by Mary Balogh
“But you cannot—the weather…” Charlotte was torn between the natural instincts of hospitality and relief.
“My husband informs me that the weather is improving by the minute. That fall of snow has led to the onset of a thaw, and now the sun is out, he has every confidence that we shall have no trouble on the road.”
“Well, if you are sure… ?”
“Quite sure, my dear Charlotte. I only hope that poor Oliver’s escapade may not have taken the shine off Fanny and Kate’s celebrations, to say nothing of your betrothal.”
Charlotte had hardly given Pel a thought since her return to the house. Now guilt made her blush, which must have given quite the wrong impression.
“Pel won’t know yet about Oliver,” she said to cover her confusion. “He is not an early riser, but I must find Emily and tell her what has happened. And the girls will doubtless sleep late.”
In the hall she found Luke in conversation with Edward. They both turned as she descended the last few stairs, and it grieved her to see the pain, in Edward’s eyes, though he greeted her in his usual kindly way.
“Ah, there you are, m’dear. I’ve had a word with Glaister. Young Oliver not so good, I take it?”
Charlotte tried to be positive. “Well, you know how wary doctors are of committing themselves to an opinion, and of course Dr. Glaister chose his words with care in front of Annis, but there was no disguising his concern.” She glanced at Luke, and added gently, “We may be in for a worrying few days. But don’t despair. Oliver is strong, and I am confident that he will recover.”
“Yes. Yes, of course, m’dear.”
“And you may well have Luke to thank…” The name slipped out, but Edward was too abstracted to notice the small familiarity. “The doctor was convinced that his prompt action may well have saved Oliver’s life.”
“So Glaister told me, too. I’ve been trying to express m’thanks to the colonel, but…”
“There is no need.” Luke was brusque. “There are few emergencies I have not been called upon to deal with over the years. I merely followed my instincts.”
“Even so…” Edward persisted, but Charlotte laid a hand on his arm.
“I think Annis might like you to go up, just to reassure her.”
“Oh, quite. Yes, indeed. Excuse me, Colonel… m’dear…” He hurried away up the stairs.
“Poor Edward.” Charlotte sighed. “He feels so useless at times like this.”
Luke watched her face. “It strikes me, they’d both be in a poor way without you.”
“Oh, heavens, no! I am not here all that often, and there are plenty of people—Nurse is a tower of strength, and Miss Taylor and the staff are very supportive.”
“Very fine. But I am not blind.”
Lady Alice came drifting down the stairs in a morning gown of amber crepe, her hair in charming disarray. “Such goings on! I have just seen Lady Grayshott and she tells me they are leaving! In fact, most of your guests would seem to be leaving.”
“I do hope not,” Charlotte said. “Annis will, of course, be preoccupied, but she asked me to assure everyone that they are very welcome to remain.”
“Even so, I cannot think it a good idea. Her son’s condition must cast a blight over us all. How is Oliver, by the way?”
It was so obviously an afterthought that it took every ounce of Charlotte’s good breeding to reply with even a modicum of politeness.
“Well, there you are.” Lady Alice turned to Luke, and if the events of the previous evening embarrassed her, it did not show. “I am right, am I not, Colonel?”
“If you mean that our consideration for the duke and her grace at this time must make any other course untenable, then I agree.”
“Yes, of course that is what I meant,” she retorted, a flush staining her cheeks. “I certainly shall not stay. In fact, I was about to order my carriage to be ready for noon. Perhaps,” she added in softer tones, casting him a limpid glance, “you would be so kind as to lend me your company on the journey back to London?”
Charlotte held her breath. It could be nothing to her, of course, if Luke chose to accompany Lady Alice. He was a free agent.
“I’m sorry,” she heard him say abruptly. “But being somewhat involved, I have a mind to stay around until Oliver’s condition improves.”
Fury flared momentarily in Lady Alice’s eyes, to be swiftly disguised. “As you will,” she said lightly, and turned on her heel.
