by Sophia Nash
In her father’s absence, a growing gaggle of patients argued amongst themselves in the front room, as to who had the most grievous illness or injury. The villager with bunions took issue with the laborer with an inflamed cut from the new scythe, while an infant, quite yellow, wailed his hunger to the entire household. Most were more than annoyed to have Charlotte to complain to instead of her father. But she had listened to them, stitched and bandaged them, and cajoled them into compliance before seeing the lot of them out of the cottage.
The piece de resistance arrived in the petite form of Lady Susan, who had condescended to visit that Den of Disease, their cottage, to be of Service to the Less Fortunate. Charlotte doubted her lofty motive because the lady kept her gaze glued to the doorway, no doubt in high hopes of seeing a certain French gentleman and his Impressive Unmentionables. She was only able to dislodge Lady Susan when Charlotte described a bilious gastric complaint that seemed to be circulating the area. She was lucky enough to get rid of both Alexandre and Lady Susan by calling the former, when he emerged from his toilette, to offer escort to a most Willing Recipient of his Services.
Ah, peace at last. The clatter of hooves broke the momentary lull. She sighed as she rose, knowing she must attend to the visitor herself given Doro’s defection and her father’s absence.
A familiar deep baritone voice raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The intensity of the tone cut her to the marrow. “Charlotte! Charlotte, make haste! Your father—”
She entered the hallway to see Lord Huntington half dragging, half carrying the crumpled form of her beloved father through the doorway. “My God, what happened?” she implored as she helped carry him into the front room, laying him on the carpet. He was unconscious and muddy. She peered under his closed eyelids and felt for his pulse at his wrist.
Lord Huntington, completely out of breath, began a halting speech. “I found him at the edge of the stand… of trees near the lake.… It’s his head, I’m afraid,” he said, indicating a bloody patch near the back of the skull. His fingers were covered in blood when he pulled his hand away.
Charlotte rocked back onto her heels, her father’s hand still in her own. There was no pulse, no breath, no—nothing. Numbness spread from her hand to the rest of her body as an immense blast of coldness invaded her being. She refused to acknowledge the scene before her, so filled with horror was she. She looked up to Lord Huntington, who was staring at her and saying something. How long had he been talking to her? “Is he beyond all hope, then?” he asked, leaning from the other side of the body to grip her arms. He shook her.
“He is gone,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes and released her, sighing heavily. Within moments she found herself being lifted from her spot. “No… no, I won’t leave him,” she insisted.
Lord Huntington settled himself behind her and tried to force her to lean back into the circle of his arms. But Charlotte felt frozen like a block of ice, all cold, hard angles that refused to yield to his embrace.
“I am so very sorry,” he said. “I shall go and find your maid. Where is your brother?”
“No, they’re not here.” With that she crumpled, and the tears began to fall. “For God’s sake, what happened?” she said through her tears, still refusing to lean on him.
“He fell from his horse, I believe. I found the horse he uses grazing nearby, the saddle askew. If I were forced to hazard a guess, I would say that in his haste he didn’t retighten the girth after mounting. And that horse is known to fill his lungs to avoid a tight girth,” Lord Huntington said. “I shall have the animal destroyed at once.”
She covered her face with her hands and wept. “No, please don’t. There is to be no more bloodshed.”
He shook his head. “Let me find someone to attend to you—the vicar and a maid perhaps?”
He was leaving her? Here, with her dead father in her arms? Why did everyone always leave her alone? No, it was unfair, she was not being rational. Rational thought was impossible. She looked at him. He must have seen something in her expression to give pause.
“Come. You must come away with me now. I cannot leave you here, alone. At least let me take you to my sister.”
“No, I must stay here,” she said. “It is all right. I will stay. I cannot leave him,” she said, looking down at the gray countenance of her father. The image wavered as her eyes filled with tears again. “What if my brother returns? I must be here.” Her voice sounded very far away to her as the walls of her vision began to cast dark shadows toward the center.
At the last moment, she knew she was losing consciousness, and she was grateful for the surcease of pain… endless pain… endless loneliness… always alone.
The next hour proved to be one of the most difficult in Nicholas’s life. It was a full ten minutes of trying to revive Miss Kittridge before she allowed the peaceful bonds of unconsciousness to give her up to the real world. Even then she wore a pale, expressionless mask and refused to speak, curling herself into a ball.
Cursing his leg, which he had overstrained in his exertions, Nicholas lifted her onto the settee and brought a blanket before starting water to boil for tea. Where was the blasted maid? Then, despite her mewling cries, Nicholas carried her father’s lifeless body into the doctor’s bedchamber and covered him with a sheet before returning to the kitchen.
With a murmur of approval, he unearthed a nearly empty bottle of good French brandy in one of the cupboards. At least the viscount had served a purpose, for surely no one else in the household imbibed. It was her turn to try it today—if there ever was a time for it, it was now, he thought, shaking his head. He poured two glasses, emptying the bottle, and carried the tray into the front room.
