The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  The captain was still standing.

  "Aren't you going to sit down?" she asked.

  "Yes, but only after you take your own chair."

  "You don't have to wait for me."

  "I am a gentleman, Miss Leighton. I will wait for you whether you wish me to or not."

  Amy stared at him as though that terrible blow had robbed him of more than just his sight. No one ever waited for her to sit down. Everyone started eating the moment Sylvanus finished saying grace, and if Amy wasn't in her seat by then, they began without her. And now here was this son of a duke, this English aristocrat who was supposed to be their enemy, treating her with a respect and kindness she had never known. Treating her as though she were a real lady. She shut her eyes for a brief moment, savoring the feeling for the precious thing that it was.

  Then, her heart beating just a little bit faster, she pulled out her chair and sat down, pressing her hands between her knees.

  "Are you seated, madam?"

  "I am."

  He nodded and then pulled out his own chair. Amy, still reeling over his chivalrous treatment of her, gazed longingly at him and then, shutting her eyes for a moment, let her mind wander, allowing herself to pretend that she was the lady of the house, and he, her dashing, impossibly handsome, husband . . .

  Oh, Juliet Paige, you are the luckiest girl on earth!

  She opened her eyes to reality and instantly sobered. The captain was frowning down at his tray. His face tense, he slowly felt about until he located the napkin she'd placed by his plate, and unfolded it in his lap. His uncertainty was apparent, his fear of making a fool of himself, obvious.

  "Would you like me to leave you, Captain de Montforte?"

  "No, I would like you to sit there and join me."

  "But I'm not hungry —"

  "Neither am I, damn it, but you asked me to eat and so I will." He swore bitterly to himself and rested his brow against the heel of his hand, the picture of remorse and self-disgust. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

  "It's all right."

  "No, it is not all right." His hand went to the back of his head, rubbing the area distractedly; how much pain he was in, she could not even begin to imagine. "It is unlike me to be such a beast. I do not set out to hurt people's feelings, especially those of kind young women who are only trying to help me. Please forgive me, Miss Leighton. I have not yet come to terms with my fate, and I must confess that, much to my dismay, I am not handling this very well at all."

  "You're handling it better than would most people I know," she offered.

  "Regardless, I am not handling it to my own satisfaction. That, coupled with the fact it's my own blasted fault that I'm even in this predicament, is putting me in a very ill temper indeed."

  "You blame yourself for this?"

  "Of course I do."

  "But it was an accident!"

  "Regardless."

  "You can't go back and change what happened, so why not just forgive yourself and try to make the best of things? Aren't you as deserving of forgiveness as anyone else?"

  "No. I find it far more difficult to forgive myself for my mistakes, than others for theirs. They are allowed to make them. I am not."

  He was still rubbing the back of his head. She watched his fingers sliding up through his damp hair, and wished she dared offer to take over that task for him.

  "Your head hurts, doesn't it?"

  "As well it should, considering the fact there's a hole in it."

  "You'll feel better after you eat something."

  "Do you think so?" He tried to smile. "I am not so sure about that. Besides, I rather suspect that feeding myself is going to be the supreme test of what remains of my abilities." He felt for, and found, his spoon. "You will not assist me, though. I will not allow it."

  "I wouldn't dream of it."

  "Good."

  Amy knew that his pride would be better served if she kept silent. Still, she cringed when he tentatively explored the tray's contents tray with his fingertips, accidentally plunging one of them into the still-hot broth and, jerking back, nearly upsetting the mug with his wrist.

  "Don't look," he said gruffly. "I am about to make a complete fool of myself."

  "As long as you eat something, I don't care what you make of yourself."

  "Oh, I'll eat all right, if it bloody well kills me."

  "It won't." She grinned. "Besides, I'm a good cook."

  "Then I shall determine to do your efforts justice, Miss Leighton."

  "Amy."

  He smiled tightly. "Amy."

  And with that, he lowered his spoon. Hit the side of the bowl and nearly overturned it. Tried again and this time, found his target. He raised the dripping spoon, then paused and looked in her direction. His eyes were so clear, his gaze so direct, that for a moment, Amy thought he could see her.

