The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  She pulled back from the painting, wiping damp hands down her skirts, her eyes nervous. He cleared his throat. She gave a quick, fleeting smile, her almost desperate gaze following Gareth, who appeared to have no concern at all about leaving her with the man she had once loved. He rubbed at a nonexistent itch at the corner of his eye.

  "Yes. He never used to, you know."

  "He's worried about Andrew, I guess. It would be terrible, if Andrew demonstrates his Contraption at the ball and embarrasses or injures — let alone kills — himself in front of the king."

  "He won't kill himself," said Charles.

  "You have faith in him, then?"

  "More than Lucien does."

  "I . . . I think that Lucien probably has faith in him too, but is just trying to bully him into being successful. Andrew seems to need constant prodding to follow through with his ideas — or so Gareth and Lucien tell me." She plucked at the edge of her sleeve. "When I f-first came here, Lucien told Andrew that he'd never even build his Contraption, let alone get it to fly . . ."

  "Oh, I suspect it will fly," said Charles. "The question is, how far?"

  She looked down, the toe of her slipper rubbing at the floor with obvious agitation. He wished he could spare her this apprehension, this awkwardness, and that this conversation he was not looking forward to any more than she, was already behind them.

  "So. What do you think of England?" he ventured, after a few moments.

  "It is grand."

  "Do you miss Boston?"

  She shook her head. "I'm happy here. The grass stays green all winter, and there are no mosquitoes in the summer. And I'm sure that so much has changed in Boston since I was last there."

  "Yes, as so much has changed here, as well," Charles said, offering his arm to her. After a moment's hesitation she took it, her fingertips barely touching him, her entire body stiff with nervousness, as though she feared he might ravish her, or that she was doing something wrong. His heart hurt for her, for such feelings were needless.

  He began walking back down the hall, adjusting his pace so that she did not have to labor to keep up. Relief was already starting to spread through him. Hard to believe that if he hadn't fallen against that wall, he'd be married to this woman. Hard to believe that he'd made a baby with her. Hard to believe that he felt such a curious absence of desire for her now, and that his mind recoiled from the memories they had once made like two magnets placed pole to pole.

  Pray God that she felt the same way.

  "Has your home changed so?" she asked, giving him the impression that she wanted to make small talk, and avoid the deeper issues that lay between them.

  "Yes, it has." He guided her into a small sitting room that looked out over the gardens, and half shut the door behind them. He wanted them to have privacy, but he wanted her to feel that he wasn't closeting her in here with him. "When I went off to America with the army, I left behind one brother who did not seem capable of bringing his scientific ideas to fruition, and another who did not seem capable of behaving as an adult." He smiled as he saw the spark of anger coming into her eyes, and instantly banished it with his next words. "Now, I come back to find the first ready to take to the skies in a flying machine, and the other married, leading a responsible life as a Member of Parliament, and proving himself to be the best father in England." He smiled, putting all of the warmth in his heart in the gesture. "I would never have thought it possible."

  Pain darkened her eyes and she walked a little distance away from him, wringing her hands. "Are you angry, Charles?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper. She raised her anguished green gaze to his. "Have I hurt you beyond repair?"

  "You? Hurt me?" He gave a bitter laugh. "Madam, it is I who have done the hurting."

  "You weren't the one who went off and married someone else."

  "And you weren't the one who disappeared and abandoned the ones he loved most in this world. I'm the one who's caused all the hurt, Juliet."

  "But not intentionally, Charles. You wouldn't."

  "No, I would not. But that doesn't make me any less sorry for the pain I've brought to both you and my family. I'm glad that all has worked out so nicely between you and Gareth, and that your love has transformed him into a very different man than the one he once was, but I regret that I was taken in by the deceit of Amy's sisters, and that I believed the letters they had written, including the one that was supposedly from you."

  She gave a nervous laugh. "But as you say, everything worked out nicely . . ."

  "Are you happy, Juliet?"

