The Bride's Secret

by Cheryl Bolen

  James happened to be in Stevie's room one afternoon, vainly trying to offer Carlotta hope, when Adams informed them Mrs. Covington had come to see Lady Rutledge.

  “Should you wish to ask her in?” the butler inquired with a haughty air.

  “Indeed I do,” Carlotta said, standing up and walking toward the door. “I shall meet her in the saloon.”

  Once Adams was gone, Carlotta cast an impatient glance at her scowling husband.

  “Don't be angry at Adams. He's aware that Mrs. Covington is not of our class. He's merely doing his job.”

  Carlotta's lack of snobbery filled James with pride. Indeed, every step she had taken since she had become his countess was faultless, and his pride over her continued to escalate.

  * * *

  In the saloon Carlotta forced a smile, held out both hands and walked to Mrs. Covington. It was obvious that Mrs. Covington had come in her Sunday finest. Of course, her dress was black. Homespun. And she had neatly pinned back her lackluster brown tresses.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Carlotta asked after the widow had dipped her a curtsy.

  Mrs. Covington continued to grasp Carlotta's hand. “I've heard your young un is ailing.”

  A look of sorrow swept over Carlotta's face, and her eyes filled with tears. “Indeed he is. I should appreciate your prayers.”

  “All ten of us is praying for the little lad to return to good health.”

  “Then that's all I can ask,” a somber Carlotta said with trembling voice.

  The widow held out a small bottle. “I've brought this distillation of motherwort for ye lad. It's said to aid in the recovery of all lung complaints. I extract it from the stalk what grows only behind me parents' cottage in Porlock. Two spoons three times a day and it's never failed to work.”

  “You went all the way to Porlock to procure this for Stevie?”

  “'Twas nothing after all yer kindness to me and mine. I only wish I'd had it when me little Mary came down sick. She was gone less than two days after her symptoms arrived.”

  Carlotta took the bottle, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I'm much indebted to you, Mrs. Covington.”

  “You go on now and give it to the lad. I've got to return to my own young uns.”

  Carlotta stepped forward and hugged her, then turned around, left the room and fairly flew up the stairs.

  * * *

  “You dispatched the widow rather quickly,” James said.

  “She brought me a concoction for Stevie. She swears by its success.”

  “That was very thoughtful of her. Let's hope she's right.”

  Carlotta poured the liquid into a spoon and coaxed Stevie into swallowing it. “Come love, you must get well. Brownie misses you very much. It's not fair to your pony that he's not been exercised in three weeks.”

  The boy grimaced, but took the concoction. “Poor Bwownie,” he said.

  She ruffled her son's hair.

  The lad did not have the strength to play soldiers. Any activity with his arms robbed him of breath. Therefore, James sat by his side hour upon hour, spinning yarns of life in the military.

  “I'm going to be a soldier when I gwow up,” the boy proclaimed.

  To which Carlotta's eyes would fill with tears. Her son would not see the next year, much less grow to manhood. Nothing had ever hurt with such ruthlessness. 'Twas as if her heart were being wrenched from her body. Yet, she refused to allow him to see her cry. For the time he had left, she had vowed to bring him as much happiness as she could.

  The word no was not in her vocabulary. If Stevie desired her to lie beside him as he went to sleep, she would oblige. Were he to express an interest in the scullery maid's kitten, his mother would procure the creature. Whatever story he desired to have read, she would read to him.

  A pity, she thought, she could not procure food that would entice him to eat. Nothing she suggested stimulated any appetite in him. It had been three weeks now since he had eaten. If the doctor had found him thin three weeks ago, he must find the child emaciated now.

  Whenever she would chide her son for not eating, her husband would admonish her on the same grounds. “You have no room to talk, Carlotta,” James would say sternly. “You're eating no better than Stevie.”

  Her husband's apparent forgiveness of her went almost unnoticed in her grieving state. Her own happiness now rested solely on the prospect of her son's health. That James cared for her was not something she could contemplate now. Her mind was too fogged with grief over her son. There was no way she could burden it with anything else. Especially something that pertained to her wicked self.

