by Lily George
Harriet said no more, but let her cry. Only when her sobs had subsided to the occasional hiccup did she speak again. “Sophie, why do you love the lieutenant so? Why wouldn’t you be just as happy with someone else?”
“He opened the world to me.” Sophie dried her eyes on the hem of her nightgown. “Until I met him, I was still spoiled and flighty. Mama’s death sobered me a good deal, but it wasn’t until I knew Charlie and began working with him that I saw real poverty. And I wanted to help. I wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself.” She gave a long, shuddering sigh. “He helped me to find God. Because of him, I am a better person.”
“It seems to me that is worth fighting for,” Harriet said softly. “You shouldn’t give up so easily if he had such a profound effect on your life.”
“What would you have me do? Rush to Bath and beg his forgiveness?” Really, sometimes Hattie didn’t think things through, sensible as she usually was.
“I would at least send a letter,” Harriet replied crisply, sitting up straighter and dislodging Sophie from her shoulder. “Tell him how you feel. Did you not aid and abet me in my pursuit of John? Surely I have earned the right to meddle in your affairs.”
“Very well.” Sophie sighed, pulling the coverlet up higher. Harriet was right. There was probably more dignity in writing, too, since she had more time to consider what she must say. And though writing was never her passion or her interest, she did have a famous novelist for a sister. Surely Hattie could be persuaded to help her put her thoughts on paper. “I shall work on a letter in the morning.”
“And you’ll post it in the afternoon,” Harriet replied in her bossiest tone. “I shall see to it.” She heaved herself off the bed with some difficulty.
“I’m sorry I awakened you, Hattie,” Sophie said as she snuggled against the pillows. “Can you go back to sleep?”
“I’ll try. I haven’t been sleeping well, so you really didn’t wake me up. I cannot find a comfortable way to sleep with this large ball I have strapped around my middle.” She patted her stomach thoughtfully. “Good night.”
“Good night, dearest Hattie.” Sophie blew out the candle as her sister left. Now she had to think of the right words to say—words of love and warmth that would ease the pain of her last meeting with Charlie.
It was a formidable task, indeed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
’Twas a mere hour and a half carriage ride to Tansley Village from Brightgate. All one needed to do was begin driving east toward Matlock. If Charlie struck out this morning as he intended, then he would be at Brookes Park in time for luncheon. It was the last leg of his journey, and while it was so close at hand, every moment would be an eternity.
He dressed with haste and packed his few bags while the hired hack was brought around to the front of the house. He extracted the ring Sophie had returned that terrible day at the inn, the ring he had kept in a box in his study for these past few weeks. The jewels flashed in the early morning light, dignified and refined. His grandmother and grandfather had not been as wealthy as his parents, but they spent the money they earned very well. This ring was presented to his grandmother late in life, when his grandfather had sealed a particularly good shipping deal. That accounted for the gem’s large size, and the modern style of its setting. It had looked particularly good on Sophie when it was hers. ’Twas time to see it on her hand once more.
He carried his bags down the mahogany staircase and deposited them at the front door.
“Charles? Is that you?” Mother called from the breakfast room.
“It is, Mother. I am about to strike out for Tansley.”
“Come in here, my boy. I have something for you.”
Charlie resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. Impatience to get on the road fairly sizzled through his being. He had no time for his mother’s little anecdotes or words of wisdom. And yet, one still had to respect family.
He entered the breakfast nook and eyed his mother. Her lace cap—a particularly elaborate affair she had purchased in London, all trimmed out with purple roses—bobbed up from her breakfast plate of shirred eggs and bacon.
“This came for you in the post yesterday. I only just saw it.” She flicked a letter down the length of the table at him.
Charlie picked it up. The letter crackled. It was written on a strange, brittle paper, rather like woven bits of tree bark. He unfolded it slowly, taking care not to break it. The vellum was covered in a spidery handwriting—so thin he had to squint to read it.
“Is it from your uncle Arthur?” Mother trilled. “I would recognize his ghastly handwriting anywhere.”