Left alone with Luke, Charlotte was achingly conscious of his presence. “Thank you,” she said at last.
“For what?”
She could hardly say for not going with Lady Alice. “For caring about Oliver, I suppose—and for not wishing to rush away.”
“Oh, I am not going anywhere until a lot of things have been sorted out,” he said softly. “Oliver is only one of them.”
“Luke, please—not again. Not now.”
He heard the panic in her voice. He longed to hold her, to crush her in his arms and soothe away all her fears. But he only said, “No. Not now. Go along and do what you have to do.”
———
Fanny and Kate awoke to find Charlotte drawing back their curtains to let in the daylight.
“Heavens!” Kate screwed up her eyes and buried her head under the sheet in mock horror. “Aunt Lottie, pray close the curtains! The sunlight will set my head spinning again!”
“I told you not to drink so much champagne,” Fanny muttered without attempting to open her eyes. “Have we slept shockingly late, Aunt Lottie?” And then, as full realization hit her, she shot up in bed. “Oh, no. Edgar promised to ride over this morning… they go back to college very soon. What time is it?”
“A little after ten.”
“Oh, that’s all right, then. I have until noon.”
Fanny settled back with a sigh. “Wasn’t it the most wonderful ball?”
“Wonderful,” Charlotte agreed.
Something in her aunt’s voice made Fanny look at her more closely. Aunt Lottie didn’t look at all like someone who had just become engaged. And because the two girls almost always thought alike, Kate caught her mood.
“Is something wrong?” they demanded in chorus.
She told them, as simply and undramatically as she could. “I’m sorry that it should happen so soon after your lovely day…”
“Oh, bother our day!” Fanny was already out of bed. “What does that matter? Oh, poor Noll!”
“And poor Mama,” said Kate, following suit.”She will be distraught. We must go to her at once!”
“Well, not just now, my dears. She is sitting with Oliver. But I know it would please her, and be a support to your papa, if you would perhaps help me with the guests. Most have decided to leave, and I think it would be rather nice if you were there to bid them safe journey—in place of your mama—and thank them for coming.” And it will keep you occupied, Charlotte added silently.
“Yes, of course. Where is Florence? Ah, there you are.” Their maid stepped from the shadows. “Florence, be so good as to lay out our morning gowns—the blue, I think…”
Charlotte left them, knowing that they would be keen to prove their newfound maturity.
By midday only Lord Freddie, and Luke, and Pel and Emily remained. The latter begged to be allowed to stay if they should not be in the way.
“It don’t seem proper to walk out on you,” Pel confessed. “Not much of a hand at makin’ m’self useful, and you won’t want to be talking of bridals just now, I know, but—well, I can at least offer moral support.”
“That is very sweet of you,” Charlotte said, and meant it.
“And Emily’s a dab hand in a sickroom. Nursed our mama for years.”
When Edgar rode over, Charlotte insisted that Fanny should take a walk with him on the grounds. The snow had all but melted and the fresh air would do her good. Edgar gallantly offered to escort Kate also, but she only grinned.
“And watch you two ogling one another? No, thank you, Edgar!
I shall sit with Mama.”
Annis had been persuaded to let Charlotte take over from her in the sickroom, while she went to rest. Nurse, having the greatest confidence in Charlotte, was also persuaded to lie down for a while.
It was warm in the small room, the air fetid, and it was very quiet except for Oliver’s breathing, which was beginning to rasp. Several times she got up out of her chair to bend over him. His eyes were open, and she laid a hand on his brow, which now, far from being cold, was burning.
“Would you like a drink, Noll? Cook has made some of her special barley water just for you.”
He managed a few sips and then pushed the glass away, complaining that his chest hurt. If Dr. Glaister had not promised to return, she must have sent for him there and then. Instead, she wrung a cloth out in cool water to wipe Oliver’s face and hands.
“How is he?”
