The Betrothed (Cutter's Creek Book 7)

by Vivi Holt

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Hope she feels better soon. Surely a nice orange will do the trick.”

  “Are you goin’ to the game tonight, Kip?”

  “I think I will. And you?”

  “I’ll be there.” Harry grinned wide. “You’ve still got a few pounds to your name that I’ll be happy to take off your hands.”

  “I know you will, you scoundrel. No conscience at all – you’re a right thief.” Kip grimaced and rubbed his bearded chin with one hand.

  “Come now, maybe you’ll win this time.” Harry slapped him hard on the back.

  “Unlikely, but I’ll be there nonetheless. Can’t seem to give up the hope that I’ll win it all back someday, fool that I am.”

  “I’ll see you there, then.”

  “See you.” Kip wandered off down the lane, and Harry focused on the task of finding fresh oranges in the crowded marketplace.

  Stalls lined the walkway on either side of him, and the buzz and hum of hawkers filled the air around him. Shoppers milled about, testing this, tasting that and filling baskets with good things to eat, crafts, clothing and other bits and bobs. He located a stall selling fresh produce and set about searching for an orange. There were none to be found and very little in the way of fruit at all, so he decided to stop by a strawberry patch he knew on the way home to see if there were any ripe berries for his mother and the little ones.

  “Can I help you, Harry?” asked Petunia Bilson. She was his mother’s sister, and owned the stall.

  “Yes please, Aunt Petunia. I’ll have a few slices of that fine lookin’ cheese, if you please.”

  “Comin’ right up. Did you hear the news?” She looked as though she would burst if she didn’t tell it.

  “News?”

  “Our Lady Charlotte’s goin’ to marry the Duke of Notherington.”

  “Is she? Well, that’s somethin’, isn’t it?”

  “Yes indeed. They say that she’s none too happy about it either, but it’s a good match all ‘round, really.”

  “Why would she be displeased?” asked Harry, fingering some dusty potatoes, his interest piqued.

  “Heaven only knows. You know how she is.”

  “Not really. I ran into her this mornin’, but haven’t seen her in years, really.”

  “Well, she’s always been one to have her own way.”

  “That much is true,” Harry nodded.

  “Shhhh …” Pentunia’s eyes widened and she dropped her gaze to the lump of cheese in front of her. She took it in her hands and began to cut off thick slices.

  Harry spun around to see Charlotte walking by, her hands laced behind her back as she surveyed the various wares with a smile. He dipped his hat at her and watched her pass. Her lips were smiling, but there seemed to be a sadness behind her eyes.

  “It’ll be a grand thing,” said Petunia, suddenly at his side.

  “What will?”

  “Having a Duchess in the County.”

  “Only I imagine she won’t be – you know, in the county anymore. Won’t she move to Notherington?”

  “That’s true. I guess we’ll only see her on occasion after she marries. Still, it is excitin’ for our little village.”

  “I feel sorry for her,” said Harry, turning back to his shopping.

  “Sorry, for her?” Petunia’s face was filled with surprise. “Whatever for?”

  “She looks sad. And if it’s true that she doesn’t want the Duke, it would be a shame for her to have to marry him.”

  “Listen to your nonsense, lad,” exclaimed Petunia, slipping the slices of cheese into a brown paper wrapping and tying them up with string. “Have to marry him, as if any lady wouldn’t be thrilled. I’ve never seen Notherington Estate, but I’ve heard it’s quite impressive.”

  “Still, what’s an impressive building without love?”

  “Ah Harry, still such a young and romantic thing, you are.” She smiled at him and handed him the package of cheese.

  He laughed, “Perhaps I am.”

  “Anythin’ else I can get you? How’s your mother doin’?”

  “She’s not too well. I’m goin’ to pick her some berries on my way home.”

  “Good lad. I’ll be by later to sit with her for a bit. You know, I miss her so, what with my Ben gone. I wish there was room for me to move in with the lot o’ you. I could be a right help about the house, I could. And it would do me a load of good, not to be on me own all the time.”

