by Sophia Nash
She looked back at him sheepishly. “I had hoped you had forgotten,” she said, while picking an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve.
“I never forget.”
“It’s quite rude to ask a lady her age.”
“But I am confused. Your stature and physiognomy suggest a woman not past her girlhood. But your eyes speak differently.”
“I am past my prime, if you must know. Soon to be past seven and twenty to be exact.”
He was shocked. And now embarrassment flooded him for having forced a spinster to reveal her age. No gentleman beyond leading strings would have dared to stretch the barriers of society’s unwritten rules of behavior toward the gentler sex.
She was looking at him. “I’m sorry to have embarrassed you.”
He forced himself to form some words. Any words. “No, no, it is I who must apologize. I should never have presumed to ask.”
“It’s all right. Now you do not have to worry about shocking me. I am quite the old maid.”
“Certainly not—”
She interrupted. “No, you misunderstand. I am not asking for you to refute the fact—just explaining that I have no maidenly airs to worry about. My work with my father has taken away any silly sensibilities I might have had in my youth.”
There was a tap on the door.
“Enter,” Nicholas called out.
Chapter Two
“A woman of seven and twenty can never hope
to inspire affection again.”
—Sense and Sensibility
CHARLOTTE Kittridge knew she was just as firmly on the shelf as the book she tugged in vain. She was the fool who had overstuffed these inadequate shelves in the small front parlor just two weeks ago. Charlotte looked down lovingly at the tonsured crown of her father and the full head of black hair of her only brother as they sat before a roaring fire meant to displace the early morning darkness. She smiled with good humor.
She realized with a small shrug that she also had only herself to blame for her ill-natured thoughts about her station in life. Charlotte had read a novel, for the first time, during the trip from London to Wiltshire, much to her father’s horror and her brother’s laughter. It was all about Elinor and Marianne Dashwood, and it had filled her mind with heretofore unknown thoughts. Given that Charlotte felt Elinor so akin to herself, she wondered whether that practical lady or the author herself, a mysterious “Lady,” would have approved of Lord Huntington, he of the wild hair, arresting green eyes, and impossibly broad shoulders. Surely not. There was not a trace of the subtle gallantries of Edward Ferrars in the novel Sense and Sensibility. Lord Huntington had a compelling presence that made her feel unaccountably awkward when he spoke to her. A feeling that happened but rarely in her small, familial world.
Charlotte would have liked to be surrounded by lots of sisters and a mother of the Dashwood ilk, but fate had chosen a different course for her.
Her father, seated in the worn leather chair near the hearth, turned and peered at her over his spectacles. “So, my dear, did Lord Huntington survive despite the dreaded chamomile tea and infusion?”
Charlotte gave one last yank and finally dislodged the massive volume. “Yes, Father, when I left him two hours ago, he was sleeping. His Grace was also resting comfortably,” she said. “But, the son is very weak and the fever continues. I thought a restorative draught might help. I’ve searched through the English texts, and am now into your books from Paris. What do you think?”
“Methinks it is a good idea. Let us try the one I have been administering to His Grace.” He lowered his book and got up to help her down the last rung of the small stepladder. He kissed the top of her head before looking at the volumes at eye level.
“It helped lower the father’s morning fevers, although the duke’s condition is much more grave than I expected when first we arrived. As soon as we prepare them, we should return to the abbey. I fear we will be ensconced in that cold, barren fortress for the duration of the illness.”
“How much longer before the consumption overcomes his defenses?”
“I cannot tell yet if he will rally. The severe fever and chills complicate a recovery. If I cannot cure the evening fever within the next few days, the duke will depart this mortal coil, and we will have a critical, new younger employer.”
Her brother looked up from his book. “Especially if you continue to force your perceived poisonous ministrations on his lordship, Charlotte.”
She was used to her family’s plain speaking. “Father, you know we could return to London on the next mail coach if need be. Why, we even had a handful of letters yesterday from several patients begging your return.”
“Yes, I’m for all that if the old man does kick off,” her brother said.