  She gazed up at him, and he saw the pain in her eyes, the warring emotions. And then she came toward him and hesitantly, placed her hand in his. "I am happy, Charles." She bit her lip, trying to choose the right words. "Probably — and I beg you not to take this the wrong way — happier than I might have been with you." She gave a tremulous grin, trying to soften her words. "You and I are too much alike, both too serious minded, and too cautious, to have ever made a good go of it."

  Charles shut his eyes and released his pent-up breath. He squeezed her hand and then let it go. "Thank you. Thank you, madam, for saying that."

  "It doesn't hurt you to hear that?"

  "No, Juliet. It — relieves me of much of the guilt I've been carrying."

  "What do you have to feel guilty about?"

  "Me?" He shook his head. "Guilt for being taken in by those letters. Guilt for the fact that you were left to fend for yourself. Guilt for the grief you must have suffered in thinking me dead. Guilt for . . . for the feelings I now have for another."

  She smiled, some of the pain leaving her eyes. "Thank you, Charles, for saying that."

  "That doesn't hurt you?"

  "No." Her smile deepened. "It relieves me of much of the guilt I've been carrying."

  Their gazes met, warm and understanding, before she blushed and he looked away, clearing his throat.

  "Juliet, you and I — that is to say, I was . . . very fond of you once, and I meant everything I ever said to you, but I did not understand the feelings I had for you at the time. I thought I was in love with you. Now — and I beg you not to take this the wrong way — I realize my love was not as strong as it might have been. As it should have been. You and I were different people, two years ago. I was far from home, and lonely —"

  "— And I was young and impressionable."

  "And I should have known better than to dally with a pretty young Bostonian."

  "And I should have known better than to try to catch the eye of a handsome English captain."

  He caught her grin and returned it, feeling the tension and guilt he'd been carrying since coming back to find her here easing out of him by degrees.

  "You really do forgive me, then," she said, her eyes suddenly misty with tears.

  "I do, but with the fervent hope that you really forgive me."

  "Of course I do. You have been cruelly used, Charles, and dreadfully wronged. No one blames you for what happened, least of all me."

  He looked down into her eyes, no longer troubled, but shining with relief and gratitude for what he had told her. They had set each other free. "I hope you love my little brother with all the strength of your heart," he said, gazing deeply into her eyes. "Gareth has suffered much pain in his life, and he deserves no less than what I know you can give him. He deserves someone like you, Juliet."

  "I do love him, Charles." A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and began a slow path down her cheek. "I do love him, and I pray that you find someone to make you as happy as he has made me." She swiped away the tear. "But I think you already have."

  He smiled, gently. "Yes . . . I think I have."

  And then she reached deeply into her pocket and drew something out which she held tightly in her closed hand for a long moment.

  "I've been keeping these for you. Waiting for the right moment to give them back to you. They once belonged to you, but they really should be hers now."

  And then she held her
hand over his and dropped two objects into his palm. One was the miniature he'd had painted two years ago in Boston. And the other was the signet ring with which they had sealed their betrothal that fateful night in April.

  Her smile was a little watery. "You're a free man now, Charles. Take these and be happy." And then she closed his hand around the two objects, stood on tiptoe to kiss his brow, and turned, walking from the room without a backwards glance.

  Chapter 27

  Yes, he was free.

  But during the week that followed that liberating conversation with Juliet, Charles certainly didn't feel free. He felt buffeted on all sides.

  Though his friendship with Gareth was as strong as it had ever been, though he and Juliet had managed to clear the air between them, though Andrew asked his help in getting the Flying Contraption removed to the roof in preparation for tonight's demonstration, Charles's relationship with Lucien — which had always been amiable and mutually respectful — was in tatters.

  It was obvious that his brother no longer respected him, perhaps didn't even like him, maybe could not forgive him, and though Charles found it hard to admit, even to himself, he was hurt by the fact that where Lucien had once turned to him for advice, assistance, and friendship, he now turned to Gareth.

