Wedded in White: The Brothers Duke: Book Six

by Felicia Greene

  ‘You.’ Susan’s voice. Charles risked a look at her, which became a burning stare in the work of a moment. Her dark eyes, her pale skin, her hair in that same, severe bun—my God, it was like looking into a different universe. A universe where he’d seen her every day of his life, and never stopped wanting to look at her. ‘I—it’s you.’

  There was no smile on her face. No outstretched hands of welcome. Charles looked at her for a tense, painful beat, unable to forget their audience. ‘It is I.’

  ‘The Weldon lad.’ The old man spoke as if in a dream. ‘My goodness.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lord, if only he could remember the man’s name. He knew that face, now that he was looking at it properly—who had he been in Twitchall’s humming village life? ‘I haven’t been here in a good long while.’

  ‘For your parents’ passing. I remember.’ The old man’s face creased in sympathy; two women at the back of the room murmured condolences in voices almost too soft for Charles to hear. ‘You were good to pay for such a nice funeral. Your mother would have been very proud.’

  ‘Thank you. I know.’ Charles paused, waiting for the usual rush of pain and guilt that came at the mention of his parents to die away. He hadn’t been a dutiful son; he had lavished material comforts on his mother and father, yes, but he had never spent as much time with them as they would have liked. ‘But let’s not speak of the past. It’s—it’s good to be here again. As I said, I didn’t wish to interrupt the meeting, but—’

  ‘You’ve already interrupted it.’ Susan’s voice, sharp, watchful. Charles blinked, wondering if he was the only one in the room who could sense the darkness in her tone. Was she really being as unfriendly as he imagined, or was he imagining it? ‘A little late to apologise now.’

  ‘Nonsense! And no apology needed.’ The old man rose from his chair, arms outstretched, a smile spreading across his face. ‘If we can’t give you a proper welcome, lad, then what are we here for! Jim Collins, at your service.’

  There followed an exhausting, lengthy period of congratulations, enquiries about the carriage, an explanation of the carriage’s mishap, the dispatching of several men to find the carriage and bring it to the village, all interspersed with questions and comments concerning London, the mill trade, the Season and the escapades of several aristocrats which Charles couldn’t claim to have ever had the pleasure of meeting, disappointing several of the older ladies in the room. Then came enquiries as to the dog, who loved all of the attention and positively quivered with pleasure when his injury was discussed in tones of grave sympathy. It was only when Charles had personally promised to dine in half of Twitchall’s houses, take lodgings at the inn for as long as he liked and take his pick of every onion, loaf of bread or cushion cover that the ladies of Twitchall had to offer did the crowd finally begin to disperse, with Adam the blonde youth looking at him with deep suspicion as he left the room.

  He waited until everyone else had walked out into the courtyard of the mill, the sound of their tramping feet growing fainter and fainter on the ill-kept cobblestones, before he turned to Susan. Better to face her alone, before she invented an excuse for leaving. She had seemed so angry, so scornful of his presence… oh, Lord, what had he done?

  She wasn’t even looking at him. She was watching the men and women from the meeting walk out into the daylight, paying no more attention to him than if he were a mote of dust.

  ‘It—it appears that I arrived at the wrong time.’ Of all the things he’d practised saying to Susan Harwood after the passing of many years, this certainly wasn’t one of them. He looked at her for a long, steady moment, the singular beauty of her face and tightly-pinned hair working a shade of its old magic. How he’d fought to catch the merest glimpse of her back then—how he’d thrilled from head to foot when she’d accept his glances, welcoming them, urging him on. ‘I didn’t realise that there was such… conflict concerning this place.’

  ‘The mill has been all but abandoned. No cotton is being made, none of the men can work, and the supervisor left in charge makes slaves of the few men left who clean the machines and keep them in good order.’ Susan’s voice was as low and precise as ever, her silhouette tall and graceful in the sunlight that streamed in from the window. ‘It’s a miracle they haven’t set upon the place with axes.’

