Wedded in White: The Brothers Duke: Book Six

by Felicia Greene

  Even when she thought of Charles smiling. Even when she remembered the way he would look at her, the way he would stare with such fierce, uncomplicated ardour…

  … but this was a definite road to sin. There were other, more innocent pleasures. There was the simple beauty of the late morning she was looking at; the leaves of the trees were rustling, while the faint honking of geese in the street made for a coarse, countrified music. There was the merry sound of the water boiling on the range, which would mean tea was ready to be served.

  More importantly, there was Doris Sinclair. Her best friend, Twitchall’s most expert gossip, and someone who had always supported Susan’s wish for religious seclusion even if she had never understood it herself.

  Susan smiled at Doris as she served the tea, taking a slice of fruit cake off of the small wooden shelf where such delicacies usually lay. ‘Forgive me. I’m somewhat absent-minded. Would you like a little honey in it?’

  ‘Oh, goodness no. Don’t trouble yourself.’

  ‘It’s no trouble to serve you.’

  ‘I don’t wish to be served. You’re no nun yet.’ Doris rolled her eyes, only arranging her expression into something more penitent when Susan scowled. ‘Now don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to launch that line of attack again.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want a ruined afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t worry. There are far more interesting things to speak of today.’ Doris took a meaningful sip of tea. ‘There’s a lot going on at the mill.’

  Such an obvious overture was not to be countenanced. Susan let a long moment of silence pass as she sipped her tea, looking about the room in vain for something else to talk about.

  The bread that she needed to take to the baker? No. The apron that she needed to make? Again, no. Lord, why did she lead a life so thoroughly incapable of leading to conversation… she would have to admit defeat.

  ‘Ah.’ She put her cup down. Doris’s eyes flashed with victory; Susan sighed, reaching for a biscuit. ‘What’s occurring, then?’

  ‘I’m so glad you asked.’ Doris smiled. ‘A hundredweight of letters. Letter after letter after letter, going all over the country–but most to London, and most to Morton. Our Jim can read, and he sneaked a look at what was written before the seal was put on–the Morton ones are all lists of what needs doing, what needs paying for, what his duties are. The courts were mentioned at least once.’

  ‘... Goodness.’ Worldly things weren’t meant to concern her in the slightest. She tried to remember the faces of the nuns she’d seen in paintings, who looked as serene as children. ‘I see.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start looking uninterested. You do that whenever you’re interested but don’t want to appear so.’

  ‘I don’t want to be interested in everyday things.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to be interested in this for a little while, dear, because this is enormously interesting.’ Doris was indefatigable when it came to gossip, and Susan found herself relenting against her friend’s cheerful onslaught—not least because, at heart, she was desperate for any news of Charles. ‘Not only is Morton being hammered for improvements and money in equal measure, Mr. Weldon is also putting the men of Twitchall to work. Good, paid work. Adam was talking about it in the Dog and Duck, from what I hear. Seems very proud of himself.’

  ‘Well that’s a good thing, at least.’

  ‘Much more than a good thing—a tremendous thing! There’ll finally be a bit of money about. You’ll see me in a lovely new cotton gown before long. Maybe even silk.’

  ‘I doubt Mr. Weldon’s offering work that’ll pay for silk.’

  ‘How do you know? I don’t know how much silk costs, and neither do you.’

  ‘More than we’ll ever have, for a truly fine piece.’

  ‘Speaks the nun.’

  ‘Stop it.’ Susan frowned, searching for something else to ask about the mill that didn’t sound too obvious. Nothing about Charles himself, of course—Doris would see through that in a moment. ‘And the dog?’

  ‘The dog?’ Doris blinked. ‘You mean his overfed spaniel?’

  ‘It’s not his. At least, it wasn’t. He found it wandering through the fields on his way here. Perhaps it came from one of the surrounding villages.’ Susan took another sip of tea. ‘I do hope he’s treating it well.’

  ‘I imagine he is. I can’t imagine him as someone who treats animals cruelly.’

