The tea was very good indeed. Susan had certainly never drunk anything like it in Twitchall; Charles had to have found a London supplier. It was hot, deeply fragrant, and came in a pitcher large enough to refresh six people at a time–and the tiny milk jug placed next to the pitcher had a pleasant willow pattern painted on it. In a small basket, covered with a linen cloth to keep them warm, lay an array of biscuits that Susan knew had to be made with the very best butter. She and Charles ate together, swathed in blankets and dropping the occasional crumb with bursts of muffled laughter, until a plaintive scratching at the door made Susan start. ‘Who is that?’
‘Who do you think it is?’ Charles rolled his eyes as he tied a bed-sheet around his waist, heading for the door. He opened to reveal the spaniel, who barrelled into the room and onto the bed before Susan could do anything more than cry out. ‘Someone has decided that they want breakfast.’
Breakfast with a dog was one of the most entertaining things Susan had ever experienced. Sharing one’s tea and biscuits with a creature inclined to steal everything that wasn’t nailed down, eat anything up to and including the napkins and lick everyone within licking distance wasn’t only a diversion, but a challenge–a challenge that had her dissolving into laughter as she watched Charles attempt to save his tea from being splashed all over the bed. Eventually, once the spaniel had been pacified and fed more biscuits than deserved, Susan idly picked up the Village Herald and settled down to read.
Two cows had gone missing—hmm, but they belonged to old Mr. Melchitt. They’d be found before long, happily grazing in someone else’s field. He had never been the most effective livestock keeper, but his cows always seemed happy—that was the most important thing. Oh, she had tried to give up the newspaper as a preparation for convent life, but the minutiae of village life was simply too interesting to give up…
Her hands stilled on the newspaper. The spaniel waddled over to her, sniffing her upper arm with a face that begged for a stroke, but Susan ignored the creature completely.
‘You’ve gone awfully quiet.’ Charles’s voice barely cut into Susan’s horrified reverie. ‘Do you need another biscuit?’
The title of the article was Stitches and Sentiment. Susan blinked, a wave of shock filling her as she saw her own name written in bold black type.
… Although her religious convictions make it more than likely that she will leave our shores, that is not to say that Miss Harwood has given up all links to her past. Several worthy gentlemen have informed me that Mr. Charles Weldon and Miss Harwood shared a friendship many years ago, a sympathy that has apparently lasted…
‘Susan? You’re beginning to worry me.’
Susan let the newspaper drop onto the bed. Her fingers were shaking; when had she become so cold? ‘I’m ruined.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘I’m ruined. Thanks to your amenable journalist.’ She thrust the paper towards Charles. ‘Ruined.’
Keeping her face turned away from Charles, she reached for her clothes. If she could concentrate on the minutiae of buttoning and folding, she could avoid the panic–the fierce, animal panic clawing at her insides, threatening to make her scream.
No convent would ever accept her if this–if this terrible thing was read. She would never be respected in Twitchall again. She would never be respected anywhere again.
‘Susan.’ Charles’s voice had caught her fear; he sounded graver than she did. ‘Susan, don’t be alarmed–’
‘Don’t tell me not to be alarmed. Don’t tell me to be anything.’
‘I’ll solve this. I’ll–damn it, where did that young fool get the idea that–’
‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he thought it–which means others will think it. Which means I must leave now, and never come back.’
‘Susan.’ Charles’s face was as pale as the bed-sheet. ‘Susan, I–’
‘Enough.’ Susan held up a hand. She had to leave now, or the tears would start falling. Tears that she wouldn’t know how to stop. ‘Enough.’
‘Stay. Stay, and we’ll–’
‘No.’ Susan shrank away from his hand. Pinning her hair back aggressively tight, pushing her bonnet down on her head, she slipped out of the door and shut it tightly before he could follow her.
She stood in the office, the empty grate accentuating the cold of the room around her. The cold blossomed in her own heart, freezing her from head to foot for a long, terrifying moment before her natural courage asserted herself.
