Charity's Cross

by Marylu Tyndall

  Contents

  Title Page

  Front Matter

  Chapter

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  BioAmazonLinks

  Charity’s Cross

  MaryLu Tyndall

  Charity’s Cross

  Charles Towne Belles Series 4

  © 2016 by MaryLu Tyndall

  Published by Ransom Press

  San Jose, CA 95123

  ISBN: 978-0-9971671-1-5

  E-Version ISBN: 978-0-9971671-0-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author, MaryLu Tyndall.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental

  Cover Design by Ravven

  Editors: Lora Doncea

  Dedication

  To anyone who believes God has forgotten them

  He has not dealt with us according to our sins; Nor punished us according to our iniquities.

  For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is His mercy toward those who fear Him

  Psalm 103: 10-11

  Acknowledgments

  All praise to my Father in Heaven, who opens my mind, stirs my creativity, and gives me great story ideas. I only hope and pray I do them justice.

  I’m so grateful for my friend Debbie Mitchell, who always reads my manuscript in its raw and unpolished form. And she still loves it! She also creates great Memes and helps me market my books. You are a rare gem, Chappy.

  Many thanks to Michelle Griep, an author far better than I, who blesses me by exchanging manuscripts so we can nitpick on each other’s work. All in fun, of course!

  I so appreciate my online friends, too many to name, who offer ideas and support. And I especially am grateful to all my readers. Without you, my books would be so lonely. Thank you!

  But most of all, to God be the glory!

  Chapter 1

  Charity killed her husband. She knew it the minute the pistol fired. She knew it the minute he froze and his eyes widened in horror. His grip on the barrel of the gun remained strong as he stared at her, the life spilling from those eyes like water from a glass tipped over. She trembled and sought her breath, but only gun smoke filled her lungs. She couldn’t cough … couldn’t move. And still he stood there, frozen in time, as if unwilling to accept his fate.

  Jerking the pistol from his grip, she nudged him back before he used his remaining energy to strike her again. Her mind spun as she rubbed the bruise forming on her cheek. The gun clattered to the floor, though she barely heard it…or her husband’s moan as he stumbled backward, clutching his chest. He toppled to the Persian rug he loved so much and breathed out his last words, “I’ll see you in hell.”

  ’Twas the only truthful thing the man had said in their two years of marriage.

  Blood bubbled over his cherished gold-embroidered waistcoat, but all she could think about was the way the fading sunlight streaming in through the parlor windows danced on the settee beside which he lay. Steam from the silver teapot swirled upward in a vaporous dance that defied the evil tidings of the day. Outside, the clomp of horses and clank of carriages blended with the distant bells of ships in Portsmouth harbor.

  Charity blinked. Her lungs dense as iron, her mind awhirl. Was she free? Was he truly dead? Or would he rise any minute, mock her with his usual caustic tone, and then finish what he had started?

  A drop of blood trickled from her lips, the metallic taste all too familiar.

  “Milady, milady!” The hysterical voice preceded a scream that would no doubt alert the entire staff. Sophie, her lady’s maid, halted in the center of the parlor, her eyes wide as biscuits, her screech loud enough to raise the dead. Her tray crashed to the floor in a jangling mass of biscuits and teacups. “Holy mother of … Wha’ ’ave you done?”

  Taking a deep breath, Charity swallowed, stretched out her neck, and replied with more calmness than she felt. “I’ve killed Lord Villemont, as you can see.”

  Clutching her skirts, she moved to the buffet, poured herself some of her husband’s precious Brandy de Jerez from Spain, and flipped it to the back of her throat. The spicy liquor burned her tongue and slithered down to her stomach like a searing serpent. She coughed and held a hand over a belly that was threatening to dislodge what remained of her dinner.

  “Milady.” The quiver in her maid’s voice turned Charity around to see poor Sophie, her face a sheet of white, her mobcap askew, and every inch of her plump body trembling. Still, she remained, didn’t dash out as Charity would have expected, abandoning her like everyone else. “Wha’ are we to do?”

  A very good question. The answer to which escaped Charity at the moment. She must think … think …

  Footsteps alerted her to Jenson, their butler, bursting into the room faster than she’d ever seen him move. “I heard a shot, milady. Is everything—” His gaze landed on his lordship lying on the floor in a pool of blood. He darted for him.

  Dropping to her knees, Sophie pretended to minister to Lord Villemont as she blocked Jenson’s sight of his master.

  Charity lifted her chin. “Lord Villemont has had an accident, Jenson. Please send for the physician straight away.” She heard the quiver in her own voice and hoped the butler was not so astute.

  “But he looks …”

  “Jenson, do you wish him to die while you are dawdling?”

  “Yes, milady. I mean, no milady.” Turning, he rushed away, blubbering to himself.

