Raven's Bride (23 page)

Now was Lord Ravensbourne’s silence explained,
she thought with despair, as the awful truth sank into her brain. Why would he bother to write to her, when his time was spent with his new love? Why would he even remember that she existed, save maybe for a passing thankfulness she had saved him from having his neck stretched?

Charlotte had warned her of his infidelities, and she had taken no heed. She had thought herself different, special. She had thought he loved her and that he had meant to marry her.

How foolish she had been to put so much stock into his words and his promises. How cruel he had been to mislead her so thoroughly, and so deliberately.

No—in her grief, she was being unfair. He had not meant to be cruel. He
had
once meant to marry her—she was sure of it. He had loved her once, in his own way, but his love had been a weak and sickly creature, and had not stood the test of time and absence. She had loved him more as each day had passed and had looked forward, with increasing eagerness, to the day he would return home to her. But he would never return now. He had found solace with another woman, until his grief at parting with her had been diverted into a new happiness. And now he was dead.

She did not remember how the evening ended. She only wished she could efface the rest of that horrible day from her mind as well and change the course of time.

The days that followed were a blur of misery and grief for them all—but especially for Anna. With the first snowfall, it became apparent that the desertion and death of her betrothed was not the only loss she would face. Her mother was weaker than ever and sinking fast. Anna feared she would not last out the winter.

With no thought for the future, Anna piled wood on the fire in her mother’s chamber to keep her toasty warm. When her firewood ran out, she roamed the copse in the early dawn, picking up sticks where she could find them and carrying them back in her arms. More often than not, Charlotte walked beside her, her own arms piled high with sticks.

For both Anna and Charlotte, life became a struggle against Mrs. Woodleigh’s impending death. Anna sought to keep the chill of the weather from touching her mother. Charlotte brought all kinds of delicacies from her uncle’s kitchen to tempt her to eat.

For the kitchen and all its contents belong to Mr. Melcott now,
Charlotte thought with a grimace. Her uncle had produced a will with Tom’s signature on it, shortly after his death. In it, Tom had left all his estate to his uncle and left her as his ward until she was married. He had mentioned no allowance for her personal needs and had not even specified a dowry for her, leaving it to his uncle’s discretion to fix upon a suitable sum. She could not have been left more dependant on her uncle’s favor—to the very food she ate and the clothes she wore.

Once Mr. Melcott caught Charlotte taking food meant for Mrs. Woodleigh from the pantry. He accused her of stealing, as if she were a servant, and whipped her. She was only allowed to stay in the house on his sufferance, he thundered at her, and he had no love for thieves. If she were to stay in his house, she would abide by his rules or he would turn her out. And if he turned her out-of-doors, she would be forced to beg in the streets, and he would pass her by without pity or mercy.

She did not tell Anna what happened, but she began to practice cunning in her thefts. She slipped bread rolls into her lap at breakfast, and covered them with her handkerchief as she slipped them out of the house. She conspired with the cook to fix the accounts so her appropriation of haunches of beef and bottles of good wine for her aunt and cousin could go undetected. She even wore a pocket under her dress, which she filled with coal on the pretence of stoking up the fire. The more Melcott glowered at her and played the lord of the manor, the more determined she was to outwit him.

The two girls, always friends, were drawn together even more closely by their shared sorrow. They spent their days together at Mrs. Woodleigh’s bedside, as she sank closer into the arms of death. Anna had no friends in the neighborhood, and Charlotte neglected hers, refusing to be home to them when they came to call. Anna remonstrated with her, but to no avail. Charlotte was determined to know nobody and to see no one.

“You are family,” Charlotte said. “You will not turn me aside or mock me, whatever I have done. You are not that sort of person.”

Charlotte had never spoken in such a manner before. Anna had never seen her so downcast and pale. She looked sick at heart, as if the world had treated her cruelly, and turned its back on her. “What happened to you in London?” she asked. “You have changed so much.”