All she had to do was walk through the mill in a brisk, businesslike manner, avoiding the eyes of the earliest workers, and run to her cottage as soon as she was alone. Run faster than she had ever run before, and–and weep, weep into the road, so that none of these shameful tears would dampen the threshold of her house.
And then she would leave. Leave for the Continent. And the pain at the thought of doing it, of leaving him–it would fade with time.
Surely.
The next day dawned cold and grey, which Charles felt was entirely appropriate. It reflected his state of mind, at any rate. So much pleasure, so much ground covered–and all of it ruined, ruined beyond repair, by printed words on a page.
He sat grimly at his desk as the first spatters of rain began to hit the windows. The clatter and noise of the mill at work, the cheerful talk of the workers and the sound of effort, of progress, had no effect on him whatsoever.
All he could think about was Susan. The feverish, desperate way in which she had kissed him, the willingness with which her body had yielded to his. That sweet, ecstatic moment of union, of passion combined with sentiment, more meaningful than any carnal experience he had ever had…
… and all of it was gone. Gone forever. And unless he did something drastic, there was every chance Susan wouldn’t be able to follow her dream. A dream he hated, yes–but he had no right to dictate to her what she should want. What she was allowed to do with her life.
There was a timid knock at the door. Grimacing, looking over at the spaniel as it sat placidly on a cushion, Charles summoned up his courage. ‘Come in.’
Slowly, as if he didn’t want to come into the room, Isaac Weeks entered. His face was grey, his shoulders slumped as he bowed. ‘Sir.’
‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’ Not that the man had been given much of a choice. After the letter Charles had sent to both Isaac and the newspaper itself, it was a miracle the man hadn’t arrived in the dead of night. ‘It reflects the level of seriousness that this situation warrants.’
‘I am so very sorry.’
‘If that story had strayed any further into speculation, we would be having this conversation in a courtroom.’
‘I—I understand that.’
‘Miss Harwood’s life has become a subject of public debate, as has mine. I can bear such scrutiny—false claims have been made about me before. Nothing similar has ever happened to her, and she is not the sort of woman who either attracts comment or wishes to attract it.’
‘I didn’t know that—that her entry into a religious community was a foregone conclusion.’
‘But you knew that she intended to pursue a religious life, and yet you wrote that nonsense anyway. You decided to indulge in pernicious gossip at the expense of your own dignity and a woman’s innocent life.’
‘I—I didn’t think that it would—’
‘You didn’t think at all. Or if you did, you thought of your own future rather than that of the people you wrote about.’
‘I should have—I should have thought more.’
‘I can’t express the damage that you’ve wrought.’ Charles spoke quietly. He had no desire to play the stern patriarch; Isaac already looked as if he wanted to sink into the floor and vanish. Pity that whatever guilt the young man felt in no way tempered his own sadness. ‘You have blighted young woman’s life.’
‘I… I understand if you never forgive me.’
‘There is every chance that whatever religious community she chooses will n
ot accept her now. She will be cast out of society both here and there.’
‘I have written nothing that would mean social humiliation for Miss Harwood. I was most sure.’
‘Twitchall is not London. Your little piece may seem very subtle when compared to a metropolitan gossip rag, but here it’s practically a daubed curse on Miss Harwood’s door-frame!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘If I thought you had any capital, I’d sue you.’
‘I–I am beyond redemption.’
‘Yes.’ Charles paused. He had few words left in him, and they seemed utterly inadequate. ‘All of us are.’
A few moments of uneasy silence passed. The spaniel looked from one man to the other, evidently distressed, her tail limp and low.
‘You must make it up to Miss Harwood.’ Charles began rearranging his papers. Anything to distract his mind, to think of something else–anything else. ‘You will apologise as soon as you can. In person.’
‘I will retract the article–I will apologise in print.’
‘Like a coward.’
‘I–I don’t know if I can bear facing her, if the matter is as you say.’
‘Then you think me a liar?’