  Though Sophie still shook like a tree under a gale, she placed her fingers on Lord Villemont’s throat as the front door slammed shut.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Charity finally found the courage to look at the man who had caused her more pain than she’d thought humanly possible. Lying there, he seemed so small, so powerless, like a fire deprived of its flames, a ship its sails. Remorse, followed by a tinge of sorrow, dared to burn in her throat. But she swallowed them down. There was no time for either.

  Sophie rose. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose.” Tears slipped down her cheeks as she picked up biscuits and broken tea cups. The pieces of china clattered in her hands.

  Kneeling beside her, Charity touched her arm. “Never mind about the mess, Sophie. I need you to calm yourself. Can you do that?”

  The maid swallowed, but finally nodded and wiped her face with her sleeve. Charity grabbed her hand and all but dragged her out the parlor doors and up the staircase to her bedchamber.

  Flinging open her wardrobe, she grabbed her valise and stuffed it with her underthings, a skirt, bodice, an extra pair of shoes, cloak, an
ything she might need.

  “You mean to leave, milady?” Sophie whimpered.

  “Sophie, my jewels. Gather them.”

  “Which ones?”

  Charity turned to see her maid wringing her hands and staring at her with a look of horror.

  “All of them.”

  Wiping tears once again from her face, Sophie stepped toward the dresser and began opening drawers.

  Now, for the money. The eight pounds, ten shillings Charity had managed to pilfer from the funds Lord Villemont had given her to run the estate. She lifted the painting from the wall above her dressing table, laid it face down on her bed, grabbed a letter opener, and snapped open one of the wooden slats forming the back of the frame. Still there. She breathed a sigh of relief, then withdrew the notes and coins.

  Sophie approached and gasped at the sight, her hands full of velvet pouches.

  “Where did you get all tha’ money?”

  “Never mind that. Put the jewels in my valise.” Grabbing the case, Charity tossed in the money then held it open for the maid. She complied, but tears once again streamed down her cheeks.

  “You’re bleedin’, milady.” She reached toward Charity’s face, but Charity swatted her hand away with all the force of her anger. Her husband’s opal ring had left its mark for the last time.

  “Forgive me, Sophie. I must leave at once. There’s no time.” Slamming the case shut, Charity took one final glance over her bedchamber, the crimson velvet curtains with gold-braided trim, her ivory-topped dressing table with gilded mirror, four-poster bed covered in silk embroidered hangings, her mahogany wardrobe full of London’s latest fashions. Lord Villemont had kept her in luxury. Kept being the appropriate term. Though she had not shared the chamber with his lordship, neither had it been a haven, for he’d often crashed through the door in a drunken rage and forced himself upon her. Taking a deep breath, she nodded at Sophie and headed toward the door.

  The maid leapt in front of her. Anxious, pleading eyes pierced hers.

  “But it were self-defense, I’ll attest to tha’ milady.”

  “You and you alone. They won’t believe us, Sophie. They’ll hang me.” Charity took the maid’s hand and squeezed it. Sweet, innocent Sophie.

  “But where will you go?”

  “I have no idea.” Charity had no family nearby. No friends that weren’t first Lord Villemont’s. She was completely and utterly alone. Tearing out the door, she sped down the stairs.

  “I’m comin’ with you, milady.” The tap tap of Sophie’s footsteps followed her.

  “Nay, Sophie. I cannot allow it. You’ll be branded a murderer right alongside me.”

  “Do you think I care about tha’?”

  Swallowing her emotion at Sophie’s loyalty, Charity stopped at the parlor door and stared at the man who had been her husband. She fully expected him to rise, laugh at her stupidity, and advance on her with the full force of his rage. But he remained still, not a breath stirring his chest, not a snarl on his lips, not a twitch from those hands that had been so cruel.

  “Now, you can never hurt me”—she placed a hand on her belly—“us ever again.”

  Shadows passed over the windows, and she glanced up to see men approaching.

  Sophie tugged on her arm. “Hurry, out the back, milady.”

  They rushed through the back hallway, past the servants’ stairs, warming room, and the kitchen, past staring servants, footmen, and kitchen maids who were cleaning up after supper and already preparing for the morning meal. Hemsley House boasted a housekeeper, butler, cook, two kitchen maids, a valet, lady’s maid, and four housemaids. Servants—a luxury Charity would never have again.

  Nor would she have a carriage and footman, ready at her command. Flinging open the back door, she halted and turned.

  “I’ll always remember you, dear, sweet Sophie.” Charity kissed the maid on the cheek.

  “Of course you will, because I’m comin’ with you, milady.” Sophie grabbed her coat from a hook by the wall.

  “I order you to remain.” Charity shot back over her shoulder as she crossed the small yard and ducked into the shadow of a tree. From there, she spotted the physician and none other than her brother-in-law, Charles, following an hysterical Jenson through the front door.

  Sophie appeared beside her. With no time or energy to argue with the stubborn maid, Charity grabbed her valise with one hand, her skirts with the other, and slipped into the encroaching night.