Charlotte turned her head away and refused to speak another word.

On Christmas Eve, Mrs. Woodleigh rallied again. With Anna’s help, she sat up against her pillows, her face bathed in the weak sunshine of a cool, clear winter’s day. She even drank a few sips of fresh milk, more nourishment than she had managed for several days together.

Anna felt the blanket of misery lift some of its weight off her shoulders. Her mother was on the mend. With a heart feeling lighter than it had for many a day, she went through her chores, sweeping out the grate, making up the fire with the wood she had gathered the previous morning, and seeing to their small stock of food.

Charlotte arrived at midday, bringing with her a breath of crisp, fresh air and some fruit mince pies in honor of the season.

Anna was thankful the food, and even more she appreciated Mr. Melcott’s delicacy in sending it by Charlotte, rather than bringing it himself. She would feel awkward in accepting such gifts from a man whose proposal of marriage she had rejected, but from her cousin, there was no such awkwardness. She accepted them gratefully.

“A celebration,” Charlotte said with a sad face, as she placed them on a tray by Mrs. Woodleigh’s bed. “In honor of our Savior’s birth.”

Anna looked at her curiously. Charlotte looked pale and wan—not in the least as though she had anything to be happy about. “I did not think your uncle, being a strict Puritan, would observe Christmas in any way other than by prayer and fasting.”

“He does not keep Christmas in any fashion, but I could not let it go by without any notice at all. I begged the cook, dear old Goody Hepney, to make some mince pies for old time’s sake, and brought them over here to enjoy them with the two of you.”

Mrs. Woodleigh nodded her thanks and nibbled gingerly on the crust of one before putting it aside again. “I am not hungry now,” she said, with an apologetic look at Charlotte, “but I am sure I will enjoy it later.”

Anna took a mince pie and bit into the flaky crust, the buttery sweetmeat melting in her mouth and the richness of the fruit steeped in port wine luxuriously decadent on her tongue. She ate it with her eyes closed, the better to enjoy every bite, and then licked every crumb carefully from her fingers. “They are divine. My favorite Christmas treat.”

“You will have another occasion to enjoy them soon enough. My uncle has ordered some to be made for my marriage early in the new year.” Charlotte’s voice was flat and dead.

“Your marriage?” Anna and her mother both spoke at once. “To whom?”

“My uncle has arranged for me to wed a friend of his in the city. We shall be married in January, so he tells me, when the cold weather will mean that there is less business to be interrupted.”

Anna had not heard Charlotte had a suitor at all, let alone that her marriage was imminent. “Who is he?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t recall his name. Harris or Hethering, or some such name. It makes little difference.”

Surely her cousin was jesting. She would never agree to such a match. “You do not know him?”

“I have never met him. Apparently he is a merchant, well-off, with a house in Russell Square. What else should I need to know? I shall marry him and be done with it.”

There was no sign of a jest in Charlotte’s voice. She sounded resigned and weary, as if she had given up all hope for the future. Anna could not understand her resignation. If it were her, she would fight to the death against such a chancy union. “But how can you be so cool about marrying a stranger? What if you do not like him? What if he is unkind to you? If he drinks too much and beats you? What would you do then?”

“What can I do in any case? My uncle has arranged the marriage, and I have no way of preventing the match. If my husband-to-be is old, pock-marked and evil-tempered, I had rather not know it until I wed him. Until then, I can delude myself by imagining he might be a proper man whom I would not be ashamed to marry.”

“And if he is not?”

“Then I shall have to marry him anyway, or be beaten to death, or starve. My uncle is a harsh man. He will not brook my disobedience in this matter.”

Anna could not believe Mr. Melcott was as unbending as Charlotte pretended. He had been kind to her and her mother, although they had no claim on him beyond that of simple charity. “Have you no choice in the matter? Can you not delay the marriage until you know your betrothed to be an honest man? Or, if you do not fancy him, to give you time to find another man more to your liking, of whom your uncle would approve?”

