by Cheryl Bolen
Fordyce was quick to tell his employer that Yarmouth had prospered in the countess's capable hands. He apprised James of the settlements made on the dead miner's families and of how much money her ladyship's unwanted diamond necklace had fetched.
“At first,” Fordyce told James, “everyone was distraught when you left, but they soon came to rely upon Lady Rutledge. If I might be so bold as to say it, I believe you could have searched the world over and never found another woman who so well blended with your own views, especially when dealing with underlings. Lady Rutledge is greatly admired by all who are employed by you.”
James, too, had thought he'd done well when he selected Carlotta for his bride. How was he to have guessed the dark secret she had kept hidden from him?
He felt as if he could slam his first into Fordyce's sturdy desk.
James nodded at his secretary and started to walk away.
“My lord?”
James turned back, a single brow cocked.
“Is her ladyship correct in her assumption that you will close the mine?”
Damn! Fordyce was right! No other woman on the planet knew his thoughts like Carlotta. James slowly nodded. “It's what's right.”
Fordyce gazed somberly at him for a moment, then broke into a smile. “By the by, my lord, I have an announcement to make. Miss Kenworth has done me the goodness of accepting my offer of marriage.”
So Carlotta had been right about that, too. James answered with a smile. “Miss Kenworth is, indeed, a most fortunate young lady. When is the ceremony to occur?”
“We have not gotten that far. I only declared myself yesterday. Lady Rutledge, kind, unselfish soul that she is, gave me the encouragement I needed.”
James's chest tightened at the mention of his wife. He supposed he could not put off his meeting with her any longer. “Do you happen to know where my wife is?”
Fordyce's eyes widened. “You have not seen her yet?”
“No.”
“She's in Master Stevie's room. He's taken ill.”
* * *
James's heart and lungs and stomach churning, he mounted the stairs to Stevie's room.
Carlotta stood by her son's bed, one hand stroking his fevered forehead, the other gripping his little fist. Her muslin day dress was a mass of wrinkles, and wisps of her midnight hair hung loose. She looked completely worn out, but more than that, grim worry was etched on her face, the face he had always loved to behold.
This was not how James had been picturing her. She was a seductress, not a loving mother.
She turned and looked at him, no emotion, save grief, on her face. “You've come home.” She said it simply, almost forlornly.
He nodded. “I cannot turn my back on my responsibilities here. I pledged to be a father to your son. I have returned because of him.” He stepped closer. “How is he?”
Her eyes watery, she glanced back to her son. “He's no better.”
James came to Carlotta's side. “Has he eaten?”
She shook her head woefully. “Food, even drink, is the last thing he wants.”
“When did he get sick?”
“Just yesterday—as we came from church in the carriage. Normally we walk, but I had thought to order the carriage because I perceived he had the beginnings of a lung complaint which, I thought, should necessitate being indoors.”
Carlotta had even begun to attend church services—something she had seldom done in Bath, he thought.
She looked up at James. “When Stevie gets well, we'll leave.”
“That won't be necessary,” he said curtly. “I'll have my things moved to the south wing. We shan't live together as man and wife, but I have no intentions of releasing my claims to the lad.”
“'Tis very kind of you, given the . . . circumstances of your estrangement from me.”
As he stood there glaring at her, with no more than a foot separating them, he could smell her lavender scent and take in her somber countenance, hear her gentle voice, and he would never have believed such a lady could have been mistress to a rake. He could almost believe Blankenship's claims. Mrs. Ennis is a virtuous woman. Almost. Were it not for Carlotta's own admission.
“You need to rest now,” he said, “I'll sit with the lad.”
She shook her head. “I'll not leave him.”
James shrugged. “As you wish.” Then he turned and left the room.
* * *
It was too dark now to go to the mines. He would do that in the morning. He would have to tell the miners the fate of the old mine. He took some consolation in the fact that the money Carlotta's necklace had fetched should go a long way in purchasing livestock for the farms Carlotta had hoped the miners would establish. He paused, a grin pinching at his somber face. The necklace, at least, had meant nothing to her.
