by Erica Vetsch
Diana grabbed Charlotte’s hand. “And are you?” Her eyes dropped immediately to Charlotte’s middle, then she laughed.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s awfully soon. We’ve only been married six weeks, but the first sign happened, or rather didn’t happen, so who knows?” A rush of happiness surged through her. That there might be a little someone growing inside her, a part of her and Marcus.
Her eyes sought her husband’s, and she smiled, realizing he had been looking at her. This was one secret she would keep for a while longer, just until she was sure.
When it finally came time for Marcus to make his speech, Charlotte’s nerves were stretched taut. He rose, approached the lectern, and opened his portfolio.
“Esteemed Lords, I bring before you today the plight of a large portion of the population of not only London but of our great nation. A group of people who are in their circumstances through no fault of their own but rather as a result of those who use and abuse them. Many of these women are the dependents of our veterans, wives, daughters. We owe it to our fighting men to do better by their families.”
Pride in her husband welled up. Here he was fighting for those who could not fight for themselves. Speaking for those who had no voice. Putting an identity on a problem that most wished to pretend didn’t exist. He unmasked the issue that had been hidden in the darkness for too long, and not just through his actions here but through his opening of his home to women who needed a way out. Through supporting Aunt Dolly’s rescue house. He was more than just talk. He was an advocate who also acted.
“And so the Earl of Whitelock and I put before you, gentlemen, a threefold proposal. We propose an act to fund more rescue houses and training schools for those in need, to impose an age of consent, and to review and augment the pensions of our veterans so their wives and daughters don’t have to walk the streets. We can no longer pretend the problem doesn’t exist, nor deny that we are part of it. I call upon you to examine your consciences, consider your responsibilities as peers of this great realm, and remind yourselves of your noblesse oblige. We must change our thinking and our response to this issue. God commands it, and our position as peers demands it. We must act on behalf of those who cannot act for themselves.” Marcus bowed and took his seat on the bench.
For a long moment, silence reigned.
Then from the balcony, clapping started. Charlotte looked up to see Pippa applauding, and then Aunt Dolly, and then the dowager. Others joined, and soon the chamber echoed with applause from the gallery. Many of the peers, her father among them, sat like statues. Guilt? Perhaps. Thoughtfulness? She hoped and prayed.
Her eyes found Marcus’s, and she met his smile. He winked at her, raising the portfolio as if to say, “Well done.”
He had flawlessly delivered the speech she had cowritten with him.
CHAPTER 1
Military Hospital
Oporto, Portugal
June 15, 1814
IF IT GOT any hotter, the Royal Navy would have to ship him home in a flask.
Captain Charles Wyvern dabbed the sweat from his temples with his already-soaked handkerchief as he entered the military hospital. What wouldn’t he give to be aboard his vessel, palms braced against the rail, taking the sea breeze full in the face?
Those days were still a fair bit off, but he would experience them again. He fisted his hand around the square of cloth, his mouth firming. It would take determination and patience, but he had those in abundance.
First he must recover fully from his wounds, get to London, and finally appeal to the Admiralty to give him another command. Formidable tasks, but he was making progress on the recovery, at least. Charles turned the corner to the entrance of the ward where he had so recently been a patient, and halfway down the crowded row of billets found the bed he sought.
Guilt settled like a twelve-pounder in his gut as he inhaled the cloying scents of orange blossoms and dust, carbolic and sweat. Though he had been discharged nearly a week ago to complete his recuperation in the officers’ quarters in Oporto, Charles faithfully returned to the hospital every day to attend his friend Major Richardson. For weeks they had lain side by side, sharing the miseries and camaraderie of military hospital life. Major Richardson had commanded the Royal Marines aboard Charles’s last ship.
But each had been tacking on a different course since arriving at the hospital. As Charles had improved, Richardson had declined. Again Charles felt the sinking weight of guilt. It was his fault Rich was here at all. If only Charles hadn’t been complacent, had followed through on protocols, most likely neither would have been injured and Rich wouldn’t now be dying.