  ‘At least I didn’t arrive in the middle of that. I’ve never been any good with an axe.’

  A bad joke, unsuited to the general air of tension, but Charles saw the faintest hint of a smile as Susan turned her head. A soft, delighted expression that belonged to memory, to half-forgotten passion… but before he could seize the moment, act upon it, her expression had hardened once again. ‘I can’t believe you’re here.’

  It wasn’t said with happiness. If anything, there was a core of anger at the heart of her words that frightened Charles. ‘But I am.’

  It almost sounded like a conversation between old friends. Almost. There was a familiarity that neither of them could avoid, even if it felt as if Susan wished to. The heat in the room imperceptibly rose as she turned her head, looking at him full in the face with an inscrutable expression in her dark eyes—but then she turned away from him again, her eyes downcast, and Charles felt ice in his soul.

  ‘You had to come now.’ She was speaking to herself, not him; all Charles could do was watch her face as she looked out of the window, the light falling on the familiar planes and hollows of her face. ‘Of all the times to come–’

  ‘Miss Harwood.’

  ‘Really? Have London manners infected you to such an exaggerated extent? We were practically raised in the same house. Be your true self when we speak alone, at least.’

  ‘Susan.’ He’d dreamed of saying her name again, but never like this. Never in this difficult, uncomfortable context. ‘What is so wrong about me coming now?’

  ‘You are abominably late.’

  ‘I should have kept in contact with Morton, I know, but–but damn it, the mill belonged to him! It still does! How was I supposed to know what he was going to do to it?’

  ‘If you had visited even once, taken more than a moment to walk out of your grand city house and visit your origins, you would have seen what your hasty sale in search of greater fortunes has done to Twitchall and every village that surrounds it.’ Susan turned back to him. It was clear that she was making a very great effort to speak normally, as if it were a commonplace conversation, but her eyes flashed with an intensity that tightened Charles’s throat and made his fingers itch. ‘You would have seen the extent of your abandonment.’

  ‘Abandonment?’ This was unconscionable. ‘A man striking out in the world to seek one’s fortune is not abandonment, Susan, and you know it! We had so many conversations to this exact effect when we were younger–what has changed you so?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘I refuse to believe that.’

  ‘Nothing that I intend to burden you with, at any rate. You can rest easy on that score.’

  ‘Susan, please. I–’

  A faint, steady whine came from under the table. Charles, taking a deep breath and summoning what lingering scraps of patience remained, picked up the spaniel as it happily barked in response.

  Susan’s reaction was formidably cool. ‘Why did you bring a dog, if I’m allowed to ask? Is it meant to be a sort of peace offering?’

  ‘I–no! I found the damn thing in the middle of a field, and presumed it came from here! I wasn’t going to leave it to die of gangrene.’ Charles looked angrily down at the spaniel, who licked his arm in response. ‘I thought it, and I, would be welcome here. Evidently I was wrong on both counts.’

  ‘The dog can stay. Dogs are loyal.’ Susan folded her arms. ‘I can’t say the same for you.’

  This was an anger that Charles could never have imagined. It boiled in Susan like pitch, making her flushed cheeks and finely-wrought hands as dangerous as they were attractive. ‘I’m—I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, good. You’re sorry now.’ S
usan turned away, taking a deep breath. Charles watched the rise and fall of her shoulder blades, desolate. ‘That… that makes everything better.’

  He had never imagined that he would leave such a desolate wasteland between them both. It was as if Susan stood a thousand miles away from him, even though she was in the same room. Charles kept silent, wondering how on earth he would find the words to soothe the storm that had appeared.

  ‘I’m leaving Twitchall.’

  Charles stopped. For a moment he was sure that he hadn’t heard the words correctly; they corresponded so closely to his personal nightmares that it was almost as if he had slipped into a dream. ‘Beg pardon?’

  Susan sighed. ‘I’m leaving the village.’

