A Hero to Hold

by Sheri Humphreys

  “My lady?”

  Charlotte set the scissors down and reached toward the brush. “You hold on to her while I brush her. I’ll snip out the worst of the tangles.”

  Eleanor obeyed, securing the dog with lean, long-fingered hands. Charlotte took a moment to rub the dog’s soft, upright ears, then tackled her dark fur as gently as possible, brushing out what she could and using the scissors where the fur was impossibly knotted.

  “How are your sisters and brothers faring, Eleanor?”

  Since Charlotte had brought the girl home from Mrs. Russell’s, her cheeks had acquired a pinkness that added to the overall charm of the girl’s appearance.

  “Very well, my lady. The boys are happy at school, and I see Amelia and Hannah every week. I go with Mrs. Lipton when she goes to market. They’re not too far from there, and the lady caring for them doesn’t mind my visits. She’s been good to the girls. I miss them all something terrible, though.”

  “And how are your own studies going?” Charlotte had found a school attended by the daughters of successful tradesmen and enrolled Eleanor. Five days a week the girl attended until early afternoon. Then she reported to Mrs. Jones, who kept her busy with household tasks until the evening meal.

  A warm smile stole over Eleanor’s face. Charlotte had noticed it came quicker and quicker as the days passed. “I never dreamed of such good fortune, my lady. How can I ever thank you?”

  “No thanks are necessary. Are you using the library as I instructed?”

  On more than one occasion Charlotte had caught the girl standing in the doorway, gazing at the shelves of books, front teeth crimping her bottom lip. Charlotte had told her the books were hers for the reading, but Eleanor had only stared back with huge, apprehensive eyes. Charlotte puzzled over it for several days, why the girl, who so obviously yearned to read, wouldn’t even browse. Perhaps the books, with their smooth leather covers and their fine white pages, seemed too fine. So on impulse Charlotte had asked Mrs. Jones to make Eleanor responsible for maintaining the room. She was to keep it clean, neat and organized. She was to inspect the books for torn covers or other damage that necessitated repairs. And she was expected to confine her studying for school to the room. Now Eleanor could frequently be found in the library. Whether on the ladder returning a book to its resting place or nestled in a chair, captivated by a story, the girl always looked as though she belonged there.

  “I suppose I need a name for her,” Charlotte said of the dog after Eleanor nodded. Her long black coat was getting a considerable trimming, especially along the belly and legs. The little beast seemed to have resigned herself to their attentions, but Charlotte still took care to be gentle. Each time her hand drew near the canine’s mouth, the dog’s pink tongue lapped at it in tender reassurance.

  Charlotte set down the brush and scissors. The dog’s bright eyes peeked out from behind a veil of feathered hair. “I dare say she’s beginning to look quite appealing.”

  “I think she’s relieved to be here,” Eleanor said, petting the beast’s head. “She looks happy.”

  Charlotte stifled her smile. “Well, her belly’s full and she’s safe. Those are happy circumstances for any stray.”

  The dog pushed a head under Charlotte’s hand, soliciting another rub.

  “It’s been a long time since you’ve had either. Hasn’t it, little stray?”

  The dog, perhaps understanding Charlotte was finished, sat and began to pant, tongue lolling from between white teeth.

  “How about Piccola Persa for a name? That’s Little Stray in Italian,” Charlotte remarked. She smoothed her hand over the dog’s back. “Or perhaps just Persa.”

  The dog looked back and forth between her and Eleanor as if aware they were discussing her. Her tail wagged madly, and Eleanor giggled.

  “I think she’s telling us she likes it,” the girl said.

  Considering Eleanor and Persa, Charlotte’s chest filled with gladness. She quickly got to her feet and, mumbling something about putting the scissors away, headed for her room. She hurried up the stairs and arrived out of breath. This tension wasn’t unlike the feeling just before succumbing to tears, only she knew she wasn’t about to cry.

