Wildwood Flower

by Dayna Quince

  Dear Hazel,

  I received your letter just a moment ago, and I had to write immediately. My heart aches for you. I know it happened a year ago, but I can only imagine the pain of the loss still lingers. I won’t pretend to understand or offer advice. I have none. I’m rapidly becoming a spinster, and the truth is our lives are completely different. But know that if I could, I’d hug you tightly. I will hope and pray that your future holds many children. Bainbridge is a good man. Your love for each other will carry you both through any adversity.

  * * *

  Ever your friend,

  Charlotte

  Charlotte was soaked through by the time she entered the kitchen. There was staff present. They eyed her warily as she slipped by and headed up the back stairs. She wished for a hot bath, but instead she changed into a dry dress and went to see to Lady Shelding.

  Leaving her chamber, she headed to the family quarters. She came upon Sarah in the hall, leaving Lady Shelding’s room.

  Charlotte slowed. “Sarah? How is she faring?”

  Sarah looked surprised by Charlotte’s presence. “Oh, there you are. I went looking for you.”

  “You did?” Her pulse kicked into a gallop. She hadn’t thought up a reason for her absence. “Was Lady Shelding asking for me?”

  “She asked about you, yes, but not for you. She doesn’t wish to see anyone at the moment.”

  Charlotte nodded, about to retreat to her room and not leave until tomorrow. “I see.”

  “Where were you?” Sarah lowered her voice.

  “I went walking.”

  “For hours? In the rain?”

  “What else should I have done? Stayed here, where Annette blames me for what was done to Lady Shelding? As if my presence has changed anything that wasn’t already happening in this miserable house?” Charlotte stopped abruptly. Where had that come from?

  Sarah eyes widened. “What happened to you?”

  Charlotte hugged herself. “What do you mean? I went for a walk, that is all. I enjoy the outdoors, even when it’s raining.”

  Sarah stepped closer, her eyes scanning over Charlotte. “You look different. There is color in your cheeks.”

  “It’s cold.” Charlotte muttered.

  Sarah stepped back. “Well, I should get back to work. Annette is off…doing something or other.” Sarah rolled her eyes.

  Charlotte nodded and turned away. Sarah followed her back down the stairs, but they parted ways as Charlotte turned down the hall to her room and Sarah continued down. She was almost to her room when someone stepped out from the shadows.

  Her heart leapt into her throat as Edward appeared, materializing from the darkness, stalking toward her.

  “I wondered when you would return.”

  “I was just checking on your mother.”

  “Ah, yes.” He nodded and moved closer.

  Charlotte backed herself against her door but did not open it.

  He rested one hand over her shoulder and leaned into her. She could smell spirits on his breath as it wafted against her mouth, hot and damp.

  “Miss Angelwood.”

  “Yes, Mr. Chadwick.”

  “We shouldn’t be so formal. You’re to be my wife.”

  “I’m sorry. I do refer to you as Edward, most of the time.”

  “But never directly to me. It’s always, Mr. Chadwick. Why is that?”

  Charlotte shrugged one shoulder. “Habit, I suppose.”

  “But we should be getting closer.” He punctuated this statement by moving his face closer to hers.

  “We are close enough, I think. We reside together. That is not typical for most betrothed couples.” She resisted all urgings to push him away, though her head was screaming to run. She had nowhere to run. There was no haven in this house that would keep him at bay.

  “That isn’t what I meant, my little duckling. Don’t be naïve.” He stepped back and pulled a flask from his pocket. He took a swig as he watched her. “Don’t you understand?”

  “No.” Charlotte kept her voice soft.

  “Don’t be coy. You’ve been to London. Mother told me of the friends you made. You did well, making the right sort of connections. Connections that will greatly advantage me. But what I want to know is what you learned from those high-stepping whores.”

  Charlotte gasped. “Edward, please. I can’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?” His hand returned to the door, and this time he leaned into her, nuzzling her neck.

  Charlotte turned her head away. Please don’t kiss me. She wanted nothing to alter her memory of Thorn’s kiss.

