The Bride's Secret

by Cheryl Bolen

  When night would come he would lie in his bed and torture himself with visions of Carlotta writhing beneath Gregory Blankenship. He came to loath both of them.

  During his second week in Bath, he ventured into the Pump Room and signed the book, not that he expected anything to come of it. After all, he was not a social creature. He had been content to retire to the country with the woman he loved.

  Rage swept over him. Now he knew why Carlotta had no friends in Bath, why she had been so anxious to remove him from the city. He felt utterly duped.

  While he was perusing the names in the book, Gregory Blankenship strolled up to him. It was all James could do not to send his fist crashing into the man's face.

  “Lord Rutledge!” Blankenship said. “I don't suppose you remember me.” He swept into a bow. “Gregory Blankenship—from Boodles.”

  James's eyes could have burned through the scoundrel. “I do.”

  “Felicitations on your recent nuptials. I read the announcement in the Times.”

  “I also remember you from Rundel & Bridges,” James said viciously.

  “The necklace!”

  “Exactly.” James spit out the words.

  Blankenship looked behind him, then turned back to Gregory. “Where can we speak?”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Then you know . . .”

  “I know I should like to run a sword through you.”

  Blankenship hung his head. “It's not what you think, my lord. Mrs. Ennis was a virtuous woman,” he almost whispered.

  “You will never force me to believe the great womanizer Gregory Blankenship did not bed my wife,” James said icily.

  Blankenship looked around nervously once more. “From the beginning, she made it clear she would settle for nothing less than marriage. It wasn't what you think.”

  God, but James wanted to believe the man, but Carlotta herself had admitted her culpability. “I refuse to discuss my wife with you,” James said, then spun on his heel and left the lofty chamber.

  Chapter 29

  Her son accompanying her, Carlotta attended Sunday services at the little church located on the other side of Bagworthy Wood. It was the only time she got a glimpse of the miners with their faces clean. During the service, Carlotta was prohibited from viewing many other churchgoers because the Rutledge family pew was at the front of the church.

  Afterwards, she joined those who had gathered outside in front of the church doors. Her eyes fell on Mrs. Covington's toddler son, who held up his arms for his mother to hold him, but his mother's hands were already full with Daniel.

  Carlotta bent to pick up the boy, who was still a baby, but he was frightened of her. She then held out her arms to Mrs. Covington, “Allow me to hold Daniel.”

  After giving the infant to Carlotta, Mrs. Covington picked up the little lad, who could not yet be two. Despite the sorrow on the widow's face and the pain she had to be going through, Carlotta was strangely jealous of her, for Mrs. Covington had borne nine children—nine wonderful children—for the man she had loved. Her riches were far greater than Carlotta's. Carlotta hugged Daniel to her.

  Affectionately stroking the infant and planting soft kisses on top the downy hair on top his head, Carlotta made it a point to greet as many miners as she knew by name and others she knew only by sight.

  “Tell me it ain't so that Lord Rutledge has left Exmoor,” one of the miners said to her.

  “Lord Rutledge may not be here physically, but be assured my husband's here in spirit. The miners are never far from his heart. If it were at all possible for to be here, he would.” Another evasive answer, which she had become so adept at giving as of late.

  After visiting with the parishioners, she and Stevie got into the carriage. Though they had walked to church the week before, Carlotta thought not to today in order to keep Stevie from being outdoors more than necessary. He had been coughing and sneezing, and—fearing he would take a chill—she meant to keep him indoors.

  He sat on the opposite seat from her. “Come sit by your mama, love,” she said soothingly.

  He came and sat close to her, tucking his head into her bosom. Her arm slipped around him. Was there anything on earth as fulfilling as feeling your arms around your child? she wondered. She went to stroke the hair from his forehead, and her hand came into contact with skin as hot as a fire screen. “Oh, dear, you're burning up, lad! Why did you not tell me how sick you were?”

  “I'm not sick, he protested,” his teeth chattering. “Ju-ju-just cold.”