She was shivering on the settee when he returned but took the spirits without protest. Nicholas downed the contents of his share in one swift movement as he watched her sputter and cough after one small sip. “Keep drinking, if you can. It will offer temporary warmth.”
She appeared very pale. He kneeled down in front of her, despite the stabbing pain from his thigh, and grasped her hand, rubbing it to soothe her. “Miss Kittridge .”
Her gaze moved to him, but there seemed no life in her. When she didn’t speak, he tried again. “Charlotte, I don’t want you to worry. I will take care of everything… of, of you, and your brother. I won’t have you worry,” he insisted.
“No. You are not to play the hero. No one can do anything to help me. I have feared this day, but—” she said, then burst into tears. “But, I realize now that I somehow always knew it would come. And no matter how hard I tried to protect my father and James, it was all in God’s destructive hands.”
He did not even try to speak. He must get her to talk as much as he could, otherwise she would retreat into the horror of it all.
“I shall survive this, have no fear,” she said, looking down at her hands.
“Listen to me.” Nicholas took her hands in his own and squeezed them gently. “I have no doubt of your strong constitution. It is your future with which I am concerned. I assure you that you will never want for anything. I do not want you to worry on any account.”
“It is a characteristic of all gentlemen, this need to reassure females of their protection. It is unnecessary. I refuse to burden someone who will be far away in some distant place, working or fighting for the British Crown. Please do not say anything right now.”
Without hesitation, he responded. “There is nothing that would bring me more happiness than assuring your protection.”
Her face had taken on a blank expression. He feared she was in shock. A great sense of peace enveloped Nicholas as he took his decision. He would do what he had known he would do as soon as he found the lifeless form of Dr. Kittridge in the field.
“Miss Kittridge… Charlotte, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
“What?” she asked, in a daze. “It is out of the question.”
He wanted desperately to envelope her within his e
mbrace to comfort her, insist on her obedience, reassure her of his care, but he would not. He knew she would resist it.
“I am sorry, I spoke in haste. I must give you time to recover from the shock.” He tucked a stray wisp of hair away from her tear-streaked face. “But, Charlotte, I will help you, no matter how much you resist.”
The sound of the rusty hinge on the front door sounded, indicating someone’s arrival. Nicholas rose to his feet and rearranged the blanket about her thin shoulders before beginning preparations for the rest of Charlotte’s life, whether she wanted him to or not.
Chapter Twelve
“Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love.”
—Persuasion
THE funeral was all things bleak and mournful, occurring in a steady rain. Charlotte looked at the gathering of mourners through her black veil and thought they looked like a flock of crows. She pushed up the too-long sleeves of her borrowed black finery, grateful for Rosamunde’s generosity. A robin stood on the ground nearby, singing in the pouring rain, competing with the jumble of sonorous words pouring from the lips of the good vicar, Mr. Llewellyn.
The church had been cold and somber. But she had refused to leave the coffin after. She had insisted on following the pallbearers to the graveyard. And she supposed the others had come because they pitied her.
She felt the weight of the presence of the thirty-odd people. At least she was outside now, so the crowd did not suffocate her and the promise of open fields beckoned behind her.
Was her father’s spirit there? She kept wanting to turn around, sure he would be behind her shoulder. She longed to touch his shiny pate again, to feel the scratchy wool fibers of his coat on her cheek, to smell the faint herbal scent always surrounding his person.
Charlotte closed her eyes and failed miserably at concentrating on the vicar’s words, the promises of heaven, and the goodness of God. She felt like screaming at them all.… There was no fair God, no heaven, no promises. What God would allow the death of both her parents? She looked across the open hole in the earth to the cool, arrogant mask of the Duchess of Cavendish.
A hand gripped her arm, steadying her just as she realized she was swaying. His strong hand. James gripped her other arm. They must think she was about to flee. They were right.
The duchess had visited Charlotte and James two days after their father’s death to inform them that they were most welcome to the use of the cottage for another fortnight or two given their father’s service to the duke. James had sputtered their thanks, unsure if Her Grace had been generous or paltry in her offer. Charlotte had not enlightened her brother as to her opinion.
Had the duchess known that the heir had offered for her, Her Grace might have considered it more reasonable to offer a roof over their heads for at least two months. Or perhaps she would have chased Charlotte away with a horsewhip. Yes, that was much more likely.
The thud of the first clumps of muddy soil and rock hitting the simple pine coffin jarred her out of her reverie. Charlotte shook at the sound of the second shovel-full. She could not endure this agony further.
She shook free of her captors and forced herself past the onlookers, feeling all at once frantic at her inability to burst free from the small crowd. It was Paris all over again, without the gleeful bloodthirsty shouts of encouragement to the murderers controlling the guillotine’s heavy blade.
She heard a strangled cry and realized it emanated from her own throat. Her brother appeared at her side and parted the sea of black in an instant with his words and his huge umbrella. He forced her to slow to a fast walk when he gripped her elbow.
