“Charlotte, you’re a woman meant to have children. You’ll marry again.”
His gentle certainty both warmed and pained her. Her own mother, the youngest daughter of a gambling-ruined earl, had died when Charlotte was a girl. Father rarely spoke of her. But his prediction reminded Charlotte he often reminisced with great fondness and admiration upon his own mother and had compared Charlotte’s looks and character to hers. Charlotte didn’t mention that she thought herself incapable of bearing children. In four years of trying she’d had only one pregnancy, which she’d miscarried almost immediately.
Her father grasped the loop of gold chain resting on his embroidered silk waistcoat, ran his fingers along it and pulled the attached watch from its pocket. He checked the time. “I’d best leave,” he said, returning the timepiece to its home. “I’ve been here far longer than I planned or wanted to be gone. I suppose I must accept your involvement with this charity. Of all the traits you might have inherited from me, I don’t know why you acquired my stubborn nature. I hope you remember your promise and keep your work as private as possible.”
She nodded. “I will. Good-bye, Father.”
Charlotte heard him collect his hat from Walters, then the sounds of his leaving.
As soon as she knew he was gone, she asked for every discarded Times in the house. The pile of newspapers Walters brought wasn’t large enough to give Charlotte hope she’d find what she wanted. She had no idea when the article about David Scott had appeared, so she perused each page. Halfway through the stack, the headline she sought leapt out at her. Charlotte took a quick, sharp breath and scanned the text.
Victoria Cross to be Awarded to Crimean Hero
A new medal is taking its place as England’s preeminent award for valor, and today the War Office announced that David Scott would be among the recipients when Queen Victoria presents the first medals, 26 June, following a parade in Hyde Park. The Cross, made from Russian cannon captured at Sevastopol, is cast of bronze in the shape of a cross patté and ensigned with the Royal Crest and the words ‘For Valor.’
Major Scott, brother to the Earl of Bridgewaite, will be awarded the Cross for conspicuous bravery before the enemy, 25 October, 1854, at Balaclava. One of Lord Tennyson’s noble six-hundred, Scott’s actions in the ‘Valley of Death’ that day two-and-a-half years ago make clear he deserves the honor. With Her Majesty’s troops overwhelmed by the Russian guns, again and again Major Scott rallied the 11th Hussars and led them against the enemy force. When finally ordered to withdraw, he brought up the rear and stopped to assist a wounded officer struggling to stand under the onslaught of three Russian cavalrymen. Scott engaged the enemy soldiers in close-quarter fighting and ordered the injured major back to the British lines. Scott overcame his Russian combatants but took a saber to his shoulder. Wounded, he headed for the British lines at a full gallop, but his mount was struck by a killing shot and he was thrown underneath the horse as it fell. Unconscious, legs crushed, presumed dead, Major Scott lay on the battlefield throughout the night. It wasn’t until the next day, when they cleared away the dead, that he was found to be alive.
Major Scott’s injuries necessitated his medical discharge, but he is now the Executive Committee Chairman of the Royal Patriotic Fund. The courage and fierce tenacity of this man and the other sixty-one recipients will be recognized by all Britain when the Queen pins her nation’s highest award—the Victoria Cross—on their chests.
Charlotte filled her shaking hands with fistfuls of skirt. A great ache threatened to choke her, and she forced herself to swallow against it. She imagined Scott lying under his dead horse, blue eyes staring up at the stars for endless hours of the night. Or perhaps smoke from the guns had settled in the valley and left him staring at a night sky devoid of light. He must have been in great pain, possibly wondering if he would soon die. What demons must have tortured him as he lay on the ground, surrounded by dead comrades and enemies? Such a night would drive some men to madness.
Scott’s determined, proud face filled Charlotte’s mind, his expression as he pulled himself hand-over-hand into his coach. A tear left her eye, and she reached up to dash it from her cheek. He’d told her he could not stand or walk. That was the physical cost of what he’d experienced that day, but what of his spirit? It might have been as crushed and crippled as his legs, yet he’d managed to build a new life for himself.