  "You're watching me."

  "Yes. I want to see that you eat it, just as you promised."

  "The only thing you'll see is me making a damned mess," he said irately.

  "Maybe. But you'll get it right eventually, I just know you will."

  He shook his head, dismissing her faith in him, and brought the spoon to his mouth. It tipped slightly, and broth trickled down his chin and onto his shirtfront. A very tight, very strained, very determined smile gripped one corner of his mouth, and Amy knew then that he was not a man to give up on something once he put his mind to it. He tried again. Spilled more stew. Swore roundly. And got it right the third time.

  Amy's shoulders, which had been tight with tension, relaxed.

  "This is gorgeous," he said. "Thank you for keeping it warm for me."

  "You're welcome." She watched him eat, admiring the shape of his fingers against the spoon, the easy, aristocratic grace of his movements, the way his hair, so thick and bright, was now drying in rich gleaming waves around his face.

  "What is Juliet like?" she asked, a little wistfully.

  He looked up. "Sorry?"

  "Juliet. I was just wondering what she's like."

  "Rather like me, I should say. Or rather like I was before I got hurt."

  "You're the same man you were before you got hurt, Charles."

  "Don't be fanciful, child, I'm not, and I never shall be." He dug his spoon into the broth, more forcefully than he had before. "As for Juliet —" he paused, as though the subject was a private one and he was unsure he wanted to discuss it — "she's a pretty girl with dark hair and fine green eyes. Your voices are similar, which is why I must've mistaken you for her when I, uh . . . when I kissed you."

  "You must love her very much," Amy said, wishing that she had fine green eyes instead of huge, brown, boring ones.

  "I do. And still I got her with child. Fine way to show someone you love them, eh?" His face looked suddenly bleak. "I cannot imagine I'll make much of a husband, now, and even less of a father." He stopped, surprised at how much he had revealed.

  "I think you'll make a wonderful husband."

  Lord Charles looked up at her emphatic tone, and Amy blushed a hundred shades of crimson.

  "And father," she added, lamely.

  His unseeing gaze remained on her for a long moment. And then, with an amused little smile, he looked down and resumed eating.

  "I'm sorry," Amy stammered, blushing. "I — uh — I didn't —"

  "Do you know, I think I shall have a second helping, after all," he said briskly, deftly cutting off her lame apologies and saving her from further embarrassment. Amy's heart swelled with gratitude even as she chastised herself for her impulsive words. Given what her sisters had said about him being her "pet man," and now the silent amusement in that one long gaze, he must certainly know the secrets of her foolish heart. Oh, what must he think of her?

  "Miss Leighton?"

  She nearly jumped out of her skin, terrified that he'd been able to read her thoughts.

  "If you don't mind, I would love a bit more of this," he prompted, gently, holding the bowl between his cupped hands.<
br />
  Warm smile. Warm eyes. Warm heart.

  Would those beautiful hands be warm as well, touching her in places that no man ever had before?

  "Yes — yes, of course." Red-faced, she rose, fetched his empty bowl and hurried to the kettle that still hung over the dying fire. "After all, we wouldn't want to send you back to Juliet looking as though we'd starved you. She'd think we Americans are a horrible sort."

  "Oh, I doubt that. Juliet's as American as you are."

  "She is?"

  He looked up as Amy set the bowl before him, a faint smile on his face. "Of course. Did you think otherwise?"

  "Well, yes . . . I mean, you're a king's officer . . . I thought she must've come over from England with you."

  "Heavens, no. She's the daughter of a Boston storekeeper."

  "Not an aristocrat like you, then?"

  "No, thank God."

  Amy giggled.

  "What's so funny?"

  "For being an aristocrat yourself, you don't seem to like them much."

  "Oh, it's not that. I was just thinking of the woman I would have had to marry had I not uh, got Juliet into trouble."

  "Had to marry? Do you mean you got someone else in trouble as well?" Amy asked, her mouth agape.