  And to add insult to injury, there was the matter of Amy.

  Every morning right after breakfast, Nerissa and her maid, Hannah, had spirited Amy off, depriving Charles of any and all time spent alone with her. It was almost as if his family knew what had happened out in the stable, and were contriving to keep them apart until Amy could be safely packed off to some new employer as a lady's maid.

  And now, with the ball only a matter of hours away, they had taken her off yet again, teaching her how to dress another woman, how to arrange the hair of another woman, how to make herself indispensable to another woman, another woman who would be having all the fun while Amy, who had never had any fun, watched wistfully from the wings. Charles wanted to hit something in his frustration. True, he had brought her to England so she could have a better life, and now that Nerissa was preparing her for a position that would carry no small degree of prestige in itself, he was beginning to realize that perhaps that wasn't quite what he wanted for Amy after all.

  Back in America, when he'd allowed her to come to England with him, he might have told himself it was, but now, with no promises to Juliet to bind him, with nothing standing in his way, it wasn't — and he knew it. He did not want her to leave Blackheath. He did not want her to leave him. Yet what excuse did he have to keep her here?

  The dilemma chipped away at the peace his conversation with Juliet had given him, made him feel restless and impatient and compelled to act in a way for which he was not prepared: To offer a marriage proposal to Amy. But that was impossible, of course. He might be the heir presumptive to a dukedom, but he was still the second son with no means of income besides his army career — which he wasn't so sure he wanted to return to. He couldn't afford a wife. But that was an excuse, and he knew it. The problem wasn't his lack of income; it was himself. Others might think he hadn't changed, but he knew, even if they did not, that the courage and confidence that had once come so easily to him had been lost on a rock in a foreign land, on a cold April afternoon. He was unworthy of being anyone's husband.

  "My lord?"

  He looked up from his absent contemplation of a cup of tea. It was Dawson, his valet, standing respectfully outside the door.

  The servant bowed. "My lord, it is getting late. I must know what you plan to wear tonight so that I might ready it for you." He smiled. "May I suggest your dress regimentals?"

  "My dress regimentals?"

  "Why, yes, my lord. Your Colonel Maddison sent them back to us upon confirmation of your supposed death. They have been in storage."

  Charles turned toward the window so that the valet would not see the sudden pain in his eyes.

  He was not worthy of wearing the king's coat. He did not want to make Juliet remember things he wanted her to forget. And he did not want to remind himself of the man he had once been.

  Wearing the coat would be a sham.

