The Beloved One (17 page)

"Amy has enough to do without exercising a horse, son."

"Aye, she does.  And this might not be my place, Pa, but I think it's high time that Millie and Ophelia did some of their own washing and mending."  He raised his chin.  "Amy never gets to have any fun, and it just isn't fair."

Sylvanus sighed and gazed at the closed door, beyond which sat their silent guest.  He knew his son was right; he also knew that all chaos would break loose if he imposed such a ruling on his daughters, both of whom would object, and most violently at that.  It had been hard enough just to get them each to cook a meal one day a week.  He wished his Mary were here to guide him.  He wished he had the patience and energy to stand up to their whining tantrums; and above all, he wished he could get them married off.  Despite their beauty, despite the well-spokenness their gently-bred mother had insisted that all her girls possess, there had been no takers, and lately, he had begun to wonder if there ever would be.

Especially since they were no longer interested in Newburyport's eligible young men, but only in the handsome English captain, for whom they might as well not even exist.

Will was still standing there, waiting.

"Very well then, son.  Go to my brother and fetch the horse, but you are to come immediately back, is that understood?"  He levelled a warning stare on his son from over the top of his spectacles.  "No stopping anyplace along the way, no joining any fighting, and no hobnobbing with the countryfolk.  I have not forgotten the
last
time I allowed you to go to my brother's," he added, ruefully.

"I swear, Pa, I'll come right back.  I've got no stomach for fighting anymore, I swear it, I don't."

"You don't need to
swear
to convince me.  Just go, come right back, and be safe."

"Thank you, Pa — I just know this'll bring the captain 'round."

Will turned on his heel and made for the door.

"And Will?"

The boy stopped.

"One more thing.  As you pointed out, Amy has enough to do around here.  Therefore, you, not Amy, will be the one taking care of the animal.  It will be your responsibility."

Will raised his head and squarely met his father's gaze.  "No, Pa.  'Twill be the captain's responsibility.  He may be blind, but there's nothing stopping him from taking care of his own horse."

And with that he left, leaving his father staring after him.

He left for Woburn that evening.  And the following afternoon, the two letters that Lord Charles had been awaiting for so long, finally arrived.

Chapter 11

Sylvanus was off visiting a sick parishioner, Will hadn't been around since morning, and Amy had gone to market.  Thus, it was the sisters who came back from town with the post.

"Why, Ophelia, would you look at this!  Not one, but
two
letters for Lord Charles, and one all the way from England!"

Instantly, he was on his feet.

"And what a fancy envelope — do you think it's from the
duke
?"

"I don't know, Millie, but that sure does look like a impressive seal on the back . . ."  And then, Ophelia's voice dropping to a whisper, "Hurry, let's bring them to him now, before Amy gets back.  Maybe if
we're
the ones to do him this small favor, he'll pay us more attention!"

They charged into the room.  "Lord Charles, two letters have come for you and one's from England!  Do you want us to read them to you?"

"Oh yes, please Lord Charles, you never let us do anything for you and we'd be honored to perform this small kindness —"

"Where is Amy?"

Ophelia made a scoffing noise.  "In town, no doubt trying to decide between cod and flounder for tonight's stew."

Charles stood unmoving.  The letters were personal and he didn't want anyone but Amy to know what was in them — especially the one from Juliet.  But Amy was not here.  Amy wouldn't be back for a while.  And Charles knew, much to his dismay, that he had neither the will nor the patience to wait for her return.

He walked across the room and leaned against the open door, keeping his back to the two girls.  "Go on then," he said quietly.  "Open and read the one from England."

"What about the other, Lord Charles?  Don't you want to know what's in that one as well?"

"I think I shall save that one for later."

He heard them breaking the seal, unfolding the letter, and Ophelia clearing her throat as she prepared to read.  He swallowed, hard, overcome by such a flood of gratitude and relief that it nearly overwhelmed him. 
Thank you, Lucien.  And thank God for you.  I knew that you would come for me . . .  knew that you, and my family, would never let me down.

