The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  Especially as Charles, forsaking those who had supposedly forsaken him, had made no further move to contact any of them.

  To all intents and purposes, he'd simply vanished off the face of the earth.

  To all intents and purposes he was dead.

  He got to his feet, his face bleak with anguish. "The consequences of my supposed death are too horrific for me to even contemplate. The suffering that my family must have endured; the sorrow of poor Juliet. . . . oh, what a fool I am for not suspecting deceit! Did I have such little faith in those who loved me that I believed everything I was told?"

  Amy reached out and placed her hand over his. Ice might have been warmer. "Charles, you were blind. You could not see to read the letters, you could not have known they were false."

  He shook his head, unwilling, unable, to forgive himself or make excuses for the fact that he had doubted and turned his back on his loved ones. "No, Amy. It is no use. I have made a grievous mistake in trust and judgement. I have erred badly, and in so doing, I have hurt the people I love. I could not see to read those letters myself, but I could hear the words they contained, and I should have had more faith and trust in those whom I held dearest."

  "But you couldn't have known what my sisters did!"

  "I should have suspected," he said coldly. "After all, I knew them to be selfish and conniving. And I should have known that my brother would never have turned me away, that Maddison would have brought me immediately back to Boston, that Juliet would never have behaved as she did. But no. I was so blinded by misery that I couldn't see through it to the truth. The truth being, that I let them all down — my fiancée, who was left to fend by herself in a town that had gone mad; my family, who must have spent a terrible eighteen months believing me dead; my troops, who had such faith in me and my judgement." He shook his head. "My judgement. And all this time, when I thought everyone had betrayed me, the harsh reality is that I have betrayed them." He drew his hands down over his face and then lowered them, blinking. "God help me. God help me undo this wrong that has been done, to ease those hurts that I have allowed to be done to others . . . I must leave for Boston at once."

  ~~~~

  But Boston yielded nothing but memories of another lifetime. Others now inhabited the house where Juliet and her stepfather had lived. The general store where Charles had first met her was now the shop of a silversmith who sold plates, bowls and engravings. The British army was gone, long since removed to New York, and the Common where Charles had once drilled his men, the streets that he had come to know so well, were ruled once more by the rebellious inhabitants who had once cursed and taunted his army into not only that debacle called the Boston Massacre, but this godforsaken revolution itself.

  He knocked on doors and made his inquiries, only to receive cold looks and tight lips through which no information was forthcoming. Though he no longer resembled the elegant British officer who had once patrolled these streets with such confident aplomb, there was nothing he could do to change his prestigious accent, an accent that would take him far in class-conscious England, but which only brought him suspicion, distrust, and doors slammed in his face, here. There was no disguising the fact that he was English, and high-born at that. And there was no finding Juliet Paige as long as the people he contacted kept their silence about her.

  It was only when he finally ran into an old widow named Murdock that Charles learned the horrible truth. Mrs. Murdock had known Juliet well, and she was all too happy to tell Charles just what had happened to her . . .

  Juliet's stepfather Zachariah had been carried off by pneumonia last winter. And in March, when the British army and Loyalists had evacuated Boston, leaving it to the rebels, the unwed Juliet Paige had taken the bastard baby that had won her the ostracism of her friends and neighbors and gone with them, taking passage on a ship bound for England.

  No one had heard from her since.

  And as Charles stood on the wharf and looked out across Boston's cold, gray harbor to the horizon beyond, he knew why she had gone there. He had told her that if anything should happen to him, she was to go to England and throw herself upon the mercy and charity of his family. He remembered the dark premonition that he, like Gillard, had felt the night before Concord, and the letter he'd sent to Lucien, imploring him to take care of Juliet if ever he could not.

  There was nothing for it, then.

  It was time to return to his family.

  It was time to claim the fiancée who had not deserted him after all.

  It was time to go home.

  ~~~~

  My dear brother, Lucien,

  I do not quite know how to begin this letter, especially knowing what you must believe — and what you will think of me after you have read it through. I hope to God my family has not wept for me, as I do not deserve your tears, your concern, not even your forgiveness. I have much to say, and much to explain as regards my absence and the unhappy fact that everyone seems to have believed me dead — but I dare say that a letter is not the place to do it, and there are things I would speak to you about only when I am back in England with my family.

  To that end, I will be taking passage home in two weeks, and hope to be with you all for Christmas. Please discard all memories of the man you once knew me to be; illness and circumstance have made me but a shadow of my former self, and you should not expect too highly of me when next we meet.

  I look forward to seeing you all soon. May God bless and keep you.

  Charles

  Chapter 18

  Charles was back in Newburyport by that evening.

  He told himself he'd only returned because he needed to tell the Leightons what had become of Juliet. He told himself he couldn't just sail off to England without saying goodbye to these kindly people who had done so much for him. He told himself he owed Amy a last farewell. Then he would sever all ties to Newburyport, forcibly forget what he and Amy had shared, and pick up his life where it had left off eighteen months ago, even if that life was now guided only by duty — and not passion.

  Unfortunately, things hadn't quite gone to plan.