He’d been in the cavalry. That meant he’d been able to ride well, likely as though he were part of his horse. She could imagine him stretched out over the neck of his galloping mount, felt his heart fill with the joy of it… And now that feeling was lost to him. It seemed too unfair to bear.
A sense of failure and guilt rose in Charlotte, followed by a self-directed prick of anger. How long had she been obsessing over Haliday’s betrayal? Two years. She pressed her fingers to her lips. Until Jane encouraged her, she hadn’t even considered she might help herself. One month from now Scott was receiving a medal for valor on the battlefield, and surely he’d needed just as much courage each and every day since. She’d felt sorry for herself, while Scott’s losses—and challenges—were so much greater.
She took her hand from her lips and cupped the teapot, its sides bringing welcome warmth to her fingers. She poured another cup and watched the steam curl up. It was easy enough to drink a bit of tea and infuse oneself with warmth, comfort, and a bit of vitality; if only she could as easily imbue herself with strength. Somehow, she needed to put some steel in her spine.
Perhaps David Scott, who probably sweated steel, would show her how.
CHAPTER NINE
Pleased that her determination seemed to have ousted her nerves, Charlotte felt steady if not confident when she arrived at the Fund offices the next day.
She started briskly up the front steps but slowed. At the top, a young woman attempted to maneuver a baby carriage, a toddler, and the front door all at once. Her heart-shaped face glowed red with the effort.
“May I help you?” Charlotte asked, stepping onto the landing and automatically reaching to manage the heavy wooden door. The toddler, bouncing on sturdy legs, had much-mended hose and bright, large brown eyes. Brown curls poked from beneath her cap, framing a round, red-cheeked face, and the little girl chose that moment to sit, her seeking hands reaching out for the braided trim on Charlotte’s skirt.
“Oh!” exclaimed the young mother, obviously flustered. “I’d be so grateful if you could just get Betsy.”
Charlotte released the door, bent and scooped the child into her arms. The moppet squealed and immediately reached for the satin ribbons of Charlotte’s bonnet. Charlotte laughed and pulled the door open with her free hand, allowing the young mother to push the perambulator into the building.
The group paused just inside. Little Betsy blinked, expression wary as she took in the sudden dimness and chill of the entry. Her pudgy fingers tightened on Charlotte’s ribbons, and Charlotte patted her back.
The harassed-looking mother reached out and took the cherubic Betsy into her arms. “Thank you for your kindness, ma’am. I’m Mrs. Charles Merriweather. You’re already acquainted with my Betsy, and this,” she added, indicating the infant inside the carriage, “is Charles junior.”
Charlotte gazed at the sleeping baby, who appeared to be under a year old. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, and that of your delightful children, Mrs. Merriweather. I’m Lady Haliday.”
The young mother’s eyes widened, and she bobbed a curtsy.
“Are you heading for the Patriotic Fund office?” Charlotte asked. Such would make sense. Mrs. Merriweather would have been quite attractive but for appearing a shade paler and thinner than was fashionable. Her black dress was clean but had seen many washings, and the narrow band of lace at her collar had been carefully mended.
A relieved-sounding sigh escaped the woman. “Yes. Is it down this hall?”
“It is. I’m headed there myself.”
Charlotte took Betsy back into her arms. She was suddenly very glad the
gown she’d chosen was not only seasoned but one of her plainest. The only embellishment on the brown frock was a bit of amber braid.
She led Mrs. Merriweather directly to George Chetney’s office. The man stood immediately, adjusted his glasses and smoothed his mustache.
“My lady. Ma’am. Good morning,” he said, giving them a quick bow. “Mr. Scott is expecting you, Lady Haliday.”
As if on cue, the baby began to cry and Charlotte’s new acquaintance bent over the perambulator and lifted the infant into her arms. Charlotte certainly couldn’t thrust the toddler at her, too, and it was doubtful that Mr. Chetney’s glasses would survive if the toddler were handed into his care.
“This is Mrs. Merriweather,” she said quickly. “I think she’d best come with me.”
Then Charlotte strode through the doorway, trusting the others to follow.
