“Shall I call Father?”
“No. Let him sleep.”
“Shall I leave you alone, then?”
“Stay, Charlotte, if you will.”
“Of course.”
“You are a comfort to me,” he said idly, still staring at the embers in the grate. “Always have been.”
Lightning flashed, filling the room with light, then leaving it more shadowed than before. Wind howled, holding the curtains aloft on the breath of its wail.
“You must be freezing!” She rose and rushed to the window, wondering why on earth it had been opened on such a cold January night.
“I had not noticed . . .”
She closed the window firmly, pausing to look out at the swaying tree limbs and swirling snow. “Thunder and lightning in January.” She shook her head in wonder. “This is going to be an incredible storm.”
She walked to the hearth and tossed a few scoops of coal onto the fire, then turned to him. Seeing him shiver, she pulled her father’s wool lap robe from the back of the chair and laid it across his shoulders.
“Is it Fawnwell?” she asked, straightening the robe over his arms.
He didn’t answer, so she continued. “You shall rebuild—”
“In time.” He straightened in his chair. “Though it is not Fawnwell alone which weighs on my mind this night.”
She again knelt before him. “It is not the wind, is it?” She attempted a mild tease. “I have never known you afraid of a coming storm.”
But his answer was contemplative, serious. “Afraid? Why be afraid when there is nothing I can do. This I know, but still—I detest my utter helplessness to stay its hand. I dread its power over me. I dread the . . . damage . . . it will certainly havoc.”
She squeezed his hand and he looked down at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there.
“Good heavens, you look beautiful like that.”
“Like . . . what?”
“Your hair down around you, the firelight . . .”
His eyes fell from her face to her neck, and Charlotte for the first time was aware of her own state of dress. But rather than the rush of embarrassment she would have expected, a strange feeling of power filled her instead. She had come into this room a little girl, to comfort her dear Mr. Harris, with no care for her dress or decorum, only to soothe the man she loved most in the world. It was as if, as she knelt there before him, she grew from little girl to desirable woman in a space of a few aching heartbeats. And, if she was reading his expression rightly, he was witnessing the same startling transformation as well. But perhaps it was only her view of herself that had changed, because she had indeed seen that look in his eyes before—that admiration, that desire—but had been blind to its meaning.
He leaned nearer, inspecting her closely. He lifted his hand to touch her face, tenderly outlining her jaw, her chin, with his fingers.
“I always knew you would be beautiful, Charlotte. But you always were to me. Promise me you will forget all my foolishness in the morning—chalk it up to lightning and brandy—but now I feel I must say what I very soon will no longer be able to speak of.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but she feared whatever she might say would break this pleasurable spell. He ran a thumb over her silent, parted lips and her heart throbbed within her.
“I have loved you since you were a little girl, Charlotte—I suppose you know that—and I love you still. To me, you are the dearest creature God ever made. You have always been so kind, so affectionate to me—more than I deserved. When I see myself in your eyes, I am the best man on earth. Or at least in Kent.”
His mouth lifted in the crooked half grin she’d always admired, and in thoughtless response to his warm words, she leaned close and placed a quick kiss on his mouth, and instantly his grin fell away.
He stood suddenly, awkwardly, and since her hand was still clutching his, pulled her to her feet with him. He looked down at her, then away. “You had better go back to bed.”
He stood rock still, but made no move to turn from her nor to turn her out. She stood before him, wishing she might kiss him again, to wipe that bleak look from his face, to see him smile once more. But he was too tall for her to reach, her head reaching only to his shoulders.
“Go on,” he repeated in a rough whisper, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if he wanted her to leave or to continue with her unspoken desire. Rather than feeling dismissed or rejected, she felt instead emboldened, sure at last of his attachment to her and feeling the pleasure, the intoxicating sweetness of it. How could she not, after a lifetime of thinking him the most handsome and cleverest of men? After endless years of loving him, of dreaming of him, of believing him out of reach, here he was, right here now, loving her.
She lifted his hand, caressed it in both of hers and kissed it. He winced as though she were hurting him.
“Leave me.”
She looked at him, wild emotions coursing through her. “How can I?” She pressed his hand over her heart. “When I love you as well?”
“But”—his eyes fell to the discarded letter—“I cannot love you.”
“You already do.”
Slowly his hand slid lower and she could barely breathe. She leaned closer to him.
He whispered, “Charlotte. You are killing me. I am only a man.”
She lifted her face toward his, and he pulled her into his arms, lowering his lips to hers, kissing her deeply. He half sat, half fell into the chair behind him, lifting her onto his lap, holding her close, still kissing her.
Then once again he pushed her aside, standing and twisting away, leaving her sprawled in the chair alone. He ran his hand over his face. “Charlotte, go. We cannot be together like this.”