‘No. No, I don’t.’ Isaac held up his hands, his tone of voice a mixture of caution and outright alarm. ‘I will speak to her.’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘As–as soon as I can work up the courage.’
‘Think of her, damn you. Not of yourself.’ Charles put a hand to his brow as a wave of pain washed over him. ‘We could all stand to remember that.’
Isaac stared. For a moment, caught in the midst of that swift, perceptive look, Charles had the uncanny sensation that the man was reading his thoughts. Then, with a low bow, Isaac left the room.
‘Well then.’ Charles gruffly addressed the dog. ‘That’s that.’
The spaniel gave a low, pained whine.
The rain pelted down on Twitchall throughout the afternoon and evening, turning the paths and fields into treacherously boggy plains. Susan’s cottage was almost completely dark, the only source of light coming from the glowing fire from the grate, as small, pernicious drops of water trickled through the kitchen ceiling and splashed into a saucepan placed on the floor to catch them.
Susan sat wordless by the fire, hugging her knees. Doris sat by her, a cup of tea next to her on a small wooden table as she bent down, placing her hand on Susan’s shoulder.
Her cottage looked very different when it was emptied of her precious things. Doris had taken her most important objects, promising to keep them safe—and Susan had let her, despite feeling guilty about it. Other women had burned everything they owned before taking the veil, but she couldn’t. The idea of throwing everything onto a pyre, every trace of evidence that she had lived in the world, had loved… it was meant to feel glorious, but she couldn’t imagine anything more horrible.
Apart from this, of course. Nothing was worse than this.
She had told Doris everything. It was that, or go and scream what had happened into the fields and woods. She had already seen people looking at her strangely as she’d hurried home to the cottage—Lord, what were they thinking about her? What had they already said about her, gossiping in their cottages?
One letter to any of the convents, and their doors would be barred to her forever. She would be trapped here in Twitchall, with everyone convinced that—that—
—That she was in love with Charles Weldon. That she had been in love with him for years. And the fact that it was true didn’t make it any better.
‘Are you going to eat anything? I can collect some bread and cheese from home.’
‘No. I can’t eat anything.’
‘I’ve never understood people whose stomachs close when they encounter trouble.’
‘This is a little more than trouble.’
‘Half of the men and women of Twitchall can’t read, Susan, and the other half prefer gossiping about how their sheep are doing. Whatever that man wrote will pass without trace.’
‘That’s a lie. A nice one, but a lie all the same.’
‘There’s still time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘Time to write to the convents and tell them that you’re not going to come.’ Doris picked up her teacup with a decisive gesture; the cup rattled against the saucer before being hoisted into the air. ‘I assumed you’d do that as soon as possible.’
‘So you agree with me. My sin is too great for them to allow me entrance.’
‘No, you goose. Because you’ve discovered that marrying Charles Weldon is infinitely more exciting and interesting than shutting yourself up in the religious equivalent of a cell.’
‘Doris!’
‘Don’t ask me to apologise, because I won’t. I’ve bitten my tongue with commendable constancy for months as you’ve concocted this foolish plan, hoping against hope that you’d come to your senses. Now that this—this event has occurred, I’m not going to ignore it. It would go against everything I believe about you.’ Doris folded her arms, her eyes alive with compassion and concern. ‘You may consider it a scandal. I consider it a flash of divine illumination.’
‘You would be cast out of any church if you spoke thusly.’
‘We’re not in a church. We’re in your cottage. And if we are to speak of things that normally remain unspoken, Susan, my irreverence can certainly be discussed.’
‘I’ve never let your irreverence go without remark.’
‘But you never go any further. You have continued to seek my friendship throughout the period in which you’re supposed to cut yourself off from the world. Remove yourself from influences that mar your journey.’ Doris’s voice was very gentle indeed, even if her words were harsh. ‘And you’ve never done it.’
‘I’m–I’m a forgiving person.’
