by Sara Reinke
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, as Charlotte stood at her washbasin to bathe her face, she heard hoofbeats from the front yard of Darton Hall, and the whinnying of a horse. Curious, she walked to her window and looked down at the grounds. She saw a man on horseback; it was Reilly, wrapped in a heavy greatcoat, his tricorne pulled low on his brow. He had reined his horse to a stop plainly within Charlotte’s line of sight. Reilly folded himself toward the horse’s neck, but she could not tell if he was doubled in pain or simply checking something on the horse’s withers. Whichever the case, it seemed quickly resolved. Reilly sat back once more, his motions stiff and slow, and drove his boot heels into the horse’s belly, spurring it forward.
“Reilly is about early this morning,” Charlotte remarked, watching her brother ride away from the house, vanishing from view in the draped folds of fog.
He had seemingly disappeared in similar manner last night at Roding Castle. Charlotte had lost track of him upon meeting Caroline and Randall in the crowd, and had not seen him again until just as they were preparing to leave. He had spent the carriage ride home in silence, his eyes closed, his temple pressed against the wall. He had seemed exhausted, ill, or in pain; and Charlotte had no accounting for any of these. Their father had noticed as well. As Reilly had crossed the foyer, moving with a discernable limp, and slowly ascended the stairs for his room, Lord Epping had called out to stay him.
“Are you unwell, son?” he had asked, his brows lifted in concern.
Reilly had pivoted to look at his father, and smiled somewhat feebly. “I… I am fine, sir,” he had answered. “Merely weary that is all. I made a bit too merry tonight, I think.”
Charlotte frowned thoughtfully at her window. She had accepted his answer last night, having been too distracted with pleasant recollections of the evening with Kenley, but now, having seen him seem to buckle with pain astride his horse, she wondered.
“He did not sleep much last night, I think,” Meghan said from behind her. She stood at Charlotte’s opened wardrobe, surveying her clothes. “His light was still aglow beneath his door when I came down the corridor toward midnight. He has not slept well at all this past week.”
Charlotte turned to her. “Has he ever said anything to you of having served with Kenley in the navy?”
Meghan blinked in bewildered surprise. “Lord Theydon? No. He served with Lord Theydon’s kin, Baron Woodside abroad.”
“I know,” Charlotte said. “It is just…” She looked thoughtfully out the window again. “Someone told me last night that Kenley had served, as well.”
“What did Lord Theydon tell you of it?”
“I… I did not ask him,” Charlotte replied. She had not wanted to ask him; she had not wanted to know. The idea that despite everything that had grown between them, Kenley might be keeping secrets troubled her, and she did not want to ponder too much or too long about it.
“You have never been one to lend much credence to rumors,” Meghan said, drawing Charlotte’s gaze. “And you know what my mother always said of them—they begin with a glimmer of half-truth, and swell into spurious notion in the incessant retelling. Perhaps you should ask Lord Theydon and learn for certain.”
“Yes,” Charlotte murmured. “Perhaps I should.” “Would you care for the yellow dress today?” Meghan asked.
“No,” Charlotte said. “No, if you please, Meghan, I would like my riding habit. I think Reilly had a splendid idea. It has been far too long since I enjoyed a morning ride.”
And I have some matters weighing on my mind I hope a visit to Theydon Hall might dispel, she thought.