They walked a good twenty minutes through the fields in silence before she forced herself to stop and speak. “James, I posted several letters to London yesterday. I am certain to find a good position as a lady’s nurse. We both know I have had many offers in the past. And I know you prefer London. And I will find another position whenever and wherever you find a living.”
“Yes,” he said.
They continued walking again, side by side. But she could feel his reluctance to speak to her. “What is it, James?”
“Would you be very sad if I didn’t take orders, Charlotte?”
“What else could you do? We have not the funds for a new field of study,” she said, peering anxiously into his eyes.
“Well, I am considering a very generous and kind offer.… Lord Huntington has suggested that using his connections, he might be able to secure a commission for me in his regiment, despite the current peace. Many are selling out.”
“And who would pay for this commission? No—wait, allow me to guess,” she said, with a touch of anger. “Lord Huntington? James, you cannot accept such a gross amount of money.”
“He insisted. He said after all our father had done for the duke, it was the very least he could do. And the duke seconded the idea.” The bright glow of excitement overspread her brother’s face as he spoke.
“And I see you did not choose to argue the point. That it is impossible to accept a debt of gratitude of this magnitude.”
“Charlotte, I will not go if you do not want me to,” he said, with a glum expression. “I promised Father long ago that I would always watch over you.”
She could not take it away from him. But letting him go meant facing her greatest fear: The fear of being left all alone had grown inside her seven-year-old form that horrible night. Thoughts of that evening’s events made her inhale sharply.
She could still remember the flames of the torches surrounding the great house, her mother pushing her out the side door along with the governess, the obscenities, the hounds’ barking coming from every direction, the smell of Mademoiselle Barr’s hands when she covered Charlotte’s mouth as they tread water among the reeds of a secluded pond. And worst of all, being left alone with a stranger when her governess had not wanted to risk going all the way to Paris with her. The terrorized woman had paid a man to take her, on the back of his dogcart, to an unknown address in the city. He had tipped back a bottle every mile or so. Halfway there, he had told her to get out “and find your own way, you little bugger.” Charlotte shivered. She could not ever remember the many miles she had walked or how she had managed to find the town house.
James took her hands in his own and squeezed them. “Charlotte? I shan’t desert you,” he assured her.
She shook her head. “I will not withhold your fondest dream, James.”
“I told him you were the most kindhearted sister in the world,” James said, with a cautious degree of hope. “Perhaps I could follow the drum. Come with you… There must be a great need for nurses.”
James blanched.
“No, I can see that would not work,” she said, doing an excellent job of controlling herself. “Charlotte, I will make sure you are settled in an excellent position before I go.”
“Do you mind if I continue on alone a bit. We can talk a little later, to sort out all the details. It has been such a horrid last four days.…” She would not cry in his presence, ‘ere he take pity on her and not follow his heart.
He hugged Charlotte, squeezing the breath out of her as he kissed the top of her head before turning away.
There, she had done it. She had had no choice. She was certain that within a few weeks the grim reality of her future would force her to wonder if she had taken complete leave of her senses to acquiesce to her brother’s plan. But, she had made a promise to herself to stop worrying about the future.
She had fine skills that would provide a room and nourishment, and with any luck, it would be in a comfortable, fine house in London.
She was more worried about Alexandre, the more she thought about it. Oh, he had borne her father’s death with real grief. But he had accepted the revelation of the meager accumulation of her father’s income with even greater sorrow.
It was obvious Alexandre had gambled on a notion that her father had hoarded a nice bi
t of income, some of which would come to her in the form of a dowry. What he had not figured was her father’s staunch refusal to turn away any patient, and to often provide medicines without reimbursement. Her father was un vrai sans culottes of the first order. The murderous French peasants who caused the revolution should be proud to call him one of their own.
She hopped over a low stile to continue her way through the edge of an open field. One benefit of their poverty was that Alexandre had abruptly changed. In the last four days, he had become her confidante and friend—and she was pleased. He seemed to love her as a favored sister, once he had shed his false front, something he did but when they were alone.
During the plans for the hasty funeral, she had come to rely on Alexandre more so than her own brother. He was very good at giving orders. He pretended that his newfound role of dependable cousin was really a desire to show off his manly character to the ladies at Wyndhurst Abbey. Charlotte knew better.
He had agreed to move to the abbey when it was decided by the duchess that it was unseemly for the viscount to remain in a cottage with only a brother to watch over a spinster female. One positive effect of his removal had been the return of Doro, who had practically thrown Alexandre’s valises out of the cottage door to the waiting arms of the beleaguered footmen of the abbey.
And given the fact that everyone seemed to have changed their spots within the last four days, it was not surprising that Lord Huntington had followed suit by halting all visits to the cottage. This was slow torture—constant looking through the window, eager to see his figure. She had come to depend on Lord Huntington’s visits. She had not realized how much she looked forward to just the sight of him, the scent of him, the comfort of his presence. He had given her the illusion that perhaps he cared for her, maybe just the slightest bit. But no. He was like all the others that had gone before him. Just when she began to believe in the impossible, they disappeared into thin air.
