The Bride's Secret (29 page)

A moment later, James limped to the farmhouse door and knocked.

A white-headed man in homespun answered, a questioning look on his face.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” James croaked, “but I've been injured in a fall from my horse and would like to pay for a night's lodging at your home.”

The farmer swept the door open wider. “Yer welcome to it, sir, though I cannot vouch for the cleanliness of the linens. The children's room ain't been used since me missus died. Course our children are old enough to have sired ye,” he said with a laugh.

James stumbled through the doorway.

“Can I help see to yer wounds?” the old man asked.

James shook his head. “If you'll just direct me to the bed . . .” He had barely enough energy to talk.

“This way,” the man said, leading James up the dark, narrow stairway.

When the man lit James a candle and set it beside the bed in “the children's” room, James thanked him and collapsed onto the bed.

He slept like the dead until morning and woke up feeling refreshed and a great deal better than he had the night before. Then he moved. The bruises on his back and head screamed. Bracing against the pain, he removed himself from the damp, lumpy bed and went downstairs.

There, the farmer was preparing a breakfast of tongue, trout and toast—as he informed James.

James could eat a horse. “May I lend you a hand?” he asked the farmer.

“Not a gent like yerself. Dare say ye've never been in no kitchen in yer life.”

James chuckled. “I've been in a kitchen, though I dare say I don't know my way around one.”

The old man sighed. “Day was when I didn't. But then me Betty died. Married eight and thirty years, we were.”

“You must miss her very much.”

“That I do.” The farmer scooped up the trout and set it on two plates, then he glanced at James. “You married?”

James's stomach plummeted as he barely nodded.

The host filled the plates and set them on the table in front of James. “Not fancy food like a gentleman of quality such as yerself is used to,” he said apologetically.

“My dear man, this is the most welcome meal I've ever had.” Then James set about stabbing the trout with his fork.

The farmer's appetite was not nearly as great as James's. A glance over his rail-thin frame confirmed the likelihood that this morning's feast was not customary.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” James said after a sip of cold cream. “I'm James Moore.” No sense flustering the man with his title.

The farmer nodded. “Me name's Tilburn. Michael Tilburn.”

“Where are we?”

“Two hours from Bath.”

He never would have lasted those two hours last night, James thought. He dove back into his plate. Once it was clean, he directed his attention at his host. “I thank you for your generosity, Mr. Tilburn. That's the best breakfast I've ever had.”

The old man chuckled. “Ye must have been sorely hungry. A pity me Betty passed. Now there was a cook.” He eyed James. “How long ye been wed?”

James gave a bitter laugh. “Only a few months.”

The farmer's eyes scanned James. “Allow an old man to give advice. When me Betty died, I was filled with regrets. All the words I wanted to tell her I would never be allowed to say. The petty little arguments had caused a friction that I'd allowed to fester. Then before I knew it, she was gone, and I realized none of those disagreements mattered. All that mattered was that I had loved her with all me heart and had never told her.”

He gazed solemnly at James. “Don't ever go to be mad with yer wife.”

The man's eyes moistened, and James knew he had better look away, or he would end up exactly like his host.

Before he left Mr. Tilburn's house, James gave him a sovereign with profound thanks.

By the time James reached the Sheridan Arms Hotel in Bath, Mannington, who had brought James's clothing in the coach, was beside himself with worry and extremely relieved when his master at last arrived.

The first thing James did upon his arrival was to crash into the fat feather mattress and sleep for nearly a full day. When he finally awoke, pain surged through him. Not just the pain from the bruises on his back or the swelling on his head, but the unending pain of knowing the Carlotta he had fallen in love with was lost to him forever.

James was in Bath for several days, venturing no further than the public houses which offered the spirits he had come to require.

Two days' distance separated him from Carlotta and still thoughts of her stormed through him. He had been so blessedly close to perfect happiness he had touched it, tasted it, but it was too elusive.

