The Indebted Earl

by Erica Vetsch

  But it had been too long stored. It smelled of must.

  Sophie laid the uniform aside and drew out first one tall boot, then a second. And a sword, a canteen, a lantern. At the bottom was a bundle of books lashed together with a leather strap, and Rich’s wooden traveling desk.

  She ran her hand across the scarred and battered top. How many places had this desk gone? It had been Rich’s when a boy at school, then a Royal Marine, and finally a patient in the hospital in Portugal.

  The latch was tiny and loose, and she had no trouble opening the lid. A cut-glass ink bottle, quills, and even an ink pen with a metal nib were fastened by loops to the underside of the lid, and when raised into place, stood upright before the writing surface.

  The blotter was a collage of ink spots, blotches, and lines. “Rich Richardson” had been carved into the writing surface with a boyish hand. She touched the name briefly.

  Seeing his things brought an ache, but not unbearable. Not the crashing grief of before. A longing to see him again, but not soul-crushing agony and an inability to imagine life going on without him.

  “What would you tell me, Rich? What would you say to me if I asked for your blessing for what I’ve done, marrying Charles and wanting him now to be more than a convenient, absent husband? Would you feel betrayed? Angry? I wish I could speak to you for just a few moments.”

  At that thought, her eyes burned and her throat tightened.

  She opened the drawer where the stationary was kept, and two things lay there. A wallet and an envelope.

  The wallet was empty, cracked leather that had dried out from disuse. But the envelope bore her name in Rich’s familiar hand.

  Her hands trembled, and she set the desk on the rug, took the envelope, and moved to the window seat. For long moments, she held the letter to her chest, overwhelmed with love and loss.

  Finally, she opened the pages.

  Dearest Sophie,

  This is the letter I should have sent you right away when I awoke in this hospital. I should have sent it when I first realized I was not going to recover from this wound. Each day I feel more of myself slipping away, and I know now that I will not be able to keep my promises to you.

  How I long to walk with you again in the back garden at Primrose in the setting sun. I long to smell your lemon verbena perfume even above the riot of pansies and peonies. How I wish I could hold your hand, touch your cheek, or let your silky hair slip through my fingers.

  Above all, I wish I could hold you against my heart one last time.”

  Sophie paused to let fat tears drip down her cheeks. She dug for her handkerchief in her sleeve, not wanting her tears to mar the handwriting.

  There is so much I need to say to you, heart’s darling, and this letter cannot hold it all, but I must try.

  I will rest easily knowing Mamie is in your care. You have loved her as a mother, and you honor her. I will always be grateful for your generous heart.

  Though I have no desire to burden you with anything more than what you have taken on already, there is one thing I would ask of you when you receive word of my passing. It might come hard to you at first, but I am trusting that generous, big, giving heart of yours to come through in the end.

  The favor I beg of you involves my friend Charles Wyvern.

  I plan to ask him to come see you when he returns to England. To tell you what happened to me, and that I loved you with my very last breath.

  But when he comes, he is going to be in great pain. Physical pain, possibly, because he was wounded in the same battle where I was shot, and he is still recovering, lying in the cot next to mine. He’s asleep even now and does not know I am writing to you. He improves daily, and he will soon be discharged.

  But more than his physical pain, Charles is going to be suffering, because he feels responsible for the injury that has led to my coming death. He is taking a burden upon himself that he doesn’t deserve. He was not at fault, and it is I who should apologize to him. If I had been thorough in my duty, he never would have suffered that saber wound. I have tried to tell him, but he does not believe me. Make him understand. Absolve him of the guilt he doesn’t owe to me or to anyone.

  Sophie, darling, I know it is a tremendous thing to ask, but for me, and eventually for yourself, I beg you to be generous with Charles. He is a man of integrity, and he feels great responsibility, especially to his crew. While he may seem remote at first, it is just that he is wary when making friends, cautious in his dealings with others. I am going to ask him to come to you to deliver my belongings and to tell you in person how much you are loved by me.

