by Mary Nichols
She looked sharply at Roland, who covered his embarrassment with a chuckle. ‘Nothing bad, I do assure you,’ he said. ‘I was telling Geoffrey about Tommy and our plans for a school for deaf children.’
‘Yes, tell me more,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I might be able to interest others.’
While they waited for supper to be served and over the meal itself, Charlotte, who had not expected to be dining out and had therefore been unable to change, explained that she had come to take an interest in Tommy because his older sisters worked at her mill. From there, with gentle prompting from Geoffrey, she talked about the mill and the Fair Charlie and her fears that it might be lost.
‘The Fair Charlie,’ he said. ‘I have heard of her. A good ship with a very good captain. I am sure he will bring her safely to port.’
‘I hope so for everyone’s sake. Captain Scott has a family who are very worried about him and I have hundreds of workers waiting for her cargo.’
‘She used to be a slaver, I believe.’
‘Yes, but my father gave up the trade years ago.’
‘Do you still own slaves?’
‘No, sir, I do not.’ It was said very firmly. ‘The workers on my plantation are free men and women working for wages. I do not believe any man or woman should be the chattel of another.’
Roland, who had been listening to this exchange without interrupting, turned to her in surprise. ‘I did not know that.’
‘You do not know everything about me, my lord.’
‘Evidently not. What next? I wonder.’
‘I must say, I admire you,’ Elizabeth put in. In order not to embarrass her guest, she had not changed from her day dress, a simple act of courtesy that Charlotte appreciated. ‘To have so much responsibility at such a young age must be daunting.’
‘I have been brought up to it, Mrs Temple.’
‘You must have people around to advise and help you.’
‘Of course. My father used to say the secret of good business was being able to trust the people around you and I have certainly found it so. But the final decisions are mine.’
‘You have never married?’
‘No.’
‘A husband would surely take the weight from your shoulders.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘He would take all of it and me with it.’
‘Miss Cartwright enjoys her independence,’ Roland said. He had learned more about her in the last two hours than he had the whole of the time he had been back from the war, and he wondered why she found it so easy to talk to his cousin and not to him. Why, when he accused her of owning slaves, had she not corrected him? Why did they strike sparks off each other? Why, when he wanted to make a concession, did she block it by saying something to stop him? Why, when she showed herself to be a compassionate and caring employer, did he have to goad her into proving otherwise? Why, when all he wanted to do was help her, did she disdain him?
‘Independence can be an impediment if taken to extremes,’ Geoffrey said thoughtfully. ‘It prevents you from accepting help when offered.’
‘Mr Temple, I hope you do not think I am ungrateful for your hospitality, because I assure you that is not the case at all…’
‘Good heavens, ma’am, I never meant that. I was about to say I may be able to help you over the matter of the cotton. I am well known among the merchants of Liverpool and indeed further afield, and while my own expertise is in wool, I do have connections in the cotton trade.’
‘If you can help, sir, I will most certainly accept it with gratitude.’
‘How much do you need and how much are you prepared to pay for it?’
Charlotte became more animated, as if a weight had indeed been lifted from her shoulders. Roland watched as she answered his cousin, explaining the types of cotton yarn she needed to fulfil her most pressing orders, the amount and quality of each, and he marvelled. She was knowledgeable and astute—made that way by a father she did not always agree with—but, even in that strange garb, every inch a woman, young and beautiful and very desirable. He found himself suddenly wanting to tell her so.
The meal ended and the ladies retired to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port.
‘An extraordinary woman,’ Geoffrey said, handing Roland the bottle from which he filled his glass.
‘Yes,’ he said, giving the bottle back.
‘Entirely unmarriageable, of course.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh, no doubt of it. No husband worth his salt would put up with her ways.’
‘Surely that depends on the husband,’ Roland said thoughtfully.
‘He would have to be a jackstraw, prepared to subjugate himself for an easy living.’
Roland laughed. ‘There are plenty of those about.’ He paused. ‘Can you really track down cotton yarn for her?’
‘Some, probably not all she needs, but enough to keep her going for a week or two.’
‘You have my grateful thanks.’
‘Your thanks? Does that mean she is more to you than a mere neighbour?’
‘She is a delightful adversary.’
‘Adversary? You mean over Browhill? Is it that important?’
‘I thought it was because of what it meant to my father and also because it has always been part of the estate, but now I am not so sure. What do you think? You are, after all, my heir.’
‘For now, yes, but what is that to the point? You will marry and have a nursery full of children.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps not.’
Geoffrey looked searchingly at him. ‘Oh, come, Roly, you are young and virile, of course you will marry. It is a man’s duty, especially when he has an estate like Amerleigh to pass on. There must be any number of young ladies who would jump at the chance to become the Countess of Amerleigh.’
‘I believe there are, but none I would feel comfortable with. And at the moment, recovering the estate is taking up all my time.’
‘Well, I should forget Browhill, if I were you. Amerleigh is large enough without it and it does not do to be for ever at war with one’s neighbours.’ He stood up. ‘Shall we join the ladies?’