  “You smell so sweet, so innocent and fresh. I can almost believe that you’ve never let a man touch you.”

  Her heart, already bruising along at an erratic pace in her rib cage, halted before resuming its chaotic rhythm. Had anyone seen her with Thorn?

  “I haven’t.”

  Edward took her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. His eyes bored into hers. “You’re mine, Charlotte. From the moment I set eyes on you two years ago, I knew you belonged to me. I told my father, and he agreed I could have you.”

  Charlotte breathed slowly through her nose, fighting to remain calm. She should agree and save herself, but the words wouldn’t come. For the first time since she stepped across the threshold of Shelding Manor, she had hope.

  “But I do not have you,” he continued, “because you went to Pastor Franklin and convinced him to give you more time. Why did you do that?”

  “I’m still mourning my father.” Charlotte winced. His grip on her jaw made it painful to talk.

  Edward narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care about that.”

  “But I do, and Pastor Franklin agrees. Our wedding day shouldn’t be marred by death.”

  “But I want you.” He pressed his hips to hers.

  “No!”

  “No?”

  Charlotte struggled in his hold. “Not until we are married.”

  “I don’t like to wait.”

  “It will look poorly on the family if a proper mourning period is not observed, and it will look even worse if I have a baby before the expected time.”

  “But we’re a love match. It will be excused.”

  Charlotte couldn’t hide her disgust a moment more. She shoved at his chest but was no match for his strength. “It will not be excused by me.”

  “Charlotte…” He cupped her cheek, his eyes softening. “I can only guess that you are not aware of the pleasure we could have. You truly must be an innocent, or you would not resist me. I can show you, Charlotte.”

  “Please, Edward. I will be punished if your family’s reputation is besmirched. What would your father say if there was talk? This family is so great, a beacon of Faversham, that we cannot allow even a hint of rumor to risk it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are rejecting me.” He grabbed her shoulders, shoving her harder against the door.

  Charlotte panicked. “I’m begging you to wait.”

  “Wait for what?” His hands stilled and then slowly crept to her chest. He looked down at her bodice, his fingers inching inward.

  Charlotte recoiled, her stomach churning. His touch was nothing like Thorn’s. Thorn’s hands were warm and strong, even through layers of clothing. His touch ignited her. Edward’s disgusted her. His hands were cold, and when they reached bare skin, his fingers felt like soft, shriveled carrots. She thought quickly.

  “We must wait so it will be perfect, Edward. Perfect and memorable.”

  “Memorable?” He scrunched his face and jerked back.

  “Yes, and romantic.”

  He looked down at her, his skepticism apparent. Charlotte had to make him believe her, but how?

  “And romantic,” he said.

  “Yes.” Charlotte jumped at the word. “Romantic, so romantic, I will never forget it. It’s the least that we deserve for our wedding night. Anticipation is key. We must resist each other, or it will ruin what should be special for both of us.” />
  He eased back from her. “You want it to be special?”

  “Of course I do. Every woman does.”

  “With me.” He stroked his chin.

  This time Charlotte stepped forward. She put her hand on his chest. He looked surprised for a moment. “You are what makes it special, Edward.” She kissed his cheek swiftly and stepped back. She covered her mouth, hoping she looked sufficiently bashful.

  He considered her for a moment. “Right. It should be special with me. An evening you shall never forget.”

  “How could it not be?” Charlotte turned the knob behind her back. “I’ll see you at dinner.” She slipped into her room, locking the door as soon as it closed. She gagged into her hand, still feeling the cold touch of his hands on her skin. She needed a bath, a scalding hot bath.

  Thorn finished his inspection of the hop yard and moved on to the site of the brewery. An oust house and brewery warehouse would need to be built. Some of the lumber had arrived, but more was still coming. Lord Shelding had hired a local foreman to gather a crew and see to the construction, but Thorn would oversee it all and make sure it was built exactly to his specifications.