Though his back was to her, she reached around and took his clenched hand in hers and turned him back around to face her. Gently, she pulled him down to his knees before her and, for the second time in their long relationship, their positions were reversed. His eyes were wide, desperate, full of desire. She felt the cold night air on her neck, her limbs, her shoulders, she felt his hand in hers and wanted to feel more. She did not truly think, made no conscious decision to cross the threshold; she was not versed in such things. She knew a woman could comfort a man, though she knew not how. And she knew she loved this man. She thought only of lengthening this time together, of holding him close as she had never been allowed before. When she pulled him toward her, he peered at her closely.
“This is your last chance, Charlotte.”
But she pulled him into her arms and kissed him, feeling, foolishly, as if she, too, were helpless to stop the coming storm.
She knew little of the rudiments of physical love. She had been told only that some men were not trustworthy and that is why she must never be alone with a man without a proper chaperone. But she had always trusted Mr. Harris implicitly and knew her father did as well. Mr. Harris was not “some man”—he was looked upon practically as relation. She had not known a moment’s fear in his presence, even alone with him, until this moment. Only when he leaned against her and she felt her nightdress begin to slide up did the warning bells finally go off in her desire-drunk mind. She tried to pull her mouth from his, to pull herself away, but the back of the chair pinned her in. She finally wrenched her mouth free and entreated, “Wait, I—”
He halted immediately, staring down at her in growing apprehension, suspended. Frozen.
But somehow, though she felt no pain, the damage was done.
In the morning, Charlotte awoke with the dreadful hope that she had somehow mistaken the events of the previous night. She was not completely certain that what she feared transpired actually had. But in the cold, dark hours she had lain alone in bed since, she knew without doubt that she had left behind all modesty, all rules of polite society, and, she feared, lost all virtue as well. Worse yet, she felt she had lost Mr. Harris, his esteem and his love. She sat up in bed and in so doing, spied the letter, which had apparently been slid under her door. She
knew better than to hope for a love letter now. So this was how it was to be—worse than she thought.
With fatalistic numbness she arose and picked up the folded stationery. She climbed back into bed and cocooned herself beneath the featherbed, shielding herself from the cold reality she knew awaited her. She opened the letter and read the single line:
Somehow, someday, please forgive me.
It bore neither salutation nor signature. Cold indeed. But at least, it seemed, it bore no blame either.
A mere fortnight later, Charlotte had been shocked, sickened, and scared to death when another letter came. Her father read it aloud during breakfast.
“Well, well, a letter from your cousin Katherine.”
“What does she say, Father?” Bea asked, spearing a sausage.
“Do read it to us. She is ever so amusing.”
Father’s face looked anything but amused as he scanned the inked script. “I fear you will not enjoy it, my dear.”
“What is it?”
“An announcement of her upcoming wedding.”
“Wedding? You are joking! Katherine has long proclaimed herself a determined spinster.”
“Well, she has clearly changed her mind.”
“Who is the brave soul who finally convinced her?”
He didn’t immediately answer.
“Do we know him?” Bea persisted, sausage forgotten.
“Yes. We know him quite well. Or at least I thought we did.”
Charlotte clenched her hands together beneath the table. Bea’s face began to grow concerned.
“Not Bentley,” Bea breathed. “He’s too young.”
“No, not Bentley. Charles Harris himself.”
Bea’s expression barely had time to clear before it blanched, her mouth falling open, slack.
Charlotte was stunned but kept her expression as blank as possible, seeing her own feelings mirrored in her sister’s face. She knew her own desolation, her humiliation, must be deeper, more complete, than Bea’s, but she willed herself not to show it.
“But . . .” Bea protested. “There was no reading of the banns in church. . . .”
“Applied for a license no doubt. Never one for public displays, your cousin.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“I have never approved of these licenses,” their father began. “The banns are not merely tradition, they serve a purpose, allowing anyone with a preexisting marriage contract or other cause to object, to ‘speak or forever hold their peace.’” He sighed. “Now a few pounds to a bishop and one may forgo the banns altogether.”
“But it isn’t right!” The words burst from Charlotte, surprising them all.
“Why not?” Bea glared at her. “Would you have stood up in church and spoken against it had you the chance? Have you some reason to object to Mr. Harris marrying our cousin?”
The bile rose in Charlotte’s throat and she stood on shaking legs. “Please excuse me,” she mumbled, putting her hand over her mouth and walking quickly from the room.
Bea called after her, “You never seriously thought he would marry you, did you?”
Charlotte threw open her bedroom door and made it to the chamber pot just in time to lose her breakfast.
A few hours later, Charlotte was in the garden when the man she was trying not to think about came thundering across the grounds on his horse. She turned and ran.
“Charlotte, wait!” Charles Harris leapt from his horse, not bothering to tether it, and ran after her. Charlotte hurried through the garden gate and across the lane to the churchyard, hoping to hide herself there. She did not think this rationally—her core instinct simply told her to flee this man. To be close to him was to invite another mortal wound.
She had made it through the church doors when he grabbed her shoulders, swinging her around to face him.
“Let go of me,” she commanded.
Panting from his run, his face was stricken, his hair disheveled.
“Only if you will listen to me.”