She had not heard Luke come in. “Feverish,” she whispered, inexpressibly glad to have him near. “I was about to sponge him down.”
“I’ll help you. Has he a clean nightshirt?” he asked, and together they made Oliver more comfortable.
“Does Ajax have hurts in his chest?”
Charlotte glanced at Luke, remembering that sad bundle that had been carried away to be buried. “No, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Ajax has no hurts.”
“Good.” Oliver began to cough, and as she forbade him to say more, her eyes met Luke’s. He lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing until they were out of earshot. “As I feared, the little chap’s in for a rough time.”
“But he will recover? He must!”
“I’m sure he will. Has Glaister been again?”
“No, but we are expecting him anytime now.”
“Well, if he isn’t here in the next hour, I think he should be sent for—just to be on the safe side.”
“Oh, Luke!” She turned to lean her head against his chest, and his arms came around her. He made no attempt to do more than hold her, but she drew new strength and hope from him.
“Is everything all right?” Emily whispered from the door, and they stepped apart.
———
For two days Oliver’s life hung in the balance. Annis, unable to bear the sight of her son so ill, was banished from the sickroom except for brief visits, lest her distress might communicate itself to the child. The bulk of the nursing devolved upon Charlotte and Emily, for although Nurse was adamant that she must do her part, she was getting too old to take the full responsibility.
“You are doing too much,” Luke accused Charlotte, when she came down to dinner on the second evening. “You have black circles under your eyes, and I’ll swear you have lost weight.”
“In two days? What nonsense!” she replied, her heart leaping with the knowledge that he had noticed. “We are all playing our part. The girls are helping to keep Annis’s hopes high, and Pel, too, is kindness itself to her, for which I am most grateful since Edward is not at his best in such a situation.”
It was true. The duke felt helpless, and worked off his own frustration by prowling the manor, or striding out across the estate with his brother and Luke to shoot rooks, and although they all came together for dinner, the conversation was often forced.
By the third afternoon everyone was feeling the strain. Charlotte returned from her daily walk in the garden to find Nurse fast asleep in the chair by the fire. She felt a momentary irritation that Emily had left her alone, but perhaps there had been a reason, and all seemed quiet. And then she realized that it was too quiet—no wheezing, not a hint of the cough that had racked Noll’s poor frame for the past two days. Only silence.
Half afraid, she crossed to the bed.
“Aunt Lottie, I’m thirsty.”
It was a peevish, accusing little thread of a voice, but she had never heard a more beautiful sound. As she lifted him to help him drink, she noted that his skin felt no more than normally warm, and his eyes were clear.
“Oh, Noll! Dear, wonderful Noll!”
Charlotte ran in a most unseemly manner down the corridors, dispensing the good news to Annis and the girls, to Emily, who met her on the way, full of apologies for leaving the sickroom—and downstairs, where Milton received the news with one of his rare smiles.
“I believe his grace is in the library, Miss Charlotte,” he informed her, and strode before her to fling open the door.
At first sight she could see no sign of Edward, but Luke, who had been perusing a magazine, rose at her entrance.
“Edward?” she faltered.
“He’s just gone down to the gun room. Is it… ?”
“Luke! Oh, Luke!” she cried, bursting into tears—and ran across to fling herself into his arms.
“Oliver?” he queried, his heart sinking as he felt the rapid beating of her heart.
She raised her head, laughing through her tears. “He’s going to be all right.”
“God be praised,” he said quietly.
“Amen to that,” echoed Pel, rising more slowly from the chair that had hidden him from her gaze. He looked from one to the other—and when she would have spoken, stopped her. “It’s all right, m’dear. I may be a bit of a buffoon, but I’m not quite blind. You’re only confirming what I already knew, and didn’t want to admit to m’self.”