  “If only. I know Camilla and I would surely appreciate having an extra set of hands about the place. Da is scarce around lately, since they cut back his hours at the blacksmith’s.”

  “Tell your mother, I’ll be happy to do what I can to help. And the offer is still open, if you can find a cot for me to sleep on, I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

  “Well, perhaps you’ll get your wish sooner rather than later. I’ll see you when you come by the house.” Harry waved goodbye, ignoring her questioning look, and set off toward home. He still had a lot of work to do before supper. With eight children to feed and his mother bedridden, the household chores landed squarely on the shoulders of his sister Camilla and himself.

  Chapter Six

  The strawberry patch was dotted with green budding fruit. Only a few pinkish berries peeped out from beneath the green leaves. It was too early in the season. Harry plucked what he could find from the short stalks with a sigh and pushed them into the bag with the cheese slices and a loaf of bread he’d bought from the bakery. It wasn’t much, but maybe it would help his mother feel a little better.

  He trudged home, feeling the weight of responsibility pushing down on his shoulders like the yoke of a plow. A red squirrel scampered across his path and scurried up the trunk of a nearby oak tree. He frowned at it, wishing he had his slingshot with him so that he could serve meat for supper – even the small amount of meat on a scrawny squirrel would be better than nothing. Although it wouldn’t go far with ten people to feed.

  As he often did these days, he felt the sudden urge to run from his responsibilities and destiny that seemed to be forged in stone. He sighed once more and pulled his hat down lower. Lifting the collar of his coat against the chill autumn wind, he considered his options again. He worked at the silversmith’s in the village. He’d finished his apprenticeship under Harold Smith, the most recent Smith in a long line of silversmiths. Harold had given him a raise as soon as the training period was over, but still it wasn’t enough to feed a family of ten. Da worked as a blacksmith, but his shifts had become so sporadic lately and he often drank his pay away, so they couldn’t always count on his wage to support the family.

  Gambling was the only way Harry could see to get ahead. He was good at it and could make a lot of money in a short amount of time. His mother didn’t approve of it, though, so he’d been trying to stay away from the games that were held above the hotel every Friday night, but his cash reserves were running low. He’d have to go tonight and see if he could win enough money to buy food for the rest of the week.

  The family home stood at the end of the lane ahead of him. Nestled in a valley between two hills, the small stone cottage seemed to balance crooked, overlooking a bubbling stream that meandered through a gulley and down the hollow toward a patch of swampy grasslands. No happy wisp of smoke lingered above the chimney tonight, but the sounds of raucous children floated through the cold to greet him.

  He braced himself and pushed open the aged timber door, stepping quietly into the darkened living room and wiping his feet clean on the mat. “I’m home!” he called, through the noise of children running wild.

  Camilla scurried past, tight red curls escaped from her bun and her pinafore was sullied with flour and various other foodstuffs. She glanced up at him as she passed, her face marred by frustration and fatigue. “Hello, Harry. Did you bring food?”

  “I got some bread, cheese and a few pale strawberries for Mam.”

  “Oh good.” She grabbed hold of two small children and pushed them tow
ard a large bowl filled with steaming water by the stove in the cramped kitchen.

  “Oh Cammie, must we?” one cried. The other yowled, as though it were a cat being pushed into a bucket of water.

  “It’s bath time for the two of you. I can smell you before you walk through the door. Goodness knows what your teacher must think of you.” She began undressing them by the cold embers of a fire recently burned out in the iron belly of the stove.

  “Have you seen Da?” asked Harry, stowing the food away in the pantry.

  “He’s still sleepin’ it off out the back.” She rolled her eyes toward the back door of the small cottage.

  “Oh, so he didn’t make it to work today then, I take it?” He opened the back door, glanced at the sleeping form of his father lying on a dirty blanket, and grabbed a handful of firewood and kindling from a pile he’d cut and stacked on the porch earlier in the week.

  “No, he did not.” Camilla frowned.