  She sank onto the chaise. What was happening to her? The tenderness she’d felt just now, looking at Eleanor and Persa, was shocking. She suddenly seemed to be teeming with emotion at every turn. Scott’s kiss had unlocked something crucial within her. Something soft and generous that went far beyond her feeling for him. He made her experience things she’d thought excised from her person. Not love. Certainly not that. But she couldn’t look at him without wanting to touch him. Strange, that she’d never realized she’d buried more than her desire for a husband and family.

  Each new day brought the anticipation of her work and of seeing Scott. Today they’d each revealed their vulnerability. Their desire had been exposed. And then she’d repulsed him with her reaction to his leg.

  She pressed cold fingers to her hot, heavy eyelids. She’d hurt him. She’d give anything to have that moment back.

  Her desire was all-consuming. She’d thought she knew desire in the early days of her marriage, but now Charlotte saw that had merely been a longing to be loved. This…craving she felt for David Scott, she’d never before felt anything of its like. Perhaps unintentionally, Scott had today revealed that he wanted her just as much as she did him. She was certain of it. But he’d also made clear he wouldn’t pursue an intimacy with her. Strange to think a man as commanding as Scott could doubt himself. He kept his insecurities well-hidden.

  Charlotte sighed. Before today she’d been satisfied with her decision to never pursue love or marry again. Yet didn’t she deserve some small measure of physical pleasure? Was it so terrible to want Scott’s arms around her? The gratifying, independent life she’d planned now looked wearisome and solitary. The satisfaction she’d gained through her work seemed insubstantial. A great yearning had taken up residence within her, and she feared she’d never again know peace.

  #

  Charlotte followed Jane’s maid into the private sitting room. She’d preceded her arrival with a note asking if she might visit, confident her friend would welcome her. Jane’s unexpected reply had been, Yes, please come now. Hurry.

  Her plan to confide in Jane and ask advice about David Scott died the moment she walked in and her friend’s head lifted. Jane’s face bore all the earmarks of a prolonged cry: red, puffy eyes, a flushed, damp face and such an expression of hurt that Charlotte knew doom had fallen. And she still wore her nightgown and wrap.

  Charlotte hurried to the chaise her friend occupied and grasped the hand not clutching a wilted handkerchief. “Jane? What is it?”

  Her friend pressed her limp handkerchief to her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s Phillip.”

  Oh, God. Charlotte sank onto the chaise. “Was there an accident? What’s happened?”

  Etherton simply had to be all right. Charlotte squeezed Jane’s hand and waited. Dread tightened her throat, making her work to swallow.

  Jane bent her head. Her chest heaved several times as she took in great breaths. “He has a mistress and a son,” she croaked, the last word a mere whisper.

  “What?” No. Jane must be wrong. Phillip adored his wife. It was because of Jane and Phillip that Charlotte still believed real, lasting love was possible. “Are you sure?”

  Jane nodded. “We…we argued. I want another child. Phillip doesn’t. He insists he doesn’t want me taking the risk.”

  Shock held Charlotte silent. Eight years of marriage, six pregnancies, one miscarriage, and four healthy daughters. The last birth—a stillborn son—had been frightful, with Jane nearly dying of hemorrhage.

  “Phillip needs a son to secure the succession, but he won’t even consider another child. He says he’s fine with the title going to a distant cousin.” A crease appeared between Jane’s brows. “Mr. Jonathan Mattingly. Do you know him?”

  Charlotte shook her head.
r />   “He already has a son.”

  “Jane…” What did this have to do with Etherton having a mistress and child?

  “He says there’s nothing to discuss, that he’s happy with our family. I know how he loves our sweet girls, but if I can’t give Phillip an heir of his blood I’ll fail him. I’ll let the whole family down.”

  “Jane, you nearly died.” Her friend had been unconscious, but Charlotte remembered Phillip’s ravaged face, how he grieved over the loss of their child and how he prayed for his wife, never leaving her bedside.

  Jane retrieved her glasses from the side table and shoved them on. “He wouldn’t listen to me. Didn’t care that it was what I wanted. We had a terrible row. I don’t understand how it happened. He kept telling me I wasn’t being sensible. I got so angry. I was determined to sway him and kept saying I wanted to give him a son. Finally, he shouted that he already has a son.”