“James, a little respect, thank you,” Dr. Kittridge snapped. “Nevertheless, a calming stay in the country is what we all need. A country practice is all I’ve ever really wanted. After France—” Charlotte’s father stopped speaking and looked down at his book.
“It’s all right, Papa,” she said as she walked toward him.
“Elle me manque aussi.” I miss her too.
“I’ve asked you not to speak that… that language, Charlotte.”
“I’m sorry, but when I think of Maman, I think in her language.” Charlotte gazed at her father’s faded blue eyes.
“It is dangerous to forget. To forget is to court folly. It is one of the very reasons I wanted to leave London. The English are foolish to think they are immune from the power of an angry lower class. If they would but open their eyes and see the dissatisfaction of the masses, they would fear rebellion, fear revolution.”
“Yes, yes, I know, Papa.” His favored topic had long ago lost its fervor for her. She and James exchanged knowing glances. Her brother rolled his eyes.
“Charlotte and James, you must listen to me. Do not ever discuss your heritage with anyone here. There is no benefit to anybody knowing. Only detriments.”
“Father, we’ve discussed this ad nauseum. Your fears are unwarranted. There are so many displaced people in England. And what do you expect to happen here in this small corner of England? You could not have found a more remote place—unless we had flown to Yorkshire,” said James.
The father paled. “Your nonchalance surprises me, given the past.”
“Father, I’ve begged you and begged you to let me make reparations.”
“Ah, James, you know not of what you speak. I’ll not let the only son of mine think he can avenge his family by shedding more blood. I’ll hear no more from you on this subject.”
“But Father…”
“NO, I say. I forbid it.”
Charlotte gave a cautioning glance to her brother as she moved to touch her father’s shoulder. “Father, do not exert yourself. We are all in perfect agreement,” she said again, as she gave her brother a nod toward the door.
James snapped his unread book shut and stalked toward the exit.
Upon James’s departure, their father pulled Charlotte into his lap. “Charlotte, I am grateful to the Good Lord for giving me you. At least one of my children is levelheaded, with enough intelligence for ten siblings.”
“But no beauty.”
“Fishing are you? That is unlike my Charlotte. Beauty does not save lives, nor take care of the less fortunate. It is what is inside your mind that matters, not a good complexion and sparkling wit.”
Charlotte’s soul constricted. Fishing had never been good in these waters. And for good reason. She knew the answer by looking in the tiny cracked looking glass in her small chamber above stairs. Her father had just confirmed, as he always did, the truth. She was as plain and bookish as ever. She was too small, her eyes were a nondescript gray and too far apart. At least her freckles had faded, except the one under her eye. Her only points of pride were her long neck, delicate ears, and tiny ankles—areas others never noticed or cared a wit about.
It was only that she had not minded being plain so much before
, really. Well, maybe not too much—except when Mr. Cox had stopped calling, and perhaps worse yet, when Alexandre had not responded to the letters. But Elinor Dashwood had taught her all about patience and its reward.
Lord Huntington had instigated something altogether different. Something that was sure to lead to dashed hopes yet again.
It was his favorite time of day, the hour before dawn. As a child he would slip into his oldest clothes, sneak through the kitchens for yesterday’s baked remnants, and head into the fields or streams, fishing tackle in hand. More often than not, he would end up side by side with the laborers to make hay, harvest the grains, or oversee the livestock. It was the one time he had been happy here. He looked down at his useless leg. At least he was feeling better—maybe still feverish and tired, but not exhausted to the bone nor plagued by hallucinations. Yes, it would be a few days before he could contemplate a predawn jaunt. But, perhaps a trip to the window?
A knock sounded at his door, and before he could respond, his sister flew into the room.
“Oh, you are home!” Rosamunde said, running toward the bed. “Stevens had me woken early with the news.” She hugged him, and his throat tightened as he grasped her thin back through her nightdress.
She pulled back. “You are a scoundrel for not sending word. I would have waited up for you,” she said, as her wide green eyes, so much like his own, filled with tears. “Oh, I am so glad you are here. I have missed you so.”
