Wedded in White
by Felicia Greene
Charles Weldon was a punctual man as a rule, but was so late in starting out on the most consequential journey of his life that he had almost given up on the whole idea. His bed in his well-appointed townhouse was warm and comforting, his breakfast both late and lavish, and his valet seemed determined to spend hours making him look as elegant as possible.
Was it really possible to give all of that up, for a carriage-ride into the unknown? Yes, and Charles was living proof that principle could occasionally overcome one’s love of comfort. Yes, he woke late, yes, he breakfasted, yes, he had spent hours being fussed over by his valet, his servants, and finally his friends as they had gathered to wish him goodbye before he left.
‘They’re still there.’ He murmured to himself as he looked out of his smartly-moving carriage, the front of the house still just visible in the clouds of dust kicked up by the horses. The Duke brothers, wives in tow, all of them waving frantically. ‘My goodness.’
A man like himself was lucky to have good friends. Honest friends, who saw him for his deepest self rather than his wealth. People spent so much time amassing wealth and respect that sentimental affections, like love and friendship, were often left by the wayside–but he had managed to not only make friends while wealthy, but keep them.
Love was a different matter. But then, love was why he was in his carriage and not eating breakfast in bed. Not that his friends would understand, which is why he hadn’t told any of them just why he was going to the country.
He smiled as he thought of the night before. A dinner at his house, which had turned into a long, joyous evening of jokes and wine and telling stories. The Duke brothers had a way of taking effortless command of every room they were in; Charles had been more than content to watch them boisterously talk and argue with one another, laughing all the while, the ladies at the dinner table as fiercely interested in every topic as their husbands. All of them had accepted Charles’s leave of absence, but the motive of his sudden abandonment of London at the height of the Season had been no small cause for amusement.
Why is it such a bloody State secret? Why on earth are you going to a village in the middle of nowhere just when all the fun’s about to begin, Weldon?
He wouldn’t tell any of them. He hadn’t even told Anne Duke, who knew him far better than most. They had grown up together in the village bordering Twitchall, firm friends from the very beginning—but his heart had always belonged to someone else, and thank God the machinations of a matchmaker hadn’t forced he and Anne into a marriage that would have only brought them unhappiness.
He had moved to Twitchall when he was sixteen, when his father had found work with one of the local gentry. He had moved to Twitchall, he had dreamed of wealth, of industry, of success…
… and he had met the reason he was returning now.
It was a foolish errand. Foolish to leave behind his comfortable life in London, however briefly, and have his friends worrying about what sort of madness had gripped him. Foolish to return to Twitchall, a village which held the graves of his parents, his first mill and very little else.
Well. One other thing. Twitchall was the village where Susan Harwood had grown up, and where she could very possibly still be. And Susan Harwood, even though Charles had told no one else of her, was the true reason he was returning to the village of his birth.
‘Foolish.’ He sighed as he looked out of the carriage window, where the grime of London was slowly transforming into the sun-bathed rurality of the countryside. A butterfly briefly slipped inside the carriage, fluttering about in evident distress before Charles gently shooed it back out into the fresh air again. ‘Very foolish.’
Susan Harwood had been his first love. An unconsummated love, of course–they had both been both so young, clumsy adolescents with no idea of how to go about a courtship, and Susan had always been so confident in a way that had slightly scared the younger Charles. Intelligent, forthright–it was evident that she could have gone on to do great things. But thanks to the vagaries of fate and the unfairness of a woman’s lot, as opposed to a man’s… well, Charles had been the one to grow rich and build a mill, then move to London, while Susan had stayed behind on the expectation of marrying a local Twitchall lad. Anyone who would have her.
He didn’t know if anyone had married her. He had always been too frightened to write to her, to visit—the sentiments that had flourished between them had been so irresistibly linked to youth, to growing into oneself and what one wished to do in life, that it felt wrong to sully it with the concerns of adult things. But now that he was growing older, wiser, lonelier…
… oh, how wonderful it would be if she at least remembered the past. If, after a period of renewed friendship and understanding, she could at least see the possibility of building a future.
As Charles wistfully contemplated the prospect of Susan Harwood as a woman of his own age, the carriage gave a sudden lurch. Blinking, then grunting with alarm as the carriage tipped wildly to one side, Charles bit back a litany of curses as he was almost thrown bodily out of the window.
‘Oh, bollocks.’ The sound of the coachman cursing heartily did nothing to raise his mood. ‘It’s the axle. Are you well, sir?’
‘No. I’m thrown about and cross. But I assume the axle’s worse off than I am.’
‘You’d be correct.’ The coachman’s mouth was set in a grim line. Charles had been his employer for over ten years, and had never seen the man exaggerate when there was no call for it. ‘It’s completely buggered.’
‘Can we adjust it here?’
‘No. Don’t have the tools for this.’ The coachman looked at Charles. ‘I’ll head to the village and get help, sir. No need to tire yourself—you can wait here.’
‘No. You wait here.’ He couldn’t bear the idea of stopping so close to Twitchall, suspended for what would surely feel like eternity. ‘You’ll know what to do when the men come, after all. I’ll head down there and tell them where you are.’