  ‘You–you can’t leave Twitchall on my account! Of all the foolish, ridiculous decisions to–’

  ‘I’m not leaving because of you.’ Susan’s expression was a strange mixture of pity and caution. ‘I have been planning my departure for almost a year.’

  ‘And–and what do you intend to do? Where do you mean to go? If you’ve spent your life in Twitchall, a place like London can be overwhelming.’

  ‘Says the boy who had never left his own street before he ran away to the city to seek his fortune.’ The scorn in Susan’s voice lashed at him like a whip. ‘I am going to the Continent.’

  ‘The–the Continent? Why?’

  ‘I intend to take holy orders. There are many closed convents across the Channel, and I have written to several of them that particularly attract me.’ Susan paused. When she spoke again, it was with a quiet dignity that made Charles feel very small indeed. ‘I have been considering a religious life for quite some time. Now, I hope to make my small dream a reality.’

  Of all the things that he had imagined Susan saying to him, religious orders had never entered Charles’s mind. It added a queer level of absurdity to the pain that was filling his heart. He stood still, silent and agonised, suddenly sure that he had travelled all the way to Twitchall for nothing.

  No. It couldn’t end here, like this. He had never had to challenge God Himself to win a woman’s heart before, but… but damn it, for Susan Harwood, he would try.

  He had to try. Otherwise all he had left to show for his past were his parents’ graves, a rotting mill, and a dog that had grown inexplicably attached to him in the space of an hour.

  ‘Well.’ His voice was husky; he cleared his throat, attempting a normal tone of voice. Strange that—that you should say such a thing.’

  Susan turned back to him, a warning light in her eyes. ‘You think me strange?’

  ‘No. I think it strange that you are leaving Twitchall, given that I intend to stay here.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Stay here for three or four days, and then run back to the city.’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’m going to stay here until the mill is in the exact same state in which I left it.’

  ‘What—what is the dog’s name?’

  ‘It doesn’t have a name. Not yet. And don’t try to change the subject with an abrupt question.’

  ‘It needs a name. It needs a name, and you need to leave this place.’

  ‘I’m not leaving. I’m going to stay until this bloody mill is back to the shape I left it in, no matter what.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’

  ‘Don’t assume I’m talking nonsense when I’m being serious. I’ve never been more serious in my life.’

  ‘You’ll lose money frittering away your time here, restoring it.’

  ‘I’ve made enough money. More than enough. Enough to put this place back into some semblance of order.’ Charles looked down at the dog, who gave a canine equivalent of a grin. Christ, it was difficult to look and sound commanding with an idiotic, fluffy creature cluttering up one’s arms. He put it down gently; it limped away and sat under a chair, looking at him accusingly. ‘Enough for you to see it in fine fettle before you leave. I hope.’

  Susan stared at him. ‘I leave in less than three weeks.’

  Christ. Less than three weeks was a tall order. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘How is three weeks possibly enough time for you to perform such great works?’

  ‘The Lord only had seven days to create our beauteous earth, and he managed it. He even rested on Sunday.’

  ‘Don’t say His name in—’

  ‘I’m not. And neither am I comparing myself. I’m simply pointing out that we’re capable of more than we think.’ Charles paused, briefly lost in happier memories of he and Susan conversing. Back then they had never so much as had a difference of opinion; they had each understood what the other was thinking without so much as having to say a word. ‘And I am more than capable of restoring the mill to its former glory in less than three weeks.’

  ‘But the current owner won’t let you touch it.’

  ‘Let me handle the current owner. I’ve known old Morton for years–I’ll make him see sense here. If not, I’ll buy it off of him.’

  ‘But that’s so much–’

  ‘Susan. I know it’s a lot of money. I know it’s a considerable investment of both time and trouble. But I am going to do it, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. Just as I can do nothing to stop you from–from going to the Continent.’

  He said it with the slightest hint of desperation. Only the faintest hint, but it was there; Charles paused, waiting for her to reply.

