Charlotte hoped the child, girl or boy, did. Edward, as she’d last seen him, filled her mind, setting off an additional tremor of worry, for he’d been so drawn. She’d remained in the stately farmhouse in which he and Hetty resided, tending him, until she felt the danger from his wound was past. As was often the case, he’d developed a fever. Much of their time together, he’d been insensible. Charlotte had ruthlessly taken advantage of his state and Hetty’s trust to rifle through his desk and locate Marian.
“We’ve spoken of this many times.” Charlotte tried to keep both weariness and worry from her voice. “I have made my decision. Now, it will be up to Lady Marian.”
Vivian leaned across the carriage to place a hand on Charlotte’s arm. “I know we have, but this is your final moment of choice. I want you to be certain.”
“I am.” She would ask Marian for the babe and, after a suitable time in Wales, she would return to Caithness to raise the child. Everyone would assume the babe was hers, and she would avow as much. Likely, rumor would abound as to the father. No matter which of the child’s parents lent resemblance, the community would come to a consensus, which Charlotte need never confirm or deny. She hoped, though, that the babe would take after Marian, and Edward.
It was in all ways the ideal course. Marian would be spared the choice of abandoning her babe or her family, for she would be Charlotte’s frequent guest. Hetty would have her sister back. Charlotte… she would have a babe and a piece of Edward no one, not even he, could ever take from her.
Vivian squeezed her arm. “I only want you to be happy, dearest.”
“I will be.” Or as happy as she could be, now that she’d foolishly given her heart to another man.
Vivian’s hand slid from Charlotte’s arm as she leaned back in her seat. “I’ll not alight, then, if you don’t mind. There’s plenty of daylight left. The mood has taken me for a visit to London. Aribert will do well there.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I still cannot believe you brought him.”
A smile flittered across Vivian’s lips. Her eyes took on a distant look. “Perhaps I, too, wished for a child of sorts. That’s all he’ll ever be now, even though his head is healing well. It’s his good fortune the one skill he seems to have kept is painting. With me to guide him, his simpleness will be no burden. He shall make a splash in London, and be wealthy and sought. He’s still handsome, well-mannered and charming, after all. He simply loses track of thoughts, except when he’s painting.”
Vivian was being generous, but Charlotte didn’t feel the need to revisit Vivian’s plans any more than her own. “I wish you great success with him.”
“Thank you, dear. I shall have it, as always.” Vivian’s smile became devious. “I sent his finished painting of me to John.”
“John?” Charlotte repeated.
“Mister Lamont. My husband.”
“Ah, yes, John.” As if Charlotte was to know Vivian had finally deigned to recall his name. She frowned. “Why?”
Vivian shrugged. “I find I miss him. Only a bit, and he needn’t know, of course. One look at that painting will have him in London inside a week.”
Charlotte shook her head. They lapsed into silence as the carriage rolled to a halt outside a neat, moderate-sized farmhouse. The green-painted door cracked open. A maid peeked out.
“Well then,” Charlotte said.
“Well, indeed.” Vivian leaned across to offer a quick embrace, then knocked on the door.
It opened immediately. One of Vivian’s footmen stood without, hand extended to help Charlotte down.
“I’ll tell your coachmen to wait, or shall I send them down the lane?” Vivian asked.
“Ask them to wait, and don’t forget to take Mister MaClagan with you. I do not want to find him still in my carriage.”
“Certainly, I’ll retrieve him. He’s my toy, not yours, after all.”
Charlotte offered a final, only slightly trembling smile before placing her gloved hand in the footman’s so he could help her down. She stepped away from the carriage, waiting while Vivian’s man clambered back up to his perch. A knock sounded from inside. The coachman flicked his reins. The deep red curtains didn’t waver. Vivian had already said more of a goodbye than Charlotte had expected.
Squaring her shoulders, Charlotte turned toward the house and the waiting maid. Skirt held out of the dust, she crossed to the door. “Hello. She doesn’t know me, but I’m here to see Lady Marian.”
