One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  “Perhaps not,” Lady Bonneville said noncommittally, raising Rose’s ire even further.

  “Thank goodness he’s gone,” she said. “The gossip is unlikely to reach him in London, and by the time it does, he’ll be on his way to America.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Holland has been detained…  in the Bath prison.”

  The room began to spin, and Rose gripped the arms of her chair. “Prison?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can they lock him up? They have no proof of any wrongdoing.”

  “According to Diana, there’s a witness. Someone who saw Charles attack her in the library on the night of the ball.”

  “Who? They’re lying.”

  Lady Bonneville’s expression held equal measures of sympathy and pity. “How can you be sure?”

  “I saw them in the library that night. She was clearly the aggressor.” Although Rose had been fooled at first, too.

  “It will be very difficult for Mr. Holland to clear his name. Lady Yardley is a respected member of the ton. If she wishes to destroy him, she will.”

  “But that’s so unjust. Surely my word must count for something.”

  The viscountess tented her fingers and pressed them to her lips. “It does, but she’ll just say that the incident occurred later, after all the guests had left and you had gone to bed.”

  Rose drew a long deep breath. “I can prove Charles’s innocence.”

  “How?”

  She swallowed and looked Lady Bonneville directly in the eye. “I was with him. All night. In his cottage.”

  Through multiple layers of face powder, the viscountess’s cheeks shone red. Her chest heaved, her mouth gaped, and for several surreal seconds she was speechless.

  When at last she spoke, her eyes blazed with frightening intensity. “You will listen to me very carefully, Rose.”

  Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

  “You must never—ever—repeat what you just told me.”

  “But it’s the—”

  She held up a bejeweled hand. “No. You must trust me on this. You are young, and you may even fancy yourself in love, but I will not let you ruin your life for a man who worked in the stables.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  Lady Bonneville snorted. “That’s life, my dear.”

  “It’s no fault of Charles’s that his parents were servants. And it’s no accomplishment of mine to have been born to a duke and duchess. Charles is smart and hardworking, and yet you’d judge him harshly?”

  “You are so naïve, Rose. I don’t judge him because of his station in life.”

  “Then why? Why do you speak of him with such disdain?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Rose wasn’t sure. She closed her eyes, inhaled, and opened them. “Yes.”

  “I judge him because he seduced you—an innocent—knowing full well that he intended to leave England forever. That is not the behavior of a gentleman.”

  Rose wanted to defend him but doubted anything she said would change Lady Bonneville’s opinion. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  The viscountess didn’t respond immediately. At last she said, “I should tell you that what happens to Mr. Holland is no concern of yours. But I have a strong suspicion that you will disagree. Your notions of justice and fairness can be terribly inconvenient.”

  “I must go to him.”

  “Absolutely not. I forbid it,” Lady Bonneville snapped. “You cannot help him.”

  Rose ran her hands down her face and sprang out of her chair. “I can! I’ll convince the authorities of his innocence.”

  “I fear the only thing you’ll accomplish is your own ruin.”

  She paced beside the chessboard. “I don’t care. I won’t let him languish in a prison cell—it would kill him. He has dreams, and he values his freedom above all else.”

  “So it would seem,” the viscountess said dryly.

  Rose ignored the barb. “There must be something I can do.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She spun to face Lady Bonneville, desperate for a scrap of hope. “What?”

  “I think that our best chance at helping the steward lies in convincing Diana to drop the charges.” Touched by the use of the pronoun our, Rose had the sudden and strong urge to hug the viscountess, but she frowned upon overt displays of emotion.

  “That’s an excellent idea. Lady Yardley acted in the heat of the moment. Now that a little time has passed, we can reason with her.”

  “We will not do anything. I will.”

  “But—”

  “You are the competition, the enemy. She is not going to acquiesce to anything you suggest, especially if you attempt to appeal to her sense of justice. In her mind, she is the only party who has been injured.”

  “Then how will you convince her?”

  “She must be made to see that freeing Mr. Holland is in her own best interests. That it is necessary to preserving her reputation and pride.” Lady Bonneville rubbed her gloved palms together and curled her lips in a chilling smile. “Such matters happen to be squarely within my area of expertise.”

  Rose almost—but not quite—felt sorry for Lady Yardley. If anyone could persuade her to give up her ridiculous vendetta against Charles, the viscountess could, masterfully bringing to bear every sort of societal pressure. “Thank you,” Rose said sincerely. “But I still feel helpless. I wish there were something I could do myself.”

  “If you want to help the cause, do not attempt anything. If you do, you risk raising Diana’s ire. Then all will be lost.”

  Rose swallowed. “I understand.”

  “Two days should be sufficient for me to make her see the light of reason. We will return to London the morning after the ball at the Assembly Rooms, regardless.” The viscountess emphasized the last word, her meaning clear. They would leave Bath whether Charles had been freed or not. And she expected Rose to accompany her without argument.

  “Very well.”

  “Did you find the answers you sought?”

  “Pardon?”

  “In the letters,” Lady Bonneville clarified. “Did you learn what became of your mother?”

  “Yes.” But she wasn’t ready to discuss it—not even with the viscountess. “At least I know where to find her.”

