The Reluctant Marquess

by Maggi Andersen

  “It is time to put paid to old wounds.” Robert took a fortifying swig, tasting walnut, almonds and vanilla, the hallmarks of the best French brandy. “I know I’ve not acted well.”

  “No, you haven’t.” Lord Charlesworth frowned. “But I’m sure we can put that down to immaturity.”

  Robert could still feel rage towards this man. It heated his gut, and he opened his mouth to retort. But then he remembered Charity; to win her love this must be done. He took another swallow. “I will always remain fond of my mother, Charlesworth,” he said carefully. “I understand her needs and wish her and my siblings to be a part of my life. But the truth of it,” he couldn’t resist adding, “is that you did not want me as part of yours. After you married my mother, and particularly after your first child was born, you wished me to the very devil.”

  “Robert,” his mother gasped.

  “And I know for a fact that you swayed Millicent Burrowdale’s father against my suit,” Robert continued ruthlessly. Lord CharlesworthCharleston’s self-righteous expression didn’t alter. He still thought he’d been right, damn him. In Charlesworth’s opinion, Millicent, a merchant’s daughter, was not suitable.

  Robert felt a prickle of anger at the thought, despite the fact that when he’d met Millicent recently, he found her surprisingly shallow and rather dull.

  “The girl was well beneath your touch,” Lord Charlesworth said, still with that smug look Robert disliked so much. “And I thought that you needed guidance in the matter. Past history now though.” He took his wife’s hand. “My concern is for my dear wife. Anything to make her happy.”

  Perhaps the man, fatuous as he was, spoke the truth. Robert had puzzled over what his mother saw in Charlesworth after being married to his father, an active member of Parliament and a most imposing personage. But who was he to judge? He glanced at his mother and clamped his lips on the accusation that she had not stood up for him nor taken his side when he desperately needed it. He now understood how easy it was to make a mistake. No one was infallible, least of all he. He accepted how torn she must have been.

  He put down his glass and rose. “Then we are in agreement.”

  He went to kiss his mother’s cheek. “I am going to Cornwall for a time. When I return, my wife and I shall call on you.”

  “She is a wonderful young woman, Robert. I like her very much.”

  “I do too, Mother.”

  “I know you’ll be kind to her. She is deserving of your love.”

  There was something in her gaze he hadn’t seen before. She treated him like a man and no longer merely her recalcitrant child of ten and four. The age he’d been when all this began. He suffered a swift and painful desire to make her proud of him.

  He left the house, feeling relieved and lighter somehow.

  Robert sat in the carriage deep in thought. It was easy to like Charity. In fact, he loved her. Funny, when he admitted it to himself, he didn’t feel even a twinge of fear.

  With two footmen riding shotgun, the trip proved uneventful, despite Hove’s fears. In the afternoon of the third day, tired and desperately unhappy, Charity arrived at the castle. Memories assailed her. She had left here with so much hope and now returned defeated.

  The carriage entered the cobbled courtyard, and a footman jumped down to assist her. James rushed out to welcome her, followed closely by Felix.

  “Lady St Malin,” he said. “We received no word of your coming.”

  “No. I’m remiss, James.” Charity returned his warm smile. “It was a hasty decision. I found I needed some rest and fresh air. London is exciting, but it does drain one.”

  “We have plenty of fresh air here, my lady,” he said with a grin.

  “Send the carriage back to London tomorrow,” Charity said. “I have no need of it, but his lordship may.” She wondered as she said it if she would ever return to London.

  “Right you are, my lady.”

  In her old chamber, Charity removed her hat and sat by the window. It was autumn and cooler, but the grass was still green along the shore, and the sky a clear, cloudless blue. All the colours here seemed brighter. After the grey skies of London, it looked like heaven. She heard the slap of the waves on the shore and wished she could enjoy it all with a light heart. Seagulls soared, their sad mournful cry echoing her feelings. The heavy smell of the sea wafted in on the breeze, and salty tears gathered at the back of her throat.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Come in.” Charity quickly wiped her eyes. “Rebecca. How nice.” A footman followed, carrying her trunk.