The maid gaped at her with such astonishment, Charlotte wondered if she’d come so far only to have ended up on the wrong farm. The area was dotted with them, one much the same as the next. “Lady Marian Waverly,” she clarified.
“I… I can see if she’s home, miss,” the maid said. “Who should I say is calling?”
“Missus Fairhaven.” Charlotte took in the blink of surprise that generally accompanied the knowledge she’d wed already. “I’m a friend of her sister, Lady Hetty.” And of her father, perhaps.
The girl nodded. “Give me a moment, Missus Fairhaven.”
The maid closed the door, the wood planks enough to mute the subsequent hurried chatter into insensibility. When the door opened again, a dour-faced woman with iron-gray hair, creased jowls and shoulders as wide as Lord Edward’s barred the way. Wide-eyed still, the maid peered from the dim foyer behind her.
“I wasn’t told to expect a Missus Fairhaven,” the broad-faced woman said, voice laden with suspicion.
“I am not expected,” Charlotte allowed. “I am, however, a friend of Lady Hetty’s. I’ve come, in part, on her behalf.”
The woman regarded Charlotte through eyes nearly obscured by a heavy brow. Her frown deepened the lines about her mouth. “Lord Edward sent nothing about a Lady Fairhaven.”
“Lord Edward does not know I am here.”
Charlotte could see the admission was an error the moment it left her lips. The woman scowled and started to close the door. “Be off with you, then.”
“Please, I must speak with Lady Marian.” Charlotte despaired at the touch of pleading in her tone. “It’s about the raising of the babe.”
Color drained from the woman’s face. A quiet gasp sounded from somewhere behind the door. The maid darted a worried look to her left. Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. She glanced in the direction the maid had and took in the girl’s blush. The wide-faced woman made to close the door, but Charlotte stepped forward. As she’d hoped, the woman wouldn’t go so far as to slam the painted wood into Charlotte.
Raising her voice, she resumed her plea. “I realize I’m unknown to you. I am a widow, and have never been capable of getting with child. You may, at first, think me mad, but I’ve come to care for your family, and I have a solution to your woes.” She cleared her throat, which constricted at the thought of her next words. “Please, permit me to raise the babe as my own. We shall live in Caithness, and you and Hetty shall be my daily guests. I will put out that the child is mine, but never forget that he, or she, is yours. Please, let me do this for you, and for Hetty, and for myself.”
A long-fingered hand grasped the door above the older woman’s white-knuckled grip. The green-planks were pulled back to reveal the young woman from the painting. She was lovelier even than Mister MaClagan’s skill had captured. Her gray eyes brimmed with tears. Her free hand rested on her unmistakably round middle.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I could never have a babe of my own,” Charlotte said. “Because I care for your sister, and she needs you to return.”
Marian shook her head. “You offer a great deal for so little.” She smiled, though tears slipped down her pink cheeks. “Although Hetty is quite lovable.” Her smile faltered. “But I cannot credit such a good deed. How do I know, once you have my child, and all the world believes the babe to be yours, you won’t leave Caithness?”
“You don’t.” Charlotte cursed her honesty, but she wouldn’t lie to Lady Marian. “And you needn’t decide this moment. I was hoping I might remain
here, and help as I can, and you could come to know me. It’s months until you and the babe will be ready to travel. Give me those months to persuade you, that you may better decide.”
Marian regarded Charlotte with soft gray eyes. She was so lovely. Her frown didn’t diminish her beauty. Charlotte believed Hetty’s claim that her sister was even prettier than her mother. It was no wonder Charlotte’s charms, such as they were, hadn’t moved Lord Edward to thoughts of marriage. It was obvious his wife had been, in appearance, at least, all a man could hope for.
The formidable-looking woman turned to Marian, mien questioning. The maid did her best to appear non-existent in the background. Marian continued to study Charlotte, who resisted the urge to hold her breath. They’d certainly mastered looking lordly, these nobles of Gaoth. As much beauty as she must have inherited from her mother, she had her father’s commanding presence in measure.