He leaned his cheek against the cool wood of the doorjamb and closed his eyes.

And then Ophelia began to read.

"My dear Charles," she said, her voice sing-song with excitement, "You cannot imagine my distress and disappointment when I learned of your recent exploits and injury at Concord.  As you well know —"

She paused abruptly.

"Go on," Charles urged.

"I, uh . . . don't know if you want to hear the rest," she said slowly.

He frowned and straightened up, turning on his heel to face them.  "Don't be absurd, of course I want to hear the rest.  He's my brother, for heaven's sake."

Dear God, has something happened to one of my family?

Silence, and Charles could sense the two of them exchanging glances.  Hesitating.  Growing uneasy.  A tingle of apprehension settled itself in the base of his spine.

And then Ophelia continued.  ". . . As you well know," she read softly, "you have always been the pride of our family, the one upon whom rested our hopes of glory.  When you left for those godforsaken colonies, I felt confident in knowing that you would do me, and our family, proud.  But it was not to be.  I am embarrassed by your performance at Concord, humiliated by your actions in battle, and disappointed that you — you of
all
people — have brought only shame upon us, when I sent you away with the highest expectations of honour.  Had you sustained such a grievous injury whilst fighting a worthy opponent, I would be inclined to be more forgiving, but the knowledge that you brought on your miseries by your own clumsiness, poor judgement, and hesitation, grieves me to no end.  I expected more from you, my brother.  More from you than everyone else in this family combined.  You have disappointed me, you have disappointed our family, and you have disappointed the village that sent you away with such pride and high hopes.  In closing, I hope you can understand that while you will always have a home here at Blackheath, my own feelings are such that I cannot come personally to America to bring you back.  I am sure you'll understand, and I wish you well in your recuperation.  Until such time as we meet again . . . "

Charles stood frozen.

"Signed, Blackheath."

Silence, as Charles numbly tried to digest what he'd just heard.  And then:

"He signed it
Blackheath
?!"

"Well, yes . . ."

Not Lucien.  Not Luce. 
Blackheath.
  Crushed, he wiped a hand over his face and pushed himself away from the doorjamb, feeling as though everything he'd ever believed in had just been ripped out from under him.  This was a bad dream.  This could not be happening.  Lucien would never do this to him, never, not in a million years!

"There must be some mistake . . ."  He shook his head and took a few aimless steps, trying to deny the terrible words.  "I cannot believe he would be so cruel . . ."

Mildred's voice gentled with sympathy.  "I read the letter just as he wrote it, Lord Charles.  Do you want me to read it again?"

As if he could bear to hear those damning words repeated!  As if he could stand the pain of such a brutal knife to the heart all over again!  "No," he ground out, pressing two fingers to his brow.  "No, thank you, once is quite enough."  And as he turned away from what he knew must be their curious stares, he felt a desperation that scared him, a raw torrent of pain clawing at his heart, making his throat so tight it ached with desperate, unshed emotion. 
Amy.
  God help him, he wanted Amy, needed Amy, with an intensity he could no longer explain or ignore.

He straightened up and it was a compliment to his self-control that he managed to keep his voice perfectly calm, his expression perfectly still.  "Please — will you tell me when your sister will return?"

"Around five.  But really, Lord Charles, why wait for her when we're here to read the other letter for you?"

He shook his head, desperate to escape before his rising emotions tore him apart and embarrassed him.  Wordlessly, he held out his hand for both letters, shoved them into his pocket, and, pausing only long enough to pick up his walking stick, strode out the door.

"Lord Charles?" called Ophelia, her voice anxious with worry.

He didn't answer, wanting only to get away from them, to get away from everyone, and find a place to be alone until he could come to terms with what his brother had written.

He did not know where he was going.  People yelled at him to get out of the street, to mind the carriages rushing past, to have a care where he was walking . . .