“And, I you.”
“Still the barefaced charming liar, I see,” she said, laughing until she looked at his bandaged leg on top of the down coverlet before Nicholas could cover it with a sheet. “But what is this? Are you wounded?” Her face paled.
“I’m afraid I made the mistake of cracking it,” he said as he reached for her long brown braid, which snaked over her shoulder. “At least that is the opinion of our new resident doctor and his nurse, although I must say I came to the same conclusion within moments of having my horse shot out from under me.”
“Oh, Nicholas, not Nimrod!”
“You show much compassion for my horse, I see,” he said, forcing a lopsided attempt at a grin. “And little for my poor leg.”
“You are as wretched as ever. Don’t try to pretend you didn’t love that horse. Father gave him to you.” Rosamunde snatched her braid from his hand when he tried to tickle her nose with the end of it.
“Yes. I thought I would never `earn’ him.” “It was the first time he went against the wishes of Her Grace. You have to give him that,” she said.
“Yes. And you paid dearly for that too, as I recall.” He grasped her hands, forcing her to lie next to him on the bed, his shoulder offered as a hollow for her head. Stroking her small head brought a remembered feeling of love.
“Let us not dwell on the past,” she said, snuggling against him. “I have good news. Did Stevens tell you that Father seems to be recovering a bit? When I wrote to you, I was sure the letter would find you too late. I am so glad you are come. Will you stay?”
“At least until this blasted leg has healed,” he said. “I am going to miss all the wild celebrations in London when old Boney is routed, as he is sure to be shortly. I will miss all the cakes and champagne after eating all that mud for so many months.”
“Well, I have at least one good thing you can look forward to, as well as one more bad thing.” He stopped stroking her hair. “Yes? The bad news first, if you please.”
“Mother has invited a Lady Susan and her grandmother for a visit. She is quite… unusual, and of course an heiress. Perfect for Edwin, according to Her Grace,” she said. “At least you will have me and my dear friend Louisa to buffer the attentions that might turn toward you, if my guess is correct. The actual heir will prove more attractive to that lady than the spare.”
“Her Grace will be doubly delighted then to learn of my arrival,” he said, one brow arched. “I shall have to try not to become an impediment to Edwin’s future good fortune,” he continued. “And the good?”
“My favorite mare, Phoenix, is in foal—due in a month’s time. She is a dream to ride, and I have decided that her first progeny will be my homecoming gift to you.”
Before he could reply, a knock sounded. “Enter,” he called out, as Rosamunde scurried to her feet, and smoothed her gown.
The diminutive Dr. Kittridge entered, along with his daughter. Before she looked away from him, Nicholas noticed dark circles cupping her large gray eyes. At least now he could focus on her face. Last night seemed to have happened in a sort of delirious daze. He could not remember much. Except he did recall that her delicate hands, clasped before her now, had touched most of the bare skin of the lower half of his body—and she had smelled like the fields of lavender he had seen in France.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you, my lord, Lady Rosamunde,” said the doctor, bowing.
“No need to be sorry.”
“Are you feeling better, my lord?” asked Dr. Kittridge.
“Much. In fact, I must go to my father now that I have rested. It is why I am here, after all.”
“His Grace would not want you to be moved in your condition, just yet. Your leg needs to be in a raised position and immobile for many weeks.”
“Sir, I was the unwilling recipient of your daughter’s cunning maneuvers last night to keep me confined, but not so this morning, when I have sufficiently recovered my senses,” Nicholas said, fashioning an easy smile.
“But, my lord—” Miss Kittridge began.
“Please offer me a dressing gown and slippers, Miss Kittridge, not arguments,” Nicholas interrupted. “It is fruitless, you know. I will not be put off.” Instantly, he regretted his words. He didn’t want to offend her. After all, she had been quite gentle and kind to him last night. And whether it was her care or luck, he did feel better for the first time in longer than a month. He opened his mouth to apologize, but she had disappeared from sight.