James had been woefully inept in thinking he could purge Carlotta from his thoughts merely by removing himself from her presence. Her hold on him was strong. Barely a moment passed without him remembering her sweet lavender scent, or the purring sound of her seductive voice or the smooth feel of her bare flesh. She had penetrated into his mind and body like ink on a blotter.

When night would come he would lie in his bed and torture himself with visions of Carlotta writhing beneath Gregory Blankenship. He came to loath both of them.

During his second week in Bath, he ventured into the Pump Room and signed the book, not that he expected anything to come of it. After all, he was not a social creature. He had been content to retire to the country with the woman he loved.

Rage swept over him. Now he knew why Carlotta had no friends in Bath, why she had been so anxious to remove him from the city. He felt utterly duped.

While he was perusing the names in the book, Gregory Blankenship strolled up to him. It was all James could do not to send his fist crashing into the man's face.

“Lord Rutledge!” Blankenship said. “I don't suppose you remember me.” He swept into a bow. “Gregory Blankenship—from Boodles.”

James's eyes could have burned through the scoundrel. “I do.”

“Felicitations on your recent nuptials. I read the announcement in the
Times
.”

“I also remember you from Rundel & Bridges,” James said viciously.

“The necklace!”

“Exactly.” James spit out the words.

Blankenship looked behind him, then turned back to Gregory. “Where can we speak?”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then you know . . .”

“I know I should like to run a sword through you.”

Blankenship hung his head. “It's not what you think, my lord. Mrs. Ennis was a virtuous woman,” he almost whispered.

“You will never force me to believe the great womanizer Gregory Blankenship did not bed my wife,” James said icily.

Blankenship looked around nervously once more. “From the beginning, she made it clear she would settle for nothing less than marriage. It wasn't what you think.”

God, but James wanted to believe the man, but Carlotta herself had admitted her culpability. “I refuse to discuss my wife with you,” James said, then spun on his heel and left the lofty chamber.

Chapter 29

Her son accompanying her, Carlotta attended Sunday services at the little church located on the other side of Bagworthy Wood. It was the only time she got a glimpse of the miners with their faces clean. During the service, Carlotta was prohibited from viewing many other churchgoers because the Rutledge family pew was at the front of the church.

Afterwards, she joined those who had gathered outside in front of the church doors. Her eyes fell on Mrs. Covington's toddler son, who held up his arms for his mother to hold him, but his mother's hands were already full with Daniel.

Carlotta bent to pick up the boy, who was still a baby, but he was frightened of her. She then held out her arms to Mrs. Covington, “Allow me to hold Daniel.”

After giving the infant to Carlotta, Mrs. Covington picked up the little lad, who could not yet be two. Despite the sorrow on the widow's face and the pain she had to be going through, Carlotta was strangely jealous of her, for Mrs. Covington had borne nine children—nine wonderful children—for the man she had loved. Her riches were far greater than Carlotta's. Carlotta hugged Daniel to her.

Affectionately stroking the infant and planting soft kisses on top the downy hair on top his head, Carlotta made it a point to greet as many miners as she knew by name and others she knew only by sight.

“Tell me it ain't so that Lord Rutledge has left Exmoor,” one of the miners said to her.

“Lord Rutledge may not be here physically, but be assured my husband's here in spirit. The miners are never far from his heart. If it were at all possible for to be here, he would.” Another evasive answer, which she had become so adept at giving as of late.

After visiting with the parishioners, she and Stevie got into the carriage. Though they had walked to church the week before, Carlotta thought not to today in order to keep Stevie from being outdoors more than necessary. He had been coughing and sneezing, and—fearing he would take a chill—she meant to keep him indoors.

He sat on the opposite seat from her. “Come sit by your mama, love,” she said soothingly.

He came and sat close to her, tucking his head into her bosom. Her arm slipped around him. Was there anything on earth as fulfilling as feeling your arms around your child? she wondered. She went to stroke the hair from his forehead, and her hand came into contact with skin as hot as a fire screen. “Oh, dear, you're burning up, lad! Why did you not tell me how sick you were?”

“I'm not sick, he protested,” his teeth chattering. “Ju-ju-just cold.”