“You’re not a buffoon, Pel. You’re a lovely man and a dear friend. It’s just…”
“That I’m not the right man for you.” His face was creased, as though he might cry, but he straightened his shoulders in a determined way. “I believe I’ve always known that, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Luke said. “This all goes back a very long way…”
“Don’t doubt it, m’dear fellow. Deuced tedious things—explanations. Best we take it that the other night never happened and no harm done. Too much champagne, what?”
Then Edward burst into the room, having heard the good news from Milton, and thereafter a spirit of rejoicing ran through the house. And although Oliver still had a long way to go, and there were many explanations to be made, dinner that evening had an air of celebration about it.
“We told you, didn’t we, dear Aunt Lottie?” Fanny said, thoroughly approving of the bloom of love that her aunt could not disguise, in spite of her laughing disclaimer.
“And what exactly did you tell her?” Luke demanded with mock severity.
Kate giggled. “About Saint Valentine’s Day. And how the first person of the opposite gender you meet that day will be your one true love.”
“I see.” Luke’s eyes twinkled as he watched the color creep into Charlotte’s cheeks.
“And there was your name as well—it seemed meant. Of course, we didn’t know you had loved and lost one another all those years ago.” Fanny sighed. “That really is romantic.”
Annis, remarkably recovered, now that Her anxiety was at an end, was full of astonishment that her sister had carried such a secret all those years. “And I always thought you an open book!”
Much later, when they were alone, Luke held Charlotte very close, as though he would never let her go. And his first kiss as her betrothed, for which she had waited so long, was all and more than she had dreamed of—his mouth questing, caressing, demanding—and when they both drew breath, leaving her wanting more. “Happy?”
“Delirious,” she said tremulously. “So much has happened in so short a time, I dread waking up to find it was all a dream.”
“Then I must do my best to convince you otherwise, my dear delight,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into the palm of her hand that made her catch her breath. “So much time lost.”
“And so much more to come”—she chuckled softly—”my own dear Valentine.”
February Falsehoods
by Sandra Heath
“So there you have it, Marianne. I wish you to seriously reconsider the Forrester match, which you so foolishly discarded two years ago.” Mr. Cromwell stood by the drawing-room window with his back toward his youngest daughter. He gazed steadfastly out at the winter-morni
ng scene in the Mayfair street, as if he found it completely absorbing. The truth was that he wasn’t in the least interested in the goings-on of Berkeley Street, but rather that he was intensely uncomfortable about having to broach such a difficult subject with his reluctant offspring. The Forrester match was very advantageous indeed, and Marianne could count herself exceeding fortunate that negotiations had been resumed. Maybe Brandon Forrester wasn’t a titled prize like Sir Piers Sutherland, but at least he was steadfast and dependable, and Mr. Cromwell was determined that this time everything could be satisfactorily finalized.
Marianne sat by the fire behind him, her large hazel eyes reproachful as she glanced at her father for a moment before returning her attention to the valentine card on her lap. It was an almost foolishly romantic lace-edged confection of cherubs, love knots, and pierced hearts, and she had made it herself.
Mr. Cromwell turned reluctantly from the window, a little exasperated by her silence and by the accusation he knew he would see in her eyes. He was a little given to stoutness, and his gray hair had receded, leaving a gleaming bald pate that would have been at the mercy of the winter chill had he not protected it with a tasseled cap. Over his shirt and breeches he wore a damson brocade dressing gown tied at the waist with cord, and there was a warm knitted shawl over his shoulders. Firelight flickered cheerfully over the room, but outside there was a thin layer of snow on the ground.
He looked at his last remaining daughter, and then exhaled slowly as he tried to maintain his patience, always a difficult feat when faced with her intransigence regarding marriage. She had been mulish in the extreme since the debacle of her broken betrothal to Sutherland, but the time had come for the past to be set aside, and the future attended to. She was twenty-six now, and in his opinion overdue to become a wife. Her dear departed mother had been married at seventeen, and the mother of four daughters by the time she’d reached Marianne’s age. Three of those daughters had long since been taken off his hands, but Marianne… Oh, Marianne.