The Bride's Secret

by Cheryl Bolen

  She cleared away her tears that very minute and stood up. She was determined to fill James's sturdy shoes to the best of her abilities. But what would she tell people when they asked about her husband?

  She moved to the basin and put the cold water on her swollen eyes. She would have to cross that bridge when she came to it. One thing was sure: she would never lie again.

  What could she say when weeks had passed and still Lord Rutledge had not returned—for she knew he would not?

  * * *

  Since the skies were clear, James had decided he would ride Ebony to Bath. Because of his late start, he was relatively certain he might have to put up at an inn for the night. That was preferable to staying at Yarmouth. How could a place which had brought him such happiness now hold such crippling grief?

  The wind to their backs, he and Ebony rode over moors and glens and sweeping hills. By the time they were two hours from Exmoor, the skies overhead clouded. James looked up and realized rain was imminent. Which would be in keeping with this sullen day. Let the rains come! What did he care? What did he care about anything?

  Just the night before he had come to realize he possessed his heart's desire: the love of his wife. Now he had nothing. The woman he had married apparently gave her love—and her magnificent body—far too readily. Despite his sudden hatred for her, he grew aroused just remembering the sexual delights she had offered him the night before. Damn her!

  He tried to reason with himself. Loving one man—though that one man was not her husband—did not make a woman a whore. For, as much as it hurt him to admit it, Carlotta had been in love with Blankenship. Damn him! She had been honest to James about that. And about wanting marriage—which the blackguard Blankenship refused to offer. How could the man have ruined her so? Would that James could punch away at the man's handsome face. Better not that, though, for James was not at all convinced he would not kill Blankenship if he were given the opportunity.

  A light mist began to fall first, and James hoped he could make it to the next village. He gathered his coat tightly around him to block the gathering wind. Before he had gone a mile, the sky grew darker and the mist turned into a drizzle, then the drizzle quickly became a pounding rain that beat down relentlessly upon him. Soon, huge, gaping puddles began to mire Ebony's way, and he could hardly see three feet in front of him.

  James leaned forward and stroked Ebony, speaking soothingly to him. He only hoped the lightning he saw in the distance would stay away because his horse was terrified of thunder and lightning.

  Again, James's famous good luck did not hold. Thunder claps came ever closer until it seemed as if the heavens roared directly above them. Ebony's great hind legs collapsed under him as his front legs soared to the heavens. Because of the wetness, James slipped from the saddle. He fell backward, and as his head hit the ground, pounding into something hard and sharp. Then all James knew was a great, vast blackness.

  Chapter 28

  How many hours he had lain in the wet, pounding rain, James had no idea. Several hours, he knew. When he came to, the night was black, and the rain had subsided though James looked and felt as if he'd been swimming in a raging river, his back dragged across the its rocky bed. There was no sign of the thunder and lightning that had so frightened Ebony.

  As James went to raise up, pain shot through his head. Unable to ignore the headache and unwilling to give in to it, he raised himself to his feet. He heard a stirring in the woods behind him and spun around. Despite the throbbing in his head, a smile slid across his face. Ebony had not run away but must have stayed beside his master's lifeless body for hours. Bloody horse probably felt guilty.

  Shivering with cold, James went forward to sweet talk and stroke the beast.

  What James needed now was a warm room at an inn. He had no idea where he was or how long before he would reach an inn. Not without pain, he mounted Ebony and headed east.

  * * *

  Squinting against the sun which was directly overhead, Carlotta rode her filly across the lonely moors. This morning's business had been most unpleasant, indeed. She had gone to console the widow and children of the other deceased miner, Matthew Linderman. Her heart had gone out to the poor widow. She was so young—not more than two and twenty—and was now left with four young uns to care for alone. And judging from her swollen belly, she was due to deliver another before the summer solstice.

  Carlotta had immediately admired the young mother, who had made an effort to brush aside her grief in order to welcome Lady Rutledge into her modest cottage. The girl had beamed with pride when she had introduced her small children to Lady Rutledge. The eldest—a sturdy lad—could not have seen more than four summers. Mrs. Linderman would not leave the side of her husband's coffin, which sat waist level on a bier.

  The grateful, sobbing widow could have kissed Carlotta's skirts when Carlotta assured her Lord Rutledge would provide for her and her children.

  Leaving the sadness of the Linderman cottage, Carlotta realized her own fate could have been worse. At least the man she loved so dearly was still alive. She could not have borne the sight of her beloved James gray and lifeless in a coffin. 'Twas bad enough that she would never again be held in his arms, never meet his teasing gaze nor hear his whispered words of love. After so agonizing a morning after so wretched a night, Carlotta was ready for a glimmer of brightness, and who better to bring her happiness than her sweet little son?

  Back at Yarmouth, she found him in the nursery with Miss Kenworth. “I've come to hear Stevie read,” Carlotta announced as she strolled into the room and bent to kiss her son.

  He shot an embarrassed look at his nurse.

  “Why do you not read her your newly learned poem, lad? Your mother is uncommonly fond of poetry.”

  He began to fumble through a pile of thin books at his desk until he came to the one he sought. “Here it is!” he exclaimed, looking up happily at Carlotta.