  He approached a group of men, two of which were part of his own crew. They were arguing.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Wot! Another bloody colonist on my job? Did ye swim back because ye did a rotten job wit ye own land?”

  Thorn straightened. “Pardon?”

  “This is Mr. Tuft. He says he’s in charge of the site. He won’t let us look at the plans,” said Mr. Perry, Thorns second in command.

  “Lord Shelding put me in charge of this here site,” Mr. Tuft said.

  “Lord Shelding is an investor in the Thorn Brewing Company.” Thorn picked up the roll of plans and unfurled them. “See this signature, C.L. Thorn?”

  “Wot of it.” Mr. Tuft folded his beefy arms across his chest.

  Thorn extended his hand. “Christopher Logan Thorn. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tuft. Lord Shelding told me you’d be arriving today when I met with him yesterday.”

  Mr. Tuft unfolded his arms and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I’ll be. He didn’t say I’d be working with colonists.”

  “We’re Americans. We won our independence,” Mr. Perry growled.

  Mr. Tuft narrowed his eyes. “Buggar it. I’m still in charge.”

  Thorn handed the plans to Perry. “I’m in charge, and in my absence, Perry is in charge. We will oversee every nail, beam, and bolt that goes into this brewery. Do you understand, Mr. Tuft?”

  Mr. Tuft folded his arms again.

  “Or I can fire you and find another crew to build my brewery. There is never a shortage of men who want to earn money.”

  Mr. Tuft puffed up his chest and then exhaled loudly. “Aye, Mr. Thorn.”

  “Good. Now let’s walk the site together, and I’ll tell you exactly what I expect from you and your crew. I promised Lord Shelding the brewery would be ready to begin operation in three months. I mean to keep that promise.”

  Mr. Tuft didn’t respond, but he lumbered beside Thorn without comment as Thorn went over his vision for the brewery. Then he handed the plans to Perry and watched. He wanted it to be clear that Perry was an authority here in Thorn’s absence. Pruitt had warned him, but as of yet, Thorn hadn’t experienced much of the prejudice he’d been cautioned about. He grew up being reminded of his breeding. Though his father had fought in the revolution and awarded land, Thorn was seen as nothing but a farmer’s son, a commoner. As if hard physical labor was something to be ashamed of.

  Even men like Tuft, men of the same class, men who built their livelihood with their hands, still viewed him as less. Simply because he wasn’t born into wealth or title.

  It was the height of hypocrisy.

  Thorn built his wealth the same way he built his first Mash Tun. With his hands, and his sweat, and his determination.

  Perry finished going over the plans, and Tuft left to gather his workers.

  “Do you think the damn cockney heard a word I said?” Perry asked Thorn.

  “If he didn’t, he and his men will be out of a job. That’s a heavy price to pay for prejudice. Enough with the slurs,” Thorn warned. “They will never respect us if we don’t show it first.”

  “Yes, sir.” Perry said. “Does it ever bother you?”

  “What?” But Thorn already knew what Perry was asking. “No. Not anymore.”

  Thorn examined the wood. The brewery would be small to begin with, but the plans left a lot of room for expansion. It’s how he began all his breweries. There were no guarantees here. He had to go slow, and see if England would be receptive to his style of beer. The first batch would be a brown ale. It was his bestselling. If all went well, he’d be leaving Perry here in three months to run the brewery, and Thorn could go home to continue building his empire.

  Chapter 8

  December 19th, 1821

  Dear Lucy,

  I am distraught to miss yet another wedding of a dear friend. It feels like the world is moving for everyone except me. Was that too maudlin? Make no mistake, I am supremely happy for you. I cannot wait to meet your soon to be husband. We have had issue with receiving our mail. I won’t go into it, its dreadfully boring. But know that now I can post letters again.

  * * *

  Charlotte crumpled the letter and threw it into the hearth. She began again.