She pulled out of his grasp and stepped back, but didn’t run. A foolish part of her still hoped he would tell her it was all a mistake, that he had no intention of marrying Katherine.
“I had no idea she would send the announcements so soon,” he began. “My mother received one as well, and I rushed over here the minute I realized. I had hoped to tell you myself, to explain. . . .”
She only stared at him, offering him no encouragement.
“Charlotte. I realize that, considering what happened between us, you might have expected . . .” He pushed his hair off his forehead with a stab of his hand. “That is, under normal circumstances, I would have behaved differently. . . .”
“Do you mean that night, or afterwards?” she asked, her tone pointed.
He sighed heavily. “Both actually. I was stupid and selfish that night. I had just gotten a letter from the bankers, you see, and I was so desperate . . .”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I should have tried harder to put a stop to it.”
“It was all my fault, then, was it?”
“Of course not. I am to blame. I knew better.”
“Yet you accept no responsibility.”
He studied her sharply, clearly worried. “Is there . . . something for which I need bear responsibility?”
Mouth open, she shook her head, stunned at the stupidity of the question. Did he not realize she was forever changed? Her future like a candle without a wick?
But clearly he took her shake of head as a longed for answer and blew out a rush of air, relieved. “Good.”
Good? “Tell me this. That night—were you already engaged to her?”
He lowered his head. “Not . . . exactly. She had proposed an alliance . . . a marriage of sorts, prior, but I had put her off. But then the fire occurred. . . . Charlotte, you have no idea what it’s like, the responsibility I bear for Fawnwell. I was hanging on by a thread before the fire. After it . . . it was all but lost. That letter from the bank confirmed it. I had neither the funds to repair nor rebuild. My mother had no idea. She assumed we would simply rebuild, maybe even improve on the original structure. I hadn’t the heart to tell her the truth. I promised my father I would keep the place going, make it prosper. . . .”
“So you are marrying Katherine for her money.”
“I am sorry. Truly I am. But there is nothing else to be done.”
Now, lying there in the manor, his child in her arms, Charlotte remembered what her parting words to him had been: “Your house has been destroyed . . . but I must pay the price.”
Because of the deep roots, successful transplantation
of mature plants is difficult. Attempt it only with
small offspring of the mother….
—JACK SANDERS, T HE S ECRETS OF W ILDFLOWERS
CHAPTER 14
In his office in the manor, Daniel rested his palm on the infant’s small chest in silent benediction. “I am sorry,” he said quietly to the child’s father. “There is nothing else to be done.”
Harris stared up at him, clearly not able or not willing to comprehend.
“He is gone,” Daniel added gently.
“Give him to me,” Harris ordered tersely, and for a moment Daniel feared the man might continue with vain attempts to breathe life into his son’s small body. Daniel wrapped the child securely in a donated blanket and reverently handed him over to Charles Harris, who reached both hands out to receive the bundle.
When the weight of the infant’s body filled his hands and arms, it seemed the child became real to the man all at once. He stared down at the little face and buckled over as if struck hard. He cried out in anguish. A cry that must certainly be echoing throughout the manor. The man sank to the nearest chair and held the bundled child to his chest, face contorted, tears streaking from his eyes. A different man indeed from the smug man Daniel had sparred with only a short time before. His heart tore for the man, his loss. He could not help but imagine himself in the s
ame situation, if his own wife or soon-to-arrive child should die during childbirth. His answering tears were for himself as well as for Charles Harris.
“Katherine will not bear it,” Harris whispered.
“Of course the loss is terrible, but in time . . .”
“No, you don’t understand. Katherine feared this might happen. She insisted I should plan to have her locked away immediately should the child die. That she would go insane with grief—want to die herself. I promised her everything would be all right. Nothing would happen to our child. . . .” The man’s grief rendered him unable to continue.
“It is not your fault, man. You did everything you could.”
“I did nothing.”
“Your wife will want her time to say good-bye to him. We should take him back to her before—”
“No! Did you not notice her state? I have never seen her like that. I cannot bring home a . . . lifeless . . . child. . . .”
“It will be painful, yes, but in the end it will help her overcome her grief.”
“No.” He spoke the word with less vehemence, shaking his head thoughtfully, staring at nothing. Suddenly he looked up, startled, his face alight with manic purpose.
“Where is Charlotte?”
Instantly, panic, dread, and profound fear struck Daniel Taylor with full force. He could see what was coming, should have foreseen it an hour before. “Mr. Harris, whatever you are thinking, I beg you to put it from your mind.”
“What am I thinking?”
“I forbid you to approach Miss Lamb on this. You are grieving, I realize, but—”
“You cannot keep me from seeing Charlotte.”
“Actually I can. I am her physician and she is still in recovery.”
“She will want to see me.”
“Will she? Even when she discovers your purpose? I cannot believe you are thinking to . . . I cannot conceive of a more cruel offer.”
“Cruel? What is cruel about offering my son—my other son—a decent life? You said it yourself, if I do nothing, he will grow up with nothing—no advantages, no opportunities, let alone the basic necessities of life.”
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