  "I think my suit of plain blue silk will suffice, Dawson."

  ~~~~

  The guests would begin arriving soon.

  The Duke of Blackheath sat wrapped in a special gown to protect his fine clothing, his head bent to accept the white powder his valet was currently applying to his hair. Though he followed fashion, he abhorred wigs, and it was his own midnight-black mane that had been carefully dressed, rolled and powdered, the back drawn into a queue, tied with a velvet bow, and left to hang between his shoulders.

  "That's it, Your Grace," said the hairdresser, stepping back. As Lucien got to his feet, his valet removed the powdering gown and a third servant came forward with a mirror.

  Lucien lifted his chin and made a tiny adjustment to his stock, fastened behind his neck with a diamond buckle. He surveyed himself with a coolly critical eye. Then he left the room and made his way toward the separate wing of the castle that housed both the ballroom and Andrew's laboratory on the floor above it.

  There were two sets of doors, one just after the other. Behind the first was the staircase, enclosed by old panelling, that led up to Andrew's laboratory — and the roof above that, where the flying contraption waited. Lucien paused for a moment, resisting the urge to go up there and have a last look at the thing. But no. He had to trust Andrew, though he could never let Andrew know that. After all, Andrew would never even have completed the thing if it were not for his fervent desire to show Lucien up — which was why Lucien kept taunting him.

  And would keep taunting him until his little brother got the fame and recognition Lucien would drive him to get.

  He pushed open the doors to the ballroom.

  Servants bowed and curtsied to him as Lucien, in a suit of blue velvet so dark it looked black, toured the room. The theme of Christmas was everywhere. Fragrant branches of pine, tied together with red ribbons, framed the doorways. Silver and gold bunting hung above the floor-to-ceiling windows and was entwined around the heavy drapes. The refreshment tables were decorated with white tissue that glittered like snow; in a few short hours, those tables would groan beneath the weight of silver punchbowls and a host of delicacies from the kitchens. His musicians were already setting up their instruments in the far corner, tuning them, and servants were putting out chairs for the ladies. A maid was replacing the candles in the wall sconces, another was dusting the great, gilt framed mirrors that would reflect the whirling dancers, and still others were lowering the great chandelier so that it could be filled with candles. When raised, it would dominate the room.

  Lucien smiled to himself. There had not been a ball at Blackheath since before Charles had left for America, and this one promised to be spectacular — in more ways than one.

  The Restoration — what an amusing little play on words, he thought, considering that the other Restoration had also centered around a Charles — was going exactly to plan. His pointed choosing of Gareth's or Andrew's assitance over Charles's was rousing Charles's ire, needling him, serving as a constant reminder of the status he had willfully vacated. Sooner or later, Charles would reach the breaking point and anger would compel him to overcome whatever ridiculous obstacles he'd placed in his own path just to prove Lucien — and himself — wrong. Lucien had faith that Charles was the same man he'd always been; Charles was the one who needed convincing. And how well everyone was playing their parts! They had all contrived to keep Amy and Charles apart so that neither could learn that Lucien was not only subtly manipulating things, but playing matchmaker as well.

  Again.

  Still smiling, he decided it was a good time to have a look at his creation.

  ~~~~

  She was, at that moment, standing before a full-length mirror in her new shift — chemise! Nerissa insisted she call the garment — stockings and garters, trembling with nerves and excitement as Nerissa's maid Hannah
, supervised by her mistress and Juliet, helped her into her new corset.

  "Now stand still, miss, and let out yer breath so Oi can lace it up the back," she instructed, from just behind her.

  Nerissa, was watching the proceedings with an eagle eye. "Not too tight, Hannah. Her waist is small enough as it is. A few rough yanks and I daresay you'll end up breaking her!"

  Their charge burst out laughing at the same time Hannah yanked, which ended her guffaw on a choking gasp. Nerissa, grinning, exchanged furtive glances with Juliet. Her sister-in-law sat in a chair nearby, her advanced pregnancy politely concealed by a loose gown of rich, pine-green velvet. She too was in on the secret, and so, of course, was Gareth.

  "Do you remember everything I taught you about the proper use of fans, Amy?"

  "Oh, yes — I can even flick one open now without accidentally flinging it across the room!"

  "And you're comfortable with all the dance steps that you practiced with Gareth?"

  "Well, I no longer tread on his feet . . ."

  "And you know what to say if someone with whom you're not comfortable asks you for a dance?"

  "Yes, but . . . Nerissa, was it really necessary that I learn all this simply as training to be a lady's maid?"

  "Yes, absolutely. If you want to go out in the world and make yourself invaluable to your future employer, you have to know how those things work. After all, you will be your mistress's friend as well as advisor."

  "I see," said the young woman, frowning. "But I still don't know why the duke spent so much money just to make me look nice for tonight . . ."

  Nerissa knew, but she certainly wasn't going to confess it. "It's just as he told you. You saved Charles's life and now he wants you to have your Cinderella night at the ball. It's the very least he could do!"

  And as Nerissa also knew, it was the very least he had done. Amy might believe that she was getting a "night at the ball" and a few simple "maid's dresses" to prepare her for her future life at some distant country house, but she had no idea just what the duke had really bought for her when he'd sent her and Nerissa into London last week!