by Dayna Quince
Heading back inside, she started the fire, grateful this was one of the skills she learned after they let the scullery maid go last year. Who knew destitution was so educational?
Her paper burned quickly, almost too fast for the wood to catch. Charlotte blew gently on the bits of bark that glowed until they grew into small flames. She sighed with relief and sat back.
She waited, staring at the flames, watching the wood burn and turn to ash. Her hopes did the same. After the last log smoldered, she stood. She brushed her hands down her skirts and told herself it didn’t mean anything. Or it meant that he could not come. She turned with her shoulders back, her chin raised.
And she saw the note attached to the back of the door.
“When did that get there?” She strode forward and plucked it off the nail. Unfolding it, her heart was in her throat as she read the words, bracing herself for rejection. What else could it be? He’d had second thoughts, obviously, and didn’t think her worth his time. His penmanship was swift and jagged. It took her a moment to decipher the writing.
My lovely Charlotte,
Lord Shelding visited last evening. There is a brewer’s symposium in London, and I must go. There have been remarkable innovations here in England that I must see for myself. Do not take this as me not wanting to meet you. There is nothing more I’d rather do, but duty calls. I will be gone a week. When I return, I will watch for smoke and hope I haven’t lost your favor.
With regret,
Thorn
Charlotte was elated but still tempted to tear the note apart in a fit of pique. Instead, she folded it into a small square and tucked it inside her bodice next to her heart. She looked around the little cabin. The morning had started with such promise, but now she didn’t know what she would do with herself for a full week. The anticipation would kill her.
Her eyes caught on the small pallet bed. It was filthy and lumpy. The bedding was stripped and something had likely made a nest inside it. She walked forward and poked at it. Nothing squirmed inside. It felt reasonably intact.
She looked around the cabin with intent. If she had a week, she could make this little space tidy. She looked down at the bed. She wouldn’t let her imagination flourish with the possibilities. She wasn’t ready to think about what might occur on that pallet. Her cheeks flushed anyway. Somehow, her body knew what her head didn’t yet accept.
* * *
Thorn hated to leave Charlotte. It was an uncomfortable realization. The further the carriage took them, the more agitated he became. It didn’t help that Lord Shelding’s son was insufferable.
Edward Chadwick was everything that Thorn loathed about the peerage. He whined about the strain of traveling. The carriage was a luxuriously appointed vehicle with plush leather seats and foot warmers. Yet after only three hours, Chadwick was in a state of torture. Thorn found Lord Shelding’s talent for ignoring his son miraculous.
It didn’t help matters that Chadwick was obviously in the throes of drunken purgatory, the half-life of inebriation and bent over the pot. He was a drunkard. Thorn could tell by his veiny red cheeks and eyes. The boy couldn’t be more than five and twenty, if Thorn had to guess.
He had no business being with them on this venture.
Thorn looked back to the scenery, and his thoughts returned to Charlotte.
“Have you a wife back home?” Mr. Chadwick asked.
Thorn slowly faced him. He caught the scent of the remnants of a burp. “No, Mr. Chadwick.”
“I have a fiancée.” Chadwick smiled.
“My congratulations on your future nuptials,” Thorn said.
“She’s the most beautiful woman in Faversham, no doubt England as well.”
Thorn didn’t comment. Having never seen the woman, he was not willing to agree, though Pruitt would recommend him to fill the lad’s head with affirmations. Chadwick didn’t need any more ego stroking. He seemed adept at doing it all by himself.
“She’s lovely as a blossom in spring, delicate, dulcet—”
“That’s enough, Edward.” Lord Shelding opened his newspaper, cutting himself off from them.
Thorn wished he had a newspaper of his own, or a book—anything, to dissuade Chadwick from speaking to him.
Chadwick sunk low in the seat, his face becoming mottled with shades of green.
Thorn wished he’d sat on top with the coachmen. Or rode. Or walked. Anything other than being stuck in this trap with a soon-to-be-ill Chadwick.
Lord Shelding used his cane to tap the roof.