  * * *

  Dear Rose,

  I tried to write to Lucy and congratulate her but I just can’t. I am so ashamed. I am truly happy for her, but to sit here and lie about my own circumstances is too difficult. I did not receive an invitation to the wedding. In truth, we haven’t received mail for the last month. Mr. Banks, our postman, would not deliver because father owed him a debt.

  We sold my mother’s ring to pay the debt. It’s been in her family six generations, and we sold it so we could receive our mail. I cannot begin to describe how lost I feel. Things disappear daily. Things I didn’t know meant anything to me until I notice they are gone. Nothing is safe, not even me. I have a feeling I will be sold, too.

  Charlotte

  * * *

  Charlotte rose before the sun, her heart racing the moment her eyes opened. She bathed and dressed quickly, an easy feat when all your gowns are black as night. Just as the tips of rays began to touch the sky, Charlotte left her room, more eager for this day than her first season in London.

  She didn’t care that shadows of night still clung to the garden and the heath beyond. She didn’t care that her hem dragged through damp grass and mud. She only had one thought.

  Thorn.

  She was going to see him and quite possibly touch him and kiss him again. This time there would be no threat of discovery. They would be completely alone, hidden from the world. The woodsman’s cabin was not the most romantic of locales. It was abandoned more than a year ago when her father had to let him go. But it had a roof and door, even a little hearth to warm the small space. It was the perfect place to meet in secret.

  She hurried through the heath, the birds not yet awake, and the light flat and bluish. It felt like a dream world, one where Edward and Shelding Manor didn’t exist. She slowed as she entered Wildwood Forest. It was familiar, the misty darkness welcoming, but she walked carefully, not wanting to turn an ankle.

  She fervently hoped Thorn was as eager to meet her here as she was.

  What they were doing… It was dangerous. But in Charlotte’s mind, it was worth it. She’d never felt like this before. Never had a man make her feel like her heart had wings. She’d dreamed of feeling this way, fantasized like any warm-blooded woman, but to live it was so much sweeter. Nothing had prepared her for this moment, and that terrified her. She didn’t do things like this. Lucy did, and Anabelle had, but not Charlotte. Never Charlotte. Charlotte was a good girl. Until now.

  Being quiet and dutiful had brought her misery.

  She was going to steal this happiness no matter what. S
he would risk it all, just to be with him.

  She sobered and paused as the cabin came into view.

  Would she really risk everything for him? The cabin looked undisturbed. She took a deep breath, willing herself to be strong, to be brave. If she didn’t do this, she would regret it for the rest of her life. She leaned back against a tree. Once she entered that cabin, there was no going back. How far was she willing to go?

  She needed her friends now more than ever. Someone to make sense of these feelings inside her and tell her what they meant. Was this…love?

  Was he the man she’d been waiting for? She was a fool to compare him to Thor. He was a flesh and blood man, not a god who could snatch her from the misery of marriage to Edward without consequence.

  As Charlotte waited, more light filtered through the trees, but still no one came. The cold began to seep through her cloak, a reminder that the more she waited, the harder the decision would become.

  She had to figure out what this all meant. Did he care for her as she cared for him? The more Charlotte reasoned with herself, the more she realized that yes, she does care for him. She’d fallen for him, but that didn’t mean he felt the same blinding affection.

  She refused to believe he was merely toying with her. His eyes were too honest for that. He was not a rake.

  But what could she reasonably ask of him?

  Nothing. Her head said back to her, but her heart didn’t believe it.

  By going into that cabin, she was risking more than just her heart. She was risking everything.

  And every moment she spent with him was worth it.

  She pushed away from the tree and crossed the distance to the cabin. She turned the knob, and the door creaked as it swung open. Darkness and cold greeted her.

  She set about starting a fire in the hearth, taking a box of matches out of her pocket and a bit of paper to help start the fire.

  What she hadn’t considered was wood.

  She looked around the small room, but there was only an empty space where the wood pile would have been. She returned outside, walking the perimeter of the cabin in search of a log pile. There was none from what she could see. She looked around; she was in the woods after all. She cursed every second it took her to find small pieces of wood dry enough to burn properly.