by Cheryl Bolen
Not only was it a volume she had been desirous of reading, it was also beautifully bound in fine green leather with an ornate gold-scrolled cover.
She had handed it back to him. “Please, my lord, could you personalize it on the flyleaf for me?”
He looked embarrassed, but nevertheless took up the quill and wrote: For Mrs. Ennis, With deep affection, Rutledge, October 11, 1817.
After reading the verses for more than an hour, she went back downstairs, and from what she could tell there was no difference from when she had left. Only now Lord Rutledge and the lad were making mock artillery noises—which caused her to burst out laughing.
Lord Rutledge sat up ramrod straight and shot her a quizzing glance. “Pray tell, what do you find so humorous, Mrs. Ennis?”
“Why, it's the authenticity of your artillery noises, Lord Rutledge!”
“'Tis just one of my hidden talents,” he said with a wink and a smile.
Stevie looked up shyly at his mother. “I say, Mother, I love my sap-wize.”
“Oh, dear,” she answered, “I dare say Lord Rutledge's other surprise is even better than the toy soldiers.”
The boy's green eyes widened as he leaped to his feet. “The pony!”
James got up and gave the boy a hand. “I'd almost forgotten. Your surprise awaits outside.” Then James addressed Carlotta. “I beg that the servants not disturb the soldiers. Stevie and I will finish this battle after dinner—if that is agreeable to you?”
Carlotta shrugged. “Of course, it's acceptable to me.” Better Lord Rutledge than she. She would have absolutely no idea how to go about staging a battle with toy soldiers! A pity Stevie hadn't been a girl.
The three of them hurried outside where a groom stood holding the reins to a bay pony.
Stevie's eyes darted from the pony, back to James. “Uncle James?”
Uncle James? Surely the boy was not going to address the man responsible for his father's death as his uncle! Lord Rutledge had some gall!
“She's yours, Stevie,” James said.
Carlotta's anger was short lived when she saw the broad smile light Stevie's thin face as he ran toward the animal and lovingly ran a hand over its flank.
Carlotta moved to Stevie and put a hand on his shoulder. She was thoroughly cognizant that Lord Rutledge—her benefactor—was scrutinizing her motherly behavior. “What shall you call her, my love?”
“I believe I shall call her Bwownie.”
“Because she's brown,” Carlotta finished.
“I hope your wife approves of the name,” James said, deadpan serious.
Stevie began to giggle. “Silly, I don't have a wife. I'm only six years old.”
“Only six?” James winked at Carlotta. “And I took you for a short man.” He scooped a still-giggling Stevie up and set him on the pony. “Have you ridden before?”
The boy's voice was shaky when he replied. “Not by myself.”
Carlotta realized her son was frightened and came to place a gentle hand at his waist.
Lord Rutledge took the reins. “I'll walk beside you and hold the lead line,” he said. “Until you feel safe enough.”
Carlotta watched the two until they turned at the end of Monmouth Street. She could just as well have been in Portugal for all the notice they took of her, but she truly did not care. Her only concern at the moment was her guilt over admiring Lord Rutledge so greatly when he was the one who had caused Stephen's death. What would Stephen think about his son calling the man uncle?
Moments later, at the opposite end of her block, Stevie and the pony trotted toward her, Lord Rutledge leading the pair. When they drew up to Carlotta, his lordship proposed that the three of them walk to Sydney Gardens. “I dare say it will be easier for Stevie to ride at the park, it being away from the busy traffic on the streets of Bath,” he said.
After Lord Rutledge instructed the groom to bring the pony along to the park on the opposite side of the River Avon, the threesome took off walking. His mother on one side of him, Lord Rutledge on the other, Stevie happily skipped along.
During the walk, Carlotta noted the look of utter contentment on Lord Rutledge's face. She was at a total loss to understand how one six-year-old boy could bring such obvious joy to a man of eight-and-twenty years. However, hers was not to question why but to relish the bond between man and boy, a bond that freed her.