‘I know. I also know that if you had truly decided to cloister yourself away from the world, you would have ended your friendship with me as soon as it became obvious that I would never change my ways.’
The silence that followed was very heavy indeed, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire. Susan looked at Doris, her throat tight with anguish as her friend continued.
‘I don’t wish to hurt you, Susan. I truly don’t. But I must tell you things as I see them—I owe you that much. Your friendship means everything to me, after all.’
‘Oh, Doris.’
‘It’s true. You’re the funniest woman in Twitchall, apart from myself, and the brightest.’ Doris’s expression quivered. ‘I’m not entirely sure what I would do without you.’
‘Was that a knock at the door?’
‘Don’t try and avoid the conversation so transparently.’
‘I’m not.’ Susan held up a hand, straining to listen over the wind and rain. Yes, there it was–a knock, faint but solid. ‘Someone wants to come in.’
Doris’s eyes widened. ‘But–but could it be him?’
‘No. He would know how that would look.’ Susan sighed as she went to the door. Charles had his flaws, but he definitely wouldn’t be foolish enough to approach her dwelling after such a newspaper article had been published. He was considerate where it counted–and how stupid it was that she missed him, even though he was largely responsible for the chaos she now found herself in. ‘But who could it be otherwise?’
She had her answer as she opened the door. She shrank back, her hands already clenched into angry fists as Isaac Weeks, the overly curious man from the factory and the architect of her current misery, spoke.
‘Forgive me.’ He stepped over the threshold with a look of great reluctance, as if he didn’t wish to disturb the scene within. ‘I–I have agonised over whether to visit you or not. I have finally worked up my courage. But Mr. Weldon told me in no uncertain terms that I had to apologise to you in words… my words have already damaged you so much. I don’t know if this can remedy things.’
‘It’s you.’ Susan’s hands slowly unclenched as she s
tared at the man. Doris closed the door, scowling at the rain. ‘The… the journalist.’
‘Yes. I am responsible for–’
‘For the article.’
The man winced. ‘I am. And if Mr. Weldon hadn’t spoken with me, I would never have understood the harm that I have unintentionally wrought–’
‘Unintentionally!’
‘Yes, Miss Harwood. Unintentionally. I had no true idea of–of the seriousness of your plans, and if I had, I never would have written anything with even the mildest hint of… well… a link to a worldlier life.’ He shook his head, his face drawn and white with the effort of maintaining his composure. ‘Believe me.’
Susan opened her mouth, then closed it again. She could verbally lacerate the man, yes—but what help would it be now? Everything was already chaos; she had felt torn between her dreams of the convent and the reality of her existence even before Isaac had taken it upon himself to write his article.
Doris looked sternly at Isaac as she moved to place a comforting hand on Susan’s shoulder. ‘What did Mr. Weldon say to you about Miss Harwood?’
Isaac blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘What did he say? To make you understand what you had done, I mean.’ Doris looked carefully at both Isaac and Susan. ‘What words did he use?’
‘Well. He… he made it extremely clear that you, Miss Harwood, intend to begin a religious life on faraway shores, and that your good conduct was exemplary. He was most forceful in communicating to me exactly how damaging the insinuation in my article had been–that any hint of a courtship, however innocent and moral to worldly eyes, would be viewed very differently by a cloistered community.’
‘I see. Forceful.’ Doris nodded. ‘And if you were to examine the words he used… what sentiment would you think lay behind them?’
There was a short, awkward silence before Isaac held his hands up again, his face fraught. ‘I can only consider this a sort of trap. I have already said far, far too much concerning the possible sentiments of Mr. Weldon.’
‘Yes, Doris.’ Susan glared at her friend. ‘Too much indeed.’
‘No. I won’t let this opportunity pass.’ Doris looked firmly at Isaac. ‘No-one will know what you tell us, Mr. Weeks–and if the opinion of a village woman matters at all to you, know that your honest view of this particular matter has immense significance.’
Wedded in White: The Brothers Duke: Book Six Page 6