  “I didn’t bring much with me this time, Rebecca.”

  “Shall I attend to the gowns before they crease, my lady?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Sagging in a chair, she watched the girl’s brisk movements. She was almost afraid to be alone with her thoughts.

  James appeared at the door. “Is there anything more I can do, my lady?”

  “I’ll take my afternoon tea in the library.”

  “I’ll have a fire going in there in a trice. And alert Cook. He’ll want to prepare one of your favourite meals.”

  “Thank you.” Charity swallowed. “You’re so kind.”

  With a bark of welcome, Felix joined her in the library. From the long windows, shadows slanted across the meadows with the setting sun. A branch of a maple tree, its leaves a fiery crimson, scratched against the leaded panes. She settled on the sofa stroking the dog’s silky head and thinking back to the night she’d first met Robert. In her mind’s eye, she saw him standing with an arm resting on the mantel, one long leg crossed over the other at the ankle. With distance between them she began to examine why it had all gone so wrong. She had made mistakes, she admitted, but couldn’t he have forgiven her? She’d tried so hard to be the graceful wife he wanted.

  She bit back a sob.

  He had approved of her choice of gowns, he’d said so on the way back from Bath. He had been generous to a fault. She had never had to ask for money or trinkets, or beg him to take her anywhere she wanted to go. And he was often tired from running his affairs, but never complained. He had never complained about her behavior in society, either, although she had erred badly on more than one occasion.

  Yet he hadn’t loved her.

  She had been prepared to turn herself inside out to please him, but if he wanted a tall, fair and slender beauty like Lady Arabella and Mrs Marchant, she could never be that. She was short and rounded, and her hair closer to brown than fair. She clenched her fists. It was impossible!

  Another thought crept in. Had she expected Robert to be like her father? Father had been an orator, keen to express his feelings. Robert was a man of few words, and did it really matter? Didn’t actions speak louder than words?

  Might she have been entirely unreasonable to wish for a husband to act like a romantic knight? The picture of Robert standing beneath her window singing love songs brought a laugh to her lips. He had fought for her honor, and she had not appreciated it at the time.

  And now she did.

  That night, Charity slept deeply, but woke unrefreshed. She had dreamed that Robert came to take her in his arms.

  It weighed heavily on her heart to find herself alone. She wandered the shore accompanied by Felix, adding a few pieces of driftwood to her collection and wondering where life would lead her. Did an unbearably lonely future await her? Surely Robert would not leave things this way. He would come to some decision and need to discuss it with her. This thought only served to make her more nervous. She knew little about legal matters but it seemed that divorce would be extremely difficult, and they could not say the marriage had not been consummated.

  Returning to her chamber, she began fashioning a carved piece again. It helped to distract her for a little while.

  Another lonely night passed. Would her sad heart ever accept the inevitable?

  In the hired carriage, Robert rested a boot on the seat and gazed out at the passing countryside. It was not as well sprung as the St M
alin coach, and the horses were sluggish. It was no good trying to hurry things along. He must be patient, but patience was not something he found prevalent in his nature.

  And even his newly found maturity — his lips thinned at Charlesworth’s sly use of the word immaturity to explain his behavior — didn’t seem to supply it. He had spent two nights on the road staying at the same inns as he and Charity had after their wedding. He remembered how they’d slept in separate rooms– what a fool he was. How much time wasted! He cursed, having to admit that Charlesworth was right. He’d been an immature fool and had to learn his lessons. He only hoped the punishment would not be too severe, and the sweet girl would forgive him. Would she look at him with her soft eyes full of love ever again? When both innkeepers informed him that she had stayed in their inns on her journey south, he felt profound relief. He prayed she’d arrived safely.

  In the fading light, the coach entered the shadowy Cardinham Woods, where the trees grew close together.

  Moments later, the crack of a pistol shot sounded. The coachman cried out, and the horses skidded to a jerky halt.

  “I’ll have that trunk. Toss it down,” he heard a rough voice say. “You in the coach, come out!”