  Within an hour of his arrival, he learned that Sylvanus was punishing Ophelia and Mildred by assigning most of the chores that had been Amy's, to them. Subsequently, the sisters were treating her worse than they ever had, blaming her for their enforced regime and getting their revenge by ensuring that everyone in town knew of her "wanton seduction" of Lord Charles. As a result, Amy was now treated as though she had the plague. People crossed to the other side of the street when she approached. Shades were drawn shut within passing carriages. No one would even speak to her.

  Her life had become miserable.

  After supper, Charles went out to the barn to feed Contender. Amy followed him. She knew he intended to leave within the hour, and her heart was near to breaking at the knowledge that if she did not gather her courage and act, she would probably never see him again.

  She looked at him, clean shaven once more, tall and handsome and leaning against the stall door as he watched the horse quietly munching his hay in the velvety gloom. His face was pensive. Unhappy. Bleak.

  "Charles?"

  "It's cold out here, Amy. You should go inside."

  She joined him, respectfully keeping a safe distance between them as she rested her arms atop the stall door, her chin on her wrists as she followed his gaze to the quietly feeding horse.

  They stood quietly together, each lost in their own thoughts. Their private anguish.

  "Charles," she finally said, picking idly at a sliver of wood in the stall door. "There's something I must ask you."

  "We are friends, Amy. You can ask me anything you like."

  Friends.

  She took a deep, bracing breath. "You've known me for a long time, now. You've seen what my life is like and the way people treat me, and how much worse things are for me now than they were the last time you were here."

  His jaw hardened in recognition of that fact, but he said nothing,
merely staring absently at the horse, his thoughts far away.

  Amy dug at the sliver of wood, trying to be strong, trying to believe that she really did deserve that for which she was about to ask. "As long as I stay in Newburyport, the shame of my beginnings will always follow me, and things will never be any different. I have no hopes of marrying, everyone in town shuns me, and Mira, my only friend, is always off at sea in her brother's brig." She bent her head, trying to sound cavalier instead of desperate, wanting only his help and not his pity. "Life has never been easy for me, Charles, but lately . . . well, lately, it has become downright unbearable. I've often thought that if only I could get away from here, and make a new start where no one knows about my beginnings, that things might be different for me. That maybe I might have the sort of life I've always dreamed of having." She swallowed hard, feeling the full weight of his gaze upon her. "I — I hate to ask this, Charles, but you're my only hope. You — and England."

  "Amy, what are you saying?"

  She turned her head and met his piercing stare. "That I want you to take me to England with you."

  She saw him straighten up and wipe a hand down his face, blinking once, as though her request had not only surprised, but stunned him. Then he turned away, raking a hand through his hair, putting a few steps between them. "Amy, I am promised to another. Much as I wish to help you, I'm not sure this would be wise. You know that I . . . that I have feelings for you, but I am honor bound to keep my commitment to Juliet, and having you near would only make things difficult. I'm sorry, but we must try to forget all that has happened between us."

  "Oh, Charles, I would never hinder your plans or do anything to jeopardize what is between you and Juliet. After all that you've been through, you deserve to be happy. But please don't leave me here to molder where I'm neither loved nor appreciated; please take me away, and let me have this chance at a new beginning, I beg of you."

  "Doing what, Amy?"

  "I would make a wonderful lady's maid."

  He stared at her. "After all these years of catering to your sisters' every whim, is that what you want?"

  "At least I'd be getting paid for it! At least there would be no shame in it, or in who I am! What other chance do I have, Charles? And even you must see that it's not an unreasonable request. Why, your sister could teach me all that I don't already know, and once I'm accomplished, I will leave, Charles, I'll go work for someone far away from you. I'll remove myself from your life so that I don't make things difficult for either one of us. But please, Charles, don't go off to England and leave me here, I simply couldn't bear it."

  He kneaded his brow for a moment, tortured by this decision he wished he didn't have to make. Finally he gave a defeated sigh, his breath frosting the air, the wisdom of his head fighting a losing battle with the will of his heart.

  In the end, he capitulated. How could he not? How could he go away and leave this woman who was so dear to him, who had done so much for him, to a life of servitude, misery and ostracism when he alone held the key to her happiness, her hopes, her very future?

  What, really, would it cost him to bring her with him?

  "Very well then, Amy. I shall go speak to Sylvanus about it."

  "Oh, thank you, Charles!" she cried, and stopped herself just before she would have flung her arms around him.