  “I should love for you to read it to me, lamb.” She pulled a child-sized wooden chair up beside her son and sat down, beaming at his serious little face.

  He took the slim book and stood up. “It's called “The Wife of Usher's Well.”

  She nodded.

  There lived a wife at Usher's Well and a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons and sent them o'er the sea.

  He stumbled only at the word stalwart.

  When he got to the final stanza of the old ballad and read Fare ye weel, my mother dear; Fareweel to barn and byre; And fare ye weel, the bonny lass that kindles my mother's fire, a tear slipped from Carlotta's eye. “You read that very well, my sweet. I'm very proud of you.”

  He looked up and smiled. “Just like the Wife of Usher's Well.”

  “She did so love those sons,” Carlotta said. “Just as I love my son.”

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “I heard the servants say Papa has gone away. Can that be true?”

  Her breathing ceased. “Yes, he has gone. I shall miss him greatly, as I'm sure you shall.” She tried to sound casual, to belie the crushing pain in her heart.

  “When's he coming home?”

  She shrugged. “I don't actually know, love. Soon, I hope.”

  Her poor son had undergone enough changes. She must allow him to be accustomed to not having James around before she dared to tell him how unlikely it was that he would ever again see his stepfather.

  A forced smile on her face, she left the nursery and trudged to her study. What was she to do? She had unfinished work to do here at Yarmouth. For the first time in her life, she actually felt needed, felt as if she had a contribution to make. Furthermore, she vehemently objected to once more displacing her son.

  Yet underlying all the reasons why she should stay at Yarmouth was the single reason why she should leave. Yarmouth wasn't hers. It was James's. He had done nothing in his past to warrant his expulsion from Yarmouth. Why should he live the life of a vagabond because of her great sin?

  Sh
e also felt guilty to accept his generosity. She and Stevie were enjoying the lavish life afforded them through James. She felt ashamed to accept it. Then she placated herself with the memory of the great debt James owed her and Stevie for having deprived them of a husband and father. And it wasn't as if James couldn't afford it. Had it only been her, though, and not Stevie also, she would have left Yarmouth with nothing. But she had to provide for her son.

  Had it not been for Stevie, she realized, she would have lain in her bed lamenting James's loss and hoping for death to release her from her woeful life. Because her son needed her, she refused to give in to her grief.

  She finished penning a dutiful letter to her grandmother, giving the poor old woman no hint that all was not well at Yarmouth Hall, then she went downstairs to post the letter.

  Mr. Fordyce was just walking into the hall with several items he intended to post. “Oh, there you are, my lady,” he said, nudging his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Could I have a word with you?”

  Carlotta cocked her head. “Certainly.”

  He set the letters down on the demilune table and lowered his voice. “In my office, if you please.”

  She followed him into the library and into his adjacent office, taking a seat before his desk.

  He remained standing. “It's about his lordship,” he began. “I've been told he suddenly left yesterday, but that is most unlike Lord Rutledge. I've never known a more conscientious man than he. We—the steward and I—had many projects that demanded his attention. Surely he's not gone off?”

  “Oh, dear,” Carlotta said lightly in an effort to conceal her grief, “he has gone off. I daresay he's convinced you and the steward are well able to make decisions without him.”

  Fordyce's forehead collapsed into a scowl. “When will Lord Rutledge return?”

  She shrugged. “I'm not really sure I know.”

  “If you could give me his direction, I will endeavor to communicate with him by post, then.”

  Carlotta's chest tightened. She was between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand she did not wish to lie; on the other, she was not sure her husband would like it known that he had fled in anger. What was she to do? “It will be extremely difficult to communicate with him as his destination is rather uncertain.” At least she had not lied.

  “But what if you need to communicate with him?”

  “Oh, I don't need to,” she said breezily.

  The secretary began to pace his office from one end to the other, pausing once to peer from the window. “Did his lordship authorize you to act in his behalf?”

  Oh, dear. She really did not want to lie. “I can act on his behalf.” Even if he didn't authorize me to do so.

  Mr. Fordyce's face cleared. “Yesterday Lord Rutledge told me to establish trusts for the families of the two miners who were killed. They are to receive funds indefinitely the first of every quarter.”

  Carlotta nodded.

  “But his lordship did not tell me how much money is involved.”

  “That's a simple enough matter to solve,” she said decidedly. “You need only determine how much the collier's wages were and see to it the family continues to receive the same amount of money.”

  Mr. Fordyce chuckled. “'Twas so easy, I can't believe I didn't think of it myself.”

  “I believe, Mr. Fordyce, I should like the miners to gain a new means of livelihood in the event my husband decides to close the mine.”

  “You, my dear Lady Rutledge, may not be aware of it, but you are reform minded.”

  “I believe I shall take that as a compliment.” She paused. “Mr. Fordyce?”

  “Yes?”

  “I would wish to send you to London on a mission for me.”

  “To London?”

  “Yes. Surely you've been there?”

  “Many times.”