Charlie’s brow lowered as he tried to make out the words. “I think it’s from him. I am having a terrible time making sense out of anything he wrote. Can you read it, Mother? Since you are more familiar with his handwriting.” He cast the letter back over to her.
Mother pulled out her lorgnette and held it up to the vellum. “Arthur is doing well,” she replied. “Oh, my dear Charlie—he has such news for you!”
“Well, then read it, Mother.” Really, this was getting beyond tiresome.
“‘My dear nephew,’” Mother read aloud. “‘Your mother wrote to me about your work with the veterans of Bath. As a military man myself, and a wounded veteran at that, I applaud your efforts. Originally I was to make you my heir if you wed. But the more I consider the matter, the more convinced I am that you must continue to do your good work without fear of having to earn an independent income or the pressures of providing for a family.’” Mother broke off, pursing her lips. She was drawing it out for dramatic effect. Depend on Mother to go in for drama at just such a crucial moment.
“Go on,” Charlie replied tersely. He wasn’t enjoying this one bit. His heart pounded in his chest.
“‘I am, therefore, providing you with the sum of two thousand pounds per annum so that you may live and marry where you choose while continuing your work with the veterans. I do ask that you write often to me and keep me apprised of your progress. I shall send a letter to my solicitor in Matlock, who will make the funds available to you. God bless you, my nephew. With affection, Uncle Arthur.’”
The life drained out of his legs. He sank into a chair. His mouth hung open—he was gawking, but couldn’t help himself. “What does this mean?” he asked gruffly.
“It means, my dear son, that you no longer have to worry about pleasing anyone. Your uncle has made you independent. You may marry Sophie, help the widows, help your veterans, and never have to worry about Robert paying you a farthing.” Mother folded the letter crisply and slid it across the polished surface of the table.
Charlie halted its progress with the tips of his fingers. “But why? I don’t understand.”
“Have you been helping others for so long that you have forgotten what it is like to be blessed yourself? This is your uncle’s decision. I knew I was doing the right thing in telling him of your engagement and your work with the soldiers.” Mother beamed. “Now run along to Tansley. Your future bride is waiting.” She shooed him with a playful wave of her hand.
Charlie rose, shaking his head. “Can this even be legal, Mother? How can I be his beneficiary?”
“He has no wife, no children. We don’t share any other brothers and sisters, you know. His great wealth is his to do with as he pleases. And he has decided to settle it on you.” Mother straightened her cap and turned her attention back to her cup of tea. “Be gone, Charlie. You are wasting daylight.”
“I know I have received a gift, but I don’t know how to show my gratitude.” Charlie turned toward the door. “Mother, surely you had no idea about this. I feel certain you must be as befuddled as I am.”
Mother shrugged. “It’s Arthur’s money to do with as he sees fit. After all, he has no heirs. And for him to give the money to you because he admires your life’s purpose is most gratifying. And of course, it clears the path so you may marry Sophie.” Mother smiled brightly. “I have always liked Sophie. Such impeccable
breeding. Such a fine old family.”
Ah, there was the real Moriah Cantrill. Charlie couldn’t suppress the smile that crept across his face.
“Thank you, Mother.”
“You are welcome, son. Now, go forth and betroth yourself to a Handley gel.”
* * *
The miles between Brightgate and Tansley rolled by achingly slow, and Charlie read and reread Uncle Arthur’s missive at least a dozen times on the journey. He was able to pick out the words now that Mother had interpreted his uncle’s messy, thin handwriting. What she read was true. Uncle Arthur was providing him with a fortune so he could continue his work with the veterans and widows in Bath.
That part of his future was settled. But what lay ahead, he had no clue. The carriage bounced and jolted along the rocky road that led to Tansley, and with each bump Charlie racked his brain for a way to approach Sophie. Would she be willing to receive him, or would she send him away without deigning to say even a simple good afternoon?