  Harry felt his anger rising and his face flush with warmth. He set about building a new fire in the stove – they’d need the heat to see them through the night. Even though it was not yet winter, the lake country stayed cold and wet for most of the year, and many of the children had runny noses and hacking coughs. “I don’t understand how a man can drink his wages away and then sleep through the day, while his children freeze and starve in rags around him.”

  “Now, now, Harry. There’s naught you can do about it. He is who he is. As much as I can’t stand it, we can’t change him – the good Lord knows we’ve tried.”

  “And Mam? Is she any better?”

  “I think so. She’s been up and about a little this mornin’. She needs food and rest, but otherwise she’s strong. The baby’s not been sleepin’ well and he’s feedin’ like a little piglet. It’s just hard for her to keep up with him.”

  Harry felt a dark hopelessness descending over him as he scanned the cold, cramped cottage. Children ran by him, yelling and fighting. “Well, as soon as she’s better, I’m leavin’,” he fumed, setting a flint against the kindling and striking it with a stone. A spark leaped from the stone and set the kindling alight.

  “I know you always say that, but where would you go?” asked Camilla, fear in her eyes.

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m goin’ to do it. This family isn’t my responsibility, it’s his. I’m not givin’ up my whole life, my future, my dreams, just because he can’t stay away from the bottle. It isn’t fair!”

  “Of course it’s not fair. But could you really abandon us all? You know how much we all love you and need you.”

  Harry’s face fell, deflated, and he slumped onto a stool beside her. “I know. I don’t want to leave you all, even this stinky pair.” He tickled the two kids being bathed under the chin and they giggled in response. “I just don’t know what else to do. I can’t make enough money to care for you all and I feel so trapped.”

  “Well, if you do leave, make sure you take me with you,” said Camilla as she scrubbed the children’s necks and faces with a wash cloth.

  “If you like. But what will the kids do without you?”

  Camilla paused, before toweling the children dry. “You know how Aunt Petunia has always wanted to come and live with Mam?”

  Harry nodded.

  “Well, with us gone, there’d finally be room for her here.”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. She has her stall at the markets – I saw her there this morning – so she’d be able to contribute to the household expenses. She told me again how much she wants to move in with Mam and the kids. I know Mam would love her to live here; we’ve just never had the space before.”

  “Well, I’ll stop by her place tomorrow and see what she thinks of the idea.”

  “So you’re really serious about coming with me then?” asked Harry, his face breaking into a smile.

  “ ‘Course I am. I don’t want you to go off and have fun without me. What would I do here without you?”

  Harry jumped to his feet and threw his arms around Camilla’s thin frame. “I’m so glad, Cammie. Now it really will be a grand adventure.”

  “When will we leave, do you think?” she asked, pulling the children’s soiled tunics back over their heads and sending them on their way with a gentle pat.

  “As soon as I can figure out a way to save some money. Don’t worry, I’ve got a few ideas.”’

  Chapter Seven

  “Ouch! Mary!”

  “Sorry, m’Lady, but you’ll have to stand still if you don’t want to get poked.” Mary spoke through a mouthful of pins, her forehead creased in concentration.

  Charlotte sighed and folded her arms across her chest. She was standing on a stepstool in a white silk wedding dress; Mary knelt at her feet, pinning the hem. Adorned with pearls and French lace, the dress had been designed by the most sought-after seamstress in England, was the height of fashion and had cost her father a fortune.

  “I don’t understand why I can’t just make the dress myself.” Charlotte pouted, plucking at the full skirts.

  “Please, let’s not go into this again. Your mother thought it would seem common for you to sew your own wedding dress. It’s too late now, anyway. The dress is finished. I know you would have done a beautiful job on it, m’Lady – you make the most divine gowns in the county and I know how much you enjoy it. But just this one time let’s humor your mother, shall we?”

  Charlotte scowled. “Fine. How long is this going to take? I can’t breathe!” She couldn’t understand how her life had suddenly become all about her wedding to the Duke. From the moment she awoke in the morning (when Mary insisted that she rub a layer of Crème Céleste onto her face) to the moment her head hit the pillow at night, every part of her life was consumed by the wedding.

