by Allegra Gray
She was afraid that, somehow, while in the dank confines of her prison, something inside her had snapped and broken. Something that, maybe, couldn’t be mended.
She was afraid she might, indeed, be crazy.
If she’d managed to talk to Graeme, he might have overlooked what those men had done to her. But obviously, he could not simply overlook crazy.
The coach bearing her husband away did not stop.
It rolled out of sight, but Charity stayed by the window, refusing to give up hope. He would stop. He would realize his mistake, and turn around. He had to.
But one hour passed, and then another. And Graeme did not return.
Sometime during the first hour, the strength in Charity’s legs gave way, and she sank to her knees, fingers still gripping the window sill in futile hope. After the second hour, her fingers too gave up, and she bent forward, her body keening in a long, silent cry.
Oh, God. Oh, God. She’d lost him. Lost everything. Her stupid inability to forget the past, to let go of old fears, had cost her the most wonderful husband and lover a woman could ask for. She rocked back and forth, body racked with painful shudders, an ache too profound for tears. Why, oh why, couldn’t she be normal again? All she wanted was normal.
No. Not true. All she wanted was Graeme. And she’d lost him.
Chapter 13:
In which a nurse clucks her tongue, then gets down to the business of caring for her charge, which, as it turns out, isn’t such difficult business at all.
Charity drifted like a ghost through the house. The servants’ actions indicated no knowledge of what had caused their master’s sudden departure. If they thought it odd he had business so urgent it would cause him to abandon his wife less than a fortnight after the wedding, they did not show it. The staff was as solicitous as ever. If they thought Charity was overwrought, if they noticed how she had to struggle through thick grief to find the words to answer even the simplest questions, they did not remark upon it.
In the space of a few short weeks, Graeme Ramsey Maxwell had gone from a dashing stranger to the very essence of her world. With him gone, the floor had fallen from under her feet. Every minute, every hour stretched out before her like an empty eternity.
Luncheon was served, but she forgot to attend. For supper, the staff sent up a tray to her rooms. Graeme had not returned.
When the servant who delivered it turned to leave, Charity tried desperately to stall the man. Donough, she remembered, having only learned everyone’s names. But “Thank you, Donough,” were the only words she could find to penetrate the deep blanket of sadness that smothered her.
He bowed and left. Loneliness engulfed her.
The master chamber, with the enormous bed they’d joked about such a short time ago, now seemed to mock her tiny presence. The cavernous space echoed her lament at the loss of its master.
On one of her first nights here, she had giggled with mirth at Graeme’s proclamation that it was a good thing they had this hallway to themselves, for no one else would get any sleep if he kept making her cry out in ecstasy.
Would he ever do so again? And now that she knew how amazing it was, how would she live without it? Without him?
With Graeme gone, the entire upper hall was eerily empty. Every creak, every whisper of the wind, raised the hair at the back of Charity’s neck.
No guards. No strong, protective husband. Anything could happen here.
Her dinner grew cold.
The evening dragged on, and the hour grew late. Still, fear kept her awake. Fear, and the awful coldness of the empty sheets beside her.
Even the nursery was far away, in the opposite wing of the house. Mayhap she could suggest moving it. Not that she expected a seven year old and his caregiver to act as protection. It would just be comforting to know there were other humans nearby. And it would ease her mind, a little. The two of them had lived here longer and knew the noises of the house. If they slept peacefully, maybe she could, too.
Besides, Nathan was family now. She and Graeme were the closest thing to parents that the little boy had. Families should be together. Even families with flaws. She could tuck him in at night, read to him from her favorite storybooks and learn his favorites too…
But Graeme might be angry. He’d made it clear he thought her “illness” rendered her unfit as a mother. The last thing she wanted to do was anger him. If only they could reconcile. If only he would come back.
The following morning, Graeme had not returned. She hadn’t really expected he would. When he hadn’t returned for dinner the night before, intuition had told her she was in for a long wait. Another day stretched endlessly before her. She was too heart sore to even attempt a façade of normality in front of either Graeme’s mother or young Nate, so she simply avoided all company. She didn’t know them well enough yet to break down in front of them—which she surely would. Solitude was both her shelter and her prison.
It occurred to Charity to go after her husband, but he hadn’t told her where he was going. Added to which, she really wasn’t certain of the best protocol. She couldn’t run to him and promise to never let it happen again. If she had that kind of control, there wouldn’t be a problem in the first place. Would it be better to give her husband some time and space to think? That was what he’d said he needed, after all. She should respect that.
Was it too much to hope that, given the time and space he’d requested, he would come to terms with the fact that although she had these spells, she was still the woman he’d so passionately desired that he’d whisked her off to Scotland and married her barely two weeks after they’d met? Or had his disappointment and confusion turned to anger and bitterness toward her for knowingly deceiving him into that marriage? She prayed it wasn’t the latter. If only she knew what he was thinking. Or where he was.