The top hatch flipped open. “Yes, sir.”
“Stop the carriage.”
“Yes, sir.” The hatch closed. The carriage slowed and came to a rest on the side of the road. Thorn threw the door open, and Chadwick lurched forward, retching out the door. A pity he couldn’t have taken a few steps outside the carriage, but better than tossing his breakfast all over Thorn’s boots.
Thorn sighed and leaned back. A corner of Shelding’s paper bent down, and he found Shelding watching him.
“My lord?” Thorn asked. It was no use pretending that he hadn’t seen Shelding watching him.
“Children are an interesting commodity. No matter how old they become, they are always the child.”
Thorn didn’t agree. Since the moment he could lift a pail, his father had him working. By the time he grew out of his short pants, he was treated like an adult—a working, integral part of the family. He had helped keep food on the table, care for his younger siblings, and by the skin of his teeth, bring them out of poverty. They still lived together on the same farm, but instead of three rooms, there were eight and separate lodging for staff. His mother didn’t cook his meals; she rested her arthritic hands. His father didn’t toil in the fields from sun up to sun down; he read the paper and drank his coffee, resting the knee that took a bullet in the war.
“Do you have siblings?” Shelding asked.
“Yes, sir.” Thorn ignored the retching. He was not sympathetic. “Four in all.”
“And what do they do?”
“My sister is married. Her husband works for me, as do my two younger brothers.”
“Ah. ’Tis a family business then. Very good, but you did say four, did you not?”
Thorn waited for the familiar pain in his chest. It was better now but still there. “My brother, Matthew, died as a child.”
Shelding nodded in acknowledgement, but without any sign of sympathy. It was, at this point in time, that Chadwick almost fell out of the carriage.
Thorn grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him back. The boy was white as a sheet and barely able to lift his head.
Shelding sighed. “Just leave him on the floor. Coachman, carry on.” He banged the roof with his cane.
Thorn adjusted Chadwick on the floor, and closed the carriage door. He hoped Chadwick would not be like this the entire week. He also found it strange how little concern Shelding had for his son. The boy was ill. He needed a bed and water. Not a trip across the countryside. Thorn turned back to the window as Shelding disappeared behind his paper.
This was fast becoming the longest carriage ride of his life.
Chapter 9
January 2nd, 1822
Dear Rose,
The new year has begun, and I find I’m not pleased to greet it. Where has the time gone? I’m growing older, but things here stay the same. It’s always the same people, or the same gentlemen, more importantly. The same assembly, the same shrewd gazes as I dance with Mr. Chadwick. I’m not going to attend them anymore. Father has grown ill. He rarely leaves his bed now. I doubt he will notice or care if I stay home every evening. If there is a perfect man out there for me, he will have to come and find me himself.
Exceedingly desperate,
Charlotte
A week passed, a blissful and peaceful week in which Edward and Lord Shelding were gone. The very air was different at Shelding in their absence. Lady Shelding was downright cheerful. It amused and saddened Charlotte, because it was lik
e looking into her own future. The birds sang, the sun shone daily, and Lady Shelding even had a dinner party with two other local families. All she did was talk about Edward, or make Charlotte talk about Edward, but it was still pleasant, and more than anything, normal. Simple, easy, and normal.
But then they returned, and as if summoned by her fear, so did the clouds. On the bright side, that meant Thorn was back, too.
It was Caleb the stable boy who announced to James that the carriage was coming up the drive. James informed Dules, who informed Lady Shelding. The woman was humming softly and tending her needle sampler when Dules entered the room. Charlotte, lost in a book, hadn’t noticed him enter until Lady Shelding jumped to her feet, stuffing her sample in her bag.
“We must make ourselves presentable Charlotte!” she screeched.
If it weren’t for the panic in her voice, Charlotte would have thought Lady Shelding eager to see her husband and son, but instead she ran about as if they were under siege.