  ‘Well. I see that I cannot persuade you to do the sensible thing and return to London.’ Susan’s voice was subdued, flat–there was no hope in it. Charles tried not to be discouraged as he listened to her. ‘I hope you manage to bring the mill back to its former state. The village needs it.’

  ‘I’ll manage. I’ll do more than manage. The mill will be a fine example of its kind by the time I’m finished with it. Come and visit during the restoration–you’ll see the change.’

  ‘There’ll be no reason for me to visit.’

  ‘Not even for general interest?’

  ‘I must give up all general interests, Charles. I must prepare to live a very different kind of life.’ Susan pursed her lips, her eyes downcast; Charles stared at the tight curve of her mouth. ‘Do not expect me to visit.’

  ‘I won’t expect it. But I’ll hope for it.’

  ‘How strange.’ Susan paused for a moment, evidently considering her words. ‘That’s how I used to think about–’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you returning.’

  She walked away from Charles before he could reply. As she passed him, her skirts gently brushing against his leg, he caught the faintest trace of the scent she had always worn. Lavender, yes, that was it–cool, clean, comforting, but with the power to send an erotic rush through every atom of his being.

  He turned, ready to reply, but she was gone.

  He was suddenly very weak indeed. The tension that had filled the room when he and Susan were speaking had vanished abruptly; it was as if he were a puppet with cut strings. He sank into a chair, holding a hand to his brow.

  The spaniel approached. With a faint, uneasy whine, it licked Charles’s hand and settled beneath his chair.

  He had only wanted to visit for a few days. A week at most. Even in his wildest, most improbable fantasies, his stay in Twitchall was brief–he and Susan would return to London in his carriage and begin a life of wedded metropolitan bliss. Now, in the space of a single conversation, his life for the foreseeable future had profoundly changed.

  He would stay for as long as it took to restore the mill to its former glory. To bring life and vigour back to the battered, empty village—to make the young men realise that they haven’t been forgotten. To right a few of the ancient wrongs that had been caused by his absence.

  And oh, Lord, he would try and persuade Susan that being shut up in a nunnery was the last thing in the world she should do. But from the steely look in her eyes and the resignation in her voice, it would be the hardest battle of all.

  As much as Susan had attempted to pack a few precious th
ings before making her perilous journey to the Continent, her house still stood in disarray. She had often lain in bed and dreamed fondly of how a cloistered life would look, with no personal possessions to call her own and great expanses of white wall to focus on the Creator, but had so far failed to create the same effect in her small cottage. Her parents had left great quantities of linen, spoons and old newspapers in the house before their passing, objects which she couldn’t bring herself to throw away–after all, she had been swaddled in that very linen, eaten from those very spoons and learned to read from the newspapers that now sat mouldering in the corners. She couldn’t let them rot away to nothing—but who could she give them to? Then came her own things, a small but precious collection of objects collected over her life—things that she didn’t want to part with.

  Things that made her think of Charles, if she were completely honest with herself. She had tried to sort through some long-discarded clothing that morning, with two weeks stretching from the day Mr. Weldon had arrived, and had found herself assailed by memories of him. How strange it had been to see him, standing there in the old mill storeroom, speaking as if no time had passed…

  … no. That wasn’t quite it. It was evident that time had passed if one looked at his careworn face, the frown that days of hard work and little sleep had pressed into his formerly unlined skin. He was taller, broader-shouldered; he was a man now, from head to foot, as much as she tried not to think about him. As much as she had ruthlessly pushed away the quick tremble of want that had flooded her when she had seen him again, after so very long.

  She hadn’t quite succeeded. She knew it from the first. Knew it as she had lain in bed the night of his arrival, imagining him sleeping merely a hundred feet from her own bedroom. After spending patient weeks, months and years attempting to forget her own flesh and focus on her soul, her body had come back to life with a vengeance.

  She had resisted temptation, as strong as it was. When she was younger she had thought nothing of exploring herself; there was an innocence to her sins then, as plentiful as they were. Now, with her future course chosen and her sins much more obvious than before, she couldn’t dream of indulging herself in such a wicked manner.