  "Good God, no!" And then, incredulously: "What sort of man do you think I am, anyhow?"

  She went crimson. "I — I didn't mean it the way it sounded . . . but if you did get someone else in trouble, I wouldn't hold it against you, or like you any less —"

  "I did not get anyone else in trouble, I can assure you." His lips were twitching, as though he found this whole discussion both ludicrous and amusing. "But as a second son, raised to take over as duke should anything happen to Lucien, I have certain responsibilities toward my family. One of these was that I marry Lady Katharine Farnsley, whose father's lands border our own. We were promised since birth, and a union between the de Montfortes and the Farnsleys would have been quite advantageous. But Boston is a lonely place for a man who's far from home. And Juliet — " he smiled, affectionately — "Juliet's a very pretty young woman. Shunning the destiny that was planned for me, and betrothing myself to a Yankee instead, was about the most rebellious thing I have ever done in my life — and I imagine it will not sit well at home when Lucien learns of it."

  "What difference does it make what Lucien thinks?" Amy asked, confused. "Shouldn't you marry whoever you please?"

  "I am not one to disappoint my family, or their expectations of me."

  "Won't Lucien get to marry whom he pleases?"

  "I doubt that Lucien is inclined to marry at all. He has yet to find a woman who is his equal." He bent his head and absently stirred the broth, his spoon clinking softly against the bowl. "I was never happy about the idea of marrying Katharine, anyhow. She is heavily dowered, yes — but that asset is outweighed by the fact that she is also a shrew, and I must confess that I'd as soon wed her as I would one of your equally awful sisters."

  "Lord Charles!"

  He merely raised a brow, amused. "Yes?"

  Amy couldn't help her little giggle. Charles grinned in return. And then he seemed to sober a bit as he tore off a bit of bread and went back to his meal. "Tell me, Amy, what do your neighbors think about the idea that your father is harboring a redcoat?"

  "They don't know, and I don't think he plans to tell them."

  He looked up in sudden alarm. "Oh, no. This will not do. He must tell them."

  "I think he means to let everyone go on believing you're Adam Smith from Woburn, and as soon as it's convenient, have Will bring you back to Boston with no one the wiser. Sylvanus means well, truly he does, but I doubt he's aware of the consequences of keeping silent where you're concerned."

  "Then I must convince him otherwise. By allowing them to think I'm someone I'm not, he is not only putting himself, but his family in danger. What will his trusting flock think if they were to learn from anyone but your father that he, their minister, has been deceiving them all along?" He shook his head. "Far better, I think, that he tells them who I am immediately."

  He went back to eating his broth.

  "But — but Lord Charles —"

  "Yes?"

  "Aren't you worried about what the townspeople might do to you?"

  "No." He gave a bitter, humorless smile. "Besides, my dear friend — what can they do to me that I have not already done to myself?"

  Chapter 7

  The week that followed was not easy for anyone.

  Lord Charles was not in a good mood. Between his persistent headache, worry over Juliet, and impatience with his condition, he soon fell into a black depression. Will slunk past him like a puppy afraid of a beating. Ophelia and Mildred fled the room in tears when their persistent efforts to gain his attention yielded them a verbal mauling that no one but a British aristocrat could've given so well. Sylvanus's attempts to give Biblical solace were rebuffed, and even Crystal the dog avoided the silent figure who refused to eat with them, refused to communicate, refused to do anything but sit on his pallet and growl at anyone who dared try to speak to him.

  There was only one person whose company Charles welcomed, and that, much to her sisters' confusion and wrath, was Amy, with whom he stayed up long after the others went to bed, quietly talking.

  A week after he'd woken up, things finally came to a head.

  Amy had roasted a joint of beef for supper. Sylvanus was at the sideboard carving it, and Amy had gone out to the larder for some milk when the captain got up from his pallet and approached the table.

  Crystal thumped her tail against the floor and watched his progress. Mildred and Ophelia, already seated, exchanged hopeful, excited glances. Will grinned widely. Sylvanus turned around with the platter of meat and halted in surprise.

  And no one said a word.