  Heart racing, Robert seized the pistol he’d brought with him. He threw open the door. Two highwaymen on horseback blocked the road, their hats pulled down and handkerchiefs masking the lower part of their faces. One of them had his gun aimed at the coachman and his groom on the box.

  The other looked at him with interest. “You’d best drop that pistol,” he said. His horse sidled closer. “I’ll have anything of value on your person.” He cocked his gun. “Make it fast; I can retrieve them quite easily once you’re all dead.”

  As the man leveled his gun at him, Robert dived and rolled.

  One of the men fired, but the shot missed him, biting into the ground near his foot. He came up in a crouch and fired.

  The leader crumpled to the ground. His horse whinnied and galloped off into the woods. The other man let out a string of curses when he saw his companion lay dead. With no time to reload and his back against the wheel, Robert sucked in a breath and could only watch as the ruffian took aim at him and fired.

  The hot lead entered his shoulder, burning like fire. Robert was vaguely aware of the man riding off. He groaned. Would he live to tell Charity he loved her?

  Gifford, his groom, knelt at his side. “My lord, are you …?” His voice faded as blackness descended.

  After another long night, Charity sat in front of the mirror and gazed at her reflection as Rebecca brushed her hair. The fresh air had tinged her cheeks with color, but her eyes looked flat and dull with shadows beneath them. “I think I’ll go for a ride today, Rebecca. Get out my habit, will you? And then tell James to have my mare saddled.”

  It had rained in the night, and the sunshine was brilliant on the wet hedgerows. Charity rode her horse over the estate lands, breathing the newly washed smell in the sweet air. They clattered across the bridge and cantered through the slanting shadows in the meadow. Pulling back on the reins, she found herself at the oak tree and realized she’d re-traced their steps to the spot where Robert had asked for her hand. She chewed her bottom lip. Only after she’d requested he ask her properly.

  He had not wanted to marry her. She dismounted and leaned against the rough bark of the gnarled old oak tree remembering his first kiss with a painful longing. A thrush sang in the branches above. She paused to listen, but for once, it did little to improve her mood, and she mounted again, riding through the lanes to the village. The villagers curtseyed and hailed her as she rode along the narrow cobbled lanes to the harbour front.

  A cloud of screaming gulls followed the fishing boats out on the water. A lone fisherman on the wharf raised his hand in greeting.

  Warmed a little by their friendly faces, she began to consider that she could make a home for herself here. After a certain interlude, she expected she would grow impervious to Robert’s charms. He might visit to secure his heir, and she would receive him coolly and wave him goodbye when he left. She gasped and shivered at the thought. Who was she fooling? Certainly not herself.

  Leaving the village and the harbour behind, she cantered over the fields, fighting the numb hollowness in her heart. Might there be a role for her here? It was surely her duty to become involved in the lives of the tenants and the village affairs. She resolutely ignored how lonely that sounded and entered the castle grounds, where the groom stepped forward to take the reins.

  She had just entered the house with the intention of changing into a house gown when a vehicle clattered into the castle forecourt. She ran to the drawing room window to see a dusty black coach pull up outside. She recognized Gifford, the groom from St Malin House, sitting beside the coachman.

  Robert!

  She paced around. She wasn’t ready to face him! But when would she ever be? Heart thumping, she went out the door to greet him. Would he still be angry with her? What would she do if he’d come to claim her as his possession? She knew she would not resist him again. Living on his terms was better than being alone.

  There was a commotion as the groom leapt off the box and rushed to open the carriage door. “Highwaymen held us up outside Bodmin, my lady, in the Cardinham Woods,” Gifford called to her as she approached. “’Is lordship picked off one of them. But the other one shot ’im and got away.”

  Inside the carriage, Robert lay back against the squabs.

  Charity gasped. Blood spread across his chest and dripped from the fingers of his flung out arm, pooling on the carriage floor.

  “Robert?” Her voice sounded high pitched and strange to her ears. She peered into his white face and gently shook his shoulder. He didn’t stir.

