Realm 06 - A Touch of Love

by Regina Jeffers

  “If what you say proves true, we will depart immediately. I would not have you subjected to more censure. You are my precious girl.”

  Her uncle’s endearment was so reminiscent of her father’s sentiments Lucinda could not hold back the tears forming in her eyes’ corners. “You should know I have begun to read Papa’s journal.” She confessed. She saw anticipation flare in the earl’s gaze, and she swallowed her boiling lack of confidence. “I still wish time alone with Papa’s personal thoughts,” she cautioned, “but the box has many letters from Papa’s man of business. I thought they could shed light on the condition of the Devon estate. If your offer remains, would you assist me in deciphering them? Previously, I had thought to ask the Duke of Thornhill’s or Sir Carter’s man of business for assistance.” Lucinda paused awkwardly. “Now I possess other options. More important options.” She smiled to relieve the tension between them. “I prefer your expertise.”

  The earl released her wrist. “And I prefer you, my Dear, to all others,” he said with an answering smile.

  She bent to kiss his forehead. “Thank you for understanding. We shall deal well together, you and I.”

  Although obviously still suffering from his headache, the earl made an appearance at the Lowerys’ supper table. Lucinda was quite pleased with how well Charleton handled the awkward situation. The earl was the flawless aristocrat, speaking pleasantly, but firmly.

  “We were agreeably surprised by your presence at Blake’s Run,” the baron ventured.

  Charleton held his soupspoon in ready. “I am certain, Blakehell, you have been apprised of the reason for my following my niece to your door. There is no need to pretend ignorance of Sir Carter’s orchestrating Lucinda’s and my reunion. If you have specific questions, I would be honest in my response, but I should warn you, I will not tolerate any reproach of my niece. Lucinda possesses the most noble heart; she has not always known peace, but my precious girl is a better person for rising above her difficulties.”

  The last line was directed to Lucinda, who sat opposite her uncle. His words caused her to wish for things never possible. No one had ever spoken so eloquently of her. She mouthed a silent “Thank you.”

  The baron blustered, “If either you or your niece, Charleton, thought we meant to rebuke Mrs. Warren, you have erred. However, you must admit it appears odd to have met a niece in a Manchester inn.”

  The earl nodded his agreement and sipped his wine. “I sent for Lucinda after Waterloo, but those I hired convinced me my niece had perished in the battle’s aftermath. I was not aware she was alive and in England until I entered the private dining room occupied by your youngest son and my niece.”

  Lucinda expected the baron to speak to the inappropriateness of her and the baronet sharing such intimacies. Instead, Blakehell asked, “And why did you not seek out your uncle, Mrs. Warren?”

  Before she could respond, Charleton answered for her. Normally, his suppressing her freedom would have riled Lucinda, but today she welcomed the earl’s interference. “I am ashamed to say my brother and I stubbornly permitted an old feud to fester, and over the years, Lucinda was rarely in my company. If you ask her, my niece will tell you, she thought I would not welcome an impoverished relative. I fear Lucinda’s beliefs speak poorly of my character, not hers. My previous implacable nature is a trait I mean to change.” Her uncle had shouldered the blame for her immaturity. He was kind and generous, and Lucinda felt the regret of ever holding unchristian thoughts regarding the man. It was wonderful to have someone willing to protect her.

  The baroness gave her husband a warning glare. “None of this is our concern. I, for one, have always trusted Carter to make astute judgments. If my youngest son thought Mrs. Warren’s cause one he would champion, then I am persuaded it is the right thing to do. No family history has a perfectly smooth course. It is how family members ride out the storm, which leads to merit. I shall hear no more talk of distress. Instead, I wish to celebrate the acknowledgement of Lawrence and Arabella’s coming together and bringing forth an heir to the title.”

  “Here, here,” Lord Hellsman declared from beside Lucinda.

  “Oh, Arabella, I am so pleased,” Lucinda said in earnest. “You deserve such happiness.” However, Lucinda knew a bit of envy. She kept what she hoped was a welcoming countenance, but she had the vague fear the world knew her not worthy of an honest man’s love.

