Cherished Moments

by Anita Mills

  “I should hope not, in any event.”

  “Knowing that marriage has passed me by, I have become content enough to paint here.”

  For a moment, the dowager stared at the licking flames as though she could read them. “Yes,” she said finally, “I expect it has.”

  It was in the ensuing silence that they heard him cough. “If you will watch the soup, I will give him the honeyed vinegar,” Charlotte offered.

  “I expect he would spit it in my face if he could.”

  “No.”

  “He’s a bitter man, Miss Winslow.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “He was coming to Durham to send me packing, wasn’t he? I sensed it, you know. I was so frightened I summoned Meg and her family to support me, thinking he would not do it before them. It was foolish of me, for he would no doubt have cleared the house of all of us. I thought if he could see her with Sophie, he might be brought to relent.”

  “You are telling the wrong person, my lady. You ought to speak to him.”

  “But you can remember how he was.”

  “He is not the same man now.” Charlotte stirred the mixture with her finger, then tasted it. She shuddered visibly. “He may very well spit it back at me,” she decided.

  When she got into the bedchamber, he’d pulled himself up into a seated position, and yet he was still coughing. “Is she still here?” he asked between paroxysms.

  “Yes. She’s worried about you.”

  “No.” He coughed again. “She merely wishes to manage my dying also.”

  “You are not dying.” Heedless of propriety, she sat down on the edge of the bed and poured a large spoonful of the cough mixture. “Here.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she lied. “It is for your lungs.”

  “Naught’s wrong with my lungs,” he gasped.

  “Would you rather that I made the onion poultice?” she asked patiently.

  “No.”

  “Then you’d best take this. Here.” As she spoke, she carried the spoon to his mouth. “Open up.”

  “I am not a child—arrrgh! What the devil is it?” He choked, then nearly collapsed from more coughing.

  “One more,” she coaxed hopefully.

  “When pigs fly,” he answered balefully.

  She reached to touch his head. “Are you too hot?”

  “I’m freezing,” he croaked.

  “I’ll bring you a hot brick and some tea.”

  “Rum.”

  “Tea. Actually it is made with willow bark for your fever.” She slid off the bed and started to leave. Stopping at the door, she turned back for a moment. “She loves you, you know.”

  He favored her with a withering look. “She’s bamboozled you.”

  “She told me about Sophia.”

  “She had no right.”

  “Children are innocent. Besides, this one bears your name.”

  “Miss Winslow—”

  “All right. It isn’t my business, is it?”

  “No. And I despise meddlers.”

  As she came out, Lady Rexford waited. “Is he any better?”

  “No. I’m going to make the poultice and the willow bark water. But,” she added, “I don’t think he is any worse.”

  He lay there, reflecting that for all her tart words, Charlotte Winslow was possessed of a soft heart and a kind nature. And she deserved so much more than what she had been given in life. She was the sort of female a man ought to wish for, a woman who could keep a man’s interest, who wouldn’t suck the lifeblood out of a husband with incessant, petty demands. He almost wished he could go back and live that summer over.

  But he’d written her that once, and she’d never answered.

  Within the week, it became obvious that the earl merely suffered from a bad cold. And while the dowager did not go home, she took lodgings in Whitby, coming to sit with him while Charlotte worked. The result was an uneasy truce between mother and son.

  It was not until Charlotte went into the village again that Lady Rexford was entirely alone with him. He sat bundled before the hearth, reluctantly holding a very determined, purring cat.

  “At the risk of turning you against her,” the dowager ventured finally, “after watching her these days past, I must admit I was mistaken in Charlotte. She has a great deal of kindness, doesn’t she?”

  He eyed her warily. “Yes.”

  “And common sense. She is so very calming, don’t you think? Was she always like that, or don’t you remember?”

  “I remember nearly everything about her,” he admitted.

  Encouraged, Lady Rexford pushed a trifle harder. “As I recall it, you nearly fixed your interest with her.”