‘That’s a kindly thing to do, sir.’
‘Not really, I’m impatient, and you’re better with machines.’ Charles smiled; the coachman nodded his head, his answering smile full of gratitude. ‘Try not to fall asleep.’
‘Too cold for that out here.’ The coachman tipped his hat as Charles turned, preparing to walk away. ‘I’ll be frozen before my eyes close.’
It was, in fact, only slightly cooler than a summer’s day. Repressing another smile, reflecting that his coachman was becoming far too used to the luxuries of life in a prestigious London stable, Charles began to walk down the well-trodden track that led to Twitchall village.
He could remember the route. That was a blessing, and one that made him feel slightly smug. Many former country men forgot the by-ways and tiny lanes that led to their childhood homes; they became far more used to Covent Garden alleys and the tangle of corridors that weaved through their stately King Street houses. He, on the other hand, still dreamed of the exact trees and paths that took one down into the valley where Twitchall sat—why, he could still remember the exact sound of the rushing river that coursed through the middle of the town, the power for his first mill.
Lord. His first mill. Like his memories of Susan, he had tucked away all recollections of Twitchall Mill into a neglected corner of his mind, preferring to concentrate on the future rather than the past. Now, approaching his fortieth birthday, Charles knew that a little time spent in the past was no bad thing.
No bad thing at all. Especially if he remembered the way Susan would look at him, her mouth curved into a smile that spoke of an unbearably happy intimacy
…
… Christ, what was that sound? A panting, whining sound, as if a wheel had sprung loose from the carriage and had followed him for the twenty minutes he’d been walking?
It was a spaniel. A fat, tawny-coloured spaniel, mud caking its formerly glossy fur, its large brown eyes focused on Charles with a look of melting, sorrowful self-pity as it haltingly made its way towards him. It was limping badly; Charles winced as the dog gingerly held its paw above the grass.
Eventually, it stood panting by his feet. Charles leaned down, frowning as he saw the slither of broken glass wedged firmly into the poor creature’s foot. Perhaps he had been caught in some sort of pub brawl, running away before his owner could catch him… or perhaps he’d never had an owner, and eked out a miserable existence begging for food from every establishment that would help him. From the size of the bloody thing, he’d been well-fed if not well-loved.
It wasn’t his business. It certainly wasn’t his responsibility. But sometimes responsibility was thrust upon one’s shoulders anyway, whether one wanted it or not, and the dog had already walked so very far without any help or comfort. With a sigh, and a muttered curse that he didn’t quite mean, Charles held out his arms.
‘Come on, then, you daft thing.’ He heaved the creature up into his arms when it came to him, bracing himself for a bite, but all the dog did was wag its dirt-covered tail frantically as he settled himself into a comfortable position. It was like holding a large sack of oats, or something similarly unwieldy; Charles struggled for a brief undignified moment, struggling with the suspicion that the dog was enjoying this, before setting off again.
No carriage, and a dog that was rapidly coating his best garments in a thin but penetrating layer of mud. Not the best impression to give Susan, but there was no turning back now. The village was almost in sight–if he kept walking for another half mile or so, cradling the damn spaniel as if it were an enormous infant, he’d finally set eyes on his first mill.
Finally, breath coming in clouds as the dog licked his wrists, he looked down over the valley where Twitchall lay.
He gasped.
What had happened to the Twitchall mill? He certainly hadn’t left it in this state. He’d been sure to keep the exterior gleaming, freshly-painted—an advertisement for the cotton made within, and the good health of the workers who spent most of their lives there. The dull, neglected building that loomed over the town was almost unrecognisable; Charles stared down at the broken roof tiles and dusty, smeared exterior with a lurch that he dimly recognised as loss.
If his mill had been left to rack and ruin, what had happened to the rest of the village? Looking down at the spaniel, who looked back up at him with nothing but idiot affection, Charles began trudging his way down into the valley. He ignored the meadow-flowers that were beginning to bloom, the scent of the grass and clear sweet air that blew—nothing mattered, none of it, until he could find out what the bloody hell was going on.
At least Twitchall village looked the same on the surface. Charles stared about him, a rush of memory filling him as he looked at the familiar low-roofed houses and gardens overflowing with colour. Looking briefly down at the dog, who showed no flash of recognition whatsoever when staring at the surroundings, he sighed as he walked down the wide earthen track that served as Twitchall’s main thoroughfare.
There used to be an inn that offered lodgings. The Dog and Duck. No family home to be welcomed into now; his parents were in the churchyard under six feet of sod, and he had no wish to visit them. The inn would do him very well indeed, especially if there were one or two burly men there who could go and help the coachman with the carriage–but goodness, it didn’t look busy in the slightest. In fact, there was no-one standing outside at all.
Manoeuvring the dog under one arm, where it hung limply like a sack with a wagging tail, he gingerly pushed open the door of the inn. All he could see were two men at the far end of the counter, so grey and grizzled with age that they were practically indistinguishable from the damp, dark walls.
One of them squinted. ‘You want summat?’