  Bella beamed with contentment. “Papa is beside himself with anticipation. It shall be his first grandchild. He speaks of how Mama must be smiling down from Heaven.”

  “Bella and I mean to call upon the Earl of Vaughn next week,” Lord Hellsman filled in the awkward silence. “I will not have Bella making such a long journey in bad weather or in the latter part of her lying in.”

  The baroness overrode any response her husband intended to make. She evidently meant to keep “hostile” words from the conversation, and Lucinda admired the woman for her deft handling of what could have been an awkward moment. She was still not certain whether Lady Blakehell approved of her or not, but Lucinda appreciated how the woman took command of the evening. She prayed some day to possess as much aplomb within her own household.

  After supper, the earl spoke of the need to return to his bed, and Lucinda begged to be excused to tend him. His step was a bit unsteady on the stairs, but his wit was in tact. “An interesting evening,” he said tongue in cheek.

  “Not one I would care to repeat,” she confessed. “But you were truly brilliant, Sir.”

  He patted her hand upon his arm. “It is time I serve as your guardian. It is a role I have long waited to assume.” They reached his chambers. “What say you retrieve Roderick’s papers, and you and I will begin our perusal?”

  “I thought you ill.”

  Always the perfect gentleman, her uncle smiled upon her. “I would be a fool to squander one moment with you. Give Mr. Priest time to assist me into something more comfortable, and then return with the box.”

  Lucinda had changed into a simple gown without her stays and hurried to her uncle’s room. The earl lounged in a lush robe and sipped his cognac. “Welcome, my Dear,” he called from the table, cleared for their purpose. “Mr. Priest means to attend to my wardrobe while we work. I hope you hold no objections.”

  Lucinda smiled easily. “Of course, not. Mr. Priest has proved himself most worthy. I appreciate his tender care upon your behalf.” She crossed to sit opposite her uncle. “When had you thought to depart for Lancashire?” she asked casually.

  “It would be unseemly to leave on the morrow. Very poor manners indeed, but I hold no doubt the following day would serve us well.”

  “I am anxious to see Charles Place for the first time,” she said as she unlocked the box and set several bundled stacks upon the smooth surface.

  “Actually, you were born in the east wing of the old section of the house,” the earl said unceremoniously. He untied the ribbon on the bundle she placed before him.

  Lucinda sounded unconvinced. “Truly? I thought Mama and Papa were in Devon.” She thought of her father’s entry regarding her birth. The colonel had not spoken of his location; she had just assumed they had been at Merritt Hall.

  “You may take note of your baptism in the local church records,” her uncle said as he read through the first document. “This is the deed to the Devon property. The land is paid free and clear. I should have my man of business peruse it; I have previously posted a letter to Mr. Shadwick regarding the rental arrangement.”

  As the earl read the next document, Lucinda quickly scanned the deed. She thought it important to be knowledgeable of her father’s estate. While Charleton studied the multi-paged document, Lucinda released the ribbon on a smaller stack. She lifted the first one to examine it more closely. It was exactly like the many service reports she had seen among her father’s correspondence over the years. It was a summary of the colonel’s annual service and a pay accounting. This one was dated January 1804, some seven months before her birth.
Her eyes skimmed the details a second time, and then the truth of the page struck her: Her father had spent the last six months of 1803 following Lord Arthur Wellesley at Assaye.

  In September 1803, Scindia forces had lost to Lord Gerard Lake at Delhi and to Wellesley at Assaye. The colonel, a captain then, had departed for England before Lake defeated the Scindian force at Laswari, followed by Wellesley’s 29 November success over Bhonsie forces at Aragon. “If Papa departed northern India in early September, he could not have been in England for my conception,” she murmured awestruck. The earl had suddenly gone still, and Lucinda’s chest squeezed tighter. In a panic, she sprang to the chair she had occupied earlier to retrieve the journal from where she had left it.