  He looked at her bleakly; then he turned and walked away.

  ~~~~

  Within the hour, Amy had packed the few things she had while her sisters looked hatefully on and heaped insult and abuse upon her head. She hugged her misty-eyed brother and bade a silent goodbye to a stunned Sylvanus; and then, turning her back on the only home she had ever known, she'd gone with Charles to New York, where he'd met with his superiors, accepted a leave of absence, and arranged for passage on the first ship heading home to England.

  The crossing took just over five weeks. For Amy they were wistful, lonely days, for Charles had arranged that she have her own cabin, and she did not get the chance to speak with him often. Sometimes she would see him on the quarterdeck, conversing with the ship's captain; sometimes she would see him at the rail, alone, the wind in his hair and the wide, cold expanse of endless blue sea spread before him. Her longing for him was a constant ache in her heart, but she knew that he wanted to be alone, and so did not seek him out.

  She knew that he was avoiding her.

  And everything that made her a woman told her why.

  He did not love Juliet Paige. He might feel duty bound to marry her, he might feel responsible for her care and welfare, but he did not love the woman with whom he'd had a brief and impassioned romance two years past. He did not love Juliet Paige, and Amy knew, deep in her heart, that he loved her.

  Knowing that this must cause him guilt and pain, she determined to do nothing to encourage things any further than they'd already gone. Charles had enough on his mind, and on his conscience, without the added anguish of trying to sort out his feelings for her. He was still betrothed to Juliet. He had a baby to take care of, a baby that he'd never even seen. There was no room in his life for a romantic entanglement with Amy, and Amy was not so selfish as to try to force him into one.

  She would go to England, then, and seek employment as a lady's maid. As she had done before, she would love him from afar, doing her best not make his life any more complicated than it already was. And if sometimes the memories of the brief interludes they'd shared became too painful, he need never know. If her heart broke when she saw him in the arms of his long-lost fiancée, she would smile for him and be glad that he was finally reunited with her. If she lay awake in her bed at night and burned with the memory of all the times he had kissed her, of what it had felt like to have his hands on her skin, her face, those areas of her body that no man had ever touched before —or since — well, she would treasure those memories in private. She would never have Lord Charles himself, but she had her memories, and those, she would forever keep close in her heart.

  ~~~~

  It was gray and gloomy when the ship dropped anchor in Portsmouth. Charles wasted no time in rejoicing that he was finally back in his beloved England; he wasted no time in appreciating how lush and green its grass was in comparison to the brown, weather-beaten turf they'd left behind in frozen Massachusetts. Now that he was here, he only wanted to get to Ravenscombe and to Blackheath Castle.

  They hired a private carriage, and, with Contender trotting along behind, headed north. The sun did not come out once, and, looking at Amy's enraptured face — which had been pressed to the window in delight and wonder ever since they'd stepped into the coach back in Portsmouth — Charles wryly decided not to tell her to expect it to. At least, not until April.

  That was the way of an English winter.

  Thoughts of his family were paramount on his mind. Had they received his letter? What would his homecoming be like?

  Unreasonably, a thread of nervousness coursed through him. He turned his face to the window, gazing out at the downs as he tried to dispel it. How silent they looked beneath the brooding sky — timeless, changeless, majestic. A glaze of white frost cloaked them, and, bare of trees as they were, their noble brows blunted by time, they looked invincible.

  Like Lucien.

  His wiped suddenly damp palms on his breeches. He had no reason to feel this strange anxiety, but he did, and it was growing stronger the closer they got to Blackheath. At dusk, they passed through Lambourn with its familiar taverns, shops and buildings. There, the carriage broke an axle, forcing them to hire another to take them the rest of the way. Charles's apprehension settled in the pit of his stomach. They continued on through the downs, and now he felt strange palpitations in his chest as his heart began skipping beats. He told himself he was merely excited. But he knew it was something else.

  And there, far out across a darkening valley and commanding the countryside for miles around, was Blackheath Castle. Even from here, Charles could see the pennant, tiny with distance, that flew above it. Lucien was home. In a
few minutes, he would be reunited with his family — and the fiancée who had loved him so dearly and so well back in Boston.

  Was that the reason for this strange, unfathomable nervousness? The idea of seeing Juliet again?

  Didn't he want to see her?

  All too soon, the wheels of the carriage were crunching on the great drive of crushed stone . . . moving past the ancient walls with their ivy-cloaked crenellations . . . through the gatehouse and over the moat, past stands of copper beeches and now, pulling up at the massive door, its thick, medieval oak strapped with iron and looking as imposing as the castle itself. Twin lamps burned above it, throwing a faint glow on the stone steps beneath.

  The carriage came to a stop.

  "Here ye be, sirrah!" called the driver from the box. Charles stepped down, reached back inside to help Amy out, and paid the driver. He was a local from Lambourn and his name was Paul Bosley, and Charles remembered the man's damp eyes when he'd sent his son John off to join Charles's regiment — but Bosley did not recognize him. His gaze was blank as he took the fare, touched his hat, and sent the coach back off down the drive, leaving Charles staring after him in disbelief and no small degree of confusion.

  Did he look that much different than he ever had?

  Of course not! He was not dressed as richly or as elegantly as the old Charles would have been, but he was neat and clean in his white linen shirt, knee breeches, and coat of dark blue frieze; his hair was carefully combed and queued beneath its black tricorn, and there was no reason why Bosley shouldn't have recognized him.

  But he hadn't.

  They stabled Contender. "What magnificence," Amy was saying, jolting him from his thoughts as they walked back to the castle. She had paused, and was now staring up at the twin crenelated towers that seemed to hold up the gloomy sky itself. "Did you really grow up here, Charles?"