  “I cannot think how you would know. You were much too busy foisting Helena on me.”

  “Yes, and it was a tragic mistake, Richard. I know that now.”

  “I don’t want to speak of Helena.”

  “But there is Sophia to consider.”

  “Mother—”

  “Richard, the child is here! As much as you may wish she had never been born, she is here! Look how many children Oxford has had to accept, and scarce a one as looks like him! Indeed, it is speculated that perhaps Ponsonby even—”

  “Can you and Charlotte not leave well enough alone?” he demanded angrily. “Now she even asks of her.”

  “Richard, there is no help for it, the child bears your name. And she deserves a mother. If you cannot love her, at least give her a mother who will!”

  “I should strangle Miss Sedgely within a fortnight!”

  She retreated abruptly. “I wasn’t speaking of Miss Sedgely precisely.”

  He regarded her narrowly. “What new face is this, Mother?”

  “It is not a face at all, I assure you. But I am old and tired, and I no longer wish to brangle with you. Indeed, but I have been thinking of retiring to the house your father provided for me.”

  “Is this some new scheme?” he demanded suspiciously.

  “I am prepared to concede Meg is no match for you.”

  “And I am sure that within the twelvemonth you will be advancing another candidate,” he gibed. “It is not in your nature to leave me alone.”

  “But I shall try, Richard. I shall try.”

  “There is a new wheedle—out with it.”

  “There is none. In fact, I should not like to discuss this further.”

  “Thank you,” he muttered dryly.

  “Miss Winslow is a remarkable artist, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “One must admire her for daring to follow her heart’s work,” Lady Rexford murmured. “There are those who think her exceedingly odd.”

  “And you were one of them,” he reminded her.

  “But that was before I actually looked at her drawings. And I am not speaking of posters or fashion plates, Richard.” Reaching down, she opened the box by her seat. “Has she ever shown you any of these?”

  “No.”

  “You ought to look at them.”

  “Mother—”

  “No, there are people you will recognize on the instant,” she assured him. “It is most enlightening. Go on,” she urged.

  He regarded her quizzically, then opened the first book. As he turned the pages, he realized Charlotte Winslow had recorded her one short Season in sketches. There was Maria Sefton, her head bent, listening to gossip from Sally Jersey. And the Regent, not in caricature as he was so often depicted anymore. But by the shape of his body, one could tell he wore a corset.

  “I had no idea she could do this,” he admitted. “She couldn’t even publish them under her own name.”

  “Yes, well, most men think us poor, weak creatures incapable of anything beyond the vapors. Though Miss Austen has done well, I must say.”

  He was still looking through the sketchbooks. She waited until he had finished, then she held out the folder. “But these are the best, Richard. I believe she has poured her heart into th
em.”

  Curious, he opened the folder carefully and was utterly stunned. It was as though he stared into a mirror that had not changed with time. Although it had been done in pen and watercolor, there was a glint of humor in his eyes, a sensual, almost Byronic softness in the mouth. And the tousled hair that fell forward in a reluctant Brutus had no gray. He gazed at it, wondering how she’d done it, how eyes made of ink could pull him into them.

  “There are more, Richard. She did them all from memory. She has held you in her heart all these years.”

  “My God. I had no idea…no idea at all.”

  “She wrote to tell you that her father had died, that there was no money for another Season.”

  “Did she tell you that? Did she tell you I wrote her also?”

  “No. She never knew it. I don’t even think she knows I have seen these.” She raised her eyes to his. “But I know, Richard, because I burned both letters. I wanted better for you.”

  It was some time before he could bring himself to speak. “I see,” he said heavily. “Why do you tell me now?”

  “I wanted you to see yourself through her eyes. You are yet young enough to correct my terrible mistake.” Holding back tears, she leaned across to take his face in her hands. “I hope I have made my last match for you.” Releasing him, she stood up. “Now, if you do not mind it, I shall walk back to the village. I need air, I think.”