Lord Rutledge, unlike her son, did not forget Carlotta's presence but continued to address her in respectful tones and to introduce her into his and Stevie's conversations. “Your mama won't wish for you to ride off where she cannot see you.” Or, “Your papa was very happy to have a son—and a beautiful wife.”
He would also direct comments to her. “I hope it didn't alarm you too much when I put your son on top the mount. You looked rather nervous.”
“'Twasn't me so much as it was the look on poor Stevie's face which set my heart racing,” she replied.
When they got to Sydney Gardens, James hoisted the boy once again on the pony's back and explained how to handle the reins. When he finished, he asked, “Do you think you'll be able to handle Brownie all by yourself now?”
Stevie nodded confidently.
“Your mama and I will still stroll beside you.” Lord Rutledge gripped the line to ensure the lad's safety as he and Carlotta began to walk next to the boy.
“Be assured,” the earl told Carlotta, “the mount was selected for his gentleness. He'll not run off with your son.”
For the first time in her boy's life, Carlotta felt completely responsible for him and found that she was unable to remove her gaze from him.
“How did you find the volume of Coleridge?” Lord Rutledge asked her.
She looked up at him with shining eyes. “Masterful. A sheer delight to read. I cannot wait to be able to reread it.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps you'll be able to do so tonight. When Stevie and I continue our battle.”
“You're much too kind. Surely, Lord Rutledge, you cannot possibly enjoy playing war with a mere slip of a child.”
He patted her hand. “Oh, but I do.”
“I must say Stevie does seem to have taken to you, Uncle. Would that he were as enamored of me as he is of you!”
“It's as you've said before. I have much more in common with him than you. That's not to say the lad isn't completely devoted to his mother.”
She smiled. “I'm completely indebted to you, my lord, for being the means by which I have my Stevie restored to me and for making my son so completely happy.”
“It's I who am indebted to you.” A croak splintered his low voice when he spoke. “Thank you for allowing me to repay my enormous debt to Captain Ennis in the only way I know.”
His words threatened to destroy her composure. Instead of graciously accepting what he said, she bristled over his reference to his debt, to his culpability in poor Stephen's death. Most of all, shame washed over her. Shame that she could gratefully accept this man's money as well as his constant presence when this man was responsible for Stephen's death. Poor Stephen, whom she'd never loved as recklessly as she had loved Gregory Blankenship. Poor Stephen, who had worshipped her and who deserved better.
Chapter 6
It was only with a great deal of difficulty that Carlotta could keep from bursting into laughter when James, spread out on the Turkey carpet with Stevie and his soldiers, said to the boy, “Captain Ennis, there's a letter from your mother.”
Stevie refrained from looking at Carlotta when he replied, “What? From my beautiful mother? It is to be hoped no ink from her plume messed her lovely gown.”
The little scamp would think of messes! Carlotta's dancing eyes traveled to the spilled gravy on her son's linen shirt, a remnant of the dinner he had so recently shared with Lord Rutledge and her. The idea of allowing a youngster at their table for the evening meal was rather novel to her, but the earl had insisted that Stevie not be foisted upon servants until he was more comfortable in his new surroundings.
She continued with her embroidery as she sat near the fire some ten feet away from the battle being raged by her son and Lord Rutledge. For the past several months she had been endeavoring to train herself in discipline, a virtue she had never possessed. Tonight, she would not allow herself the luxury of re-reading Coleridge until she finished the piecework she had begun two weeks previously.
The monotony of the sewing allowed her to reflect on the Earl of Rutledge. Her thoughts flitted to the previous day when she had thanked him for taking so active an interest in her son. “A lad needs a father—or a father figure,” she had said.
“He also needs a mother,” Lord Rutledge had said, his flashing gaze alighting on her.
The earl knew her entirely too thoroughly. How he had learned, she could not even guess. He alone knew what a wretched mother she had been all these years; yet, until this moment, he had refrained from lecturing her on her many shortcomings. Especially her shortcomings as a mother.