Charlotte set her book down and followed Lady Shelding’s erratic path into the foyer to greet the gentlemen. Folding her hands behind her back, Charlotte waited calmly while Lady Shelding fidgeted with her skirts and hair. Finally, Dules opened the door, and Lord Shelding stepped through.
The tension in the air increased, shimmering in invisible currents. He was closely followed by Edward, for once looking sober and bright-eyed. He immediately came to Charlotte, crowding her back against the wall as she tried to keep an arm’s length of distance between them.
“My darling, how my eyes have longed to look upon you.”
* * *
Two hours earlier…
The carriage pulled to a halt outside Wildwood Manor where Thorn and his crew had taken up residence. Thorn showed Shelding and his son into the drawing room, eager to change into fresh clothing. As he climbed the stairs, Pruitt stepped out into the hall. The men shook hands.
“You’re back?”
“I am.”
“I hope it was beneficial?”
“Very much so. I’ve lot of ideas and plans. I made a few purchases as well.”
“Excellent.” Pruitt folded his hands behind his back, his face solemn.
Thorn sighed. “You have news I won’t like. Get on with it. Shelding invited me to dinner.”
“I think it’s best I show you,” Pruitt said.
Thorn felt something hollow invade his abdomen. “Very well. As long as it will be quick and painless.”
“I can’t guarantee the latter.” Pruitt turned away. They went out the back of the house.
“I’ve only been gone a week. Did the foreman cause trouble?”
“No, he and Perry have been working well together.”
“Good.” Thorn remained uneasy as Pruitt crossed the garden into a small overgrown garden plot surrounded by hedges on three sides.
“I was wandering about and found something.”
“Oh?”
Pruitt bent to one knee and pushed some weeds aside. There was a flat stone on the ground. An obvious marker of some kind. Then he pulled two pieces of wood from the brush. It was a cross.
“A grave?” He felt a chill run down his spine.
“Not of the human variety, but more of a beloved pet.” Pruitt passed the cross to Thorn.
Thorn brushed dirt and grass from the brittle wood. He felt his chest tighten as he read the name silently. There was a single date under the name.
Knight, 1809.
“Coincidence,” he said.
Pruitt stood. “Perhaps.”
That single word dripped with doubt.
“Why did you show me this?”
“I thought you should know.” Pruitt kicked a clod of dirt, not meeting Thorn’s gaze.
“You think she isn’t who she claims to be?”
“I asked around. The man who lived here died in May. Lord Shelding took guardianship of the daughter, Miss Charlotte Angelwood, and affianced her to his son. She’s reported to be slight of stature with dark hair, and quite the beauty.”
“And?” Thorn growled.
“And I think you know what I am saying.”
Thorn dropped the cross before he crushed it in his hands. It was a coincidence, not proof, but he also had no proof that his Charlotte, Miss Woodhouse, was anything she claimed to be. He could feel the blood pumping through his ears as he turned away and stalked back to the house.
“What will you do?” Pruitt asked as he followed behind him.
“Go to dinner. Either Chadwick’s fiancée will look extremely familiar, or she won’t. There is only one way to find out.”
Pruitt remained silent at his back as they returned to the house. Thorn could only imagine that Pruitt prayed Thorn wouldn’t ruin this venture for all of them. Thorn hoped for the same.
Back in the Shelding foyer.
In her periphery, another man entered, the rays of the setting sun behind him casting his form in shadow. The door closed and Charlotte focused on the man.
Flame blue eyes met hers. Her heart stopped. She wished she’d fall dead right then, but she didn’t. The blasted muscle began pumping again, and her lungs punctuated the silent foyer with swift, shallow breaths.
“I present my wife, Lady Shelding.”
Charlotte fell back against the wall as his gaze moved away from her. She wanted to run, hide, bury herself in a foxhole, if need be.
“My lady.” He bent over Lady Shelding’s hand. “An honor to meet you.” Then he turned to Charlotte, not waiting for an introduction. “And you must be Chadwick’s fiancée. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Charlotte nodded slowly. He took her hand, his touch burning her through her glove. He barely held it before pulling back. His face had turned to stone, and Charlotte knew how it felt to be hated.
