in London, necessitating his fleeting visit three days ago. The usual issues of tenants and farmers, his myriad of other concerns. Everyone wanted something from him: ideas, the implementation of ideas, financial handouts, help of one sort or another. Everyone wanted something.
Even him.
Around him, the ancient house groaned and settled, its creaks familiar, yet seemingly louder tonight. A window ajar drew a mournful moan, the sound that used to make his sister believe in ghostly voices. Inside, his concerns swelled and subsided, like the deep rolling waves of the ocean, washing round his mind, sluicing away, leaving him with but one certainty.
He was lonely.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Grosvenor Square
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 9
