A cry of alarm came from the back of the group, and the dowager countess crumpled to the ground in a heap of lavender muslin.
Charles’ guests rushed to the dowager’s side, but Charles thought it best for him to remove himself, as it was his blood-splattered presence that had induced her swoon. It would not do to have her recover consciousness only to faint once more.
“If you will excuse me, I believe I must change my attire.” He bowed to the group surrounding the unconscious dowager countess, though no one paid him any heed as they attended her.
He turned on his heel and stepped back inside, pausing to speak to Tim on his way. “Please have two of our larger footmen aid the dowager countess and our other guests into the front drawing room to join Mr. and Mrs. Bradley. Be sure to bring tea and smelling salts as well. I will be down to attend them shortly.”
“Very good, sir.” Tim bowed as Charles turned to continue up the stairs.
Charles strode quickly into his bedchamber, locking the door behind himself. He hadn’t been aware that Billy’s broken nose had splattered down his front. Although, even if he had known, there had not been much opportunity to change unless he had hastened back indoors after seeing Billy’s carriage off. But he would have risked insulting Anna and her new family if they noticed his retreat.
He sighed and pulled his waistcoat and his shirt over his head. There was nothing for it. They would have seen him as he was, regardless. He just hoped that they would not question him, as he did not wish to upset Annabel in her condition.
He was grateful that his mother and father hadn’t seen him. They would most assuredly have heard the gunshot from where they awaited him in the drawing room. He would be forced to evade their questions, just as he always did. His stomach knotted with self-loathing.
“Bloody lies,” he muttered as he unbuttoned his trousers and slid them to the floor.
Billy had picked a most inconvenient moment to interrupt Charles’ life. Though with the message he brought, there would never be a convenient moment.
His thoughts wandered back to The Boss’ letter. The message was a clear threat to his heart, and as much as he had done his best to deny the fact over the past two years, his heart would always belong to Bridget.
He’d done all he could to distance himself from those he cared about. Clearly it had been a fruitless endeavour with Annabel. Now, because of his inability to hide his feelings, Bridget was in danger, as well
Charles felt that same dreadful tightness grip his chest. He could not let that happen.
He strode to the basin of water on his dressing table, cupped his hands, and brought the water to his face.
He’d spent the past two years pushing Bridget away from him in order to protect her from the life he now led. He hated himself for what he had to do to her. He hated the look of pain on her face and the trace of tears in her eyes as he said things sure to cut her to the heart.
Being the cause of her turmoil pained him, as well. With every word, every gesture, every letter he had returned unopened, he found it hurt more and more to disappoint her.
He had kept himself going only with the knowledge that he did it for his country. For his future. For their future. He knew that one day the curst threat of Bonaparte’s spies would be over and he and Bridget could continue where they had left off before he had gone overseas; in love and ready to marry. It was a lie, naturally. It would take damned near every ounce of his skill at persuasion to convince Bridget to even speak warmly to him again, let alone put aside the past two years of his cold neglect.
His stomach twisted. Of course, it wasn’t just his neglect or the threat of The Boss that was keeping him from attempting to mend his relationship with Bridget. It was gut-wrenching guilt over…
Running a hand through his thick blonde waves and down over his face once more, Charles groaned. He oughtn’t think about past mistakes right now.
He must protect Bridget at any cost. It would not be easy. Bridget would not let it be easy. Of course, he did not deserve it to be; he had made Bridget miserable over the past two years. So much so that she likely did not wish to set eyes on him again.
And as much as he hated the idea of Bridget being in danger, he had to admit that part of him looked forward to being forced to spend time in her company once more, awkward though it would be. It would be a challenge, but it was most certainly one he was willing—nay, eager—to face.
Chapter 2
Lady Bridget Mason sat upright in bed, a cold sweat touching her brow and sorrow clutching her heart.
Bridget reached to her white, decorative bedside table and turned up the wick in her oil lamp. A soft golden glow illuminated the small area around her bedside, adding to the flickering light from the fireplace near the foot of her bed.
She had begun to hate the night hours. Not for the solitude or darkness, but for the dreams. Her mind, it seemed, wished to torture her with memories that she would prefer to forget.
With a light sniffle, she pushed away her red floral counterpane, but brought her sheet around her knees and up to her chin, where a teardrop trembled.
Tonight she’d had the dream about Charles’ return from war. Well, she amended in her mind, it was less of a dream and more of a wrenching re-living of her past. A past that she would rather forget.
She stood at the docks, eagerly awaiting Charles’ arrival after five years apart and over a year without correspondence. He emerged, handsome and dishevelled.
Her heart flipped over in her chest, anticipation and joy filling her wholly.
Then he looked at her, his gaze cold and remote. Without a word, a smile, or an inkling of recognition, he turned his back on her and hailed a hack.
Pain sliced through her, warring with confusion. She frantically waved her arms, calling his name; but no matter how loudly she shouted, he would not turn around.
