Tender Fortune

by Judith E. French

  She had told no one of the dream. She had gathered the twisted, damp bedclothes and carried them downstairs to be washed. She had pinched her cheeks to add color to the ivory... and kept her own counsel. It was a horrible nightmare—nothing more! Was it not common for all new brides to behave strangely? Only in a nightmare would she consent to go to the altar with James Drummond!

  At supper that evening Charity had no appetite. She sipped a little wine and then made her apologies, going to her room for the night. Elizabeth made no mention of her unaccustomed withdrawal, attributing it to nerves and remembering well her own first wedding.

  It was a sleepless night. Charity tossed and turned, wanting to sleep, and half afraid the dream would return. An owl in the tree near her window hooted over and over, his cry echoing in the still summer darkness.

  Daylight found her dressed and making her way through the cedars at the foot of the garden to the edge of the meadow. A mist hung over the ground, making the landscape into a fairyland. A mockingbird called from the garden, plaintively seeking his mate. Charity looked up through the branches but was unable to see him. She leaned against the fence, resting her chin on her folded arms.

  The meadow was empty. Only green grass and sparkling dew lay before her. There was no sound except for the mockingbird. Her own voice sounded loud in the stillness. "You've been avoiding him. You're scared to face him."

  I'm not! her inner self protested. He's contemptible! There is no reason for me to see him again.

  Stubbornly Charity shook her head. She'd been a coward; there was no denying it. Slowly she walked toward the stables.

  It was too early for any of the grooms to be about. Clumsily she took a saddle from the tack room and carried it to Duchess's box stall. The little dapple-gray mare whinnied a welcome and nudged Charity with her velvety nose. "Good morning," Charity laughed. "I'm glad to see you too."

  Carefully she opened the stall door and saddled the gentle animal. Next came the bridle; fortunately the horse cooperated. With a deep breath, Charity led her out of the barn and swung up into the saddle. "Easy, easy," she warned. "Go slow, girl." The mare began to walk, and Charity gathered the reins with more self-confidence. "Good girl," she soothed. "Nice horse."

  With a tug on the reins, Charity turned the dapple-gray's head down the lane. If she lived to reach Bold Venture, facing Jamie would be child's play! She patted the animal's neck and talked softly to her. It would have been a lot easier if she'd taken time to change into her riding habit. The skirt of her gown was awkward, and her soft kid slippers were never meant for riding. Still, if she had gone back to her room to change, she might have lost her nerve. There was no turning back now.

  A rabbit darted across the road in front of Duchess. Charity grabbed for the horse's mane, but the little mare only twitched her ears in disapproval. Charity sat up straighter in the saddle and began to enjoy the ride.

  On one side of the lane, rows of corn stretched as far as she could see. Tobacco grew opposite. Charity decided she preferred the tobacco with the broad waving leaves. Several field-workers crossing the rows in the distance paused to wave and she waved back. The sun was fully up, promising a hot, dry day ahead. A pair of gulls circled lazily overhead, turning slowly in the direction of the bay.

  The smell of the animal was not unpleasant. Duchess moved along daintily, swishing her long tail and wrinkling her dark nose at troublesome insects. Charity hummed a little tune to the horse, certain the mare found it soothing. On another day, with another purpose ahead, the ride might almost have been enjoyable.

  The servants were up and about by the time Charity reached the barnyard at Bold Venture. A pack of spotted hounds ran out to bay a greeting. Chickens scattered, and a groom came to take her horse. Charity dismounted with as much dignity as possible in her dress and walked toward the handsome brick dwelling.

  Jamie's house consisted of two sections joined by a porch running along the front. Three great chimneys rose above the steep roofs. There was an absence of shrubs and flowers, but all was neat and well cared for.

  A barefoot maid met her at the door, dropped a crooked curtsy, and led her through the entranceway into the great room. "Master James is at breakfast," the girl informed her saucily.

  Her olive skin and heavy features showed a trace of blackamoor. Her eyes twinkled as she motioned to the open doorway.

  Jamie looked up in surprise, and Charity's heart caught in her throat. He wore a white homespun shirt, open halfway to the waist. His face and neck were tanned from the sun, his muscular chest bronzed beneath the soft curling hair. He rose to his feet and came toward her. "Caroline." His eyes lit with pleasure. "You are welcome, my lady," he said hoarsely.