  ‘He isn’t. Or wasn’t. Who knows what he’s like now.’ Susan knew she was treading into dangerous territory. ‘Have you seen the dog?’

  ‘No. Why would I ask about the dog?’

  ‘Because one is meant to care about the plight of suffering creatures.’

  ‘Well.’ Doris took a reflective sip of tea. ‘I suppose someone would need to go and make sure the animal is being well taken care of.’

  ‘... Yes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t suggest that you go and see him, of course. I know that you don’t want to.’

  ‘You’re right. I don’t.’

  ‘Which is why I’m not suggesting you see him.’ Another sip, slower this time. ‘But… that poor dog.’

  ‘You said the dog was all right!’

  ‘I’m assuming that it is. I can’t say for certain. I think he’s had the glass removed from that paw, but who can say? No-one’s as concerned for beasts in Twitchall as you.’

  ‘Doris, if you’re using some sort of underhand scheme to try and get me into the same room as Charles Weldon–’

  ‘I’m not. I promise.’ Doris’s eyes were more innocent than those of a deer. ‘I’m telling you a very simple truth. I don’t know how the dog is, we don’t know what Mr. Weldon intends to do with it, and you care more about every bird and bee than anyone else here. Why don’t you go and have a little look, just to make sure?’

  The idea was foolish. Unconscionable. ‘We should probably speak about something else.’

  And so they did. They spoke very carefully of new fashions for bonnets, new types of tea and the best way to cure mange in dogs, before Susan finally gave into the temptation that had been building in her ever since she had remembered the spaniel.

  ‘I should go and make sure that the dog is doing well.’

  ‘Oh. Really?’ Doris phrased the question with such a naive air that for a moment Susan was almost fooled. ‘Well. If you want to, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t do that. Don’t pretend that you have nothing whatsoever to do with this decision.’

  ‘As I said, Susan–all I do is tell truths. I say things. I gossip, I chatter–my tongue is my worst enemy. I really can’t be held responsible for what you choose to do as a result of my twittering.’

  ‘You’re far wiser than you let on, you know.’

  ‘And I’m wise enough not to let on about how wise I am.’ Doris finished her tea with a smile. ‘I’m the wise woman of Twitchall.’

  ‘Don’t go putting any charms on people’s cows.’

  ‘I don’t need to charm cows when I can charm people.’ Doris rose from her seat. ‘I need to go and buy candles. Why don’t you go and have a look at the poor pup now?’

  ‘Well, I—I don’t know if I’m ready.’

  ‘How much more ready can you be?’ Doris paused. ‘Unless you’re going to see someone other than the dog.’

  ‘I’m seeing no-one at all. I’m going to look at the dog’s paw and leave.’ Susan put on her bonnet, casting an aggravated glance at her best friend. ‘And you, madam, should go home after candle-buying and make no more mischief.’

  She hadn’t visited the mill in years. Not since the meeting two weeks ago, when the anger in the village had threatened to bubble over into outright vandalism. When Charles had left, she had spent a few lonely, dramatic weeks walking about the place as a way to ease her melancholy—but the visits hadn’t worked, only accentuating her sadness, and the workers had begun to wonder why she kept haunting the place. She didn’t even remember the last time she had looked up at the mill’s vast
façade.

  To her deep annoyance, a shivering rush of memory overcame her as soon as she stepped over the threshold of the vast, bustling space. Not just of her own adolescence, her own awakening, but the moments she had shared with Charles. The conversations they had spent giggling, gasping, teasing one another to greater heights of linguistic excellence as they had wandered through the streets of Twitchall on market day, lowering their voices as they passed people known for gossiping.

  He had been the bright spark in her days. The reason she would smile when she woke up. Then he had become a pain to her, a source of bitter, lingering regret… what would he be to her now?

  She walked quickly across the mill floor, noting with a rapid glance that the towering machines used for working cotton were being polished and repaired by a small army of Twitchall men. At least Charles had been good to his word in that respect–it would be nice to have a little coin circulating in the village, and the men would take more pride in themselves. And the windows were being cleaned as well, flooding the large room with light… well, he had always enjoyed taking pleasure in small details.