  Lady Bonneville nodded but did not press for more information. “Let us hope that all of your machinations were worth it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Rose had agreed not to interfere with Lady Bonneville’s plans, and she was all too happy to avoid Lady Yardley. But she couldn’t forget about Charles. She simply had to know how he fared. And she knew just who to ask.

  Shortly after the viscountess retired for her afternoon nap, Rose spied Audrey in the corridor, carrying Lady Bonneville’s red tufted footstool.

  Rose stopped her and, pressing a finger to her lips, waved the maid into her room.

  “My lady,” Audrey whispered, “what can I do for you?”

  “I have a favor to ask. It requires your discretion.”

  The maid frowned but nodded.

  “Do you know Mr. Holland?”

  “Aye. Lady Yardley’s steward. The one she sacked. He was the main topic of discussion at luncheon today.”

  Of course the staff knew what had transpired. Rose tried not to dwell on what they all surely knew about her own recent behavior.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware, but Mr. Holland is now in even more trouble.”

  “How so, my lady?”

  “He’s…  in prison.”

  Audrey dropped the footstool with a thud. “What? Such a nice man. What could he have possibly done?”

  “I don’t believe he’s done anything wrong. That is why I’m asking the favor. Could you talk to the staff and inquire whether anyone has been in contact with him? I’d like to know how he’s faring.” It sounded like a polite, proper inquiry, devoid of
desperation. Her words gave no hint of how much she longed to go to him, to hold his hand, to cry over the injustice of it all.

  “Aye, I will. They were all fond of him and upset to see him go, except perhaps for Mr. Evans, the butler. But he doesn’t seem to approve of anyone. I’ll see what they know downstairs.” The maid’s gaze flitted to Rose’s hands, clenched with worry. “Do not despair, my lady. Mr. Holland is as strong as an ox and as clever as a fox. He can take care of himself.”

  “Thank you, Audrey.” Rose mustered a small smile. “And one more thing. If, by some chance, someone is able to visit Mr. Holland, I have a message for him.”

  The maid tilted her capped head. “Yes?”

  Rose swallowed. There was so much she wanted to say to Charles. “Please just tell him not to give up hope, and that help is on the way.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Audrey assured her. “I’ll stop by after dinner this evening to let you know what I’ve learned.” With that, she bobbed a quick curtsy, picked up the unwieldy footstool, and angled her way through the door.

  Rose walked to the bed, sank onto the mattress, and exhaled slowly. Audrey was right—Charles could take care of himself. But knowing he was caged like an animal made her sick. She’d forced herself to say good-bye to him because she’d thought he’d be able to achieve his dream of owning land in America. She couldn’t let all her heartache—and his—be for naught.

  But there was nothing else to be done right now. She had to trust Lady Bonneville and Audrey. And she had to exercise patience, something she normally excelled at.

  But she had the dreadful, sinking feeling that the virtue would elude her. Until Charles was free.

  Charles’s first-floor cell was only slightly warmer than the frigid air outside and reeked of unwashed bodies. Some of the cells housed two men, but he was alone in his. He hadn’t slept much the night before, thanks to his lumpy pallet and the snores of his fellow prisoners. He’d spent most of the morning and afternoon futilely walking from one side of the room to the other, wearing out the stained floorboards. But now the small window at the top of the back wall revealed the setting sun, and he sat on a wooden bench near the iron bars at the front of his cell, watching and listening.

  The men who’d burst into his room at the inn and dragged him here were gone. Only one man—Wescott was his name—stood guard in the center of the prison floor this evening. Young and fit, he walked to each of the cells, which were laid out in a large U shape, and eyed the inhabitants suspiciously. The morning guard had spent his time nipping drinks from a flask and playing solitaire, but Wescott’s pressed uniform and businesslike posture suggested he was cut from different cloth. He took his job seriously. Under different circumstances, Charles would have admired that trait.

  Wescott paused in front of Charles and shot him a long, assessing stare. Charles stared back. “How long until I can go before the magistrate?”

  The guard shrugged. “The weather’s made travel difficult. Could be a couple of days, could be a week.”

  “My bags”—Charles nodded toward the rough wooden table in the center of the floor where his two bags sat, their contents spilling out—“contain everything I own. The watchmen already took my knife. You can search my bags, too. But let me keep them in here.” When the watchmen had discovered Charles’s heavy pouch of coins, their eyes had lit with greed. He’d resorted to mentioning his connection to a duke. It was admittedly tenuous, but when paired with the deadly look he’d given them, it had been enough to deter them from stealing the coins—for the time being. But the longer his bags sat in the center of the prison floor, the greater the likelihood that his hard-earned money would be pocketed by the corrupt officials who imprisoned others for theft. Hypocrites. Charles suspected that Wescott had integrity few of the others possessed.

  The guard turned to look at the bags and rocked on his heels, thoughtful. “You were planning on leaving town?”

  “I was. Not because I did anything wrong,” Charles added.

  “Of course not.” Wescott rolled his eyes but nodded. “I’ll consider the request—after a thorough search.” He began rummaging through Charles’s bags.

  “Thank you.”