  Her resolve wavered and her glance fell to the scrubbed pine floors. "I came to return Duchess," she stammered. "I'm sorry to disturb your morning meal."

  His expression hardened and the maid fled the room. Charity stood her ground. "You came to return the mare?" he asked mockingly. His eyes narrowed. "At this hour? I think not."

  Charity stared at the open beamed ceiling. The room was spare but spotless, a bachelor's home. "I just said so, didn't I?" she swallowed hard. "I thank you for the loan of Duchess, but it is not seemly for a married woman to borrow a valuable horse from—"

  "Duchess is not a loan," he said frostily. "I make a gift of her to you. Surely it is fitting for a lady to accept a wedding gift from a neighbor."

  "I don't want her," she lied. "I don't want anything from you."

  "No? Then why, are you here?"

  "I... I didn't want us to part in anger." Charity knew she was blushing, and she tried to hold down her temper. "It was good of you to find Father Anthony for me. And... and I do owe my life and all my good fortune to your... your kindness."

  "Don't do it, girl." He took a step toward her, and she took one back. "If you go through with this, you'll regret it the rest of your life."

  Charity's chin went up and her gray-green eyes flashed. "Will I?"

  "Yes, you will. Richard Moreland's an old man! He's a stodgy, plodding farmer without the intelligence to appreciate you. Damn it, Charity! You can do better!"

  "I've had no better offers!"

  "Would you like one?" He came toward her and she put the table between them. The very air seemed charged with the sparks of his vehemence.

  "Not from you!" she flung back. "I'd as soon die a spinster! At least I'd be assured of meeting a peaceful demise and not ending my life dancing on a rope."

  "Then I wish you all happiness," he said bitterly. "And all the joy your old man can give you." Jamie turned abruptly and started for the door, then stopped and threw her a look that made her shiver. "You'll keep the mare." His voice was low, the words dropping like stones in a quiet pool. "In remembrance of me."

  "I won't," she dared, her voice cracking.

  "In payment then, for your services in Oxford."

  "I don't want anything of yours."

  "You'll take her or I'll have her shot!" His back was ramrod stiff as he stormed from the room.

  A silent groom was waiting with Duchess when Charity composed herself to go outside. She mounted the little dapple-gray without protest and turned her head homeward, choking back the tears she was too proud to let fall.

  Chapter 9

  James Drummond was drunk. He knew he was drunk because the floor of the tavern kept tilting at an impossible angle. He had broken his primary rule—don't drink alcohol for any reason. He wasn't sure why he had decided to break the rule, or exactly when he had made his way to the Mare's Nest and begun drinking. He wasn't sure if he was drinking to celebrate or to soften the pain.

  He was certain only that today was Charity's wedding day. He had left Bold Venture with the intention of attending the ceremony. Instead of the church, he had come here and ordered a tankard of dark Haitian rum—rum strong enough to take the curl out of a Dutchman's beard.

  Jamie surveyed the room through bleary eyes. He blinked as the rim of the pewter ta
nkard banged against his front tooth. He ran exploring fingers across his numb lips. Some parts of his body seemed to be totally unconnected to the rest of him. He hiccupped and tried to stand. Nothing worked. The floor tilted, and he slid unceremoniously back into his chair.

  "Here ye go, sir." A woman's face loomed in front of him. She seemed to be pouring something into his cup. "Drink up."

  Jamie's head buzzed. What was the wench saying? He reached out and caught a strand of her tawny hair. It felt sticky."'S wrong color," he said. His finger caught in a tangle and the girl yelped.

  "Let go o' me hair, ye sot!"

  "Not the right color," he persisted. "S'posed to be like... like ripe wheat. An' soft... soft... soft as mornin' dew."

  The dirty mobcap bobbed inches from his face. The blue eyes were as blank as glass. "Yer shilling, guv'nor! Must I call the 'keep?" Her breath was thick as a sheep's!

  Jamie coughed and braced his weight against the table. He fumbled in his pocket for a few coins and dropped them down the front of her soiled bodice. "Go away," he ordered. She wasn't the one! Drunk as he was, he knew that much.