Roland swallowed the remainder of his port and followed his host to where Elizabeth and Charlotte were enjoying a comfortable coze over the teacups. Charlotte was sitting on a sofa next to Elizabeth, her grey skirt and frogged coat a strange contrast to the green taffeta afternoon dress that her hostess wore.
Prompted by Geoffrey, who wanted to know what he had been doing the last six years, he spoke of the war. Bearing in mind there were ladies present, he did not go too closely into the cruelty and barbarity he had witnessed, but spoke of the daily routine, the long marches and the countryside.
‘But you liked the life?’
‘Yes. It has its good moments, and I do not mean the glory of victory, though that is exhilarating beyond anything you can find in civilian life, but the comradeship, the faith and trust we all put in each other. Every man’s life depends on the man next to him.’
‘What about the women who go to war?’ Charlotte asked. ‘How do they go on?’
He had smiled. ‘Do you fancy yourself as a soldier, Miss Cartwright? I have known it happen on a very few occasions that women dress in male attire to fight alongside the men, but they are soon discovered.’
‘I did not mean that. I meant wives and camp followers—that is what the women who follow the men are called, is it not?’
‘Yes, and some are the most faithful, stalwart and courageous women I have ever met. They are often wet, cold and hungry and at other times hot and thirsty. And frequently they are very close to the fighting.’
‘They walk?’
‘Most of them. Some of the senior officers’ wives have carriages, but the terrain is often difficult and frequently they are obliged to abandon them or fall behind and then they become prey to bandits. I would not recommend it, Miss Cartwright.’
‘You evidently do not think a married man should take his wife on campaigns.’
/> ‘No, for if their husbands are killed, they are left entirely alone. Many marry again immediately in order to have some protection. I would never subject a wife of mine to that possibility.’
‘How dreadful,’ Elizabeth put in. ‘They cannot love their new husbands.’
‘I doubt love is even thought of.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Though you would be surprised at how often love does thrive in such unpromising circumstances. I have seen devotion of wives for husbands and husbands for wives, which is an example to us all. And liaisons made out of necessity that have stood the test of time.’
‘But you remained immune?’ Charlotte queried.
He looked closely at her, wondering what had prompted the question. ‘Miss Cartwright, I am unwed, as you well know.’
‘Unwed, yes, unloved—perhaps not?’
‘Now that is something else entirely, and we were not speaking of me, but of soldiers in general.’
Realising she had gone too far with her questions, designed to learn more about the man himself, she quickly changed the subject and began to ask him what he thought the outcome of the allied deliberations might be, which led to a general discussion about the future, and that led to the state of the harvest and trade in general, and on that subject Charlotte was easily able to hold her own.
The harmony of the evening should have prepared Roland for a peaceful night, but in that it failed. He slept badly, his mind full of images of Charlotte: Charlotte comforting Tommy, cradling Mrs Biggs’s baby in her arms, dancing wildly with her mill workers, sitting on a nursery chair, giggling like a schoolgirl over the signs they were making; Charlotte on horseback and driving the curricle to an inch, Charlotte in a temper, green eyes flashing; Charlotte, her face creased with worry about the Fair Charlie and its captain. How could he not adore her?
He woke late and went down to breakfast, only to discover that she was up before him and had left. ‘She said she wanted an early start,’ Geoffrey told him. ‘She is anxious to reassure her workers that the yarn is on its way.’
‘Why the devil did you not wake me?’
‘She asked me not to. After all, you have your own coach.’ He smiled. ‘By the way, Elizabeth and I have been invited to a masked ball.’
‘I had forgotten all about that. Will you go?’
‘Of course. I would not miss it for the world.’
‘Then you are welcome to stay at the Hall. I will ask my mother to join us; she will be happy to see you again and show you all the improvements we have made.’
‘Thank you. I shall look forward to it. Now, help yourself to breakfast. I must leave if I am to do anything about that cotton.’ He hurried away, leaving Roland looking down at the breakfast table where the used plates and crumbled remains of bread told of two people having breakfasted.
‘Damn the woman!’ he exclaimed. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ He turned on his heel and went out to the stables to tell Bennett to harness the horses to his carriage. It suddenly seemed important to catch up with her.
Chapter Seven
It was not only her need to be at the mill that had hastened Charlotte’s departure, but something within herself she did not want to face. It was the Earl, of course. He had been courtesy itself all the previous evening, chuckling at her jokes, smiling at her in a way that turned her stomach over and set her heart beating like a drum. She had watched the easy way he dealt with his cousin and Mrs Temple and realised being part of a family, however distant, was something to be envied.
And as they talked, she had learned more about the enigmatic man that was Roland Temple, seventh Earl of Amerleigh. What she could not do was relate the man she had come to know to the youth he had been. If she were truly honest with herself, could she blame him for not wanting to marry her when ordered to do so? Would any man with an ounce of pride do it? If he had meekly done as he was told, she would have despised him. What she found more difficult to explain away was the manner in which he had rejected her. He did not know she had heard him, so there was no reason why he should allude to it, and she would not demean herself by asking.