I expected more from you . . . than everyone else in this family combined.  You have disappointed me, you have disappointed our family, and you have disappointed the village that sent you away with such pride and high hopes.

And that was the worst of it, because he had never disappointed anyone in his life, and the word hung suspended before him like a blazing sun on a hot summer afternoon:

Disappointed.  Disappointed.  Disappointed.

Cool wind now, and the scent of salt marshes as he neared the river.  Gulls screaming, and the high-pitched cry of the sandpipers.  And somewhere very near, the mighty river itself.  Charles could hear it.  He could smell it.  A mile to the east, it widened into the broad basin in which Mira had come to such grief, swept majestically around the western side of Plum Island, and gave itself up into the embrace of the Atlantic.  Or so everyone said.

He heard water surging against the pier, burbling and sucking around upright wood.  The tide must be high.  The cane swinging before him, he stepped out onto the pier and began to walk.  His footsteps sounded hollow on the planking, and through his soles he could feel the swift outgoing tide thrumming against the supports as though trying to carry away the whole lot.

He walked as far out as he could go.  When he reached the end of the pier he sat down, and, turning his face into the salty breeze, pulled out Lucien's letter, the initial tide of pain subsiding as he tried to understand why his brother had treated him so cruelly.

He smoothed the heavy vellum.  What could have driven Lucien to be so lacking in compassion for the one brother he'd always regarded as an equal, the one brother who had never given him any trouble at all, the one brother that had been groomed since birth to take over as duke should anything happen to him?

And then it came to him.

Had his depression, self-disgust, and crushing sense of failure — all things that the old Charles had never known — come through in the words he'd dictated that night in his letter to Lucien?

Probably.  And if not, Lucien was more than capable of reading between the lines.

"Why . . . you conniving
bastard
, you," he swore, partly in admiration, and partly in mounting anger.  The devil take him, why hadn't he seen it before?  Lucien, with his manipulating games!  Playing off people's emotions to get them to do his bidding!  Was it conceivable that he'd employ such tactics on him, Charles? 
Would
he?  Lucien had never done so in the past, had never had any reason to do so — but Charles had seen him practice it countless times upon his two younger brothers, and once or twice upon his sister, and now, as he sat there on the pier and considered this new possibility, he became increasingly certain that Lucien was doing exactly the same thing to him.

The knowledge stung.

It hurt.

And most of all, it insulted.

"How
could
you?!"  Charles crushed the letter in his fist, anger blazing through him.  "Do yyou think that by wounding me with your insults, you can restore me to the man I once was?  I may be blind, damn it, but I can see exactly what you're trying to do and I don't appreciate it!"  The anger moved out into his fingers, making them tremble; into his head, resurrecting the pounding ache that was so easily called back during moments of stress.  "You and I have always regarded each other with dignity, friendship and respect, but you have cut me to the quick with this, Lucien!  I thought that you of all people would understand what I'm feeling . . .  That you, of all people, would understand the hell in which I've spent the past two months."  He drove his knuckles into his useless eyes.  "You have let me down, and this, when I have never needed you more.  The hell with you, then. 
The hell with you!
"

Balling the letter in his fist, he hurled it far out over the water and buried his head in his hands.  And as he sat there vowing never to return to England if this was a sampling of the treatment his older brother had in store for him, he heard someone calling him.

His head jerked up.

Amy.

Feelings he could neither explain nor rationalize crashed over him and in that moment, he wanted only the comfort of her touch, the balm of her presence, and God help him, God forgive him, the surrounding warmth of her arms.  He rose to his feet as her light footsteps came running down the pier.

"Charles, what is wrong?  What are you doing out here?  Do you know how close you are to the edge?"

"I got a letter from Lucien," he bit out in a voice hoarse with pain and anger, and it was all he could do not to reach out for her, all he could do not to walk into the embrace he knew she would never hold back.  "He has rejected me.  Insulted me.  Affirmed the shame I've been struggling to overcome for the past miserable months . . ."