  With a salty curse, she bounced away out of his line of vision. He tried to follow with his eyes, but it made him dizzy. He lifted the tankard in the general direction of his mouth. "Not the one," he mumbled to himself. "Not my Charity."

  Charity was somewhere else today. Somewhere. He'd remember if he tried hard enough. Church. That was it. Charity had gone to church. But why? Why was she at church?

  The rum burned his throat, and the fumes rose into his head and fueled the aching. You're drunk. You're supposed to be at the wedding! Charity's wedding! He wiped at his eye with the back of a hand, then looked at it in surprise. It was wet! It was raining in here! He held his hand out palm up to feel the rain.

  His throat thickened, and tears welled up in his eyes. He remembered! It was her wedding day! Charity was marrying that old bastard, Richard Moreland. "No! Don't do it, darlin' !" The sound of his own voice surprised him, and he looked around the dim public room. He was alone.

  Got to stop it! Can't let her ruin her life! Jamie's knees buckled like old leather as he tried to stand. "Charity?" He set his eyes on the door and forced his body almost erect. "Not gonna let her go through... through..." He swayed and would have fallen if he hadn't caught a scarred post with his left hand. The force of his motion carried him halfway around the upright.

  His stomach turned upside down, and his feet slid out from under him. "Can't let you do it, Charity-Caroline," he murmured. "Not him!" His head fell forward on his chest, and the darkness overwhelmed him.

  * * *

  Charity's cheeks were waxen as Elizabeth handed her the bouquet of daisies and Queen Anne's lace. "Happy is the bride the sun shines on," she whispered. The sound of the rain on the cedar-shake roof of the church gave lie to her words.

  Elizabeth forced a thin smile. "A little rain for luck my mother always said." She could not shake a dark feeling of foreboding. Richard had come to Widow's Endeavor, against her wishes, to take them to the church. Olivia was sitting in the family pew, sobbing like a new widow, and Charity moved like one in a trance. It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from fleeing the church herself.

  Her cook had announced at breakfast that she was pregnant and Elizabeth must force Jamie's blacksmith to marry her. Maggie had a terrible cold, and Elizabeth's best hound bitch had broken a bone in her back paw.

  Halfway to Oxford, Richard's carriage had thrown a wheel, and it had begun to rain buckets. The bride had finished her journey to the church riding pillion behind the groom on a driving horse. The hem of her gown was muddy, and the bottom half wet—the bodice saved only by Richard's best buff coat.

  Harry was the only one in good spirits. He and Edith had come to Oxford the day before and were waiting at the church for the wedding party. They had soothed the Reverend Thornton and seated the guests—no easy job considering the extent of Olivia's hysteria. Elizabeth decided she needed only the church roof to collapse to make her day complete.

  At last the clergyman gave the signal, Harry took Charity's arm, and bride and groom approached the chancel. A great gust of wind blew open the door; Olivia screamed and shouted something about the wrath of God. Charity swayed slightly, and Lord Beauford's arm went about her gallantly. Someone ran to the back of the church and closed the door, and the wedding proceeded.

  Charity glanced sideways at the squire. His ruddy face seemed redder than ever. She could feel the angry stares of his children boring into her back. She stood a little straighter, acutely aware of her wet kid slippers and the trail of damp footprints she had made on the brick floor.

  Charity let her mind wander back to her mother's marriage day. It had been a real wedding, though a bit hurried. Tom Brown had been sweet on Mam for ages, her being still young enough to not have lost her looks. When it had become evident that she was carrying his child, Tom had insisted they be wed. She'd thought her mother the most beautiful woman in the world that day, big belly or not.

  Mam and Tom had been good for each other, and Tom Brown had been good to her. Charity was glad she'd found some happiness in her short life. Mam would approve of her union with Squire Moreland. Well, her head had ruled her heart, and now she must learn to like the pie of her own baking.

  Richard began to cough, and the parson interrupted his prayer. "Are you all right, Squire Moreland?" he asked.

  Charity studied his face with real concern. He was sweating, and his florid complexion had taken on a gray hue. "Richard?"

  "Hmmmp! Hmmmp!" The squire cleared his throat and took a big gulp of air. "Nothing wrong," he assured them. "Quite all right, Reverend. Go on with the service."