  And it is my hope that in your mutual grief—I am vain enough to think you will both grieve for me—that you will find comfort together.

  Yes, Sophie, I am asking that at some point after I’ve gone, you will give yourself permission to love again. You try to take care of the whole world, and I wanted to be the one to take care of you, but that is not to be. Instead, I hope you will allow yourself to be cared for by Charles.

  If I have to give you into the keeping of anyone else, I hope it is my dear friend. I feel you will need each other in the coming months, and I know he will treat you well.

  But also know that if Charles isn’t the one for you, you must follow your heart. My prayer is that you let your heart be free to remember me fondly but not hold you back in loving again.

  Give my love to Mamie and share my regards with your family.

  There was a space, and then the writing continued, but in a weaker, more spidery hand.

  Dearest Sophie, my strength is fading, and this will be the last I write. Charles has offered to take dictation in the future, and I will communicate through him.

  When you read this, I hope you will know all that I cannot put into words and that you will go forward with your life knowing yourself to have been greatly loved.

  God bless, my darling,

  Rich

  Sophie leaned her head against the windowpane, letting the tears fall. Not giant sobs, but a quiet release that cleansed and healed.

  And freed.

  The last vestige of guilt at loving someone other than Rich drifted away with her tears. She had, in his own handwriting, his wish that she love again. And his hope that she would come to love Charles.

  And she had come to love him, but what to do about it? He had been forthright with her that theirs was not a conventional marriage. She would live at his estate and care for his wards. In exchange she would be free to nurse her broken heart forever and escape her mother’s matchmaking efforts. She would have a home, Mamie could stay with her, and Charles would give Sophie his protection, his provision, and his name.

  It had all seemed so simple mere weeks ago.

  Before her heart got involved.

  A noise from her dressing room drew her attention, and she looked up, but no one was there.

  Wiping her eyes, she folded the letter, tucking it into the envelope and returning all the things to the chest. When she finished, she locked it.

  Like Mamie had said about Primrose, she would keep the memories, and the rest she would let go.

  Charles strode along the cliff edge, grappling with his emotions. She still loved Rich. In spite of what her brother had said, in spite of what Charles had hoped, Sophie was still so in love with her dead fiancé, she wept over his belongings.

  He had gone to her room, intending to speak with her, to bare his heart, to ask if she might consider changing the terms of their marriage agreement. He had planned to tell her everything, about how he had fallen in love with her, first through her letters and then by being with her day after day.

  He had gone through his dressing room in order to retrieve the miniature, hoping to explain to her that in a moment of weakness, he had kept the likeness and to ask forgiveness.

  He had been prepared to make himself vulnerable, something that came hard to him.

  He wished he had never gone to her dressing room door. Never seen her tears.

&
nbsp; Finding her trapped in the past, holding fast to her loyalty to Rich, communing with his memory and weeping for him, had jolted Charles back into reality.

  She would never weep like that for him. He was too old, too reserved, too wrong for her. She could never love him, because he could never measure up to Rich.

  At least Charles hadn’t revealed his folly in falling in love with her. He had his pride, after all.

  Pride was a cold companion on long nights at sea with nothing to do but remember the warmth of her smile.

  Blinded by his thoughts, he nearly tripped over Thea sitting in the grass.

  “What are you doing here?” His tone was sharp, and she jerked.

  “I live here, remember?” Sarcasm coated her tongue, and her eyes narrowed. “At least for now.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Why was he being so brusque when she wasn’t the one who had wounded his heart?

  “I heard the admiral talking to Uncle Marcus in Lyme Regis. He said he had a new ship for you.” She wrapped her arms around her up-bent legs, barely taller than the waving grasses when she put her chin on her knees.

  A concussion of surprised gladness shot through Charles. A command. At last. The thing he wanted most in the world.

  Or at least the thing he had wanted, before he’d fallen in love with Sophie.