  No. She couldn’t be this complimentary about a man who had abandoned the village. She couldn’t see the dog anywhere–Lord, perhaps he had already left it with a new owner who would only mistreat it. Or he had simply left it in the fields again, discarded it like rubbish.

  How could she tell where Charles was? She didn’t want to ask anyone she knew; men were just as interested in gossip as women, and her visit to the mill’s new master would be commented upon if she wasn’t careful. She stopped, looking cautiously about her, wondering who would be able to instruct her as to Charles’s whereabouts without being unreasonably nosy.

  There was only one face she didn’t recognise. A young man, with clipped hair and a fresh face that spoke of plentiful sleep and an abundance of hot meals—and he was approaching her with what looked to Susan like an unnatural amount of interest. As she stiffened, looking at him frostily, she noticed that he was holding a pencil and a piece of paper.

  ‘Good day!’ He was almost offensively cheerful. ‘Might I ask you the briefest of questions about–’

  ‘I’m afraid not, good sir.’ Susan curtseyed as nicely as she could, even if her impatience made her fingers itch. ‘I have business with Mr. Weldon.’

  ‘Business?’ An unpleasantly curious light shone in the man’s eyes; he took up his pencil and paper with more attention, smiling all the wider. ‘May I ask what business?’

  ‘No. You may not.’ Susan blinked, brushing past him with a look of complete incomprehension. Had young people really become so very forward in such a short space of time? ‘Good day to you.’

  ‘Good day!’ The man’s polite reply was lost on her as she climbed the rickety wooden stairs to what had once been Charles’s office. He had used that room before at least once, so chances were good he had simply taken up his old position. The alternative was asking someone, and she didn’t wish to enquire about anything in earshot of the curious stranger. She passed at least three people on the stairs, all of them holding pieces of machinery that looked in dire need of polishing or throwing out for scrap, and the clamour from the ground floor stayed as loud and urgent as ever as she knocked on the door.

  Why was she here again? The dog. She had to make sure that the poor dog was being treated well. Susan closed her eyes for a brief moment, summoning up the anger and concern that she’d felt for the creature while she was sitting with Doris in her cottage. If Charles was mistreating that poor beast, or planning to throw it upon the mercy of some unknown person rather than taking care of it as was his duty, then she’d—oh, she didn’t know what she’d do!

  ‘You mustn’t be so cruel.’ She pushed open the door without waiting to be admitted, too full of frustration and annoyance to wait a moment longer. ‘You can’t possibly do anything to that poor…’

  Her voice trailed away as she considered the scene. Charles was sitting at his desk, a pile of papers in front of him–but a large space had been cleared to allow a plate and mug to be set down, the plate giving off the unmistakeable steam and aroma of a famous Twitchall meat pie.

  Next to him, with a slightly smaller space cleared, a bowl stood on the desk containing what looked to be a mixture of chopped meat. Sitting on a three-legged stool, his paw wrapped in linen, the dog looked adoringly at Charles as they prepared to eat.

  ‘… that poor dog.’ Susan finished her sentence in a very different tone from how she had begun it. Charles blinked, rising from his chair; the dog gave her a quizzical look. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t–you’ll have to forgive my–’

  ‘At the moment I’m feeding the dog some meat, because it acts like a walking stomach even though it’s as fat as butter.’ Charles gently pushed the bowl closer to the dog, who began to attack the meat as if it had never seen a meal before in its life. ‘And because the damned thing won’t eat unless I’m eating as well, we’re lunching together. What am I meant to be doing to the poor dog?’

  ‘I… it doesn’t matter.’ Lord, she was going to murder Doris. ‘Not in the slightest.’

  ‘It seems as if I’ve managed to spoil your morning without coming near you. I do apologise.’

  ‘You haven’t.’