She swept off her own cloak and wrapped him in it, taking his little hand into hers. “We need to get you home and into bed, lamb.” Her hands ran up and down his thin arms in an effort to warm him.

She glanced down at his listless face and his drooping lashes, and she became frightened. She had never seen Stevie when he did not have boundless energy.

The ride back to Yarmouth seemed interminably long. She kept patting his arm, his shoulder, kept kissing the top of his head, all the while a sick feeling gnawing in the pit of her stomach. Other—more experienced—mothers might not react as she did, but since this was her first time to care for her own sick child, she was, perhaps unnecessarily, worried. Was it normal for her poor little one to run a fever? What a wretched mother she had been not to know more of her child's background.

When the coach pulled up in front of Yarmouth, Carlotta did not wait for the footman to open the carriage door. She swept it open and reached back to lift up her son. She carried him into the house and up the stairs to his chamber, ignoring pleas from the footmen who wished to take the lad off her hands.

She placed Stevie on his new red bed covering and stooped to remove his shoes, then his small clothes. She tucked him beneath the covers and kissed him. “What you need, lamb, is sleep. By tomorrow, you'll likely be back to your normal self.”

“Mama?” he whispered in a croak.

She leaned into him. “What, my love?”

“It feels so good to be lying here.”

“I know, my sweet.”
If only it could be I
. 'Twas far too painful to see her son so incapacitated. Especially now that she had already lost James. James, who would have been such a help at a time like this. She must not allow herself to think of James. She had schooled herself to push thoughts of him from her mind to enable herself to function here at Yarmouth in his absence. If she had allowed herself to remember the love she felt for James or the bliss he had given her or the emptiness now inside her, she never would have been able to perform her duties.

Carlotta could not bring herself to leave Stevie's bedside. The footmen must have talked about her dramatic entry, for soon Miss Kenworth flew into the room, concern on her face. “My lady! What's wrong with Master Stephen?”

It felt good to share her concerns with another adult. “He's burning with fever, even though I made him take the carriage to church—because of his cough. I dare say, he'll be back to his old rambunctious self by tomorrow.”

Miss Kenworth's brows lowered as she stepped closer. “I told him he needed a coat yesterday, but he would have no part of one.” Her face clouded. “Oh, 'tis my fault, I fear.”

“It's no one's fault,” Carlotta said sternly. “The child merely has taken a chill.”

Miss Kenworth turned to Carlotta. “Don't worry about Master Stephen, my lady. I'll stay here with him.”

Carlotta nodded, kissed her son and left his newly painted chamber, smiling at his color choice of ruby red.

Since it was Sunday, she could not even indulge herself by working in the garden, but she could at least walk its paths. And hope that James did not converge upon her thoughts too greatly. Sweet Jesus, but she missed him. Not a day had passed that she did not think of something she wanted to share with him. And she dare not allow herself to remember his voice or his smile or his debilitating touch.

She strolled the myriad of dissecting paths, unable to purge the man who had been her husband from her thoughts. Where was he? Was he ever going to return to Yarmouth? Did he ever spare a thought for her or for Stevie? Her stomach tumbled. Would she ever again behold him?

Even if they could never recapture what they had shared, she yearned to once more see him. To behold him would be balm to her soul.

In the event he did not return, she needed to start making arrangements for the running of Yarmouth and the mines. Even if it was not her place to do so. It would be better were he to come home.

When he returned—if he did—she knew she would have to leave Yarmouth. She and Stevie both. For Yarmouth wasn't theirs, even if they had grown to think of it as their home. She and Stevie would find a little cottage somewhere and accept a modest settlement from the man who had caused Stephen Ennis's death.

If only they could find a way not to miss James so horribly.

“Good afternoon, my lady.”

She turned to see Mr. Fordyce. She had not even heard him approach. “Hello, Mr. Fordyce.”

“Would you object to me walking with you?”

“Please do. I always love sharing my garden, and I daresay I could use the company, too. Things have grown rather lonely here at Yarmouth without my husband.”