  But with that door firmly closed, a command waited? It was exactly what he needed.

  “I am a naval captain. That’s my job.” He squinted toward the horizon. To the east, a sail appeared. Patting his pocket, he realized he’d left his spyglass at the house.

  He glanced down at Thea. She held his spyglass to her eye like some long-practiced pirate. “Borrowing things, are we?”

  She had the grace to blush, collapsing the glass and handing it up to him. “Sorry. When you said the admiral and Uncle Marcus were coming by ship, I wanted to watch it sail round the point.”

  “You’re getting as bad as Betsy, taking my things. When I get back to sea, at least my possessions will be my own once more.” He put the telescope to his eye. It was the Revenue cutter, her distinctive sails full and blazing white against the haze of the ocean and sky behind her. She would run in close to shore, furl her sails out of sight of the pier and the Shearwater.

  “Why do you want to leave us?”

  He didn’t. Not exactly. He sought to divert the conversation. “Why are you so crotchety?”

  “I’m not crotchety. I’m sad. My owl is gone.” Thea put her forehead on her knees. “I went to check on him, and he’s gone. He’s always been there in the daytime before.”

  “You went to the shore? You’ve been told on more than one occasion to go nowhere near the stairs, the boathouse, or the beach without an adult.” She might have fallen on those rickety stairs, or caused a rockslide, or decided to go wading and gone in too deep. All the dangers lurking on that particular stretch of sand loomed up and made Charles angry. Not to mention there were smugglers about that still needed apprehending. “You will return to the house and tell Sophie our guests have arrived. After that, you will go to your room and stay there.”

  “For how long?” Her jaw set, and her eyes glared hot.

  “Until you learn to obey commands without question.”

  The fire went out of her eyes, replaced by resignation. Thea rose to her feet slowly and trudged toward the house. What was wrong with that child? Up to this point she had been full of high spirits, yes, but she’d never countermanded an order of his.

  Frowning, he watched the cutter’s approach. The admiral had a mission for him. Once more to be a captain of men, to command a ship of his own. Would it be the Dogged? Or would he have a new vessel to learn? Each ship, be she rowboat or frigate, was unique with her own foibles and quirks and abilities and charms.

  Like women.

  Charles snapped the telescope shut and jammed it into his pocket. It was high time he was away from Gateshead and all the females that surrounded him. He was losing his reason.

  That evening, when Sophie entered the parlor before dinner, Charles could barely get to his feet, his knees felt so weak. She was stunning. A dress of pale lemon with blue trim that brought out the clarity of her eyes, and a blue ribbon threaded through her complicated hairstyle. How long had it taken her to fashion such perfect curls?

  He looked closely for signs that Sophie had been crying, but she looked calm, even radiant, as if a newfound confidence bubbled just under the surface. Perhaps she had heard Charles was to be offered a command soon and looked forward to his departure.

  Penny followed Sophie into the parlor, with Betsy and Mamie in tow. Thea remained upstairs. He had decided that missing dinner with guests would be her punishment for disobeying his orders, relaying his wishes through Mrs. Chapman. He regretted having to discipline her, but she must learn that rules were established for her safety and breaking them had consequences.

  Marcus, Admiral Barrington, and Alastair Lythgoe arrived, and they went in to dinner. Sophie took Charles’s arm, and he tried not to think of her acting the dutiful wife merely for appearances’ sake. Being near her distracted him. Thankfully, she sat at the foot of the table, so he could think clearly.

  Halfway through the first course, the admiral finally shared his news.

  “Charles, I’ve finally gotten the word for which you have been waiting.” He tugged a document from his pocket. “The Prince Regent has appointed several new diplomats who need to be delivered to their positions in the Caribbean. The navy is assigning the Dogged to the task, and the ship will leave in ten days’ time. I don’t envy you traveling with civilian passengers, but hopefully having a command again will make up for that drawback. You’ll transport the new men to their posts and bring the replaced civil servants back to England.”