During the agony of those days he had spent in Bath, he had tortured himself with the memory of Carlotta's words of love. They had come neither easily nor readily but when at last they came, they had come from the depths of her heart. More the pity.
In the hallway he passed Miss Kenworth who appeared to be bringing a tray of Stevie's favorite sweets to his chamber. “I'll wager the lad's too sick to desire those.”
Her plump face fell. “I daresay you're right, my lord, but I had to make the effort. Poor lamb.”
James nodded. “By the way, Miss Kenworth, allow me to offer felicitations on your forthcoming marriage.”
'Twas as if his words sent the stars from the skies to her shimmering eyes and the blush from the rose to her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”
Now that was a woman in love, James decided.
* * *
That first night back at Yarmouth he saw no need to relocate his chamber since his estranged wife had no intentions of leaving her son's side. Perhaps tomorrow, he thought, assured Stevie would return to prime good health.
James returned to Fordyce's office, secured arms full of papers that demanded his attention, and planned to spend the night in his library catching up with his duties.
* * *
The sight of James had brought a peculiar mixture of pleasure and pain. Mostly numbing pain of knowing they would never again be intimate. He would never again find anything to admire in her. She had not only lost her lover, she had lost her dearest friend.
That she could stay at Yarmouth was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she and Stevie had come to love the rugged Exmoor landscape and its people; on the other, she would have to painfully endure James's torturing presence day after somber day.
But she could not trouble herself to think of James tonight. She was far too worried about her listless son. A hand pressed to his warm flesh told her his fever had climbed. He no longer seemed cognizant of anything around him. Which caused her heart to trip.
How she had come to hate the woman she had been. If only she had spent his short lifetime with Stevie, she would have known if such a complaint was common to him or if it was something to give her concern. Oh, dear God, why had she not paid more attention to him? She had lived such a wretched, wicked existence before . . . before James.
Peggy brought her plate for dinner, but Carlotta refused it. Miss Kenworth tried several times to relieve Carlotta of the duty of watching her son, but Carlotta did not wish to leave him. “What if he calls for me?” Carlotta had said wistfully to Miss Kenworth.
Except for Carlotta's elderly grandmother who was a stern taskmaster with the lad, Stevie had only his mother. James was doing an admirable job attempting to replace the boy's father, but the fact was, he wasn't the boy's father.
* * *
Later that night, as the sounds of the busy house began to die down and one after another of the servants had retired to bed, the only sound that could be heard was Stevie's rumbling cough. James entered the boy's chamber. “I thought perhaps I could relieve you now,” he said to Carlotta.
She gazed at him with solemn eyes. “I don't need any relief. I shall sleep in the little bed where Miss Kenworth gener
ally sleeps so I'll be close at hand if Stevie should need me.”
James moved closer to the boy's bed. “How's he doing?”
Her eyes pooled. “I'm afraid he's worse as the night wears on.”
“I have some knowledge of fevers,” James said in a gentle voice. “I've dealt with them in The Peninsula and in India. They're always worse at night. They're down in the mornings.” He paused. “Be assured that once the fever passes, recovery can commence.”
“Then I hope the fever passes soon, for I'm quite beside myself with worry!”
“Imagine Mrs. Covington! Nine children to worry about,” he said, hoping to divert her distressing thoughts.
“I'm such a wicked person, I've even envied the poor widow her wealth of children.” Carlotta looked up at James's somber face and colored. Why, in heaven's name, had she gone and blurted her innermost thoughts to him? It wasn't as if he were still to be a husband to her. What they had shared in the past could never be rekindled.
“It's not wicked to be a loving mother,” he said with kindness in his voice. “I remember when I was a lad. I always enjoyed good health, except for once. I burned with fever, and my mother—like you—refused to leave my bedside. As my fever climbed, my mother's eyes grew more teary.” He stopped and smiled. “And, as you can see, I completely recovered.”