  Even the food she ate was closely monitored. Her mother insisted she could reduce her waist size by an inch before the wedding and had cut rich foods from her diet, much to her dismay. She sneaked hot chocolate and croissants from the kitchen whenever she could, telling Mary she didn’t intend to give up on all of life’s pleasures just for a smaller waistline.

  The rest of her days were spent selecting stationery for the invitations, flowers for the church, fabrics for the bridal party’s clothing and finalizing the guest list. Her parents were adamant that her wedding be the event of the season. They would settle for nothing less. They wanted the Duke to be pleased, and would do whatever it took to make sure that he was. “I want everyone to be talking about it for months afterward,” her mother said, and Charlotte had rolled her eyes behind her back.

  “It won’t be much longer, m’Lady. Do try to think about something pleasant, won’t you?” begged Mary, pushing another pin into the shiny fabric.

  Charlotte regarded her reflection in the full-length looking glass. Parted in the middle, her blonde hair was puffed out at the sides with long ringlets framing her head. The dress had a low neckline and capped sleeves. The bodice was outlined with hand-stitched lace and her waist was cinched tight by a corset. The skirt was full and lay over several layers of petticoats. Large, white bows were sewn in place around the base of the skirt and her bare toes peeped out beneath the front of the skirt. The back fell to the ground behind her in a cathedral train, along with more bows and lace. Pearls framed the neckline and bodice.

  She attempted to draw in a deep breath and shook her head in dismay. “Mary, this corset is too tight. I feel like I’m suffocating. I know Mother wants my waist to be sixteen inches for the wedding, but it’s just not possible. My waist is eighteen inches on my best day and I’m happy with that. I’d rather have an eighteen-inch waist and be able to breathe as I walk down the aisle, than a sixteen-inch one that makes me faint on the threshold.”

  Mary tut-tutted and stepped back to survey her work. “Well, I suppose I could take the waist out a smidgen. Just don’t tell your mother.” She loosened the pins and corset strings.

  “Thank you, Mary. You may have just saved my life.” Charlotte patted her on the
shoulder and wriggled beneath the dress. “Can I take it off now, please?”

  “Yes, m’Lady. We’ll have to do a final fitting the day before the wedding, mind you. But I think we’re done for now.” She undid the buttons down the back of the bodice and slipped the gown off over Charlotte’s head. The dress was soon followed by the heavy petticoats and corset.

  Charlotte pulled in a sharp breath with relief. “Oh, that feels heavenly. I don’t think I’ll wear a corset at all tonight, Mary. My waist can’t take the torture.”

  “Lady Charlotte, you know you can’t do that. You’ve got to train your waist for a tight corset. Not to mention the fact that the gown we’ve picked out would never fit you without one … no, Lady Charlotte, don’t start getting into your house dress without my help. We’ve got to deal with the little issue of the hair beneath your arms before you hurry off.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your mother wants me to get rid of it.”

  “Oh for Heaven’s sake, who on earth would look beneath my arms? If you must do it, please don’t use the caustic soda again, I beg you. It’s horribly painful.”

  “I’ve found something else to use this time. It’s a gum tincture that apparently pulls the hair right out by the roots, m’Lady. Lift your arms now.”

  Charlotte grimaced and lifted her arms obediently, contemplating once again the ridiculousness of fashion.

  After the hair was removed and Charlotte’s armpits were thoroughly reddened, Mary drew her a warm bath. She rubbed her down all over with pumice stones and applied moisturizing oils before Charlotte dried off.

  “Now you’ll be perfect for the party tonight,” she said as she dressed Charlotte in a blue satin gown. The gown was ornamented with white silk ribbons that drew around the low neckline and across the waist, accentuating her petite figure. The full blue skirt was caught up like bunting around the hem, and Mary picked out dainty white shoes to accompany it. “See, perfect.” Mary pulled Charlotte around to face herself in the mirror.