  Like a religious ritual, she administered to Stevie Mrs. Covington's motherwort three times every day. She did not know if it were her hopeful mind or if it were fact, but it seemed to her that after three days Stevie's cough seemed less severe.

  “James?” she called.

  He sat in the chair next to hers beside Stevie's bed. “Yes?”

  “Do you not agree that Stevie's cough is improving?”

  “I do. I had not wanted to get your hopes up, but I've been thinking the same thing.”

  For the first time in three weeks, a smile flashed across Carlotta's face.

  The next day she was convinced her son's cough had improved.

  The day after that he sat up in bed. “Mama?”

  She stood up and came to his side. “What, my sweet?”

  “Do you think I might have some plum pudding?”

  Unable to speak because she was weeping so hard, Carlotta turned to meet James's twinkling eyes, then she fell into her husband's embrace, sobbing tears of joy.

  “Oh, my love,” she said to James, “he's going to make it!”

  * * *

  Those were the most wonderful words James had ever heard. He picked up her hand and pressed a kiss into the hollow of her palm. “I believe you're right, dearest.”

  With eyes wet yet happy, she looked up and stroked the planes of his cheekbones. “I don't deserve such happiness.”

  He gathered her into his arms. “I'd say your happiness is long overdue, sweetheart of mine.”

  She lifted her face to his for a kiss.

  “Mama?” Stevie said.

  She withdrew from her husband. “What, lamb?”

  “How come you and Papa have not been kissing each other since he came back?”

  Carlotta began to giggle. “I daresay because your papa was gone for so long I forgot how!”

  “I'm glad he's back,” Stevie said, his eyelids growing heavy.

  Carlotta looked back at James. “I am, too.”

  * * *

  All told, Stevie was sick for six weeks. Even after his cough was gone, Carlotta refused to allow him outdoors. The word no had returned to her vocabulary. After another two weeks she relented and allowed him to ride his pony, provided that his mama and papa accompany him, and provided it was a sunny day and provided he dressed warmly.

  Miss Kenworth, having grown utterly attached to her charge, decided not to return to Middlesex for her wedding but to have it in Exmoor so she would not have to leave Master Stephen.

  “But once you begin to have children of your own,” Carlotta pointed out, “you'll be leaving him.”

  “Mr. Fordyce and I have discussed the matter, and he agrees that I can continue with Master Stephen even after we have children of our own, provided that you don't object to our children being raised along side of yours.”

  “It's a rather unorthodox scheme, but we can try it since none of us should care to lose you.” Carlotta's eyes danced. “Of course, I daresay Mr. Fordyce won't allow you to continue sleeping in Master Stevie's room once you are married.”

  The poor nurse's face grew scarlet as she scurried from the chamber.

  Carlotta's own breath grew short when she thought of lying with her own husband. She had not lain with him in many, many weeks. She was still too worried about Stevie to leave him at night, for sometimes at night, Stevie's coughing returned. />
  * * *

  One of the first places Carlotta went upon Stevie's recovery was to the Covington's cottage. It looked so different now than it had the first time she had come when winter's frost had only recently left. Now geraniums bloomed from window boxes, and a bank of daffodils separated the kitchen garden from the pasture where a hundred sheep grazed.

  Two of the younger lads were gathering eggs from the hen house, and the little toddler sat in rich, dark dirt, spooning it into a cup.

  Stevie had instantly run off to shadow the older Covington lads, whom he greatly looked up to, and who were very kind to him, in return.

  Carlotta knocked on the door and entered at Mrs. Covington's command. Especially different was the inside of the house. All signs of the coal dust were gone. No more grayness. Things looked clean and bright. Daniel, now too big for his cradle, was crawling around the wooden floors.

  “Ah, me lady,” Mrs. Covington said. “I'd hoped ye'd be a comin'. I've procured tea especially for yer visit.”