She nodded at him, but could barely see him through her bleary eyes.
* * *
The following morning, as James had foretold, Stevie's fever had abated, but he was still listless and refused to eat or drink, and his coughing grew more frequent—and more wrenching.
Carlotta left him with Miss Kenworth long enough to change into fresh clothing.
“Oh, my lady,” Peggy said excitedly as she brushed out Carlotta's hair. “Isn't that wonderful news about Miss Kenworth and Mr. Fordyce?”
“That it is. 'Tis the only good news I've had.”
“Aye. To think, Miss Kenworth's been here but eight weeks and already claimed the man's love.”
“Have patience, Peg. You'll win Jeremy's heart, yet.”
“Then ye know my feelings?”
Carlotta nodded. “As I knew Miss Kenworth's and Mr. Fordyce's.”
“I declare! Ye must be clairvoyant.”
Carlotta laughed. “Hardly that. I've got eyes in my head. That's all.”
Peggy nodded. “Aye, that's ever so true. Remember back at Mrs. McKay's, I told ye his lordship had love in his eyes when he looked at ye?”
It was as if Peggy had kicked her mistress in the heart. Had James truly loved her then? She could cry a river for all she had lost.
Peggy pinned up Carlotta's hair. “Now, ye were much later to fall in love with him. Ye weren't in love with him when ye married Lord Rutledge. But by the . . . oh, I hates to speak of that tragic night. The night of the disaster at the mine, there wasn't a soul in Exmoor who was unaware of yer powerful love for Lord Rutledge.”
Powerful it was. And still is.
“Enough talk of my marriage. I need to hurry back to my son.”
* * *
By late afternoon, Stevie's fever had returned, and all through the night he coughed uncontrollably and thrashed about deliriously. Carlotta stood beside him, stroking him and trying to force water between his parched lips. More than once she changed him out of soaking clothing, but he was completely unaware of his mother's ministrations. When she was not tending to him, she watched the clock upon his mantel as the worrisome minutes grew into hours. And still her son was no better. The doctor had expected him to be recovered by today, but he not only had not recovered, he had worsened. Carlotta's doubts ballooned.
The following morning, when he showed no sign of improvement, she sent again for the doctor.
James, who was also becoming concerned about the lad, waited for the doctor and showed him up to Stevie's room.
Carlotta watched with hollowed eyes as the doctor examined her lifeless son.
“His lungs are much worse now,” the doctor mumbled. “Were this a regular chest complaint, the fever should have abated by now.”
“Then what is it?” Carlotta asked in trembling voice.
His spectacles sliding down his nose as he bent over Stevie, the doctor looked up at Carlotta, swallowed, and said, “I'm afraid it's the consumption.”
* * *
For as long as he lived, James would never forget the howling cry that came forth from Carlotta's throat at the doctor's words. Then she collapsed, weeping, onto Stevie's bed. “Oh, dear God, why could it not have been me?” Great rivulets of tears slid down her creamy cheeks.
Dear God, why is there nothing I can do for her? Or for the lad? Though James wished to slam his fist through the window—something he had been extremely desirous of doing lately—he had to offer Carlotta hope. As long as he had lived, he had been acquainted with only one person who had ever recovered from consumption. Still, he had to offer Carlotta hope.
He came to stand beside her and to put a hand on her shoulder as he leaned protectively over her.
“If I should lose Stevie, I shall die,” she said mournfully.
Her words were like a musket ball to his own heart. In one blindingly quick second, he realized he could not live without Carlotta. Even if she had been Gregory Blankenship's mistress.
“You won't lose him, Carlotta,” James said sternly.
“But it's . . .” Sobs racking her, she looked up at the doctor. “Will bleeding help?”
“We can try,” he said, unwilling to offer much encouragement.