Edward filled in the silence at that moment, but she didn’t hear a word through the buzzing in her ears.
They moved into the drawing room to await dinner, and Charlotte reclaimed her seat. He ignored her, treated her as though she didn’t exist. And why should she? Miss Woodhouse didn’t exist any longer.
Dinner was called and for the first time—ever—Charlotte relied on Edward’s arm to walk her into the dining room. He prattled on, mostly ignored by the two men who ruled the room with their unsettling presence. Which meant he talked to her only. He slowed as they walked behind the group, Lady Shelding hanging on Thorn’s muscled arm. He looked so handsome in his black evening coat and hunter green trousers. But for the rest of her life, she would only be able to see the hatred in his eyes.
“Charlotte,” Edward whispered in her ear. She jerked away. They halted in the hall.
“What is it?”
“You don’t look well.”
“I don’t feel well. In fact, I feel terrible.” Charlotte’s eyes began to water.
Edward lurched back. “Are you going to be ill?”
Charlotte pressed a hand to her mouth and nodded. Edward looked as if he wanted to run away.
“Please make my excuses.” She brushed past him, running up the stairs and straight to her room. It was the cowardly way, but it was the only way.
Her hero was gone. Her mighty Thorn detested her now.
* * *
Thorn didn’t ruin his business. Things had been strained until Charlotte didn’t appear for dinner, but no one seemed to notice. The dinner continued in a blur, and then Thorn thanked his host and hostess and returned to Wildwood. But he didn’t stay there because as soon as he walked in the door, it occurred to him that this was her home. And then he had to mentally dissect every moment of her deception to find out why a girl destined for a privileged life had pretended to be a commoner. His thoughts stirred so violently in his mind that he left the house, determined to drink his woes away in the village tavern.
He found Pruitt there, nursing an ale and talking with some locals.
“More investigative inquiry?” Thorn roughly pulled out a stool and sunk down on it.
Pruitt sipped h
is beer and licked the foam from his lip. Thorn hated his calmness.
“I surmise that Miss Woodhouse and Miss Angelwood are one and the same?”
Thorn grunted.
“So how was dinner?” Pruitt ordered Thorn a drink.
“Fine. I didn’t ruin everything I built for the pretty face of a master manipulator, if that is what you’re asking.”
“I don’t think she’s a master manipulator.”
“No? Then pray tell why a young woman would go to such lengths, putting herself at such risk?”
“Why, indeed.” Pruitt sipped his ale.
Thorn narrowed his eyes at him. A mug of frothy ale appeared before him. He downed the contents in four swallows and asked for another.
“How about a game of darts?” Pruitt suggested.
“To hell with darts,” Thorn growled. He needed a fight. He needed to hit something. Chadwick was an excellent candidate, but that would mean giving up on half his life’s work.
“I suppose you want something to beat to a pulp.” Pruitt sighed.
“Are you volunteering?”
“Don’t be mad at me. I showed you the light. I told you not to dally with her, but did you listen?”
“What makes you think there was any dallying?”
“You look fit to charge a bull in his pen for the sheer pain of it. If you didn’t get under her skirts, then—” Pruitt stopped.
“I didn’t get under anything. I’ve lost nothing but time. If you’re waiting for me to say you were right, you’ll die waiting.”
Pruitt slapped some coins on the bar top. “Try not to damage your pretty face tonight.” He walked away.
Thon stared down into the remnants of his second mug of ale. It was dark in there, and that was precisely how he felt. He was so full before, full of hope and light and lust. But now he was empty. She was going to marry that fool Chadwick. She was likely spoiled and bored, looking for a distraction.
Well, Thorn wasn’t anyone’s distraction, and he certainly didn’t have time to be distracted by the likes of her. He finished his beer, looking around the tavern for any opportunity to start a fight. The noise was cheerful, laughter punctuating the din of many voices talking at once. The bar maid wove through the tables, balancing a tray on one hand with skill, and slapping at mischievous hands with the other.