And now she was beholden to him for introducing her to his cousin, arranging a night’s lodging and, what was more, helping her over her difficulty with the cotton. It was only a temporary reprieve and she would have to face it again if the Fair Charlie did not arrive with raw cotton for the spinners, but it was more than she could have hoped for the morning before when she was combing the warehouses. It had been a very long twenty-four hours, made bearable, even pleasant, by Roland Temple’s intervention. And that galled her.
They accomplished the first three changes of horses without any trouble and Talbot, having been told to drive as fast as it was safe to do so, was taking them along at a cracking rate. The roads were rough and though the coach was well sprung, she was jolted from side to side until she thought she would be black and blue before they reached home. It was after the fourth stop that they encountered their first difficulty. The only horses available were an ill-matched foursome that pulled against each other instead of working in harmony. She endured it for half an hour, then put her head out of the door and called up to Talbot to slow them down. He must have taken his attention from the road in order to answer her because one wheel came down heavily into a pothole, which slewed the whole equipage round, but their speed was still carrying them forwards. Charlotte flung herself down with her head in her hands and waited for the impact as the corner of the coach hit one of the trees that lined the road. The sound of panicking horses, rending wood and Talbot’s curses filled the air as the coach turned over into the wayside ditch. The padded seats tumbled about her head and dislodged her hat as she was thrown down on to the side now lying in the mud.
Talbot was at the door before she could extricate herself. He wrenched it open and peered down at her, his tousled head outlined against the branches of the tree and sky. ‘Miss Charlotte, are you hurt?’
‘No.’ Dirty water was seeping in from the ditch, but she was laughing as she pulled herself upright and reached for his hand. ‘Haul me up, there’s a good fellow.’
It was not as easy as it had seemed when the Earl had helped Mr Halliwell to pull his wife out of their coach, but there had been two of them then and Talbot was on his own. Not only that, he had hurt his arm. There did not seem to be anywhere to get a purchase with her feet, but she managed it by stacking the cushions in the muddy water and climbing on those. Then, putting one foot into the shattered woodwork, and with Talbot’s good hand to steady her, she emerged to sit on the top. It was an easy matter to scramble down from there, though her skirt was torn and muddy. Once out on the road, she helped the groom free the struggling horses and then turned her attention to his injured arm. ‘Is it broken?’
‘No, I do not think so, only bruised.’
‘No more driving for you for a while,’ she said, taking off his kerchief and using it to make a sling. ‘How far is it to the next inn?’
‘Four or five miles, Miss Charlotte. I could go and fetch help, but I cannot leave you here alone.’
‘Then we had better both go.’ She tried to cram her hat back on her head, but her hair was so dishevelled it fell off again and she gave up and flung it into the coach.
‘What about the carriage?’
‘It is no good to anyone, is it? Come on, let’s round up the horses.’
‘I should think they are in the next shire by now,’ he said, looking about him for any sign of the animals that had bolted the minute they were freed.
She fetched her bag from the boot and though he went to take it from her, she would not relinquish it. ‘Then let’s be off, we can do nothing here.’
They had barely covered two hundred yards when they heard a vehicle on the road behind them, being driven at a furious pace. They stopped and turned towards it.
Roland, who had been dozing, woke up with a start as Bennett brought the horses to a shuddering halt, nearly catapulting him out of his seat. ‘What’s up?’ he shouted.
‘Miss Cartwright’s coach is in the ditch,’ Bennett called out, scrambling down to investigate.
Roland was out like a bullet from a gun. He peered into the coach and, finding it empty except for Charlotte’s hat, looking decidedly squashed, searched about for any sign of her or her driver, becoming more and more concerned, imagining her unconscious in the ditch, hurt, even dead beneath the coach, and his heart almost stopped. He bent to try to move the vehicle, but it was stuck firmly in the mud.
‘There they are!’ Bennett said suddenly, making him look up.
Charlotte and Talbot were in the middle of the road, walking back towards them. ‘Thank God!’ Roland said. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
He set off at a run. Bennett returned to the carriage and walked the horses forwards until they were abreast of Charlotte, and stopped just as Roland reached her. He took her shoulders in his hands and looked down at her searchingly. There were smudges of dirt on her face and her hair was tumbling about her shoulders. He stroked it back gently. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘A few bruises, nothing more. Talbot has injured his arm.’
‘’Tis nothing, my lord,’ the coachman said. ‘I can ride beside your man, if you would be so kind as to look after Miss Cartwright.’
‘It will be my pleasure.’ He turned to Charlotte and guided her towards the coach. ‘Come along. You can tell me what happened as we go. We will send someone back to fetch your carriage.’
She climbed in and settled herself, trying to hide her torn skirt, wondering if she were destined always to be rescued by him. She might have saved herself the bother of rising early and hurtling through the countryside at breakneck speed; he had caught up with her, and now she would have to sit beside him in close proximity for hours and express her gratitude.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, as he seated himself beside her and ordered Bennett to proceed. ‘I believe there is a posting inn a few miles on. I can arrange for my coach to be fetched there.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I believe we hit a pothole, the coach slewed round and turned over.’