Finally, Marian nodded. “You shall remain, for now, and with my thanks.” Her smile returned, transforming her from daughter of a baron to pleasant young woman once more. “I will admit, and meaning no offense to you, Missus Davies,” she added in an aside to the broad-shouldered woman, “but of late I’ve been terribly bored.”
Though she’d never been or had a lady’s companion, Charlotte settled into the role easily. Marian was not overly trying, and Missus Davies and the other occupants of the farmhouse were all more pleasant than Charlotte would first have guessed. Mornings were spend reading, and midday in walks about the lovely Welsh countryside, greener and less harsh than Scotland. In the evenings, they sewed garments for the child and conversed about their lives and the dreams they held. The only topic Charlotte was careful not to speak on was one of the most often thought of, and heaviest on her heart. Her unwanted, aggravating and unrequited love for her new companion’s father.
Over the course of weeks, Charlotte watched in awe as Marian, who felt she had a month still to go when Charlotte arrived, grew to an almost impossible seeming roundness about the middle. Throughout, the young woman maintained an admirable cheerfulness. She even laughed, though somewhat despairingly, the morning she realized she could no longer reach her plate while seated at the breakfast table.
True to Marian’s expectation, her time arrived nearly a month to the day after Charlotte and her few staff took up residence, a full three days after the young woman’s sweet temper finally divested her. As Marian’s cries echoed through the farmhouse, Missus Davies took control with a hard-edged efficiency that matched her formidable exterior. By midnight, Charlotte rocked in a chair at Marian’s bedside. The auburn-haired young woman was blissfully asleep, and in Charlotte’s arms rested not one, but two beautiful bundles.
Charlotte cradled them with the utmost care, these tiny pink creatures that meant more than all else in the world. As she gazed down at their crinkled red faces, she struggled in vain for some comprehension of Marian’s and Hetty’s mother. To give up the tiny girl and boy she held was impossible to contemplate, yet Lady Waverly had deliberately, willfully, gone away.
Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. For all the time they’d spent together, Marian had yet to answer the question of whether Charlotte would remain a part of their lives. Until she held the babes, Charlotte had thought she would be able to somehow accept a refusal.
Now, she knew she could not. She squeezed her eyes closed, hot tears spilling down her cheeks, and resisted the urge to clutch the sleeping babes against her. “I shall love you as much and for so long as I am allowed,” she whispered to them. “I promise.”
“Then that shall be a very long time,” Marian murmured.
Charlotte looked up to find the young woman awake. “Shall it?” her voice cracked on the quiet words.
“I can’t imagine anyone else I would trust with my babies,” Marian said, and burst into tears.
Fortunately, Missus Davies must have heard them, for she bustled into the room. Cheeks still streaked with her own tears, Charlotte helped Missus Davies settle the babes into the crib on the other side of the bed. Then, Charlotte seated herself beside Marian and gathered her close.
“Shh, dear,” Charlotte murmured, as her mother had once, so very long ago. “All will be well. You’ve done so wonderfully.” Charlotte stroked matted auburn curls. “Everything will be right now. We’ll see to that, you and me and Hetty.” And Edward?
Marian nodded, and continued to cry.
It wasn’t until the babies woke, hungry, that Charlotte realized she’d fallen asleep on the bed beside Marian. Reassured by Missus Davies, who’d wisely slept as well, and by Marian, Charlotte took herself to her room.
She woke much later than usual, afternoon sunlight streaming into the room through curtains she’d forgotten to draw. Forgoing the assistance of a maid, she dressed quickly and simply, then hurried down the hall to Marian’s room. A light knock produced no answer, so Charlotte cracked the door open. If Marian and the babies were asleep, she would simply peek at them. Or perhaps sit beside the bed and read, to be ready when they woke.
Marian’s bed was empty, the sheets fresh. Charlotte blinked, shocked. She pushed the door open wider and crossed to the crib. The sight of it empty sent a wave of fear through her. She all but ran from the room and down the stairs.
There were voices in the parlor, into which Charlotte burst. Three pairs of eyes, two gray and one blue, turned to stare at her. She skidded to a halt, her slippers sliding on the wood planks of the floor. The babies were there, delicate eyes squeezed shut, one in the arms of Hetty and the other held by…
“Missus Fairhaven,” Hetty exclaimed. “We thought you might sleep forever.”