The only other indication Charity had as to Graeme’s frame of mind came on the second day of his absence, via the arrival of Leventhal House’s newest resident, sent there by the earl himself.
Charity’s devastation at Graeme’s departure was complete. No other feeling could penetrate her grief—at least, not until she met the new resident and learned her husband had sent her a nurse. Then, the fires of indignation pierced her consciousness.
She had come down to the lesser parlor upon learning from Mrs. Saxonberry that Lord Maxwell had hired a new member of the staff. She’d been prepared to greet a maid, or perhaps a gardener. A governess or tutor, perhaps, for Nathan.
“My name is Ismay, my lady. Ismay Boyd. I’m to be your nurse.”
A nurse? The woman standing before her was young, perhaps only a few years older than herself, and yet her face appeared careworn.
Charity quirked a brow. “Miss Boyd, I think you are mistaken. Perhaps you mean you are to be nurse to young Nathan, my…nephew?” Nathan was legitimately her nephew, now that she and Graeme were married, but it felt somehow wrong to call him that—as though it pointed out his orphan status. What an odd little family they were turning out to be.
Miss Boyd shifted uncomfortably. “Nay, my lady. The earl—your husband, that is, he hired me to help your ladyship. Are ye recovering from an illness, my lady?”
“Not exactly,” Charity replied stiffly. Ooh, when she got her hands on that man… What was she thinking? If she ever got her hands on him, it would be all she could do not to throw herself into his arms and beg him to understand.
She took a deep breath and focused on the young woman in front of her. Her frustration with Graeme wasn’t going to help right now. She straightened her posture, suddenly thankful for the years of etiquette training her mother had forced upon her.
Ismay Boyd shifted again. “He said ye had pride, my lady. I promise, I come qualified. I been a nurse since I was sixteen, and carin’ for folk long ‘afore that. I’ll understand, if the illness is of a nature ye might not normally speak of…”
“What, exactly,” Charity asked, “did my husband tell you of my ‘ailment?’”
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nbsp; The two women squared off. Ismay’s features took on a thoughtful expression, as though she was considering the kindest way to answer. She needn’t have bothered. Charity read the truth in her eyes.
“He thinks I’m insane,” she said dully.
The pity she read in the other woman’s eyes made her want to claw them out just so she wouldn’t have to see it anymore. Except then she really would be insane.
“I don’t need your help.”
“He said you would say that. He also said that the rest of the household doesn’t know. I thought, maybe, that if you were to allow me to help you—just a little bit—they might never find out.”
Charity was reluctantly impressed. Ismay Boyd knew how to manipulate a person as well as any aspiring miss in London. She couldn’t deny the woman’s point. Even if she knew she wasn’t crazy, others would not understand her behavior. Her husband included. It was only a matter of time before the others discovered her secret. If everyone started treating her like a madwoman, she might very well become one.
Not to mention she had a feeling that, even if she tried, she couldn’t send Ismay Boyd packing. Better to capitulate, no matter how it rankled to give in. At least that way she’d have some company in this godforsaken wilderness.
“Truly, I am not a madwoman, Miss Boyd. But I do sometimes have terrible nightmares,” she confessed.
“Oh, my lady.” Ismay’s compassion sounded genuine.
“And I have trouble sleeping.” In for a penny, in for a pound.
Ismay gave her a gentle smile. “Lack of sleep could drive even the sanest person to act mad now and then.”
“When it first started, my physician back home prescribed laudanum. That helped some. For a while. Perhaps it actually helped too much. I didn’t want that to become my life…drugged out of my senses every night.”
Ismay nodded. “I ‘ave seen that, indeed, an’ far too often. ‘Tis no life for a young woman such as yerself, my lady. I am no physician, but I’ll do my best to help. And I thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”
There was plenty more she hadn’t told, but Charity didn’t feel like pointing that out just yet. A more pressing problem had just occurred to her. “What position does the housekeeper believe you are interviewing for?” Please don’t say nurse. Please don’t say nurse, she thought fervently.
“The earl told her I was training to become a lady’s companion.” Ismay smiled. “Imagine that. Me, a lady’s companion. It sounds quite lovely, if a bit above my station.”
Charity couldn’t help but smile. She and Miss Boyd could share their secret, and both women might even benefit. It almost reminded her of her youth, when she and Elizabeth would share secrets and come up with harebrained schemes together.
“In that case, I shall be happy to instruct you.”
From a certain, absurdly-impersonal perspective, Charity could not fault her husband’s kindness. He hadn’t locked her in an attic. He hadn’t sent her back to London, or, worse, had her carted off to Bedlam. Other men might very well have done so. It was why she’d feared marriage in the first place.
By telling his household that her nurse was actually a lady’s companion-in-training, he’d protected her further and, unwittingly, given her a companion that kept the wrenching loneliness from becoming too much to bear.
But, oh, it stung to know Graeme had gone from looking at her with desire to looking at her with pity. He thought her incompetent. So much so, he’d sent her—no matter what rest of the household thought Ismay Boyd to be—a nurse.