  “How very considerate of you,” Carlotta said, sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Not here, my lady. No fine ladies like yerself belong in kitchens.”

  Carlotta laughed. “I wasn't always a lady, Mrs. Covington. When I was growing up, I was allowed to actually help our cook in the kitchen. I'm a most accomplished potato peeler, if you must know.”

  Mrs. Covington broke into laughter.

  “Seriously, Mrs. Covington, I had to come today to tell you how grateful I am that you came to us that day and kindly brought the elixir. I can date my son's recovery to that day. I don't suppose we'll ever know if it was all our prayers or your elixir that spared my lad, but I'm powerfully thankful.”

  Now it was the widow who teared up. “It broke me heart to think of ye losing yer only child. I kept rememberin' as how ye told me what riches I had in me children. Yer words helped me when I needed help the most.” Then the widow looked askance at Carlotta. “I declare, my lady, I can tell by lookin' at ye. Ye are increasing, are ye not?”

  Carlotta's lashes lowered, and she began to blush. “I am.”

  Mrs. Covington broke into a smile. “I'm so happy for ye. What does his lordship have to say bout the babe?”

  “I haven't told him yet.”

  The widow set the kettle on the hook over the open fire and spun around to face Carlotta. “How could ye withhold such wondrous news from him?”

  “I only learned of it during Stevie's sickness, and, quite naturally, I was not excited about anything at the time.”

  “And now?”

  Carlotta shrugged. “Would that I could think of a special way to tell him.”

  “Ye will. Ye will.”

  * * *

  That very night at the dinner table, James began to admonish his wife for her lack of appetite. “It wouldn't be fair to Stevie and I, Carlotta, for you to allow yourself to waste away.”

  “Nor would it be fair to the babe, either, I daresay,” she said rather nonchalantly.

  He glared at her for a moment, as if he were trying to understand the enormous impact of her words. “The babe?” he finally asked hopefully.

  She nodded.

  “Then. . . then you've known since . . .”

  “Since you went away, actually. I became certain when Stevie was sick.”

  She watched as a smile warmed his cherished face. “I may very well be the luckiest man on English soil.”

  Chapter 32

  He woke up to bright sunlight and looked down at Carlotta, curled up asleep beside him. His hand went to her bare back, to glide over it. Here—here in the Earl of Rutledge's bed—is where she belonged. Here, their babe would be born. He could burst with his happiness, with his pride.

  He had returned because Yarmouth's pull was strong. He'd come to understand his fate was intermingled with this moorland wilderness as inevitably as his ascension to the title. This is where he belonged. This is where his heart was. This is where he wished to put down roots.

  When he had returned to Yarmouth after his absence he had been blinded with his rage against Carlotta. She had withheld the truth from him. She had deprived him of the happiness he so hungered for. She had been mistress to a rake. She had shattered the heart James had given her.

  His anger toward her had been unwavering—as long as he did not have to behold those violet eyes or smell her lavender or hear her husky voice. If it weren't for seeing her again, he could have denied all that had once been in his heart.

  But he had not been prepared for the potent effect she would have on him.

  She was merely Carlotta. A woman who had been widowed. A woman who had made a wrong choice. A woman who had learned to unselfishly give of herself. A woman who once loved him.

  As soon as he had seen her with her heart laid bare, he forgot his anger. She hurt, therefore he hurt. It was that simple. He had been an imbecile to think he could stop loving her because of something that had occurred long ago.

  He came to realize it did not matter if Blankenship had bedded her or not. What mattered was their future.

  When he had returned, it had not taken long before he had come to realize Yarmouth had taken possession of Carlotta as it had him. Everywhere he turned, he was inundated with praise over his wife's allegiance to the people of Exmoor.

  “If anything ever happened to Lord Rutledge,” one of the miners had said, “we'd be in her ladyship's capable hands. Never was a lady such as her who understands the land and the people of Exmoor.”

  His pride for her was a talisman he wore each day with continuing appreciation.