  Too late to stifle her gasp, Charlotte’s fingers flew to her mouth.

  “Phillip didn’t mean to tell me. But since he had, he went on and told me everything. They live in the village and he sees them whenever he’s at Friar’s Gate. Charlotte, he loves the boy.”

  Of course Etherton loved the boy. That was the kind of man he was. Yet something was missing from Jane’s tale. How could Etherton have been unfaithful when every time he looked at Jane or their daughters his eyes filled with such warmth?

  “When did this happen?” Charlotte asked. Her friend, the most intelligent girl at Mrs. Brewster’s school, the one who could reason her way through any situation, was floundering. Charlotte wished she could do something other than sit, a helpless spectator to Jane’s pain. She wrapped an arm around her.

  Jane slid her fingers under her glasses, pushed them up, and buried her face in her hands. “Last night.”

  “No, not the argument. The affair. When was the affair?”

  “It happened before we met. Phillip said he ended it when he realized he cared for me. He swore he’s been faithful and doesn’t feel anything for the boy’s mother but a fondness.” Jane raised her head. “The boy is nine years old.”

  Charlotte was confused as to the problem. “This boy won’t inherit the title. You know that, Jane.”

  “But Phillip loves him. He told me so, Charlotte. He’s schooling him. He supports them.”

  “Of course he supports them. Etherton is a responsible, generous man. This doesn’t diminish his love for you or your daughters.”

  “But it feels like he’s given this child something that belongs to me. That boy…that boy will always remind him of what he should have had. What I failed to give him!”

  Jane’s eyes were so earnest that Charlotte straightened, giving her friend’s clasped hands a squeeze. She wanted to sympathize but couldn’t stop the little voice in her mind that said Jane hadn’t been betrayed. Jane truly thought she and her girls owned all her husband’s love and loyalty? Still, she had suffered a terrible loss when her son had been delivered stillborn. Jane and Etherton both had. It had been more than a year, but that wound would still be raw. Perhaps it was affecting the way Jane was managing the situation.

  “All the love he’s giving to his bastard… That’s love my son is supposed to have.”

  Charlotte didn’t understand. Jane didn’t have a son. How could Etherton be depriving a son he didn’t have? And Jane was a mother. She knew the love you gave one child wasn’t stolen from another. Your heart simply expanded to include the additional children. Etherton loved Jane and had accepted not having a son to inherit the title. He didn’t blame or resent Jane. He only wanted to protect her.

  Her friend was usually so sensible, but in this instance she was being irrational. Charlotte didn’t know how to help.

  “Jane, are you angry at Phillip…or yourself?”

  Jane’s eyes flashed. She stood, strode to the window and looked out. After a minute, she whirled about. “I admit I’m jealous. But please don’t tell me I have no reason to be.”

  Charlotte wanted to say as much, but she didn’t. At least she understood the jealousy. “Let’s have some tea.”

  She found Jane’s worried-looking maid standing just outside. After ordering tea, she pulled Jane away from the window and made her sit in the upholstered chair positioned in front of the fireplace. She wrapped a shawl around Jane’s shoulders and tucked the ends around her friend’s cold hands. Then, with Jane looking comfortable and in control, Charlotte took the opposite chair.

  She hated to ask about something so private, but she suspected there was another hurt at the heart of Jane’s distress. “If Phillip is determined not to risk your bearing another child, how are you preventing pregnancy?”

  Jane tightened the shawl. Her face flushed. “He…withdraws. I don’t like it, but…”

  But there was nothing else to do other than complete abstinence.

  “How did your argument end?”

  “He went into his bedroom and slammed the door.” Jane drew a deep, jerky breath. “He never sleeps in there.”

  “Perhaps it was smart. He allowed you time to think. Now the two of you can have a rational discussion.”

  “How can we have a rational discussion? He’s not a rational man. He’s held this secret from me since before our marriage. Of course, the servants at Friar’s Gate know. The entire village knows.” Jane threw her hands in the air.