  He sat stone-still until she opened the door. Then he let out his breath. “Thank you, Mother.”

  Charlotte came in smiling. “Well, I shall eat for a year at least,” she announced happily. “Mr. Burleigh has not only sent his schedule, but he has also commissioned a twelve-month of work. And so I told your mother when I met her.” Aware he sat in shadows, she stopped. “Why didn’t you light the cruzies?”

  “The smoke makes me cough,” he said. “But I did manage to drag a log onto the fire. It wasn’t an easy task, Charlotte.”

  Her breath caught with the realization he’d used her Christian name. When she looked at him, the warmth in his eyes nearly unnerved her.

  Her hands shook as she turned away to take off her cloak. “Well, I must say you do not look any worse for it.”

  “Do you remember the Connistons’ ball?” he asked softly.

  She was glad he couldn’t see her face. “Why do you ask that?”

  “I think I fell in love with you that night.”

  Her throat constricted, and her heart thudded painfully beneath her breastbone. “I remember it like yesterday,” she whispered. “I have never forgotten it. I can still smell the Hungary water you wore.”

  “I can’t dance anymore, Charlotte. I may not even walk properly, you know.” He stood awkwardly on his crutches.

  Tears scalded her eyes as she turned around. He was smiling crookedly, almost boyishly at her. “Miss Winslow,” he asked softly, balancing himself with one arm, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Without hesitation, she went to him. As the other arm closed around her, she clung to him, burying her head against his shoulder. “Yes. Oh, yes,” she managed, choking back the tears. “I have loved you such a long time, Richard.”

  His arm held her tightly. “God, but I wish I’d done this fifteen years ago,” he whispered against her soft, rose-scented hair.

  She could hear his heartbeat beneath his shirt, and she could feel the solid warmth of his chest. Charlotte Winslow Linden, countess of Rexford. Her heart almost sang at the very sound of it.

  Flowers from the Sea

  Arnette Lamb

  Acknowledgment

  My deepest appreciation to Alice Shields and Joyce Bell for their creative expertise.

  And to Pat Stech, the eagle eye.

  Dedication

  For Louththia Garrison Dinn of Columbus, Indiana

  Thanks, Tish, for being a mom to me.

  May 1680, Scottish Isle of Arran

  Today she would learn the secret of the grave.

  Her heart pounding, Lily Hamilton crouched behind an abandoned fisherman’s shed on the beach at Brodick Bay. As a child she’d played here, always searching for Spanish coins, usually settling for bits of colored glass.

  Behind her, the towering, snow-capped peak of Goat’s Fell loomed in the darkness. Soon the yellow glow of dawn would turn the mountain to gold and flood the cove with light. The bay was empty and quiet now, save the gentle lapping of the surf. The fishing boats had already sailed on the tide. The merchant ships were away, plying the Irish trade. Near the shipwright’s cottage, her uncle’s barkentine rested on wooden runners at the dry dock, the hull scraped clean of barnacles and a new rudder jutting from the stern.

  The village families had yet to stir. Fearing discovery from a more dangerous source, Lily stole a glance over her shoulder at her home, Hamilton Castle. The massive stone structure lay hulking in the gloom. No one could see her. Not yet.

  Although spring had come to the island, the wind blew chilly, whipping off the swells of the Firth of Clyde and biting to the bone. Shivering with both cold and anticipation, Lily huddled deeper into her tartan-lined cape and clutched her sack of keepsakes.

  Today the man would come.

  The eastern sky grew luminous. Perched on the battery of cannons nearby, gulls heralded the coming of the dawn. Lily scanned the bay. To her great disappointment, no three-masted ship rode the waves. Not yet.

  She did not doubt his arrival; he’d been tardy before. Once each year for over a decade she had watched his ship cruise into the bay. She pictured every detail of his past visits. At first light he would stand at the prow and stare in the direction of Goat’s Fell. After a long moment of what she suspected was prayer, he flung a bouquet of roses into the bay.

  Today she would find out why.