He reached Richardson’s cot and pulled up a chair. The young officer’s hollow cheeks, his taut yellowed skin, and the way his body sunk into the bedding all spoke his waning condition. The chair creaked as Charles sat, and Richardson stirred, his eyes fluttering open.
“How are you faring today, Rich?” Charles kept his voice quiet. The way his comrade looked, even a whisper might cause him pain.
“Still here, Captain.” The rasp in his throat had Charles reaching for the water pitcher, and he dipped the corner of a towel into the water and let a few drops dribble into Rich’s mouth. Charles smiled. Though Rich had been given permission weeks ago, he couldn’t quite bring himself to call his captain by his first name. It wouldn’t be proper, he’d said. He wouldn’t want anyone to think he was trading on their friendship and treating the captain cavalierly.
“Thank you.” A weak smile touched Rich’s cracked lips.
“What else can I do for you?” Charles didn’t wait for Rich to ask, easing him up in order to flip his pillow. Though the coolness wouldn’t last, it had to feel better for at least a little while.
Rich grimaced as he lay flat again. “How are you, sir?” His voice was as thin as a frayed rope.
“I’m coming right.” Charles rolled his shoulders slightly, wincing as familiar pain—though much reduced—arced across his shoulders. He’d received a rather nasty slice from an enemy sailor’s cutlass during the capture of a French vessel, and the injury had taken far too long to heal for his liking. The wound had mended well enough for the Royal Navy though.
He didn’t know how to tell Rich that he’d received the all clear to head back to Britain. An anchor lodged in his chest every time he considered leaving the dying marine behind.
After all, the man had saved his life at the expense of his own.
Day after day Rich’s body fought to keep its tenuous grip on this world, retreating in protracted increments. Though he had fought valiantly, he would soon have to strike his colors and raise the white flag.
Charles shooed away the incessantly buzzing flies and touched Rich lightly on the shoulder. When they had first been transported together to the hospital in Oporto, the major had been hopeful. He’d taken a musket ball to the right side, and though in considerable pain, had remained cheerful and expectant of restoration to health. He’d maintained that hope, holding on to the thought of all he had to return home to in order to keep his spirits up.
“Sophie?” Rich asked.
“Of course.” Following their well-worn routine, Charles opened the sea chest under the table beside the cot and withdrew a packet of envelopes. “I’ll read the latest.”
He opened the letter dated two weeks before. One nice thing about being on the beach, the mail arrived regularly. Charles received no mail, not having anyone left to write to him. When he had first gone to sea, his mother had penned a note twice a year, but when she’d passed away, his mail had stopped. Any news from home was welcome aboard ship, and it was common to hand letters around the officers’ mess, or at least read aloud snippets of a less personal nature.
Clearing his throat, he read to the major:
Dearest Rich,
Summer has finally arrived in Oxfordshire. The gardens are a riotous glory of color, so heartily greeted after the drab and cold winter that refused to take the hint it had overstayed its welc
ome.
Is it wrong that I love the informal gardens, bursting with flowers run amok, far more than the parterre garden at Haverly, with all the box hedges perfectly trimmed and every sprout consigned to its well-planned spot? The more serendipitous garden at Primrose Cottage seems to suit my temperament better, I think, allowed to roam and bloom and burst forth when and where it pleases.
Mother would say it is my undisciplined ways that lead me to embrace unruly flower gardens, but I prefer to think of the blossoms—and my ways—as adventurous rather than rebellious. Spending time in the informal gardens speaks to my soul, and I find peace and inspiration there. After all, it is our special place, and I long for the day when we will wander its free-spirited paths once more.
Our darling Mamie is well enough. She occasionally drifts into a sort of twilight of thought where she appears to see memories from the past with more clarity than her current surroundings, but then she is back, not seeming to realize she’s been gone. The physician assures me this is normal for an aging person, though perhaps on the early side for a woman of Mamie’s years. He says I am not to worry. Have you noticed how often people tell you not to worry, even when there is something definitely worrisome occurring? Still, the doctor is a dear man, and he is so gentle and kind with Mamie.