  Flipping through the pages she had skipped previously, she intently read the entry her father had written of being summoned home by his father to speak his vows to his betrothed Sophia Carrington. Instead of the lengthy journey around the Cape, Roderick Rightnour had set out on a three-month land and sea journey, traveling every day for long tedious hours to do his father’s bidding. “I am elated to claim Lady Sophia as my wife. I am the most fortunate of men,” he had written. The colonel and her mother had spoken their vows on 30 December 1803.

  “Uncle Gerhard,” she said stiffly. “Was I an early baby?”

  The earl blinked in surprise. He rose slowly to stand dejectedly. His voice was taut. “I should say you were,” he spoke on a tearful rasp, “but…” He paused to excuse Mr. Priest from the room. With the valet’s exit, the earl straightened his shoulders. “My father thwarted my plans to travel north with Sophia to Scotland.” His stance was stiff, but his lips trembled. “The old earl had noted my growing interest in Viscount Ross’s fourth daughter and had sent for Roderick’s return. Charleton and Ross had previously come to an agreement for Roderick and Sophia’s joining, but young hearts are not always obedient. When I learned of my father’s plans, I risked everything to claim Sophia as my own.”

  Lucinda’s heart stumbled to a halt. Her eyes sought his, while a vague hollowness filled her chest. “Roderick Rightnour is not my father.” Her knees buckled, and she sank into the chair.

  As if by magic, the earl knelt before her. A sad, painful vestige of a smile graced his lips. “It was never my wish not to claim you. In fact, Sophia and I thought we could change our parents’ objections; however, my father held other plans. He demanded what he termed a ‘temporary separation’ and sent me to the West Indies to survey our properties there. It was my punishment for betraying Charleton’s wishes. When I returned some ten months later, Sophia had accepted Roderick, and you had made your appearance. Roderick did not know, at least, not initially; you were always so petite, it was easy for others to believe your birth an early one. Then one day, Roderick caught Sophia crying while I embraced her. We fought, our blows destroying Mama’s favorite antiques. The old earl said it was best if Roderick remove his family to Devon. With my encouragement, Father made arrangements for my brother to claim Merritt Hall. Roderick never returned to Charles Place.”

  “Papa kept the secret,” she whispered. She swallowed hard the pang of reality, which clutched at her heart.

  “Yes, and Roderick loved you unconditionally. I admire how my brother separated his hatred for me from his love for my daughter. In many ways, he was a much better man than I. He made the best of a terrible situation, and from what I know of their marriage, your mother and Roderick were fiercely devoted to each other and to you. Sophia came to love her husband as much as he loved her. She told me so in one of her letters.”

  Lucinda wrung her hands. “Mama wrote of my accomplishments…” Realization flooded her senses. She looked upon the earl’s countenance–so much like her own. Why had she not seen the similarity previously?

  “Sophia thought I possessed a right to know of your life. Even over Roderick’s objections…”

  Lucinda could make little sense of anything she had discovered. “I do not wish to be your daughter,” she said bitterly. “I cannot betray Papa’s memory.”

  The earl reached for her hand, and she attempted not to flinch at his touch. “I would never rob Roderick of his legacy.” Lucinda brushed away the tears streaming down her cheeks. “You can never be my daughter without my destroying every fiber of your reputation. Forever, you are Roderick’s child and my niece.” He swallowed hard. “Please say you can tolerate Gerhard Rightnour as your uncle. I do not believe I have the strength to release you again. This past week has been the greatest days of my existence.”

  Lucinda panicked. “I…I do not know. It is all so…so much more…than I can say.” She glanced around the room, blindly searching for an exit. “I must go.” She stood quickly. “I require time to think on what is best.” She stumbled toward the door, never looking back. “Please…please pardon me.”

  The nightmare had returned, and Carter woke in a cold sweat. Even after his body jerked him from his sleep, terror still held him in its grip, and Carter worked hard to steady his breathing. He gulped for air and swallowed the bile burning his throat. He did not turn his head or flick a muscle; He had learned over time if he did not move too quickly, the details of the dream would reveal themselves.

  He stared hard at the dark drape of the inn’s four-poster, and the images danced before his eyes. He rode the twisting trail between the two military outposts, Wellington’s orders securely tucked away in his jacket, only to stumble upon a scene of brutality. The English battalion had encountered an undersized French regiment. “What the…?” he growled as he looked down upon the scene. His countrymen, greatly outnumbered, were trapped with the hill upon which he sat at their backs. They would all know Death if he did not act.