  She swept off her own cloak and wrapped him in it, taking his little hand into hers. “We need to get you home and into bed, lamb.” Her hands ran up and down his thin arms in an effort to warm him.

  She glanced down at his listless face and his drooping lashes, and she became frightened. She had never seen Stevie when he did not have boundless energy.

  The ride back to Yarmouth seemed interminably long. She kept patting his arm, his shoulder, kept kissing the top of his head, all the while a sick feeling gnawing in the pit of her stomach. Other—more experienced—mothers might not react as she did, but since this was her first time to care for her own sick child, she was, perhaps unnecessarily, worried. Was it normal for her poor little one to run a fever? What a wretched mother she had been not to know more of her child's background.

  When the coach pulled up in front of Yarmouth, Carlotta did not wait for the footman to open the carriage door. She swept it open and reached back to lift up her son. She carried him into the house and up the stairs to his chamber, ignoring pleas from the footmen who wished to take the lad off her hands.

  She placed Stevie on his new red bed covering and stooped to remove his shoes, then his small clothes. She tucked him beneath the covers and kissed him. “What you need, lamb, is sleep. By tomorrow, you'll likely be back to your normal self.”

  “Mama?” he whispered in a croak.

  She leaned into him. “What, my love?”

  “It feels so good to be lying here.”

  “I know, my sweet.” If only it could be I. 'Twas far too painful to see her son so incapacitated. Especially now that she had already lost James. James, who would have been such a help at a time like this. She must not allow herself to think of James. She had schooled herself to push thoughts of him from her mind to enable herself to function here at Yarmouth in his absence. If she had allowed herself to remember the love she felt for James or the bliss he had given her or the emptiness now inside her, she never would have been able to perform her duties.

  Carlotta could not bring herself to leave Stevie's bedside. The footmen must have talked about her dramatic entry, for soon Miss Kenworth flew into the room, concern on her face. “My lady! What's wrong with Master Stephen?”

  It felt good to share her concerns with another adult. “He's burning with fever, even though I made him take the carriage to church—because of his cough. I dare say, he'll be back to his old rambunctious self by tomorrow.”

  Miss Kenworth's brows lowered as she stepped closer. “I told him he needed a coat yesterday, but he would have no part of one.” Her face clouded. “Oh, 'tis my fault, I fear.”

  “It's no one's fault,” Carlotta said sternly. “The child merely has taken a chill.”

  Miss Kenworth turned to Carlotta. “Don't worry about Master Stephen, my lady. I'll stay here with him.”

  Carlotta nodded, kissed her son and left his newly painted chamber, smiling at his color choice of ruby red.

  Since it was Sunday, she could not even indulge herself by working in the garden, but she could at least walk its paths. And hope that James did not converge upon her thoughts too greatly. Sweet Jesus, but she missed him. Not a day had passed that she did not think of something she wanted to share with him. And she dare not allow herself to remember his voice or his smile or his debilitating touch.

  She strolled the myriad of dissecting paths, unable to purge the man who had been her husband from her thoughts. Where was he? Was h
e ever going to return to Yarmouth? Did he ever spare a thought for her or for Stevie? Her stomach tumbled. Would she ever again behold him?

  Even if they could never recapture what they had shared, she yearned to once more see him. To behold him would be balm to her soul.

  In the event he did not return, she needed to start making arrangements for the running of Yarmouth and the mines. Even if it was not her place to do so. It would be better were he to come home.

  When he returned—if he did—she knew she would have to leave Yarmouth. She and Stevie both. For Yarmouth wasn't theirs, even if they had grown to think of it as their home. She and Stevie would find a little cottage somewhere and accept a modest settlement from the man who had caused Stephen Ennis's death.

  If only they could find a way not to miss James so horribly.

  “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  She turned to see Mr. Fordyce. She had not even heard him approach. “Hello, Mr. Fordyce.”

  “Would you object to me walking with you?”

  “Please do. I always love sharing my garden, and I daresay I could use the company, too. Things have grown rather lonely here at Yarmouth without my husband.”