‘Lodging. Lodging, and help with a broken axle some miles back.’ Charles smiled, but the expression felt somewhat out of place. ‘If you know someone who could—’
‘You want Collins.’ The other man frowned as he stared at the dog under Charles’s arm. ‘He ain’t here.’
This wasn’t promising. ‘If you could tell me where I might find this Collins, I could—’
‘T’old mill. They’re having a meeting.’ The first man jerked his head towards the shadow of the Twitchall mill; Charles looked out of the smoke-smeared window, his courage wavering a little. How strange to step back into the past. ‘The blue door.’
‘But if they don’t want to be disturbed, how should I—’
‘And we didn’t want to be disturbed either, now.’ The second man took a slow, deliberate sip of his pint. ‘But that didn’t stop you.’
Charles had forgotten the legendary waggishness of the Twitchall locals, and didn’t feel particularly warmed by such a touching display of local colour. Bowing as curtly as he could, not bothering to be offended when the men didn’t so much as rise from their seats in return, he hoisted the dog higher under his arm and marched out of the inn.
Drawing closer to Twitchall Mill, he couldn’t help but notice signs of even deeper neglect than he had previously spotted. The paint was covered in a thick layer of grime, with moss creeping in between the cracks in the stone and plaster–and Lord, there were roof tiles smashed on the floor, as if they’d fallen and been left to lie in fragments. Weeds growing on the path, doors to storerooms left hanging open and exposed to the elements… what on earth had happened here?
He had sold the place to Patrick Morton. A good man, by all accounts—or at least, a good businessman. He’d taken the mill readily enough, telling Charles that he’d make even more of a profit than it was currently making, and Charles had merrily consigned Twitchall Mill to the distant past.
He had made a very wise decision for his finances. His morals, on the other hand, not to mention his growing sense of guilt, now sensed that he had made a very bad decision indeed.
He found the blue door with little difficulty. Previously used for holding cotton, the large, sparse room with windows open to the light had always been a pleasant place to take a moment’s rest. Now it was grey, growing ragged with dirt and neglect—but rows of chairs had been set up, almost as if it were an unusual church, with a large table at the head of the room rather than an altar.
Charles peered through the half-open door, not wishing to announce his presence just yet. He’d had a cold enough welcome at the inn—so far he’d seen no familiar faces, still less people he’d had affection for, and there was no guarantee that the loud discussion ringing through the room and out into the courtyard would have space to give him good wishes. Whatever was being discussed at the meeting, it didn’t allow much room for tranquil talk.
He could see the backs and shoulders of at least five or six people. An old man sat at the table, his face showing a little more kindness than the faces of the old men in the inn, while a young man with blonde hair angrily addressed the entire room.
‘I say we break into the damn place and smash everything in sight.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Adam.’ The old man looked sternly at the youth who’d spoken, but his glare didn’t seem to have much effect. ‘The place may not be producing anymore, but that machinery is still valuable. You’ll be hanged for breaking it.’
‘And we’ll starve if we leave it alone, and go to Morton with cap in hand begging him to give a damn about us!’
‘There has to be a middle way.’ Even as the old man said the words, Charles could see the conflict in his face. He was trying to be a peacemaker, but a part of him more than agreed with the lad; it was obvious. ‘There’ll be a way to right the village again. I’m sure of it.’
‘I’m not. I look around and see no way of making anything more
than a peasant’s wage for work that’ll break my back. There wasn’t any dignity working at the mill under Morton–but Christ, at least it wasn’t being bent over double in a field in the cold and wet.’ Adam had evidently been waiting a long time to say his piece. ‘I’ll strike out somewhere different. All of the lads will.’
‘If all of you lads leave, there’ll be no-one here to keep the elderly men and women of the village alive!’
‘We’re hardly living now! What bloody difference does it make!’
If he was going to interrupt the cacophony of raised voices and pointed fingers, he would need to to do so now. Charles prepared to open the door fully, hoping the expression on his face was appropriately humble and helpful—but before he could, another voice made itself heard among the throng.
A woman’s voice. A voice he would know anywhere, even though years had passed since he’d last heard it.
‘Stop it, the lot of you. This is no godly way to behave, and all of you know it. There’ll be a peaceful solution to this, but not an easy one. More letters have to be written to Morton—angrier ones. And an article in a newspaper wouldn’t go amiss, if we can find someone willing to write it.’ A pause; Charles strained his ears to hear the sound of her breath. ‘We’ll be able to make something out of this mess before I—’
He couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t bear listening to her and not seeing her at the same time. Charles opened the door, making more noise than he expected; the room fell into abrupt, surprised silence.
With a presence of mind that Charles wouldn’t have expected from a creature so showily foolish, the dog limped quietly beneath a nearby chair. It curled up into a small, self-protective ball, licking its injured paw with a small sigh as the men and woman in the room looked at Charles.
‘Excuse my interruption.’ He tried not to look at Susan; if he did, he’d lose whatever sense of self-control he had left. He was covered in mud and probably smelling powerfully of dog—but damn it, he would sound as if he were in control of his faculties. ‘I went to the Dog and Duck, but found no-one to aid me. I don’t wish to take time away from your meeting, and neither do I wish to—’
Wedded in White: The Brothers Duke: Book Six Page 1