  “I should like you to go to Rundel & Bridges and sell a hideously gaudy necklace of mine for me. I should like to use the money it fetches to, perhaps, allow the miners to foray into sheep farming—or some such endeavor that would allow them to replace their income.”

  “Does his lordship approve of you disposing of your jewels in such a manner?”

  “Of course he approves—though these are not Rutledge jewels. They were in my possession before I married. And, I assure you, my husband is a most generous man, as you must know. It's just that if he closes the mine, I fear his own income will be substantially reduced. I shouldn't wish him to suffer on any account. Especially when I have in my possession so valuable a necklace.”

  “When should you like me to leave?”

  “If you have no objections, tomorrow morning should be fine.”

  * * *

  Each time Ebony shifted his weight, James's head seared in pain. He was cold. His body was weary. They rode and rode and still did not come to an inn. Finally, a light in the window of a stone farmhouse beckoned. He had to take refuge there before he slid once again from Ebony's back in his aching exhaustion.

  A moment later, James limped to the farmhouse door and knocked.

  A white-headed man in homespun answered, a questioning look on his face.

  “Forgive me for disturbing you,” James croaked, “but I've been injured in a fall from my horse and would like to pay for a night's lodging at your home.”

  The farmer swept the door open wider. “Yer welcome to it, sir, though I cannot vouch for the cleanliness of the linens. The children's room ain't been used since me missus died. Course our children are old enough to have sired ye,” he said with a laugh.

  James stumbled through the doorway.

  “Can I help see to yer wounds?” the old man asked.

  James shook his head. “If you'll just direct me to the bed . . .” He had barely enough energy to talk.

  “This way,” the man said, leading James up the dark, narrow stairway.

  When the man lit James a candle and set it beside the bed in “the children's” room, James thanked him and collapsed onto the bed.

  He slept like the dead until morning and woke up feeling refreshed and a great deal better than he had the night before. Then he moved. The bruises on his back and head screamed. Bracing against the pain, he removed himself from the damp, lumpy bed and went downstairs.

  There, the farmer was preparing a breakfast of tongue, trout and toast—as he informed James.

  James could eat a horse. “May I lend you a hand?” he asked the farmer.

  “Not a gent like yerself. Dare say ye've never been in no kitchen in yer life.”

  James chuckled. “I've been in a kitchen, though I dare say I don't know my way around one.”

  The old man sighed. “Day was when I didn't. But then me Betty died. Married eight and thirty years, we were.”

  “You must miss her very much.”

  “That I do.” The farmer scooped up the trout and set it on two plates, then he glanced at James. “You married?”

  James's stomach plummeted as he barely nodded.

  The host filled the plates and set them on the table in front of James. “Not fancy food like a gentleman of quality such as yerself is used to,” he said apologetically.

  “My dear man, this is the most welcome meal I've ever had.” Then James set about stabbing the trout with his fork.

  The farmer's appetite was not nearly as great as James's. A glance over his rail-thin frame confirmed the likelihood that this morning's feast was not customary.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” James said after a sip of cold cream. “I'm James Moore.” No sense flustering the man with his title.

  The farmer nodded. “Me name's Tilburn. Michael Tilburn.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Two hours from Bath.”

  He never would have lasted those two hours last night, James thought. He dove back into his plate. Once it was clean, he directed his attention at his host. “I thank you for your generosity, Mr. Tilburn. That's the best breakfast I've ever had.”

  The old
man chuckled. “Ye must have been sorely hungry. A pity me Betty passed. Now there was a cook.” He eyed James. “How long ye been wed?”

  James gave a bitter laugh. “Only a few months.”

  The farmer's eyes scanned James. “Allow an old man to give advice. When me Betty died, I was filled with regrets. All the words I wanted to tell her I would never be allowed to say. The petty little arguments had caused a friction that I'd allowed to fester. Then before I knew it, she was gone, and I realized none of those disagreements mattered. All that mattered was that I had loved her with all me heart and had never told her.”

  He gazed solemnly at James. “Don't ever go to be mad with yer wife.”

  The man's eyes moistened, and James knew he had better look away, or he would end up exactly like his host.

  Before he left Mr. Tilburn's house, James gave him a sovereign with profound thanks.

  By the time James reached the Sheridan Arms Hotel in Bath, Mannington, who had brought James's clothing in the coach, was beside himself with worry and extremely relieved when his master at last arrived.

  The first thing James did upon his arrival was to crash into the fat feather mattress and sleep for nearly a full day. When he finally awoke, pain surged through him. Not just the pain from the bruises on his back or the swelling on his head, but the unending pain of knowing the Carlotta he had fallen in love with was lost to him forever.

  James was in Bath for several days, venturing no further than the public houses which offered the spirits he had come to require.

  Two days' distance separated him from Carlotta and still thoughts of her stormed through him. He had been so blessedly close to perfect happiness he had touched it, tasted it, but it was too elusive.

  James had been woefully inept in thinking he could purge Carlotta from his thoughts merely by removing himself from her presence. Her hold on him was strong. Barely a moment passed without him remembering her sweet lavender scent, or the purring sound of her seductive voice or the smooth feel of her bare flesh. She had penetrated into his mind and body like ink on a blotter.