  “Does your family know you’re here?” the guard asked.

  “No.” Charles thanked God that his father was blissfully unaware of his current predicament. Pa was powerless to help anyway.

  After Mum died, he’d aged ten years overnight. His smile was never as bright as before, his shoulders never as straight. While his grief took the form of sadness, Charles’s turned to rage. He couldn’t forget the wounded sound of Pa’s sobs as he bent over the bed where his wife lay, pale and lifeless. Nor could he shake the feeling that Mum’s death was somehow his fault. He should have run faster, pleaded harder. He should have forced the doctor to come to her aid.

  Their family, which should have grown to four, had shrunk to two—him and Pa. They had only each other now, and Charles needed to make his father proud and spare him further pain. He owed him that much.

  Charles wouldn’t burden him with his current predicament. Neither would he involve Rose. She couldn’t be tainted by this—by him—any more than she already had been.

  “I can give you some paper and a pen if you’d like to write to someone and inform them of your circumstances,” the guard said.

  Charles thought about his friend, Harry, whom he’d met while working on the docks. Harry had surprising connections to all sorts of influential people and a knack for employing coercion. If anyone could find a way to have Charles released, he could. But writing a letter explaining his situation took more skill than he possessed.

  “No need,” Charles said. “I can handle my own affairs. But I appreciate the offer.”

  Wescott raised a brow as he unlocked Charles’s cell and kicked his bags through the door. “Let me know if you change your mind. You have plenty of time to think things over.”

  Indeed, and he’d started to formulate a plan. Now that he had his bags, he had money. And the morning guard was lazy, greedy, and frequently foxed, which provided another key component of his plan—opportunity. “I think I’d like that paper after all.”

  After dinner that evening, Rose pleaded a mild headache and went to her room so that Lady Bonneville would have ample time to help Lady Yardley see the error of her ways. Or at least convince her that dropping the charges against Charles would work to her own advantage. The viscountess had given Rose a confident, encouraging nod as she left, bolstering her drooping spirits.

  But time ticked away, and when at last Rose heard Lady Bonneville in the corridor, she dashed out of her room. “Were you able to convince her?”

  The viscountess blinked and rubbed her forehead. “Not yet. But not for lack of trying.” She looked weary and almost…  defeated. Which frightened Rose even more.

  “What shall we do?”

  “You must be patient, my dear. Persuasion is best accomplished slowly and in almost imperceptible increments.”

  Rose wrinkled her nose. “I don’t understand. We haven’t much time, remember?”

  The viscountess sighed dramatically. “A lady does not bash in a brick wall with a sledgehammer,” she said slowly. “Rather, she chips away at the brick, bit by bit, until the wall crumbles.”

  Perhaps, but Rose rather liked the sound of the sledgehammer. “You are right, of course. My concern for Charles is overpowering my good sense.”

  Lady Bonneville clucked her tongue. “I cannot imagine what that man did to inspire such devotion. I cannot think him worthy of it.”

  Rose swallowed. “I’m afraid I do not agree with you. He is one of the finest people I know.”

  The viscountess laid her fingers on Rose’s cheek. “Never fear, my girl. I shall chip away some more tomorrow, and then we must hope that Diana does the right thing.”

  Rose didn’t want to leave Charles’s fate to hope, but she nodded obediently. “Shall I come in and read to you for a bit?”

&nb
sp; “No, I wouldn’t hear a word of it, as I am sure to be snoring the moment my head hits the pillow. I suggest you get your rest as well. Good night.”

  Rose smiled wanly as Lady Bonneville shuffled into her room. “Good night.”

  But she had no intention of resting. Not until she received the rest of the news she awaited.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when a faint knock sounded at Rose’s door. She leaped up to open it, relieved to see Audrey standing outside.

  The maid swept into the room breathlessly, bobbed a curtsy, and without preamble said, “The Bath prison’s on Grove Street, my lady. No one has been to see Mr. Holland yet, but one of the footmen, Edward, and the kitchen maid, Shirley, plan to visit tomorrow. They’re going to sneak out immediately after luncheon while Mr. Evans is preoccupied with his weekly inventory of the silver and take a wagon into town. I’ve given Shirley your message, and I’m sure she’ll convey it to Mr. Holland if she’s able. She’s a fine girl, even if she does always manage to burn the toast.”

  Rose sat on the edge of her bed, absorbing the news. “That’s good. At least he’ll have some visitors.” But she couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous of the footman and kitchen maid. If they could visit Charles, why couldn’t she?

  She stood, took a fortifying breath, and looked directly at Audrey. The maid was about her height. “I must ask another favor of you.”

  “Anything, my lady.”

  “Would you lend me one of your dresses?”

  As soon as the morning light filtered through the dirty window of his cell, Charles threw off his rough wool blanket and retrieved a book from his bag. Grimms’ fairy tales. Rose had given him the volume years ago, and he’d kept it with him always. Not because he’d spent much time rereading the stories, but because it reminded him of her and of his father, who’d often read them aloud after dinner.

  He opened to one of his favorites, The Fisherman and His Wife, and read the first line.

  There was once upon a time a fisherman who lived with his wife in a hut beside the sea.