Edward regarded Charlotte without expression, eyes fathomless. The arm in which he didn’t cradle a tiny wrapped bundle was in a sling, but he looked his usual self. Color had returned to the hard-planed face under his waves of auburn hair, ever so lightly touched with gray. His grandson, the babe looking incredibly small, snuggled against him.
Charlotte opened her mouth. As no words came forth, she closed it again. She pressed a hand to her forehead, fighting against dizziness and tears. Tearing her gaze from Edward’s, she turned to Marian. “What does this mean?” Her words came out a whisper.
Marian’s smile offered reassurance. “Shortly after your arrival, I wrote to my father. I informed him of your offer and asked him if he felt I might accept.”
Charlotte gave a shaky nod. Of course, Marian had written Lord Edward. It was what Charlotte would have advised her to do, had she wished the baron to know of her efforts. Charlotte swallowed, her throat dry. “And?”
“And I have come here with a slightly different course in mind.” Edward stood, shrinking the parlor. He crossed to Marian and placed the little boy in her arms.
For the first time, Charlotte realized blankets and pillows were piled about Marian, offering support for the new mother. She approved, although she wished Marian had remained abed. Though all had gone well, the previous day couldn’t have but exhausted her.
Charlotte had little time to think on that, though, for having deposited the babe, Edward came toward her. Behind him, she saw Marian and Hetty exchange a look. Both wore smiles, but then they each held a beautiful wiggling bundle. Even Charlotte could smile in that moment if she cradled one of the babies.
Instead, she felt alone, her hands like ice. Edward stopped before her, the only sign he’d been shot not too long ago, the sling, a stark white against his dark suit. “I should like to speak with you alone, Missus Fairhaven, concerning the fate of the children.”
He was so serious. She stared at him, wishing he thought better of her, but he’d decried her from the start. That she now understood the origin and depth of his distaste for women who sought their own pleasure helped her understand why, but didn’t diminish the effect. She was not good enough in his eyes. Like as not, he’d leave his grandchildren with a stranger before her, or agree to Marian’s banishment to Wales so she might raise them.
“If you’d please?”
he said, with a gesture toward the doorway behind her. “I don’t wish for Marian to rise, so we must seek privacy for our conversation elsewhere.”
He was all formality, Charlotte realized. Every inch the lord of the keep. Feeling as if she might shake apart inside, she spun on her heels and marched into the hall. There, she halted, for the farmhouse was not large. She had no notion where to go.
“This way, if you would.” A strong hand on her elbow steered her toward the foyer, then out the front door.
So, he would remove her from the premises immediately. She should protest. For heaven’s sake, she hadn’t even broken her fast. Not that she could summon any hint of an appetite. For all his civility, he was being barbaric.
If he thought to daunt her, he would be disappointed. She would not be taken from the babes and Marian, and Hetty, with such ease. She pulled her elbow free and rounded on him. “Where are we going?”
“There is a grove down that gully where I think we may speak in privacy.” He pointed.
A grove? “Are you mad? I didn’t think you suffered an injury to your head, my lord.”
His gaze roamed the yard, taking in the windows of the house, the open doors to the stable. “This isn’t something I wish to do here.”
Charlotte threw up her hands. “Have your way. You always do.”
“I certainly hope so,” he muttered, and clamped a hand about her elbow again.
His grip firm, he assisted her across a field. As they descended into the grove and toward a cheerfully bubbling brook, the bright afternoon sun blocked by the canopy, she had the fleeting notion he might mean to murder her. Do her in and free his family of her. He was certainly highhanded enough.
Despite a dizzying mixture of anger toward Edward, and fear of losing the life she’d dreamed up for her, the babes and Marian, Charlotte was scathingly aware of the strength in his frame. Of the heat that seemed to radiate from him. The muscles that bunched beneath breeches and coat. Every time her gaze darted to his lips, she cursed him seven ways to hell.
Scandalous Lords and Courtship Page 20