  Amy came in, carrying a pitcher of milk. "Lord Charles?"

  "I will dine with the family tonight," he said tersely.

  Amy didn't miss the excited elbow jab that Mildred gave her sister. She set the pitcher down, and, slipping her hand into Charles's, guided him to his place. Her sisters' eyes narrowed with malice at the familiarity that she and the captain shared.

  He stood stiffly by his chair as Amy hurried to the sideboard for a bowl of potatoes.

  Ophelia was beside herself. "Oh, Captain, we're just delighted that you're finally joining us for supper! Why, it must have been horrible, eating all by yourself all these nights!"

  "I have not dined alone, and the company was quite enjoyable, thank you."

  "We're having roast beef tonight, Lord Charles," Mildred announced, as though the smell that wafted throughout the house was not enough reason for Charles to guess that fact for himself.

  "I wouldn't have known."

  "I just adore roast beef," she continued breezily. "It is one of my absolute favorite dishes."

  "Mine too," Ophelia added. "Do you like roast beef, Captain?"

  "I do. And did you cook it yourself, Miss Leighton?"

  "Oh no, Amy makes all the meals around here."

  "So I've noticed. She is a very accomplished cook."

  "Oh, she's passably fair," Ophelia said, with an airy little laugh. "I'm a better one, when I put my mind to it."

  "Are you? Perhaps, then, you should put your mind, and your hands, to it tomorrow. I daresay I would enjoy sampling your efforts and deciding for myself whether or not your claim is a valid one."

  Ophelia's smug smile promptly vanished. She was trapped, and she knew it.

  Will saw instantly what the captain was up to. "What a good idea!" he said loudly, earning a vicious glare from his sister. "You haven't cooked anythin' in ages, Ophelia! Why, I'll bet you're so out of practice that even the water won't remember how to boil for you!"

  "I'm not cooking unless Millie helps me!"

  "Do you mean that Mildred can also cook?" Charles murmured, raising his brows. "Dear me. I didn't know that either of you possessed such . . . talents."

  "Of course I can c
ook! And I can make anything that Ophelia makes taste like slops in comparison!"

  "I should like to see you try!" snapped Ophelia.

  "Yes, so would I," mused Charles. "But since you are both so eager to prove your culinary expertise to me, perhaps Ophelia can cook tomorrow, and Mildred can have her turn the following day."

  ""I can't cook tomorrow, I have other things to do. Besides, Amy does the all the cooking around here."

  Charles smiled thinly. "Yes, so I've noticed," he murmured. And then, his voice hardening, "As well as all the baking, sewing, mending, cleaning, washing, weaving, marketing, and soap-making. Rather a lot for one woman, isn't it?"

  Ophelia stiffened. Mildred sucked in her breath. Will coughed, Amy quietly went back to the sideboard for the gravy, and in the awkward, tension-filled silence, Sylvanus decided it was high time to give blessing for the food.

  "Dear Lord, we are gathered around this humble table tonight to give thanks for this meal and —"

  "I beg your pardon?" said Lord Charles, still standing behind his chair and looking properly outraged.

  Sylvanus's head jerked up. "Captain?"

  "Your daughter has not yet taken her seat! Where, sir, are your manners?"

  "I — uh . . ." Sylvanus reddened. Mildred and Ophelia stared at the captain as though he'd lost his mind. Will's lips twitched, and, as everyone watched, the boy got silently to his feet, went around to Amy's chair, and stood behind it as she took her seat, her cheeks pink with gratitude and embarrassment.

  "Thank you, Will," she murmured, her gaze lowered.

  Will returned to his seat.

  The captain, finally, took his.

  And after a rather stilted blessing, the meal was consumed in silence.

  ~~~~

  The following morning, Amy rose early and, creeping past the lightly snoring figure on his pallet, slipped out the door.

  She quickly performed her morning chores, finishing all before the sun was even a red glow in the sky. Then, eager to make the most of her freedom before everyone was up and demanding breakfast, she hurried through a still-sleeping Newburyport and toward the Ashton's big Georgian house on High Street.