So content was she in her own domestic setting this night, she soon forgot all about Coleridge. Warmed by the fire in the hearth and happy to emerge from her recent solitude, Carlotta relished every minute she spent in the cozy drawing room with her offspring and the Earl of Rutledge.
As she ran her needle in and out of the linen, she pondered Stevie's words. Beautiful mother. Throughout her life, she had basked in her blatant beauty, but now such a description seemed oddly cold. Was her beauty all she had to recommend herself to her son?
A pity she was not more like Lord Rutledge, who had such a facility in relating to lads. Without moving her head, she stole a glance at the earl. “Fire the cannon,” he ordered. Sitting there opposite Stevie, he looked as large and as powerful as a cannon mounted on a caisson. The earl's pantaloons stretched across his muscled legs that trailed into a pair of shiny black Hessians. His shoulders strained against the well cut chocolate-colored coat that narrowed at his trim waist. When he leaned over the rows of miniature tin soldiers, his cork-colored hair spilled over his pensive forehead, causing Carlotta's breath to grow short. Why had she never before noticed how startlingly handsome Lord Rutledge was? Could it be she was finally able to judge a man on his own merit—and not upon how he compared with the physical perfection of Gregory Blankenship?
Then she chided herself. This is the man responsible for poor Stephen's death. Her face grim, she returned to her embroidery.
Her thoughts focused on the perceptible distance she had always kept between herself and Stevie. Even now, he was some fifteen feet away from her and could not have been more detached had she been in The Colonies.
“Perhaps you should move closer to the fire, dearest,” she said to her son.
He kept on playing. God in heaven! Was her endearment so alien to him? “My love, come sit closer to the fire,” she repeated. “I worry you will take a chill.”
Now he looked at his mother, a wistful, puzzled look on his thin face. Then, he dutifully began to move his soldiers. “To the south, men!” he said in a commanding voice.
“'Tis actually west,” Lord Rutledge playfully corrected.
“March westward, men,” Stevie amended, his voice still authoritative.
Carlotta could not help but to chuckle as her glance met the earl's. He smiled, too.
She watched as Stevie moved his columns of soldiers closer to her. His columns were not lined up as straight as his opponent's, a fact that sent another smile to Carlotta's lips. She seemed to be doing a lot of smiling as of late.
Since Lord Rutledge had come to Bath.
When Stevie's move was complete, he cast a shy glance up to his mother.
“That's much better, love,” she said softly. The words were no sooner out of her mouth when her glance lit upon Lord Rutledge's smiling face. She looked away quickly.
Soon the males were thick in the heat of battle as Carlotta changed to green thread, her thoughts mulling over her long-ago decision to send Stevie away. At the time, she had been convinced it was the right thing to do. But now she wondered if she had made a grave mistake. Would her son ever think of her as anything but a beautiful woman who wouldn't want to muss her gown? Would he ever be as close to her as he was to the man who had deprived him of his father? she wondered bitterly.
Being a parent was exceedingly difficult! The problem was one never knew if one were doing the right thing. Success—which would be years in the proving—was imperfectly measured by the worth of another human being. A most heady responsibility, to be sure.
Assaulting her piecework with green embroidery threads, Carlotta listened contentedly to Stevie and Lord Rutledge and their frequent laughter.
And despite their comforting presence, she felt as if she did not belong in this domestic scene. She had not earned the right to be here. Would she always be such an outsider?
She flung her embroidery aside, dropped to the carpet on her knees and scooted toward her son. “I believe your reinforcements have finally arrived, Captain.”
For as long as she lived, Carlotta would never forget Stevie's broad answering smile.
* * *
James poured more wine into Carlotta's glass, then planted his booted feet into the brittle grass and leaned back to watch Stevie play below in the roofless Roman ruins at the bottom of the hill they sat on.
“I declare, I get tired just watching Stevie!” Carlotta said. “How can he unleash such energy after so big a meal?” She turned to James. “Forgive me for not telling you sooner how very good the picnic you provided was.”