  Charlotte had experienced the bite of a revealed secret, and the sting of casual acquaintances and servants knowing something private and hurtful. Seeing her friend suffering with the same pain made her stomach squeeze. “I’m sorry, Jane. But please let Phillip have his say. Listen to his explanation. He’d never intentionally hurt you. I’m sure when he decided not to tell, he thought he was sparing you.”

  Jane gazed at her for a long moment and then shook her head. “All these years he’s kept them right under my nose.”

  The tea arrived, fragrant and steaming. Charlotte poured and placed a plate with a fresh cinnamon bun beside Jane. Jane swallowed a drink of tea and winced.

  Charlotte raised her cup and gently blew across the surface of the liquid. She remembered the hard, aching knot that had lodged in her chest the day she learned of Haliday’s affair. It had lived with her for weeks before ebbing away. How could Etherton have hidden the existence of his son for so many years and then told Jane in such an awful way? How could he have been so cruel or thoughtless? Etherton wasn’t a man who lost control. Yet since he had told Jane, why couldn’t Jane at least try to understand? How would their love survive if she couldn’t forgive him? Jane didn’t need the additional burden of Charlotte’s disillusionment and anger, but Charlotte couldn’t help but feel some anger at both of them. Didn’t they value what they had in each other?

  Or, maybe she’d been wrong and their love wasn’t ever as strong as she’d thought.

  No. Charlotte recalled the way Etherton looked at Jane. He’d never hidden his feelings as he regarded his wife. Damn it, this just wasn’t right.

  She set down her cup. “Where is Etherton now?”

  Jane shrugged. “He went to his club. Said he’d come back home when I was ready to be reasonable—”

  Her voice broke.

  So, after all of that Etherton had left Jane to cry and fret. His actions left an uneasy, heavy churning in the pit of Charlotte’s stomach. Abandoning his wife after such a revelation was downright beastly and not like the man at all. She could only assume he’d had a complete loss of temper and control, even as unlikely as that seemed. Still, she maintained her position that he was a trusted friend. In spite of how he’d retreated, she could never just reverse her opinion and think him in the same league as Haliday.

  “I’ll stay as long as you like,” she said to Jane, and was rewarded with something approximating a wobbly smile. “I can tell you didn’t sleep last night. You need to rest or you’ll make yourself ill.”

  Her friend’s passivity as the wrap was removed and she was put to bed told Charlotte how dispirited Jan
e was. Charlotte pulled the covers around her friend’s shoulders, Jane closed her eyes and curled her arms and legs in close to her body.

  Settling into a chair, Charlotte tried to relax. How could men feel no compunction when they hurt their wives? It was hard even to imagine Etherton keeping his bastard a secret for all these years, financially supporting his son and spending time with him all behind Jane’s back. Was Charlotte being foolish to cling to her belief in Etherton’s love for Jane? He hadn’t been unfaithful, but he’d hidden an important part of his life from his wife.

  Charlotte closed her eyes to subdue their burning. For a moment the face of David Scott swam before her. She couldn’t imagine Scott acting dishonorably. Yet, why should he be any different than any other man when it came to pleasures of the flesh? Jane had learned a hard-taught lesson today from her husband. Charlotte had firsthand knowledge of it, herself. Under their guise as protectors, men controlled women. When they couldn’t, they left. Charlotte’s father was actually even trying to reassert his authority. He’d best think again. She’d make her own decisions. She wasn’t about to live under his thumb again. Not his or any other man’s.

  What must it feel like to be a man? So confident, so certain your every action would be tolerated, your every dictate obeyed? A man’s reputation was unaffected by all but the most grievous acts. Women, the opposite. Jane had little choice but to eventually accept or ignore what Etherton had done, or she would spend the rest of her marriage miserable.

  Charlotte’s friend shifted and mumbled, lost in the oblivion of sleep. Charlotte hoped it was deep enough to be dreamless.

  Wriggling her shoulders, Charlotte twisted until she found a position where she could let her neck and shoulder muscles slacken, then she closed her eyes and thought of Haliday, Etherton, and finally Scott. If a man could engage in dalliance and remain free of guilt and stigma, why not a woman? Especially if the woman had no husband and the man no wife to betray.

  Why not indeed, Charlotte decided. Such a liaison would hurt no one.