Bridget awoke each morning, her heart heavy with grief and her voice hoarse from calling out in her sleep. It pained her just as much now as it did ten months ago.
She swiped at the tears blazing hot trails down her cheeks, then twisted to reach below her bed for the large box of letters she kept stashed there for nightly reading. The letters were now well worn, the pages of each note thinned from frequent handling.
Bridget had told herself that she would stop this nonsense, would stop reading them. But she could not help herself.
Settled against the headboard, she began to read.
September 20, 1809
My Dearest Bridget,
I sail, currently, on board the Swift on my way to meet with my new cavalry squadron, the 16th Light Dragoons. I face years of the unknown ahead of me, yet I can think of nothing but you. There are men around me that are eager for battle, and others that fear death, but as I stare out at the rough seas, the only thoughts that go through my mind are of your flowing, silken, white-blonde hair, your sparkling emerald eyes, and your lusciously full and delicious lips.
I understand that we are to march into Spain upon landing. I, and many of the men aboard this vessel, have never before been to Spain. I confess to be curious as to what it will be like.
On my honour, Bridget, I will not miss a single opportunity to write to you.
All my love,
Charles
Bridget sniffled as she carefully refolded the first letter and reached into the box for another.
June 26, 1810
Bridget, my love,
I received your last two letters yesterday morn, and have done little else but read them time and again. Your words were a sweet balm to my aching heart. How I have missed you, dear Bridget.
I am pleased to hear that all is well at home. The season should be in full swing, so I expect that this letter will reach you at the town house in London. Be sure to enjoy it this year. Attend all the festive events, and warm your slippers on the dance floor. You are a supremely talented and graceful dancer, and should not deprive the other gentlemen the privilege of your hand as a partner
in dance. But please remember, however, that upon my return, your “hand” will be mine henceforth.
We have, as of yet, been fortunate in our dragoon. We recently travelled through La Alameida on our way to Gallegos. From here we await orders, as the French have over 8,000 men over the Agueda. We spend every moment of our day saddled, always on alert. Our nights are spent on the uncomfortable ground, in full uniform, our horses’ reins wrapped firmly in our grasp, ready for the moment that attack might come.
Rest assured, I feel perfectly safe with these men. My friends.
To address your concern, please do not be worried about my letters falling into the wrong hands. Even if they should, they will learn of our location far too late for it to impact the war. I appreciate your worrying over my safety, my love.
Thinking of you is what pushes me forward, my lovely Bridget. I can scarcely contain my anticipation for my return, when you will become Mrs. Charles Bradley.
Always yours,
Charles
Bridget picked up another.
September 29, 1810
My Lovely Bridget,
I lost a dear friend yesterday. Lieutenant William Wright was an upstanding man, and an exceptional comrade. He and other friends and fellow cavalry officers lost their lives today.
The night of the 27th we stood in wait for the battle to begin, knowing that the French had settled not far from us and planned to charge. We fought valiantly at Bosoac. Night came upon us, and both we and the French settled in for the night.
As light returned on the morn of the 29th, we returned to the battlefield, but the French had retreated, leaving their wounded and dead on the field.
Our loss yesterday totalled 1,255 officers and men.
It was a wretched day, indeed.
As I lie on my coat here in the streets of the nearest village, with my men surrounding me, my head echoes with the sounds of the men writhing and crying out in pain on the battlefield. Several of those around me now weep silently; many are younger than myself, and have just had their first brush with death, and first taste of loss. Though despite the difference in our age, I am inclined to join them in their sorrow.
I apologize for the graphic and dreary nature of my letter. I do hope you will forgive me. You are my dearest friend and a strong woman.
More than ever do I need to think of you, Bridget. Please tell me of your life in London. I do hope you had a pleasing summer in Hertfordshire. I would appreciate a description of autumn on the estate, if you would be so inclined. The imagery would be helpful in taking my mind away from this place.
All my love to you, your future husband,
Charles
Bridget choked on a sob as more tears fell. She wiped them with the back of her hand and reached into the box to pick up the last letter that Charles had sent her.
July 18, 1812
My dearest Bridget,
As I understand we will not have the opportunity to write for some time, I am taking this moment to assure you that I am well. I am stationed with my men in the Village of Villares. Lord Wellington has ensured that we are to be hidden behind a ridge once we enter Salamanca so as to fool our enemies. I am told that our Cavalry brigade, in addition to four others, will be accompanied by two independent brigades, eight infantry divisions, and fifty-four cannons, for this battle against the Frenchman, Marmont. Napoleon will surely suffer losses at the hands of our brave men.
The heat here is nigh unbearable. With our thick uniforms and heavy weaponry, it is impossible to remain cool. It is in the summer months that I dearly miss our English weather.
I thank you for your last letters. They arrived three days past with the newssheets from London.
I am pleased that you enjoyed this season, my love. Not a day passes that I do not think of you, or dream of what it will be like to return to your warm, inviting arms.