“'It was certainly filling.”
“I believe I could lie back and fall asleep right here on the hill,” she said.
Completely unsummoned, the very thought of Carlotta lying beside him caused James's mind to spin—and his body to react. He had been with Mrs. Ennis and Stevie every day now for the past two weeks, and the more he was with her, the more he questioned his own motives in wanting to help her and her son. For James had come to realize he eagerly looked forward to every moment he spent in Carlotta Ennis's presence.
He even began to wonder if he might have coveted Captain Ennis's wife while the good captain was still alive. Until the past few days, James had never dared to direct his thoughts along so sinister a path, but now he doubted his own altruism. Could his desire for Carlotta Ennis have been festering all these years?
Could that be why no other woman had ever been able to capture his heart? Had he always obsessed over the raven-haired widow with soft violet eyes?
His heartbeat growing erratic, James allowed himself to glance at Carlotta as she swallowed a sip of wine, unaware that he was watching her. After their nuncheon, she had unbuttoned her lavender merino pelisse. The roundness of her breasts claimed his attention. They would be soft. Like Carlotta. The new Carlotta who was becoming more gentle and loving with each passing day.
She set down her glass and looked at him. “Think you Stevie is ready for a nurse now?”
He stiffened. “No,” he said sharply. For some odd reason, Mrs. Ennis deferred to his judgment and adhered to his decisions. He rather liked that.
“Why?” she asked softly.
How could he tell her he did not want the apple cart upset? He had never been happier than he had been these past two weeks. The three of them had been like a family. Like a family he had craved since he was a small child. “I still believe the boy needs time to get used to you. You've got many years to make up for.”
It pained him that Carlotta Ennis, his paragon, had formerly been a somewhat unfeeling mother, but he took peculiar pride in her metamorphosis.
She reached out and briefly stroked his forearm. “You are right, of course. You're always so devilishly right, and you know me too devilishly well!”
He reeled from her soft touch. He grew aroused and had to tear his eyes away from her. The sounds of Stevie's childish singing voice wafted up to them. James had to wipe Carlotta and her dizzying touch from his mind. “The boy seems happy.”
“Yes, he does. I'm so gratefu
l to you, my lord.”
Despite her words, James detected a hint of insincerity in her voice. Carlotta was grateful he had rescued her from the near-squalor of Mrs. McKay's dwelling. And she was thankful that through his efforts she had become reunited her with her son. But still, he knew, she held him accountable for her husband's death.
For as long as he drew breath, James would feel his guilt. Because of his disobedience, Stephen Ennis had died. And in dying, he had saved James's life. No day ever passed that James did not think about the captain and feel remorse. He had lived while the captain—who left a wife and son—died. Surely there had been a reason for sparing James. For years he had kept the pain bottled inside of him, but he could no longer suffer silently. Like steam under a kettle lid, he needed release.
“As you know, Mrs. Ennis,” he began, his heart thudding, “my negligence caused your. . .your husband's death.” It was as painful for him to think of her as the wife of another man as it was to remember the man who had been her husband.
She nodded, her beautiful face solemn.
“It's time I tell you about it.”
She shook her head. “I don't think I can bear it.”
He closed his hand over hers. It felt so small. “Please,” he said.
Their eyes met and held.
“I need to talk about it,” he said in a throaty voice.
She could not remove her gaze from him. “You've never asked anything of me before,” she said pensively. Then, she nodded. “Go on.”
He cleared his throat. “One of the first things a soldier learns is that when a comrade falls in combat, you don't stop. You keep fighting.”
Absently twirling her now-empty wine glass in her hand, she nodded.
“But I disobeyed orders to keep marching . . .” his voice faltered. He coughed, then sat up even straighter and looked into her eyes. “Harold Dutton had been with me ever since Sandhurst.” His voice choked again.
Carlotta nodded solemnly.
“When I heard him cry out . . .”
“You quite naturally went to help him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes misty.