  Fordyce fell into step beside her. “Any word when Lord Rutledge is coming home?”

  She shook her head. She had grown so tired of hearing that same question.

  “I must commend you on your wisdom in selecting Miss Kenworth. She's extremely capable,” he said.

  “I cannot deny she is well qualified. What has been serendipitous—for Stevie, especially—is her unequaled good nature. Finding Miss Kenworth has, indeed, been a blessing for all of us.”

  “By Jove! That's it!” he exclaimed. “She's gifted with uncommon good nature.”

  Carlotta stole a glance at him. Could Mr. Fordyce be falling in love with the pleasant nurse? How devilishly wonderful! “'Twould be difficult to imagine Miss Kenworth ever being in an ill humor.”

  “And she is singularly intelligent,” he added. “Especially for one as young, and as delicate as Miss. Kenworth.”

  Miss Kenworth delicate! Carlotta willed herself not to laugh.

  Mr. Fordyce slowed his pace. “It was obvious to me when Lord Rutledge was here that you love him very much.”

  She sighed. “I do.”

  He cleared his throat. “Such an observation came to me because I seem to have love and marriage on my own mind a great deal as of late.”

  She kept walking and spoke calmly. “Since Miss Kenworth has come to Yarmouth?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Methinks, perhaps, you've fallen in love, Mr. Fordyce.”

  “I believe you to be right, my lady. The question is, what shall I do about it?”

  She slowed her step. “Should you wish to marry the lady?”

  “I do, indeed.”

  Carlotta slowed her step and directed a smile at him. “Why, then, you've only to ask her!”

  “But I should be ever so humiliated were she to turn me down. After all, it's not as if I don't have to see her every day of my life.”

  Carlotta stopped and looked up at him. “But, Mr. Fordyce, I really don't believe Miss Kenworth will turn you down.”

  “She's spoken to you?” he asked hopefully.

  Her shoulders slumped. “No, but I can tell by her demeanor, the same way you could tell from mine how greatly I love James.” Even if he does not love me. She would always love James.

  He looked suspiciously at her. “Would that I could believe you.”

  Carlotta set a hand on his arm. “Trust in me.”

  Then, without talking, the two of them set off walking again.

  At length, Carlotta said, “Why do you not ask her?”

  “I'm not very knowledgeable about matters of the heart. I know one is supposed to ask the maiden's father, but since Miss Kenworth's father is deceased, I'm not sure how I should go about this.”

  “Just ask her. Miss Kenworth's mature enough to know her own mind.”

  “I've never been so nervous.”

  “Allow me to send her down. The quicker you do it, the sooner it will be over with.”

  “Do you really believe she will favor my suit?”

  Carlotta had turned to walk away. She stopped and pivoted back to him. “I know not what Miss Kenworth's opinions are on marriage, but I believe she would entertain your suit above all others.”

  He sighed. “Very well.”

  Carlotta tiptoed into her son's room, where Miss Kenworth, reading a book, sat beside his bed. “How is he?” Carlotta whispered.

  “There's been no change, my lady,” Miss Kenworth answered.

  “Allow me to relieve you now,” Carlotta said. “Mr. Fordyce is in the parterre garden, and has asked me to ask you to join him.”

  Miss Kenworth's hand automatically flew to her hair. “Me, my lady?” she asked with surprise.

  It was all Carlotta could do not to blurt out the secretary's intentions, but she dare not relieve him of that pleasure. “Yes. You two have become rather good friends, have you not?”

  Miss Kenworth spoke shyly. “I should like to think we have.”

  “Then go on with you!”

  “Are you sure you can spare me?”

  “I'm sure.”

  For a long time Carlotta sat there watching her son. He was so beautiful with his tawny hair and tawny skin and perfect little face. A pity he felt so wretched today. He continuously tossed and turned, throwing off his covers, sweat drenching his head. Then he would alternately begin to shiver and beg for the counterpane. She grew quite concerned, and finally rang for a servant.