Mother is still not resigned to me fulfilling my promise to you of caring for Mamie while you are gone. She doesn’t understand that it is so much more than mere obligation. I truly love Mamie, and I am honored that you would put your dear mama into my care until you return.
Marcus and Charlotte have arrived from London to inhabit the manor for the summer. Charlotte is now in “a delicate condition.” Why can’t we just say she’s going to have a baby? Why must we be coy, with little side glances to invite people in on the secret we all know? So silly. I prefer plain speaking myself, but then again, you know that as well as anyone. My brother smiles indulgently when I speak my mind, but Mother gets that pinch-mouthed look that says she wishes I didn’t vex her patience so much. You have always encouraged me to share what I’m thinking and feeling and wondering about, and you never upbraid me or tell me to spend less time talking and more time listening. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.
In addition to Marcus and Charlotte, Mother and Cilla and little Honora Mary have returned from London. They are living in the Dower House. I do wonder about Cilla, whether she is content to live with Mother for the rest of her days. I hope a handsome and kind man will someday stride into her life and love her and Honora Mary the way they deserve and take them away from Haverly so she can live her own life. Not that she seemed unhappy wed to Neville. But he was so much like Father, reluctant to show emotion, more consumed with his role as the heir than anything else.
Honora Mary has grown, no longer content to sleep in her cradle for much of the day. She has too much exploring to do. Though she cannot yet crawl, she has discovered a talent for rolling that brings her closer to the item she wishes to investigate. I have a feeling that when she can walk, we’ll all be required to chase her about to ensure her safety. She looks so much like Neville, it almost hurts. Cilla says she is glad, because she has something tangible to remember her husband by. I think I can understand how she feels.
There are times when I wish we had given into impulse to marry in haste rather than listen to Mother and wait until your next extended leave. Even now I might have a little one underfoot with your eyes and my thirst for adventure.
Another change has occurred at Haverly Manor. Mother and Charlotte have embarked upon a campaign of reform, and you’ll never guess. They’ve brought a coterie of ladies from the city to train as domestics in the main and dower houses. The ladies are former Cyprians … there, another delicate euphemism. They were prostitutes, Rich. Charlotte hopes to help women leave that life and find better ways to support themselves, and to give them letters of character when they complete their training. Many are the dependents of killed or wounded veterans, which makes their plight all the more tragic. I can only imagine what it must be like to be in their situation.
I wish Charlotte every success in this endeavor. It has actually relieved my mind somewhat, because Mother has decided to champion these efforts, and as a result, she’s too busy ‘redeeming’ these women to fuss overly about me. She has only mentioned my leaving your home and Mamie and returning to Haverly a handful of times since she arrived.
Mrs. McAllister comes to visit Mamie several times per week, and while she’s here, I sometimes trot down and help the vicar with his school. I listen to recitations and read aloud, which is my favorite activity. The boys say such humorous things, sometimes I struggle to keep my countenance serene. Often I don’t accomplish the task, and we all end up in gales of laughter. Mother says I shouldn’t help at a school full of little boys. If I have to be so plebeian as to take on teaching work, I should at least have the decency to apply myself at a school for young ladies. (Can’t you just hear her? No one can be as quashing as the dowager.) The boys are quite fun, though, and a good distraction from loneliness.
You’ve instructed me not to fret about you, nor to ask after your recovery, and yet I find that quite impossible. So many soldiers are arriving home since Paris has fallen and the war on the Peninsula is won. Now that Napoleon has been defeated and will be exiled from France, the entire country is in quite the uproar. I wish you were here to experience it. There are celebrations everywhere, from St. James’s Palace to the local public houses. People can hardly believe the war is finally over. After so many years, I wonder if Britain will know how to exist without the danger.