  Why did he toss a bundle of the very same primroses that grew in only one place on Arran? Who was buried in that lonely grave beneath the dying bush? Upon discovering the grave twelve years ago, Lily had asked her kinsmen about it. They called her fanciful and ordered her to stay away from the high glen. But she knew that the remote burial plot, marked by a cairn of smooth stones and an alien rosebush, was linked to the stranger who made a yearly pilgrimage to Arran. The roses were the key.

  Driven by wistful desperation, she willed the ship to appear. When a sliver of the sun appeared on the horizon, she reverted to a childhood method. Squeezing her eyes closed, she repeated what had become a constant prayer. “He must come. He must come.”

  She opened her eyes. Joy soared through her, for there, at the mouth of the bay, sailed the ship. Lily knew about ships. On her eighth birthday, her grandfather had given her a finely rigged pinasse and declared it her dowry. The demise, only two years later, of that precious vessel and the painful repercussions from its loss had changed her life.

  Today her life would change again.

  Wanting to run to the water’s edge, yet knowing from past experience that the stranger would abort his mission if he saw movement on the beach, she watched his ship round the point. Only when he had sailed fully into the bay, would she make her move.

  The ship rode high in the water, a sign the hold was empty. An old canvas, weighted with sandbags, draped the prow and covered the name of the vessel. The practice of concealment was common, but only when sailing into unfriendly waters. She would also ask him why he cloaked his ship. Surely he had no quarrel with her people. The Hamiltons of Arran had only one enemy: Clan MacDonnel of Ardrossan.

  Over twenty years ago, upon the death of Oliver Cromwell, the MacDonnels had celebrated the Lord Protector’s passing by creeping into this bay, burning the fishing boats, and razing the village. The MacDonnels’ bid to control the lucrative commerce of the islands failed when the Hamiltons retaliated. A clan war was waged, and the enmity continued today. Like a hungry beast with an insatiable appetite, the feud had eaten away at the prosperity of both clans.

  Lily’s mother, still nursing her only child, had been an early casualty. As the years passed, uncl
es, cousins, and friends followed. Even Lily’s dowry ship had fallen prey to the MacDonnels. For her marriage portion, she now possessed the dubious gift of a lifetime’s witness to the oldest and most destructive clan war in Scottish history. No decent family would offer for her; the other clans had long since turned their backs on the Hamiltons and the MacDonnels. Even the command of King Charles II had failed to stop the feud.

  Lily’s hopes for a peaceful life with a kind husband and children of her own had long since crumbled. She despised her kinsmen, for they were prideful men who thirsted for power and thrived on revenge. Longing to escape Arran, she had studied hard in hopes of gaining a position as governess for a family in Glasgow or Edinburgh. But without her father’s reference and her uncle’s blessing, she was doomed to an empty life.

  Tears blurred her eyes, but Lily willed them away. Today was a day for ceremony and discovery.

  Today was her birthday.

  Focusing again on the ship, she saw activity near the bow. The anchor splashed into the bay. The ritual would soon begin. Squinting she searched the deck. Crewmen scurried in the rigging. The helmsman manned his post. The stranger had yet to appear.

  As she waited, she recalled her past birthdays. Over the years she had stood on this very spot and pictured the stranger in many fanciful roles: Landless adventurer paying tribute to the sea, devoted admirer paying homage to a lost love. From the age of eleven, Lily had measured her own growth against the changes in the dark stranger. The year her menses had begun, he had sported a manly beard. The spring the parson’s son had given her her first kiss, the stranger had worn a baldric housing a shiny new sword. On her nineteenth birthday, when her father had forbidden her to again broach the topic of leaving Arran, the stranger had come barbered in the Dutch fashion still favored by the flamboyant Stewart king. Sometimes she thought of the stranger as royalty. She always thought of him as her special birthday guest.

  Then she saw him, and her breath caught. For the eleventh time in as many years, he rose from the companionway and spoke briefly to the helmsman.