  Adams himself answered her ring.

  “I need the doctor fetched,” she said, not without worry. “Master Stevie's quite ill.”

  “I shall dispatch a man immediately, my lady,” Adams told her before he slipped quietly from the sick room.

  No sooner had Adams left the room when Miss Kenworth—along with Mr. Fordyce—entered.

  Carlotta glanced at their beaming faces and knew they came with good news. She stood up and, with her hands outstretched, went to greet them.

  “I wanted you to be the first to know, my lady,” Miss Kenworth said.

  Mr. Fordyce stepped forward. “Miss Kenworth has done me the goodness of accepting my offer of marriage.”

  Carlotta smiled from one of them to the other. “I have every confidence you two will suit extremely well. Please accept my felicitations.” She took both their hands. “Will you marry in Middlesex, do you think?”

  The betrothed couple looked at each other, and Miss Kenworth shrugged.

  “You are welcome to marry at Yarmouth Hall,” Carlotta said.

  “We have many decisions to make,” Mr. Fordyce said.

  Carlotta shooed them toward the door. “Then you two run along now. I shan't be needing Miss Kenworth the remainder of the day.”

  “But, my lady . . .” Miss Kenworth protested.

  “The doctor's coming, and I should like to stay here with my son.”

  After they left, Carlotta once again took up her position at Stevie's bedside. He broke into a fit of coughing, and she felt completely powerless to help him. Poor little lamb.

  Soon Adams showed the doctor to Stevie's bed chamber. The middle-aged man, his medical bag in hand, entered the room.

  “What are the lad's symptoms?” he asked gruffly.

  “I thought yesterday he might be taking a chill for he began to cough. Then after church today, he began to run fever.”

  The doctor set his hand on Stevie's forehead. “Has he eaten?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about liquids?”

  “He has not wanted anything at all.”

  “The lad's obviously suffering from a lung complaint,” the doctor said. “I shall give him an aqua cordial to cool the blood. He needs rest, of course—not that he's likely to go anywhere as wretched as he feels—and day after tomorrow he should be as good as new.”

  “I hope you're
right,” Carlotta said in a somber voice.

  “The lad's too thin,” the doctor snapped, his eyes meeting Carlotta's. “When he gets well, you need to fatten him up.”

  Her eyes somber, Carlotta nodded.

  After administering the cordial, the doctor repacked the bag and moved toward the door. “If he's not well day after tomorrow, send for me.”

  Chapter 30

  James's journey back to Yarmouth was free of disturbances. It had seemed that every step of the way made him hunger more for the sight of Carlotta. But she was not the reason he was returning. Her son was.

  When he had married Carlotta, he had agreed to raise Stevie as he would a son of his own. It wasn't fair to the lad to abandon him now that James had won his trust. It wasn't Stevie's fault his mother had misrepresented herself. James had never subscribed to the school of thought which blamed sons for the sins of their fathers. He had always been puzzled over the way bastards were ostracized, when it was not them—but their parents—who had sinned.

  He dreaded facing Carlotta. James would be happy if he never had to behold her again. Perhaps happy was not the correct word.

  The pull of Yarmouth Hall was strong. He had grown hungry for the sight of the hall and the Bagworthy Wood and River Barle and the heather on the moors.

  Also, he had made a decision to close the mine, and it should be he—and not someone else—who should break the news to the colliers. He planned to adopt Carlotta's plan to re-establish the men in other professions.

  Which brought to his mind those wretched diamonds. He wished Blankenship had died in the womb and never blackened Carlotta's life.

  It was dusk when James rode Ebony up the broad avenue to Yarmouth. He thought it had never been more lovely. The rhododendrons were in full bloom now, and ribbons of bright yellow daffodils twisted about the entire landscape. Pride swept over him.

  At Yarmouth, he went first to his secretary's office.

  “My lord! You've returned,” the secretary said, springing to his feet to bow to his employer.

  James picked up some papers off Fordyce's desk. “How have things gone on since I left?”