#
David Scott watched as Charlotte Haliday sailed in from the outer office. She carried a child and accompanied a young woman in mourning garb who held a crying infant.
Since he’d heard Lady Haliday’s voice, he was expecting her. What he wasn’t expecting was the entourage. The sight of her with hat askew nearly undid him. A grin escaped before he hastily pulled it back.
The viscountess blushed, put one hand up to straighten her hat, and gave the child a couple of bounces. The blush and the way her arms tightened around the little girl gave David pause. Yesterday she’d been defenseless, waking from her faint, her eyes unfocused, her fingers clutching and trusting. Charlotte Haliday might present an image of aloof control to the world, but he’d seen her vulnerable and she wasn’t cold at all.
How many people had seen her at such unguarded moments? Not many, he guessed. For a moment he remembered the warmth of her in his arms, the softness of her mouth. Definitely not cold, yet she chose to present herself as impervious. He understood concealing one’s vulnerabilities and presenting a stalwart face to the world. He supposed that dissembling was as automatic for her as it was for him.
“Good morning, Mr. Scott.” She turned toward her companion. “Mrs. Charles Merriweather, may I present Mr. Scott? Mr. Scott, this is Mrs. Merriweather and her children. We happened to arrive on your doorstep at the same time.”
David acknowledged the introduction to Mrs. Merriweather, trying to keep his gaze off the viscountess. She easily coped with the fussy children, but that didn’t convince David that Charlotte Haliday would be of use to him.
He waved to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit down.”
Charlotte. Just looking at her proved her unsuitability. She’d probably tried to dress plainly, but the quality of her clothing made it obvious she belonged to the upper echelons of society. She’d lit up the room when she entered. Wouldn’t such élan make the Fund’s clients feel inadequate?
He turned his attention to Mrs. Merriweather. The poor lady appeared nearly done in, so he smiled, hoping to put her at ease.
“What regiment was your husband with, ma’am?”
#
Charlotte rubbed Betsy’s back and, sound asleep, the child exhaled a mighty sigh and rested her head on Charlotte’s shoulder.
Charlotte could tell the interview was nearly over. Mr. Scott had been absolutely masterful as he questioned Juliet Merriweather. He’d listened to the widow unhurriedly, reassured her, and Charlotte had listened, stunned, as Juliet Merriweather confided in him. Then Scott had written out a bank draft. He’d made an appointment for Mrs. Merriweather’s return visit the following month.
How proud the widow was, Charlotte mused. What it must have cost her to reveal her deplorable circumstances to two strangers! Yet Juliet Merriweather appeared to have the kind of backbone Charlotte admired. She’d disclosed her situation in a straightforward manner, chin lifted, eyes steady. Twice, though, the young woman paused as if gathering her thoughts or strength and glanced over at Charlotte, and as unlikely as it seemed, Charlotte thought her presence helped the widow continue.
David Scott’s voice and direct gaze showed only respect for Mrs. Merriweather. How different his demeanor than with Charlotte herself. Her very presence seemed to irk him, and each time his gaze swung to her she felt him taking her measure. He didn’t want her working for him, and she really couldn’t blame him. Seeing him, even thinking of him, brought back the memory of their kiss. No doubt his recollection was just as clear. And he must believe the scandalous rumors about her to be true.
Mrs. Merriweather stood.
“Chetney,” Scott called. His secretary appeared in the doorway. “Roust a boy to run down to the corner for a cab, would you?”
Chetney nodded. “Right away,” he said, and left.
Charlotte stood, careful not to disturb Betsy. “I’ll walk out with you.”
Mrs. Merriweather stepped forward and took the bank draft that Scott held outstretched. “How can I thank you?” she asked. Her voice was thick, and Charlotte recognized the tone of withheld tears.
“I merely manage the Fund,” Scott said. “Your allowance is based on your husband’s rank and the number of children you have. I wish we could do more. Your husband gave his life protecting the Crown.”
Perhaps Scott’s matter-of-factness bolstered the widow, because she straightened and carefully placed the bank draft inside her reticule. “God bless you, Mr. Scott,” she said, her voice once again firm.