Really, charging into battle was more certain than this morning would be. At least one knew what to expect in battle. His mind drifted back to La Sainte Haye—the stench of gunpowder, the groans of the injured, the screaming horses. And then—blackness. So often, he had been ashamed of the fact that he had fainted from his injury. Was he less of a man because he had given way to unconsciousness? Should he have been left to die there on the battlefield? Why did his men save him, only to return to the battle and die themselves?
Whatever God’s reason for sparing him, Charlie was determined to continue living in a manner that both glorified Him and helped Charlie’s comrades. And now, thanks to Uncle Arthur, he could continue doing so. But that life seemed quite austere and cheerless and cold without the prospect of Sophie Handley in it.
As the carriage continued its interminable journey east, Charlie prayed. He prayed as he never had a chance to during the battle. For wisdom, for courage and, most of all, for love. There was nothing he could do without love. He realized that now—his entire work and life’s purpose was built around giving back love.
The carriage entered the Park gates and continued meandering up the long gravel driveway that banked to a tight C-shape in front of the massive stone facade of the house. He had not been here in many months, and yet nothing had changed so far as he could tell. This house was as dignified as his mother’s home was smug. Despite his uncertainty, Brookes Park welcomed him.
He quit the carriage as soon as it halted. “I’ll send someone down to attend the horses,” he called over his shoulder to the coachman.
A pair of boots crunched on the gravel. “I’ll see to them,” a familiar, rough voice called.
Charlie turned, a grin breaking across his face. How good to see Stoames. “Ho there, my good man,” he called.
“Good morning, Lieutenant. How are you doing? The captain wasn’t expecting you, was he? He didn’t mention your visit to me this morning.” Stoames held out his weather-beaten hand.
Charlie grasped his had warmly. “My visit is a surprise, I must confess. Is the captain at home?”
Stoames nodded. “He’s in the study, working on his morning ledgers.” He coughed and then lowered his voice. “Mrs. Brookes and Miss Sophie have walked into the village.” He cocked a knowing glance at Charlie, a half smile tugging at his lips.
A rush of heat swept over Charlie, and he was powerless to fight it. He was blushing like a schoolboy, but there was nothing he could do about it now. “Oh, yes. I’ll go see the captain right away, then.”
“Need me to do a bit of announcing?” Stoames eyed him warily. “From what I gathered, the captain is not exactly pleased with your family right now.”
Ah, just as he had suspected. And Brookes had a formidable temper when provoked. He would have to proceed with caution. “No, thank you, Stoames. Brookes is right to be upset. But I have come to make amends.”
“Very good, Lieutenant.” Stoames bowed respectfully and indicated the house with a wave of his hand. “In that case, you know the way to the study.”
“I do.” As Charlie mounted the steps, he racked his brains for a way to talk to Brookes without infuriating him further. He was right to be upset.
Charlie’s boots rang hollowly on the parquet as he strode down the hallway to the study. Were the tables turned, Charlie would have been absolutely livid. It would take all his soldierly instinct and diplomacy to find a way to broach the matter delicately.
He pushed open the study door, and paused on the threshold. “What ho, Brookes?”
Brookes glanced up, his expression turning from mild surprise to frank distaste upon seeing his old friend. “You—you blackguard,” he thundered, coming around the desk with his unusual loping gait, the result of his war injury. “How dare you show your face here, after breaking my sister-in-law’s heart?”
Charlie held his hands up to signal a truce. “You are perfectly right to plant me a facer, Brookes. But first, you should hear why I have come.”
“The only way I could be angrier is if you brought that scoundrel Bradbury with you,” Brookes roared, his face turning a darker shade of red. “How dare you treat Sophie in that way?”
“Brookes, hark what I am saying.” Charlie took a step backward. “I have come to make amends. After you hear me out, you can throw me out on my ear, I promise.”
Brookes paused, clenching his teeth. A muscle in his jaw-line twitched. “Very well. I will listen to you for five minutes. Not a second more.”
“I’ll only need three.” With that, Charlie stepped into the study and closed the door behind him.