“I have no choice, and I cannot afford to wait, even if my uncle were to allow it. He has offered me for sale, my betrothed has bought me, and that is an end of the matter. But in a way,” Charlotte said, a bitter smile on her face, “my marriage is perfectly fitting. In buying me, my husband may just find that he has received more of a bargain than he is reckoning on.”

“So you are decided? You will accept this betrothal?”

Charlotte nodded, her face full of determination. “I have no other way open to me. If only Tom had still been alive,” she murmured, turning away, and speaking so softly Anna could scarce hear her. “I would have been able to face whatever punishment for my misdeeds that God had thrown at me, with my head held high. But I cannot rely on him now. I must be strong and look out for my own.” With a sigh, she turned to Mrs. Woodleigh. “My only regret, my dear aunt, is that I will be forced to move to London and will no longer be here to help you.”

Mrs. Woodleigh sighed. “By the time you move to London, I fear I will be long gone.”

Her mother’s words sent a chill of fear skittering down Anna’s spine. “But you have been recovering,” she protested. “You will get better and better yet, and you will dance at Charlotte’s wedding.”

“Which is more than I will do myself,” Charlotte murmured, too quietly for her aunt to hear, but loud enough to be picked up by Anna’s quick ears.

“I am dying, my love,” Mrs. Woodleigh said, sadly. “I have known it for some time, but now my time is drawing rapidly to a close. I doubt I will have the strength to last out the sennight.”

“But you have been so well today.”

“God granted my wish to be able to talk with you again about what is on my mind before I left you. You turned down Mr. Melcott’s offer of marriage before, when you thought your cousin was still alive. I do not blame you for that—I know what you felt for him. Besides, even had you not loved him so well as you did, you had given your word and could not break it with honor. But now Tom is dead, and I will not last much longer. I fear I will leave you destitute when I am gone, as the annuity I owned, and which has kept us fed and clothed since your father’s death, dies with me. I will be leaving you all alone. Even dear Charlotte is to be married, and will be going to London with her new husband.”

“I will insist that Anna accompany me wherever I go,” Charlotte said stoutly, as she took Anna’s hand in hers. “She need not worry I will abandon her.”

“I would prefer to have her settled in the world before I die,” Mrs. Woodleigh said, “rather than to leave her dependant on your goodwill, particularly when you yourself will be dependant on the goodwill of your new husband. I would not have Anna cause strife between the two of you so early in your married life.”

Charlotte’s smile looked rather sick. “I am quite sure that the presence of Anna will be the least of my husband’s worries.”

“Mr. Melcott seems a good man, Anna. He loves the Lord well. Mayhap he is more severe than he needs to be on occasion, but he acts according to his conscience, and no one can ask for more than that.”

Charlotte’s smile looked sicker than ever. “Uncle Melcott wants to marry you, Anna?”

“He has offered to marry me, as much to give me a home as for any other reason,” Anna said. “I refused him.”

“Please, I wish you to think again on your refusal, my dear. I would not have you marry a man you disliked, but neither would I leave you friendless and destitute if I can prevent it.”

“What say you, Charlotte?” Anna asked. “Would it not be passing strange for me to become your aunt as well as your cousin?”

She had expected Charlotte to laugh off her remark, but, to her surprise, Charlotte considered it carefully before speaking. “I do not like my Uncle Melcott,” she said at last. “His is a harsh, cold, unforgiving nature. He has ever disliked my willfulness and what he calls my wild ways, and would beat them out of me, if he could. You are better-natured than I am and deal with him well. If he is fond of you, you may have an easier life with him than ever I could.”

“So you would have me wed him?”

“I would not condemn in you what I have accepted for myself,” Charlotte said, her voice unutterably sad. “One does what one must for survival—and you must survive along with the rest of us. If you decide, for whatever reason, to marry my uncle, I will be the first to wish you health and happiness.”