  “Have him carried inside, quickly,” she said to James. She swung round to address the groom just returning from stabling her horse. “Ride for the surgeon. Take my lord’s horse. It’s faster.”

  “Don’t come back without him.”

  The groom ran back to the stables. Two servants carried Robert’s limp form into the house. To see her strong husband struck down made Charity’s knees shake.

  “Take him to his chamber. Send up a warming pan and light the fire.” Charity picked up her skirts and hurried after them towards the stairs. Her pulse beat a tattoo in her throat. He would not die. He could not. She would never allow it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  With a wildly beating heart, Charity assisted the doctor to remove the ball from Robert’s shoulder. She held Robert’s arm still as the forceps plunged deeply into the wound.

  When it clattered into the bowl, she let out a sigh of relief.

  “Will he …be all right now?”

  “He’s in a bad way.” The doctor bandaged the shoulder. “We shall have to see.”

  Three days passed as Robert tossed and turned, muttering, but never fully waking. Charity remained by his side, covering him when he threw off his blankets. Exhausted, she curled up for cat naps at the foot of his bed on an uncomfortable chaise longue, heavily adorned with swags and fringes. During the lonely daylight hours, she paced the room or hovered by him, listening to the incoherent words he uttered. She woke from snatching a few hours’ sleep, thinking he’d called her name and rushed to the bed, but he said nothing more. As night fell, she stood at the window and watched the sunset turn the water aflame. Yet another day passed as she thought over the past months, feeling the pain of her failings and wishing she’d handled things better.

  Sometimes one doesn’t get a second chance to put things right. The thought made her fearful.

  On the fifth day, as she dozed in the sunny warmth from the open window, a knock on the door brought her to her feet.

  James entered. “The local constable is downstairs and wishes to have a word, Lady St Malin.”

  Wondering what he might tell her, Charity tidied herself and went down to greet him.

  The constable had been shown into the library. She found a solidly built
man sporting a wiry brown beard waiting with his hat in his hands. He bent his head low in a semblance of a bow.

  “John Hawkshorne, Lady St Malin.”

  “You have news for me, Mr Hawkshorne?”

  “Yes, my lady. I wished to advise that the highwayman who shot his lordship has been apprehended.”

  “Well, that’s good news. May I offer you a libation?”

  “No, thank ye, my lady.”

  “Please sit and tell me what happened.”

  Mr Hawkshorne eyed an oyster velvet chair and then shook his head. “I wanted to tell ye, is all, my lady. I’ll be going along now.”

  She followed him to the door. “I gather that the man has been imprisoned?”

  His eyes widened. “No, my lady. It’s dead, he is. We shot him when he tried to escape.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you for coming to tell me.”

  He gave a broad smile, displaying tobacco stained teeth.

  “You’re very welcome, my lady.”

  Charity returned to Robert’s chamber, a little dismayed to find she wasn’t above enjoying the fact that justice had been served. The man who had struck her husband down was dead and she was relieved that he couldn’t strike at some other unfortunate traveler.

  On the morning of the fourth day, the doctor shook his head and tut-tutted. “I think it wise to bleed him.”

  Charity cried in dismay. “No! Surely he’s lost too much blood already!” Dr. Ingot’s brows rose, and he stroked his large nose with a finger.

  Charity recoiled in horror at his dirty nails. “Very well, we’ll leave it for now.

  The bullet doesn’t appear to have damaged any vital part. We can only hope the infection leaves him.”

  Charity crossed her arms. “We must make sure it does.”

  He sniffed, taking umbrage at her criticism. “There’s nothing more I can do. It’s up to him now. Let’s hope his lordship wants to live.”

  Infuriated with the doctor’s callous response, Charity took to caring for Robert herself. She sent James to the village herbalist for calendula cream, which she knew had healing properties and white willow bark to help with pain. She bathed Robert’s face and hands with lavender water. She kept an eye on the wound when his bandages were changed, watching for signs that infection worsened, while trying to soothe him and keep him still. At his every toss, her heart stopped, afraid he would reopen his wound.