But it is you I worry about, especially since this Captain Wyvern has taken to writing your letters for you. Are you still unable to put pen to paper yourself? Not that I am unappreciative of the captain’s efforts, and please do tell him so. Though his penmanship is difficult to decipher. It has become a sort of code-breaking exercise that Mamie and I thoroughly enjoy, even going so far as to employ her quizzing glass when we encounter a particularly scrawling bit. Don’t tell the captain that. I would not like him to think we make sport of him or do not appreciate his efforts on your behalf.
We miss you terribly, and we long for the day when you will come walking up the drive. We have been making a few small preparations for your homecoming here at Primrose Cottage. Mamie instructs Mrs. Chapman every day to be ready to bake your favorite plum duff dessert. For myself, I anticipate the moment when I will look into your eyes, press my hand to your chest to feel the steady beat of your heart, and know that all is right in my world again.
Charles glanced up. The major’s eyes were closed, his chest barely moving as he breathed. Had he heard the words read to him?
Grief weighed Charles’s wounded shoulders at the thought of the woman who had written this letter receiving the news that she would never again see the man she loved and had pledged to marry upon his return from battle.
War was most cruel.
While Charles felt it wrong that Rich wouldn’t allow anyone to tell his fiancée the truth about his condition, he had to respect his friend’s wishes. But he did so regretfully, resisting the temptation to inform her privately, hoping to somehow soften an unsoftenable blow.
Though he should have folded the letter and returned it to the locker now that Rich had fallen asleep, Charles hesitated. He scanned the pages until he found again the place his name was mentioned. Lady Sophia wasn’t wrong when she noted his poor handwriting. He’d received a fair few complaints from the Admiralty on the subject over the years when he’d turned in his logbooks after each voyage.
Lady Sophia Haverly. A duke’s daughter, a baron’s fiancée, a true English rose.
Dare he admit how much he had looked forward to mail arriving aboard ship and here at the hospital? Richardson had been generous in reading portions of her letters aloud in the wardroom aboard the Dogged over the months. Charles suspected that half the officers on the ship nursed a tendresse for the major’s fiancée. Or at least the idea of
her, with her quick wit and breezy style of writing.
Not that he himself had succumbed to the charming missives beyond a mild interest. They were always sunny, always encouraging, bits and bobs of life in their Oxfordshire village. The concepts were mostly foreign to Charles, who had known no other life but the sea since he was a child. He’d joined the Royal Navy at twelve, making his way up from powder monkey to captain over the span of twenty-four years. As such, he was almost a foreigner in his own country when he found himself ashore in England.
Here in the hospital, as Rich’s condition had worsened, the major had asked Charles to read the letters aloud, and eventually to pen the replies. The last letter Charles had composed had been almost entirely his own creation, Rich being too weak to contribute much to the epistle.
Charles had described the flowers outside the hospital, the orange blossoms’ overpowering scent from the grove near his billet, and the bustle of the port—anything he thought might interest the young noblewoman. Was it lying not to reveal Rich’s true condition? A bond existed between Charles and this woman he had never met, for they both cared for Rich. Charles had never written a letter to a young lady before, and he wasn’t sure if he was executing the task correctly. He felt odd ending the letter with an endearment or two, hoping he could put into words what he knew Rich felt for his lady.
He sighed. If it weren’t for him, Rich would be hale, hearty, and most likely walking up that drive in Oxfordshire, ready to resume his life as a baron and marry Lady Sophia.
Charles’s fingers brushed the signature on the letter. Unlike himself, Miss Haverly wrote a beautiful hand, and her name was as feminine and appealing as her correspondence. Her words and the images they created set up an odd longing in his heart that he didn’t quite know what to do with, making him homesick for a place he had never been. As a battle-hardened sea captain, full of salt and tar, he shouldn’t be interested in the words of a young woman he’d never met, a woman more than a decade younger than himself, and most importantly a woman betrothed to a dying man who was his friend.