  The clergyman returned to his position and began the prayer again. Charity took Richard's arm as he went into another spasm of choking. He waved impatiently, and the minister continued.

  "Caroline Smythe-Tarylton," he intoned solemnly. "Do you—"

  There was a heavy thud as Squire Moreland fell facedown on the brick floor. Olivia screamed and Charity dropped to her knees and cradled her bridegroom's head in her lap. The parson stood woodenly, frozen to the spot, as the wedding guests rushed forward en masse. Elizabeth and Harry knelt beside Charity.

  "He's dead," the older woman said. Charity began to murmur a silent prayer for his soul.

  "Father!" William pushed his way through the crowd.

  Harry shook his head. "He's gone, William. I'm sorry."

  "He's dead?" Charles repeated. "Thank God."

  Elizabeth glared up at him. "Are you heartless? He's not cold yet!"

  "I said God would strike him," Olivia cried. "She's the cause!" She pointed an accusing finger at Charity. "She lured him into sin with her papist ways!" Olivia covered her face with her gloved hands and began to wail.

  Gently closing Richard's sightless eyes, Charity let Lord Beauford assist her to her feet. It was all so unreal, like her nightmare. Richard was dead and his good-for-nothing sons were grinning like idiots. "May God forgive you all," she said, pulling back her skirts so they would not brush against Charles. "He was a better man than any of you shall ever be." Angrily she passed through the milling guests to the front of the church. She'd rather brave the rain outside than stay here with these hypocrites.

  Elizabeth followed Charity into the vestibule. "Pay them no attention, child. They're fools, the lot of them." Awkwardly she gathered Charity into her arms. "I'm so sorry this had to happen. It's a terrible tragedy... terrible." Elizabeth drew back and stiffened her shoulders. "There are things that must be done. I'll have Harry and Edith take you home." Pain was etched in the lines and surfaces of Elizabeth's face, not for the dead Richard, but for the girl she had come to care for like her own blood.

  Charity shook her head. "No. Please... I'd like to be alone for a little while. I can't bear to see anyone now, not even them." For an instant she caught Elizabeth's hand and squeezed hard. "I'll be all right," she assured her. "Really. I just need to think."r />
  "Lady Deale!" The minister's plea was strained.

  Elizabeth glanced back at Charity questioningly. "Are you certain, child?"

  "Go ahead. Richard needs you now." Tears welled up in Charity's eyes as she fumbled for her cloak and stepped out into the rain.

  * * *

  Jamie's skull was a fiery ball of raging torment. He washed out his mouth with cold water from the well and poured the remainder of the bucket over his head. The rain felt good pelting through his clothes, washing away the smell of rum. He took his horse's reins from the stableboy, tossed him a copper, and swung up into the saddle. He'd do what he should have done this morning if he'd had the guts! He'd stop Charity from marrying Richard Moreland.

  The distance from the tavern to the church wasn't far, but far enough for Jamie to clear his head. He was disgusted with himself for what he'd done. Getting drunk was a coward's way out, and he'd prided himself on never being a coward. A babe in skirts could outdrink him, and well he knew it.

  "You're trouble, sweet Charity Brown," he murmured to himself, but his lips curved upward in a smile. She was a warm, loving armful... a woman who'd risked her own life for him. Charity Brown had the countenance of an angel and a tongue like a demon's pitchfork. He chuckled, remembering the soft feel of her curvaceous body pressed against his. "I'll not let you waste yourself on that old man," he promised.

  Jamie took a deep breath of salt-tinged air. The rain-laden wind sobered him, and he rubbed at his aching forehead. Damn, but you're a fool! He'd been in the wrong when Charity had come to Bold Venture. He knew it now, and he'd known it then. If he'd told her how he felt about her instead of forcing a stupid argument... A growing fear rose within him. What if it was already too late to stop her? With an oath, he dug his heels into the black's side and the animal leaped forward.

  Charity rounded the corner, head down against the beating rain, almost under the hooves of the stallion. The animal reared, a massive hoof nearly striking her face as she scrambled to safety. The rider yanked him around. Charity's foot slipped in the mud and she fell facedown, instinctively covering her head with her arms. The stallion screamed, rearing again, his eyes white with terror as he lost his footing on the slick surface and toppled backward.