David Scott’s gaze fell, and he busied himself with papers on his desk. Charlotte almost thought him embarrassed, but she couldn’t quite believe the possibility.
She and Chetney accompanied Mrs. Merriweather to the street, where a hack waited. Chetney paid the driver and oversaw securing the widow’s pram to the back of the carriage. The transfer of Mrs. Merriweather and her children wasn’t as easily accomplished, necessitating handoffs between Charlotte and Chetney until the widow was settled inside with a sleeping child in each arm.
What, Charlotte wondered, would happen at the end of this journey? From the interview she knew mother and children lived alone in two small rooms. Juliet Merriweather had dealt with the death of her husband, the birth of her son, and the necessity of moving to less expensive lodgings all in the space of four weeks. Charlotte couldn’t imagine coping with such events. She’d always prided herself on her abilities, but the intricacies of managing a successful dinner party seemed as nothing compared to what Juliet handled.
“Is there someone to help you when you arrive home?” she asked.
“Yes. My neighbors. We all help each other. My lady, I hope I’ll see you the next time I come?”
Charlotte considered the family before her. Juliet’s dark gray eyes held a friendly sincerity, and watching the sleeping Betsy and little Charles wove a ribbon of warmth through her heart. Her decision to work for the Fund had been impulsive. She’d wanted to be useful and busy. She’d never expected such work to make her feel good in any but an abstract way, but it did, and Charlotte suddenly realized the constriction in her chest that had been with her for so long had eased.
“You certainly will,” she said. She very much wanted to see them again.
CHAPTER TEN
She gave Juliet a final wave and returned to the offices, walking straight through to David Scott. “How much money does the Fund have? Can we help them all that way?”
He looked up from what appeared to be a ledger book. “There’s a generous amount in our coffers, but we need to keep raising money. I could use your help procuring donations, planning fundraising balls and acting as liaison to local fundraising committees.” The warm, expressive face Scott had shown to Mrs. Merriweather was gone, and he sounded reluctant. “You can do that, can’t you?”
Charlotte stiffened. Could she meet with small charitable groups and plan balls? The temptation to throw a tart remark back in response was too strong to resist.
“The Prime Minister seemed to enjoy my dinner parties and soirees well enough. He always accepted my invitations.”
David Scott raised his brows. “What finer
affirmation could a hostess receive?”
The infuriating man was mocking her. Wasn’t he? But not a glint of humor shone in those considering, clear blue eyes. If anything, he suddenly looked resigned, and overcome with the desire to fidget Charlotte sank onto a chair.
Scott set his pen down next to the crystal and brass inkwell and folded his hands. “Although there are nearly forty prestigious commissioners, including the Queen and Prince Albert, the Executive Committee is the day-to-day working branch of the Fund and consists of you, me, Chetney, and Mr. Downy, who’s usually traveling. Our committee helps organize local fundraising committees around the country and provides assistance to them. We monitor the schooling and circumstances of our orphans. We have seven clerical workers. We estimate nearly two thousand widows and three thousand children need help, and we’re getting over one hundred applications each week. We’re busy, and I’ll need you most days. If you can’t commit to that, then I’d rather not have you. I must be able to depend on those who are here.”
Charlotte widened her eyes, trying with all her might to maintain a look of innocent inquiry. Was he hoping she’d quit? He made it so plain that he didn’t want her. That truth was like a sharp wasp sting.
Scott sighed and rubbed his chin. “Sometimes I visit orphans to check on them. I’d hoped to find a nursemaid or governess to go with me, but I guess it will have to be you.”
They’d be working that closely together? Charlotte remembered how she’d felt sitting with him in his coach, and a nervous feeling crept into her stomach. She took a deep breath and thought of Juliet Merriweather’s backbone.
“Mr. Scott, I am committed. I’m happy to plan balls, happy to correspond or meet with local committee members. I’m happy to lend assistance in any way I can. You have only to ask.”
The man leaned forward, placing his palms flat on his desk. “Then I’ll call for you at ten o’clock tomorrow. There’s a family of five orphaned children I intend to see.”
A Hero to Hold Page 6