  When he had come to realize they could very well lose Stevie, Carlotta's past meant nothing to him. Yes, she had been a poor mother, but those days were as buried as Stephen Ennis. Hadn't her recent actions, her recent unselfishness, more than compensated for any past sins?

  All James had ever wanted—a wife, a child, a happy family—he was allowing to be snatched from him.

  When Carlotta bemoaned her evil past, it was more than he could bear. How dare she disparage herself! She was loving and kind and the perfect lady to be his countess. How could he have not realized how blessed he had been? Even if she had loved Blankenship, he knew that love was now dead. That she could love so powerfully was merely a demonstration of her ability to love without inhibition. As he liked to think she had loved him.

  He only hoped he had not killed that love.

  During the boy's sickness, James had only spared the brief thought to his own plight, so concerned was he over the lad. As was Carlotta.

  But once Stevie's recovery commenced, it became clear that not only did Carlotta still hold James with some affection, but she also had no rancor over his flight. To the contrary, she blamed herself totally for everything.

  In a few short months his beloved Carlotta had completely metamorphosed from hedonist to care-giver. His pride for her rushed over him like a morning breeze, fresh and welcome.

  All the mattered was the future. A future in which he was assured Carlotta would dedicate herself to good works. A future which would, hopefully, fill Yarmouth Hall with their children.

  As he gazed down at her, his hands gliding over her smooth, bare flesh, she begin to stir. Her eyes opened and she looked up at him. “Good morning, my love,” she said sweetly, reaching out for him.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” he asked with concern.

  “A bit queasy, but it will pass.”

  He traced her nose with a finger. “I could stay here with you for the rest of my days.”

  “As could I,” she whispered. “Oh, James, I regret that I was blind to my love for you for so long, but I vow I've never loved so deeply.” She lifted her face to his.

  He kissed her softly. “I have a confession.”

  She raised up on her elbow, her brows lowered.

  “I've never loved anyone but you, Carlotta. I think I even loved you when . . . when we were on The Peninsula.”

  She threw herself into his ar
ms. “Then you did ask me to marry you because you really loved me?”

  “I'd hardly wish to spend the rest of my life with a woman I did not love.”

  “I was so worried the only reason you married me was out of responsibility toward Stevie.”

  “I need hardly have shackled myself to exercise my responsibilities.”

  She contentedly lay her face against his chest. “I am so happy you've shackled yourself to me.”

  “Speaking of shackles, Jeremy has offered for Peggy.”

  Carlotta squealed with delight. “It seems Cupid is in danger of injuring his arm from all the arrows he's been shooting of late.” As she spoke, she was careful not to disengage her arms from around her husband's back.

  “When you left,” she said, “I wanted to die. Then I scolded myself. What would James want you to do? I asked myself. I knew you would have wanted me to be strong and minister to your yeomen's needs, to take your place in your absence. It gave me strength. For the first time in my life I was strong and capable and, I like to think, unselfish.”

  “You've made me very proud, but nothing has ever made me more proud or more happy than the news you imparted to me last night.”

  She tightened her hold on him. “I'm happy, too.”

  “But I do so worry about you,” he said gently. “Are you sure it's all right to . . . to allow me access?”

  She laughed. “I am most sure. Now, could I, per chance, persuade you. . .?”

  EPILOGUE

  Eighteen months later

  After an unusually warm summer, Carlotta was happy to welcome autumn. Stevie especially enjoyed jumping on the heaps of russet leaves in an attempt to smash them.

  “I believe I'll have you carry one of these baskets of apples, lamb,” Carlotta said to her son, “for, I declare, my arms are aching.”

  “Papa says your arms should ache right off from constantly holding the baby.”

  “Your papa's a fine one to talk,” she mumbled. “There never was a more coddled babe than that brother of yours.”

  “I wish he were bigger so he could have come with us today.”

  “We must learn to be happy with what we have and not go wishing our lives—or Jimmy's life—away”