She returned with the requested garments. He could barely fit into his old blue brocade dressing gown. It had grown hopelessly tight about the shoulders since the last time he had worn it more than a dozen years ago.
Stevens was called, and between the doctor and the butler, Nicholas was helped to his sire’s chambers. The first dizzying wave of pain made him question the sense of his plan. Soon enough he was settled on a lounging chair next to his father, his leg extended.
He grasped the elder’s wrinkled old hand. A large signet ring swam on a finger of his cold, clawlike hand. His watery green eyes opened halfway.
“Ah, it is you, my son. I did not think to see you again in this lifetime,” he said hoarsely.
Panic gripped Nicholas’s stomach. His father had withered. The sparse hair covering his skull had gone. white, and his once robust frame was frail.
His father’s gaze moved to focus on the doctor. “But we have Dr. Kittridge here to thank for keeping me alive. Percival Smythe, that damned apothecary, almost poisoned me.”
“Actually, I think it is your tenacity, Your Grace.” Dr. Kittridge moved forward. “I’ve brought a draught for you this morning, and one for Lord Huntington as well.”
Miss Kittridge appeared at the other side of the bed and moved the Duke of Cavendish into a sitting position, rearranging the bedcovers all in one smooth movement. She brought to the elder’s willing lips a steaming brew. At the same moment, the doctor handed Nicholas a cup. It tasted of anise, honey, and almonds—very strange, but not unpleasant.
“I take it from the looks of your leg that the Frogs did not let you go unscathed?” the duke asked a minute later. Nicholas’s explanation glossed over the harsh details.
“But I must know more. Dr. Kittridge, what is my son’s prognosis?”
“I examined him late last night, after some… discussion. It is an ugly break with a red swelling in the open area. But your son is an otherwise strong and healthy gentleman. It should heal in the next two months with elevation, proper rest, and a slow rehabilitation.”
H
a! Nicholas was at least glad the doctor did not worry his father with the second part of the diagnosis and the mention of his fever, a fever he could feel already returning with a heated vengeance. Dr. Kittridge had concurred with his daughter on the possibility of rebreaking the leg should it not heal properly. But Nicholas would be damned if he was going to stay in the sick room for the prescribed eight-week period—although, he wouldn’t have minded lying down for a few minutes right then.
“Will he—” began the duke, before becoming overwhelmed with a coughing spasm. Miss Kittridge hastened to his side with a handkerchief.
After a full half-minute, Miss Kittridge removed the fine linen covering his father’s mouth and offered the liquid again—but not quickly enough for the flecks of blood to escape Nicholas’s notice. He breathed in sharply. If his father’s physical appearance had suggested the end was near, the blood confirmed it.
As he looked into his father’s sad eyes, he prepared himself to carry out the duke’s wishes uttered so long ago. He was not sure he should have come back.… But then again, what did he have to lose? Except a father. A dear, dear, father.
The shadows were beginning to creep toward the center of his vision again. Blast. He was not going to be able to hide it. The heat turned to an icy flash. His head swam, and the last thing he saw was Miss Kittridge rushing to his side and lowering his head to his knees.
As Charlotte walked up the last small rise before Wyndhurst Abbey came into view, she sighed and was grateful that within the beautiful limestone walls, the last patients of her wretched day awaited her. She was weary from attending to the various aches and pains of the laborers, tenant farmers, and villagers. They only ever had an apothecary in the past—an ancient man named Smythe, who resented the newcomers with their newfangled notions. His ghastly ideas for curing the duke had included pills made of cobwebs and snail water!
Being a stranger and a female, Charlotte still had a long road to travel in gaining trust in the countryside. Mrs. Pierce had voiced doubts concerning the hot camphor compresses prescribed for inflamed breasts due to new motherhood. Then there had been the penniless widow from the village with a boil that had needed to be lanced. She had become indignant when Charlotte suggested she could pay her fee by spending one day the next week helping the overwhelmed Mrs. Pierce.