Carlotta stood stoically beside Stevie's bed and did not flinch when the doctor slit the boy's thin arm, and great quantities of her son's blood began to stream forth.
James kept his arm about her, stirred by her strength.
After the doctor left, she turned to James and buried her wet face into his chest and sobbed uncontrollably.
He merely held her and whispered soothingly to her. When she finished, he held her at arm's length and spoke sternly. “Don't give up, Carlotta. He'll get better.”
“Oh, James, I wish I could believe you, but 'tis such a horrible disease. No one ever conquers it.”
He swallowed. “I did.”
She whirled at him, hope in her swollen eyes.
“When I was seventeen. I was just as sick as Stevie. That's the fever I told you about.”
She smiled and brushed away a tear. “When your mother cried at your bedside?”
He nodded.
“But . . .” she looked away from him. “Your mother was a righteous woman. The lord answered her prayers.” She buried her face in her hands and cried. “But he won't answer mine because .. . because I'm so great a sinner.”
James jerked her into his arms and spoke firmly. “You're not a sinner, Carlotta. You've been the best thing that's ever happened to the yeomen of Exmoor. You're kind and generous and a loving mother. There's nothing wicked about you.”
She quivered from her sobs. “But I duped you, James, and you deserved so much better.”
“It angers me when you speak in such a manner about the Countess of Rutledge.”
She tried to laugh, but succeeded only in bursting into fresh tears.
“I know you didn't sleep last night,” he said, “why do you not allow me to stay here tonight?”
She shook her head. “I can't.”
“If he asks for you, I'll summon you at once.”
She shook her head more vehemently. “I can't leave him. I would be unable to go to sleep, knowing how gravely ill he is.” She burst into tears again.
“Then I'll stay with you.”
* * *
What did she care if James stayed or not? Nothing mattered anymore. Save her precious son, who clung to his feeble life. She pulled a chair up to his bed and sat beside Stevie, clutching his lifeless hand in her own.
“Oh, dear God, spare him. Take me. I'm the one who's brought all this on.”
“Carlotta, don't beat up on yourself so. Stevie's sick because he
came into contact with someone who carried the disease. Not because of anything you did.”
“But I've led such a wicked life.”
“Since when is it wicked to love someone? You fell in love with a man. An unmarried man. You were not an adulteress.”
“Only a mistress,” she said bitterly.
“I spoke with Blankenship in Bath.”
She whirled at him, her eyes flashing angrily.
“He denied that you shared his bed.”
After all the heartache Gregory had caused her, at last he had done something good and decent. Even if it was a lie.
“I don't ever wish to hear Gregory's name again.”
“Nor do I,” he agreed.
Chapter 31
Day after agonizing day, Stevie's fever raged. Carlotta kept a constant vigil at her son's bedside, and the doctor visited daily. James became as concerned over Carlotta's well being as he was over their son's. She'd had very little sleep, she'd completely lost her appetite and she had taken to being sick every morning. Before his very eyes, she grew thinner, and the color left her hollowed cheeks.
Even when Stevie's fever broke—after two weeks—the prognosis was bleak. At least the poor lad was now cognizant of those around him, and he had begun to beg to have his favorite stories read to him. But his deep, racking cough grew hardier each day, and his ability to speak without gasping for breath diminished. Adding to the severity of his condition was the fact that he still had not eaten a single bite of food.
Carlotta continued to sleep every night in his chamber. She had neither been downstairs nor out of doors in over two weeks. She insisted the draperies in her son's room be open each day, in the hope that the sun would burn away the damp air which was so culpable for consumption. Then, when night brought cooler air, she would close the draperies, in hopes of keeping out the dampness.
The day after he had returned to Exmoor, James had announced the mine closing. Over the last two weeks he had met individually with each collier. To a man, each of them agreed to accept James's offer of setting them up in the business of sheep farming. More than one grateful wife had thanked James for keeping her loved one from having to go back down into the black pits.