  Minutes that seemed like hours later, she slid beside an old warehouse on Broad Street and scanned the ships anchored at port. Though darkness had descended, goods were still being loaded and unloaded onto vessels tied to long wharfs and others anchored in the bay. Laughter and music blared from pubs and brothels just coming to life and opening doors to sailors who’d been long at sea.

  Sophie inched beside her, breathless. Charity shifted her shoes over the rough gravel, seeking a comfortable position for her aching feet. A chilled mist drifted in from the bay, smelling of fish and brine and cooling the perspiration on Charity’s neck.

  Clanging bells joined the lap of waves as eerie music from a pianoforte snaked around the bricks of the warehouse.

  Think … think… She bit her lip as the reality of her situation finally took hold. By now, Charles had gathered the Constable and they’d be scouring the city for her.

  And the port would be the first place they’d look.

  She closed her eyes. Sing a song of sixpence, pocket full of rye, four-and-twenty back birds baked in a pie … She continued the song in her thoughts, longing for it to draw her deep into the safe place in her mind where there was no fear, no fury—where no one could do her harm.

  But it wasn’t working.

  Setting down her valise, she clutched Sophie’s trembling hand. “You shouldn’t have come, Sophie.” Though in truth, Charity was touched that she had. Despite that the maid’s skills at cinching up a stay and coiffing Charity’s hair were of little use to her on the run, she was glad for the company. For the care.

  “I couldn’t ’ave left you, milady.”

  Charity squeezed her hand. “Well, we must find our way onto one of those ships. I bid you pray to God for a miracle.”

  Sophie would have to be the one doing the praying, for Charity had given up on that useless endeavor years ago.

  “I don’t take passengers, Miss…Miss…” The rotund, balding captain turned to issue more orders to his men then spit to the side as he eyed her suspiciously.

  “Ald…Aldsworth. And this is my maid, Miss Carrol.” Charity gestured toward Sophie, whose gaze skittered about like a bird trapped in a cage. “Please, Captain. I beg you. The dock master said you are the only ship sailing out tonight.”

  “Aye, that be true. If my rattlepated purser hadn’t gotten the shipment wrong, I wouldn’t be late on me delivery. As it be, I can’t wait till mornin’.”

  “I’m willing to pay.”

  He scanned her with brazen impudence. “Miss Aldsworth, were it? I don’t want no trouble, an’ bringin’ a woman aboard without benefit o’ escort will bring me plenty of that.”

  Impudent man. Charity ground her teeth. “I promise we will keep to our cabin. I beg you, Sir, ’tis a life and death situation.”

  “Humph. Here or in Nassau?”

  Footsteps and shouting sounded behind her.

  Sophie tugged on her sleeve.

  Nassau? Charity swallowed. She hadn’t even thought to ask where the ship was going. The dock master said it sailed to the colonies. Still, she had hoped for a more northerly port—somewhere near Charles Towne where her father and sisters had moved.

  “I have family in Nassau. They are ill.”

  The captain scratched his bald head. “All o’ them?”

  The footsteps grew louder. Sophie’s grip tightened. One glance over her shoulder revealed several men pushing their way through the throng toward them. Panic froze her in place. She took a deep breath and pushed it back. When the pie was opened,
the birds began to sing…

  The captain followed her gaze and narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, Miss … I smells something fishy an’ it ain’t from the sea.” He turned, shouted further orders to the sailors in the boat, then started for the plank.

  “How does two pounds sound?”

  The captain spun about and cocked his head.

  Reaching into her valise, she pulled out the notes. “I’ll pay you double if you take us to the ship right now and don’t tell a soul.”

  “Lady, I’ll take ye to the moon for that sum.” He chuckled and held his hand open.

  “You’ll have half when I’m standing on your deck and the other half when we arrive in Nassau.”

  His smile revealed teeth that matched the muddy water of the bay. “Yer a shrewd one, I’ll grant ye that. But ’tis a deal ye have. My men’ll help ye aboard.”

  At their captain’s command, two slovenly-looking fellows assisted Charity and Sophie down into a small boat. Within minutes—and after awkwardly climbing a rope ladder—they stood on the deck of the Neptune, or so it said on the hull, a rather large ship that looked as though rust and tar alone held it together.

  The commotion ashore had turned into a full-fledged ruckus with whistles blowing and men pushing through crowds and darting down docks to search every boat tied to pilings.

  The captain climbed aboard, and winked their way before bellowing a string of orders to his crew to weigh anchor and raise sails. Sailors jerked their attention from the women and darted across the deck.

  Putting an arm around Sophie’s waist, Charity gazed over the town that had been her home for the entire five and twenty years of her life. But there was no time for nostalgia as a familiar face poked through the mob. She drew in a breath. ’Twas Lord Villemont’s brother, Charles. She’d know him anywhere—that light hair that stuck out like a porcupine, those dark pointed eyes, and the slight limp on his right side. The first wave of guilt struck her. Charles and Herbert had been closer than two brothers could be, so close she’d often wondered if Charles knew what sort of man his brother was—what he was doing to her—and, if so, had merely turned the other way.