  ‘You seem very upset.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Now that the shock of seeing him and the dog preparing to dine like old friends had passed, she had the most desperate desire to laugh—but if she started laughing now, she’d look completely insane. Lord, at least she wouldn’t have these problems in the cloister. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Then stay and eat something with me, to prove your tranquillity in the face of must be a very odd scene for you.’

  ‘I…’ Susan looked at him, struck anew by his handsomeness. His gentle, faintly grizzled aura of strength, like a lion resting. There was so much power in him, so much force—but he would never show it unless it was needed. ‘I can’t.’

  Charles’s eyes flashed with frustration, but his voice never changed. ‘Come now.’

  ‘You don’t look as if you have nearly enough to share. Unless you intend me to eat some of the spaniel’s share.’

  It was a reward to see Charles smile. ‘I doubt he’d let you have so much of a sinew. But I’m slightly more generous.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to be hungry.’

  ‘I’ve been invited to dine with everyone currently living in Twitchall, and at least seven families in the surrounding villages. I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again. If anything, this pie is far too much for me.’ Charles paused, smiling slightly; Susan smiled back, even though she knew she shouldn’t. ‘But I’ll take something to line the stomach now with you, as you’re here.’

  ‘You don’t need to. I only came here to–’

  ‘I know.’ Charles’s smile faded. ‘But… as you’re here…’

  Susan could feel her resolve weakening as she looked at him. The iron-hard insistence on self-discipline of the severest kind—how it softened under Charles’s steady gaze, like ice melting in the sun. And if she kept staring at him like this, in this warm, light-filled room, her body would inevitably follow the same track that her mind had gleefully taken.

  Had they ever touched? Once. They had held hands once, in the dark, on the way home from church. She had been giddy from the sermon, her head full of angels singing—but oh, how her body had burned as he’d taken her hand, his touch so light but full of promise…

  ‘I’ll eat alone.’ She spoke slightly louder than she had meant to. ‘That’s what will happen in the convent, at any rate. I like to practice.’

  ‘You’ll eat alone? Nuns can’t eat alone every day.’

  ‘I believe we’re only meant to meet the other sisters for prayer—we’ll be allowed to eat with them on feast days.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to share meals?’ The frown between Charles’s brows deepened. ‘That… that can’t be right.’

  ‘It’s not a question of whether it seems right to the
workaday world.’ Susan stopped, aware that she sounded shrill. Combative. Why did she feel the need to fight, if she was so convinced of the correctness of the practice? ‘It… it encourages us to be aware of God at all times.’

  ‘We don’t become godless when we share meals.’

  ‘That’s your opinion.’

  ‘Susan, share this damned pie with me or I’ll feed it to the dog. I’ll take the patient effort of whatever Twitchall woman worked on this pie and throw it down that creature’s remorseless gullet.’ Charles pointed at the dog, who looked at Susan as if he at least half-knew that food was being discussed. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I would. Half a pie in the company of—of an old friend isn’t ungodly.’ Has his voice trembled on the worlds old friend, or was it just her imagination? ‘You can’t possibly argue that with a straight face.’

  Susan opened her mouth, fully preparing to try. After an agonised half-second of pure frustration, self-recrimination filling her from head to foot before she could say a word, she slowly sat down on the chair opposite as the dog turned back to his bowl.

  There was nothing ungodly about sharing a meal with Charles Weldon. She couldn’t argue it and remain a moral person—she would be lying. The only immoral thing about the whole business was her own mind—her own thoughts, sentiments, that crowded out every finer feeling when she was close to Charles.

  ‘Thank you.’ Charles pushed the plate of pie towards her. Susan picked up a fragment of pie, realising with a jolt that she was hungry. She’d been reducing the size of her meals for weeks, preparing for the small, simple repasts that every nun had to content herself with—a large piece of pie was an abundance of riches.

  She ate slowly, relishing each bite, aware that Charles was watching her. Susan half-turned her head, concentrating on the spaniel as it took big, gulping bites from the meat in his bowl, knowing that she shouldn’t enjoy the feel of a man looking at her…