* * *
“Aren’t you glad you posted the letter?” Harriet said in her best elder-sister tone, as they neared the outskirts of the village, walking arm in arm.
“Yes.” Sophie sighed. “But there is something so unseemly in writing to Charlie. As though I am begging for his attention.”
“Don’t be so prideful,” Harriet admonished. “Pride has been the downfall of many a person in our family. And besides, you said nothing you did not mean. All you told him was how very grateful you are to have met him, and how profoundly he changed your life. Would you be upset or mortified to receive such a letter?” Harriet steered Sophie from the well-worn village path to the sweet meadow grasses that led toward Brookes Park.
“No, I would not be angry to get a letter like that. Especially not from Charlie.” But her inner coquette would not be shushed. It was the man’s job to chase, and the woman’s job to dangle herself alluringly, just out of reach enough to tantalize. She had been taught so from infancy, and it felt wrong to go against that ingrained practice.
The sun was hidden behind some gathering clouds—another storm was surely on the way. The two sisters trudged down the meadow, which smelled sweetly damp as the long grasses were ruffled by the eastern wind. They walked on in companionable silence, as Sophie grew absorbed in her thoughts.
Soon Brookes Park—familiar, safe, comfortable—loomed into view. Sophie smiled as she gazed at it.
“I love it here.” She blurted the words out before she even knew what she was saying.
“Hmm. I agree. As I once told John, I feel closer to God out here, as though I can touch the sky. But I thought the splendors of Bath were more in keeping with your style.” Harriet stumbled slightly as her skirts caught in the moor grass. Sophie steadied her with a gentle hand and held her arm more tightly.
“I once thought so. But no more. I love this gentle peace, the sight of the clouds clustered on the horizon, the tiny waves that lap the mill pond. Thank you for allowing me to stay at the Park. I cannot express my gratitude enough.”
“Oh, Sophie. You know that the Park will always be your home, no matter what the future holds.” Harriet squeezed her arm more tightly about Sophie’s waist. “I would reserve your planning, though, until you have heard back from the lieutenant.”
They entered the Park gates and crossed the driveway toward the large fountain. “Girls!” a familiar voic
e cried. Sophie looked up as Rose scurried toward them, her half boots sending the gravel flying. “Such a to-do! Upon my word!” Her bonnet strings streamed out behind her.
“Rose? Whatever is the matter?” Harriet broke into a run, tugging Sophie along with her. “Is the captain all right?”
“Slow down, Harriet. You’ll harm yourself or the baby,” Sophie warned. She pulled at Harriet’s arm until she was obliged to slow her steps to a trot. “Rose,” she called. “Is everything all right?”
Rose ran up to the sisters and clutched their shoulders, her breath coming in short pants. “Mr. Stoames told me about it first,” she gasped. “Lieutenant Cantrill has returned. The pair of them are locked up in the captain’s study, and what a rumpus has ensued. They have been shouting at each other for well nigh on a quarter of an hour at least.”
“Dear me,” Harriet gasped. She sat on the side of the fountain, her eyes darkened so blue they were almost black.
Sophie stood, shaking, staring up at the window of Brookes’s study. The man she adored was there, arguing with her brother-in-law. Yelling at him, in point of fact. What did it signify? Why was he here? The blood pounded in her ears, and she had trouble focusing her vision. It was blurred with unshed tears.
“Harriet, Rose,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “I think I must go to see the lieutenant now.”
Every footstep was like moving through molasses. Every sound was muted to a strange hush, a buzz sounding in her ears. She was going to see her beloved. For, no matter what he had to say or why he had come, Lieutenant Charles Cantrill would always be the only man she had ever loved, and he must know that. She must tell him that.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Name one good reason why I shouldn’t drive you out of this house right now,” Brookes thundered, pounding his fist on his desk. “Your family has behaved in an infamous manner toward my sister-in-law. She fled Bath in tears after your rejection and Bradbury’s untoward offer. How dare you even show your face at Brookes Park?”