  A trip to the Caribbean. He did a few basic sums. At least seventy days there and back, depending upon several factors. Possibly as many as ninety days if the trip required much interisland travel or the weather didn’t cooperate. Three months. That would put him back in England just before the first of December?

  Christmas at Gateshead. With a family. He hadn’t celebrated Christmas with family since he was a boy. Visions of Christmas with Sophie and the girls filled his mind. He would bring back gifts from the islands. That should please them.

  “I had to fight hard, what with your family history and then these charges being filed against you. But I was adamant. The Dogged is your ship, and you were just the man for the job. The council said if the charges proved false, I could offer you the position.” He patted the document. “These are your orders.”

  Charles glanced at Sophie. For once he couldn’t read her face.

  “How long is a voyage like that?” Marcus asked, also looking at his sister.

  “Three months, give or take.” The admiral helped himself to more fish.

  “You’ll be enjoying a warm climate while the rest of us brace for winter.” Marcus smiled. “I’m heading home in a couple days, Sophie. I’ve been away too long as it is. Of course, you have Mother’s visit to anticipate. When Charles sails to Kingston and Nassau, you won’t be lonely.”

  Sophie nodded, but she didn’t smile. She toyed with her fork. “I hate to think of you being gone so long, Charles. Three months. We will miss you.”

  If only he could believe she meant that.

  “Are you leaving?” Betsy’s voice quivered. “You just got home. I don’t want you to go.” She flew off her chair, past Lythgoe and the admiral, and threw herself into Charles’s arms. “No. You’re my captain. I don’t want you to leave.” Her wails produced real tears, and she clung to him.

  Sophie and Penny rose at the same time, each coming around the table from opposite directions.

  Sophie arrived first and knelt to console the child. Charles sat frozen, unsure what to do.

  Betsy continued to cry, but she transferred her grip to Sophie, wreathing her neck with her little arms, burrowing her head into Sophie’s shoulder. Sophie’s perfect cu
rls pulled to the side, but she didn’t seem to mind. She stood, lifting Betsy with her, whispering in her ear and holding her close.

  The wailing stopped, but Betsy continued to cling to Sophie like a barnacle.

  “I apologize, gentlemen. I’ll just be a moment. Penny, perhaps you could help Mamie with the hostess duties?”

  As she passed through the door into the hall, Sophie looked back over Betsy’s head at Charles.

  Did she want him to follow her? When he pushed his chair back, she shook her head and motioned for him to remain seated.

  Her reaction to his new posting puzzled him. Was she sad? Was she relieved? Did she want him to turn down the offer?

  She had wept when rereading Rich’s letters.

  She would be eager for Charles to leave, and Betsy’s outburst notwithstanding, the girls would be well enough left in her care. He and Sophie had made their agreement, and he was foolish to want to change the terms of their marriage. He owed her too much, and Rich too. He would pay his debts with honor and not look for anything more.

  “I appreciate the command, Admiral.” He took the orders and set them beside his place. “As long as we’ve rounded up the smugglers before the Dogged is scheduled to depart, I’ll be happy to go.”

  CHAPTER 16

  HE WAS LEAVING them. He said he would be happy to go. That part hurt. Would he miss them at all, or was he giving thanks for the escape? Sophie had known this day would come, but she dreaded it. Part of her wanted to react like Betsy, throwing herself in his arms and begging him not to go.

  Three months? At least he would be home for Christmas. Or would he? She didn’t know how the navy operated in peacetime. Would they issue orders right away when he completed this mission, or would he have some leave time?

  Betsy, at five years old, was really too big for Sophie to carry, but the urgency of her embrace and hiccupping tears made Sophie loathe to put her down.

  “It’s going to be all right, Betsy. He won’t be gone forever. We should be happy for him. He’s waited a long time for this.” She was saying all the right things, but it still hurt. “We will miss him, but we’re going to be strong women, taking care of Gateshead until he comes back.”