In truth, Ismay had very little to do. Her meager belongings were quickly settled in the maid’s quarters next to Charity’s room. After the first lonely night, Charity had decided to move to the bedroom belonging to the lady of the manor. And why not? She was still the lady of the manor, since her absentee husband had not actually cast her aside. At any rate, it was too painful to think of sleeping in the bed she’d shared with Graeme without him there.
The arrangement suited Charity and Ismay both. “This way I can wake ye if the dreams get to be too bad,” Ismay promised.
Charity nodded. From Gretna Green, she had written to London to send for her things, and offered her lady’s maid a handsome pay increase if she would come work at Lord Maxwell’s home. Her trunks were on the way, but Penny was not. A note from Elizabeth indicated she’d taken employment elsewhere rather than live among the “wild folk.” So the little maid’s room was empty. She’d been considering offering it to Maisie—who was indeed a hair-styling wonder, in spite of her tendency to prattle—when Miss Boyd had shown up.
“A true lady’s companion, though, would take affront at being assigned the maid’s quarters. Perhaps we should station you in one of the lesser bedrooms.” Charity clasped her hands and peered down the hallway, wistfully. The idea of having someone close by was so appealing, she hated to sacrifice it.
“Ach. But, you see, I am only a lady’s companion in training,” Ismay declared, mischief lighting her eyes.
“Oh, yes, I nearly forgot,” Charity replied, relieved. Not only would she have someone nearby, but that someone had promised to help keep her secret. Maisie’s penchant for gossip would have meant trouble for them both. It rankled to realize that Graeme had found a way to provide everything she needed most—except himself. His acts were kind and lordly, yet oh-so-infuriating. “Well, then, perhaps when you complete your training,” she told Miss Boyd, “We shall promote you to a nicer room.”
“Aye, my lady. No hurry. Don’t ye worry. These quarters is far nicer than some.”
After the matter of sleeping arrangements was settled, there was little else required.
“What shall I do first?” Ismay asked, to which Charity simply held up her hands in a questioning gesture.
“As I said, I am not truly a lunatic. At least, not very often. If I was, do you think his lordship would have married me in the first place?”
“My lady, I do not know what to think, in truth.”
Charity blinked. Fair enough. Of course the madwoman would claim she was sane. She could tell Ismay watched her closely over the next couple days, relaxing bit by bit as Charity’s behavior stood tribute to her claims.
“This job is too good to be true,” Ismay announced by the third morning, enunciating carefully, as though she were indeed training for a higher station. The two women had practiced speech and reading each morning, in keeping with the farce. “Never have I had such luxury.”
The two women sat in the library. Charity had selected a volume of poetry—Lord Maxwell’s library being somewhat short on the novels she generally preferred—while Ismay embroidered a lace cuff.
“You said you’ve been a nurse for some years. Is it usually quite hard, then?”
“I shouldn’t speak so of my work. The things I’ve had to do…well, when a person is sick, you do what must be done. Much of it indelicate.” She wrinkled her nose. “Let us not speak of that. My lady, may I ask a question?”
Charity nodded warily.
“I have heard you tossing and turning in your sleep each night, and I know sometimes you stand at the window for long hours before seeking the refuge of bed, but, my lady, this hardly seems to merit my presence. Is it possible you and your earl had a misunderstanding?”
A rueful smirk lifted Charity’s features for the first time in days. “That would be one way of putting it.”
“Perhaps, if the two of you were to talk…”
“Do you know where he is?”
Ismay looked surprised, then sad. “No, my lady.”
Charity let out a long sigh. “’Tis a misunderstanding between the earl and I, to be sure. But that is only part of it. You have yet to see the full extent of my troubles.”
Ismay’s careworn face showed only concern. “What else should I be looking for?”
“As much as I would like to castigate him, my husband is not entirely without cause in sending you to me. You’ll know when you see.” She left it at that.
At least Miss Boyd would give her some company this day.
The gray sky cast a shadow that seemed to drain the color from the earth below.
The growing season was shorter here, so the vegetable garden was mostly contained in a long greenhouse. The open-air kitchen gardens, as they were, contained a mix of herbs and flowers. Charity recognized buttercups, violets, and sweetbriar—bright spots of color cheerily defying the dreary sky. Peppermint poked up among the buttercups. The other plants, she couldn’t name.
Ahead of her on the path, Nate’s small figure appeared. He used the toe of his boot to kick a round stone, turning it over and over.
“Good morning, Nate,” she called.
He slowed until she caught up. “Morning, Aunt Charity.” He kicked the stone again and it rolled a few feet.
“What are you playing?”
He shrugged. “Nothing, really.”
It struck her that he looked bored. Or lonely. And why not? He had no playmates here. The town and the crofters’ cottages were too far for a child his age to walk alone.
“What game is your favorite?”
He had to think about that for a while. “Hide and seek, probably.” He meandered a few steps and gave the rock a half-hearted kick. “I like it best when Uncle Graeme plays, though.”