  Without considering the consequences, Carter had kicked his horse’s flanks to join the skirmish. He had departed Wellington’s army some fifteen months prior, but he was still fiercely loyal to the man. Shouting orders, he rode between the lines of Englishmen who had turned tail to run. He did not think he would make a difference, but somehow Darek Merriweather had heard Carter’s frantic pleas, and the man who now served as Carter’s valet, caught one man after another and turned each around to fight again. Within minutes, the retreat had turned to an assault. Merriweather rushed forward and back, rallying his fellow soldiers to fight on.

  Meanwhile, Carter had discovered Colonel Rightnour’s bloody body. Of course, at the time, he had not known it was Rightnour. In fact, he had never heard of the long-time military man before that eventful day. All he had known was the English battalion’s commander had made an elementary error, leaving his men too exposed. The colonel had lost his leg, and a gaping hole spoke of the man’s brutal death.

  The boy covered the colonel with his own body. The officer’s horse rested along side its master. The animal, too, had met a horrid death. “Come with me,” Carter had ordered while the boy had clasped tightly to the man’s body.

  “My father?” the youth had questioned.

  Carter had looked upon the destruction. Bodies polluted the ground with seeping blood and guts. The French advanced, and there was no time for grief. “Would expect you to live,” he had said defiantly.

  He had caught the lad by the arm and had dragged him to safer ground. “I will come for you when this is over,” he had assured before returning to shore up the English lines in anticipation of the next French assault. Yet, the devastation found in the boy’s eyes had never left him. At any given moment, Carter could summon the image as if the lad stood before him.

  The acrid smell of blood and gunpowder and the deafening sound of exploding ammunition flooded his senses, while a shiver of fear racked his spine. He had never felt so inept, but he had fought beside Merriweather and the other outstanding soldiers on that Belgium battlefield.

  He had witnessed charge after charge by the French, but his fellow Englishmen had fought honorably. As the French withdrew, Carter had permitted himself the liberty to look to the place where he had deposited the boy. A bit of the lad’s shirt had shone
from behind the tree. Earlier, he had thought neither of them would survive the day, but hope had flared, and he had made his way along the line to retrieve the lad.

  With his eyes closed to recover the dream, Carter could visualize his approach. Crouched over. Touching a soldier’s shoulder. Redirecting the man’s line of fire. Instructing Merriweather, whose name he had not yet learned, to send men to block the French stragglers from escaping. Every detail rang clear. The smells. The sounds. The air thick with smoke and humidity and Death. The cries of men meeting their Maker. The mud. The soldiers in lines. Bayonets at a ready. The squares formed tight to withstand the French assault. None of it escaped him.

  He could plainly see the look of surprise upon his countenance when he caught sight of the lone French cavalryman barreling down upon the boy. Could see his panicked response as he raced to the spot where the lad clung to the tree, never once suspecting he was in danger. Could hear the snap of the Frenchman’s whip as it came down heavily on the youth’s back. Could hear the lad’s scream, fiercely shrill. Could read the curse upon his own lips as he charged up the slope to reach the boy’s side. Could feel the desperate need to protect the innocent youth, who had witnessed the worst of society’s manipulations.

  His body jerked hard as the bullet struck his thigh, effectively cutting him down–keeping him from reaching the lad. The gaping hole in his leg. As he lay wreathing upon his side, Merriweather had appeared over him, a rifle aimed at the advancing Frenchman. Without notice, Carter’s newfound comrade fired, striking the Frenchie in the throat.

  Carter had never remembered the details so clearly. Even now, he could feel the burning pain, and the sensation of blood oozing from the wound was so real, he unconsciously reached for the deep scar, which marred his skin, only to find his leg dry. “Bloody hell!” he hissed into the room’s silence. His pulse raced as he made himself turn upon his side. With a heavy sigh, he squeezed his eyes closed, this time to drive the images away. His body exhausted from the experience.