Your letters put lightness in my heart, which I have missed sorely. Did Lane truly put a frog on Katherine’s dinner plate? I dearly wish I could have witnessed her expression upon seeing it. I have a suspicion that the frog did not get released back into the pond from which it came, much to Lane’s disappointment, but into a special habitat designed and created by our own Lady Emaline. Are my suspicions correct?
But I must go. We are to be addressed by Lord Wellington.
Take care, my love.
Yours,
Charles
Her tears fell steadily now, her sobs unable to be contained, as she thought of all she had lost.
At this point in her relentless sobbing, she used to expect one of her sisters or her brother, Lane, to come knocking on her door, inquiring after her welfare, but that had stopped many months ago. They knew now that she did not wish to be disturbed, nor did she wish to discuss it.
There was no doubt that Charles would always be her first—and only—love. She had fallen for him when she was fifteen, and would always reserve that piece of her heart for him, damaged though it was.
She swiped angrily at her tears, frustration and anger swelling in her chest. She was tired of feeling melancholy, she was absolutely exhausted with her self-pity, and she was furious with herself for wasting the past ten months of her life in a foggy haze of anguish. It was time for her to take control of her life and future, and accept that what she had envisioned with Charles was not to be.
Bridget might not be a young girl at her coming out, but nor was she yet a spinster. At five and twenty, she was still young enough to change the course of her life. The question was, what was she to do? She certainly enjoyed watercolours, reading, playing the pianoforte, and she was well educated.
She often befriended those unfortunate enough to have a cruel, crude, outlandishly shy, or otherwise unsavoury reputation, with the hope that she could lead them down a more wholesome, open, and friendly path by way of a good example. Success was frequent with her methods. Bridget had discovered that what commonly lay at the root of poor behaviour was a soul in dire need of a friend.
Bridget visited with wounded soldiers at the hospital, giving them hope. She began when Charles had gone silent on the continent, his letters all but stopping after three years. Even Annabel and Mr. and Mrs. Bradley had not heard from him, their distress increasingly palpable with each of their visits. Bridget was so concerned that he had been injured that she volunteered at the hospital, ever checking the list of names on the door and the faces of the men in the beds. She came to love the endeavour, heartbreaking though it often was.
Any of those young men knew her character enough to give her an excellent reference.
Of course, there was also her secret hobby, but she would never dare to admit that to anyone. While her own family might not find it outrageously shameful, Bridget rather preferred to keep it private. What she did with Oliver Dove behind closed doors needn’t be known by all of England. It satisfied a deep, physical need that was much easier kept secret than explained.
Perhaps she could become a governess. They led perfectly respectable lives. She could live off her allowance from Lane, and save her pay from her governess position, then set herself up in a cottage in the country somewhere for her to grow old in. She would wish to stay close to her family’s estate in Hertfordshire, which is a rather costly part of the countryside.
A seldom-felt rush of hope pumped through her veins as images of a modest, colourful garden and a vine-covered cottage danced through her mind.
Could she do it? Could she purge Charles from her thoughts? From her heart?
She looked down at the pile of letters on her lap and spread out over her bed. She knew what she must do.
Her fingers trembled as she reached out a hand to grab the first of the letters. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, then tore the letter in half. She opened her eyes to watch the two pieces of vellum drop back to her lap. She did the same to several other letters, each tear leaving her feeling slightly more bruised and exposed, but lighter somehow.
After several of her letters had been torn, s
he placed them back in the box, and slid it back under her bed. She would save the others for another moment of weakness in which she needed to regain her strength.
Tomorrow would dawn a new day. A new start for a new life. She would take control from this day forward. No longer would she mope about in the evenings and cry herself to sleep. No longer would she allow Charles’ harsh words to affect her so deeply. He had changed, and so must she.
Perhaps it was also time for her to resume her shameful hobby. She practiced regularly—when safely ensconced in her locked bedchamber—but she had yet to return to her lessons. While she still saw Oliver socially, she missed that aspect of their friendship. Her weight loss should have no bearing on whether or not she could still match him. Surely they could resume with little difficulty.
Bridget threw back her sheet and leapt from the bed. She allowed herself a small smile as she slid the low chest containing her equipment from under her bed. Yes. Tomorrow would indeed dawn a new day.
* * *
Charles’ eyes sprang open, his hand automatically reaching for the pistol on his bedside table. He cocked it, the click echoing in his grand bedchamber, and aimed blindly in the direction of a light creak.
“It is I, Hydra.”
Charles blinked and tried to focus on the darkened, blurry form of his valet, and trusted friend, Jones.
“Devil take it, Jones. You know better than to startle me.” He disengaged his pistol and placed it on his bedside table.
Jones cracked a cocky grin, the motion pulling his pointed nose downward. “I apologize for disturbing your sleep.” He dragged a chair to Charles’ bedside and sat.
The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Page 2