The Temporary Betrothal (24 page)

“It seems to me that is worth fighting for,” Harriet said
softly. “You shouldn’t give up so easily if he had such a profound effect on
your life.”

“What would you have me do? Rush to Bath and beg his
forgiveness?” Really, sometimes Hattie didn’t think things through, sensible as
she usually was.

“I would at least send a letter,” Harriet replied crisply,
sitting up straighter and dislodging Sophie from her shoulder. “Tell him how you
feel. Did you not aid and abet me in my pursuit of John? Surely I have earned
the right to meddle in your affairs.”

“Very well.” Sophie sighed, pulling the coverlet up higher.
Harriet was right. There was probably more dignity in writing, too, since she
had more time to consider what she must say. And though writing was never her
passion or her interest, she did have a famous novelist for a sister. Surely
Hattie could be persuaded to help her put her thoughts on paper. “I shall work
on a letter in the morning.”

“And you’ll post it in the afternoon,” Harriet replied in her
bossiest tone. “I shall see to it.” She heaved herself off the bed with some
difficulty.

“I’m sorry I awakened you, Hattie,” Sophie said as she snuggled
against the pillows. “Can you go back to sleep?”

“I’ll try. I haven’t been sleeping well, so you really didn’t
wake me up. I cannot find a comfortable way to sleep with this large ball I have
strapped around my middle.” She patted her stomach thoughtfully. “Good
night.”

“Good night, dearest Hattie.” Sophie blew out the candle as her
sister left. Now she had to think of the right words to say—words of love and
warmth that would ease the pain of her last meeting with Charlie.

It was a formidable task, indeed.

Chapter Twenty-Four

’T
was a mere hour and a half carriage ride
to Tansley Village from Brightgate. All one needed to do was begin driving east
toward Matlock. If Charlie struck out this morning as he intended, then he would
be at Brookes Park in time for luncheon. It was the last leg of his journey, and
while it was so close at hand, every moment would be an eternity.

He dressed with haste and packed his few bags while the hired
hack was brought around to the front of the house. He extracted the ring Sophie
had returned that terrible day at the inn, the ring he had kept in a box in his
study for these past few weeks. The jewels flashed in the early morning light,
dignified and refined. His grandmother and grandfather had not been as wealthy
as his parents, but they spent the money they earned very well. This ring was
presented to his grandmother late in life, when his grandfather had sealed a
particularly good shipping deal. That accounted for the gem’s large size, and
the modern style of its setting. It had looked particularly good on Sophie when
it was hers. ’Twas time to see it on her hand once more.

He carried his bags down the mahogany staircase and deposited
them at the front door.

“Charles? Is that you?” Mother called from the breakfast
room.

“It is, Mother. I am about to strike out for Tansley.”

“Come in here, my boy. I have something for you.”

Charlie resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. Impatience to
get on the road fairly sizzled through his being. He had no time for his
mother’s little anecdotes or words of wisdom. And yet, one still had to respect
family.

He entered the breakfast nook and eyed his mother. Her lace
cap—a particularly elaborate affair she had purchased in London, all trimmed out
with purple roses—bobbed up from her breakfast plate of shirred eggs and
bacon.

“This came for you in the post yesterday. I only just saw it.”
She flicked a letter down the length of the table at him.

Charlie picked it up. The letter crackled. It was written on a
strange, brittle paper, rather like woven bits of tree bark. He unfolded it
slowly, taking care not to break it. The vellum was covered in a spidery
handwriting—so thin he had to squint to read it.

“Is it from your uncle Arthur?” Mother trilled. “I would
recognize his ghastly handwriting anywhere.”

Charlie’s brow lowered as he tried to make out the words. “I
think it’s from him. I am having a terrible time making sense out of anything he
wrote. Can you read it, Mother? Since you are more familiar with his
handwriting.” He cast the letter back over to her.

Mother pulled out her lorgnette and held it up to the vellum.
“Arthur is doing well,” she replied. “Oh, my dear Charlie—he has such news for
you!”

“Well, then read it, Mother.” Really, this was getting beyond
tiresome.

“‘My dear nephew,’” Mother read aloud. “‘Your mother wrote to
me about your work with the veterans of Bath. As a military man myself, and a
wounded veteran at that, I applaud your efforts. Originally I was to make you my
heir if you wed. But the more I consider the matter, the more convinced I am
that you must continue to do your good work without fear of having to earn an
independent income or the pressures of providing for a family.’” Mother broke
off, pursing her lips. She was drawing it out for dramatic effect. Depend on
Mother to go in for drama at just such a crucial moment.

“Go on,” Charlie replied tersely. He wasn’t enjoying this one
bit. His heart pounded in his chest.

“‘I am, therefore, providing you with the sum of two thousand
pounds per annum so that you may live and marry where you choose while
continuing your work with the veterans. I do ask that you write often to me and
keep me apprised of your progress. I shall send a letter to my solicitor in
Matlock, who will make the funds available to you. God bless you, my nephew.
With affection, Uncle Arthur.’”

The life drained out of his legs. He sank into a chair. His
mouth hung open—he was gawking, but couldn’t help himself. “What does this
mean?” he asked gruffly.

“It means, my dear son, that you no longer have to worry about
pleasing anyone. Your uncle has made you independent. You may marry Sophie, help
the widows, help your veterans, and never have to worry about Robert paying you
a farthing.” Mother folded the letter crisply and slid it across the polished
surface of the table.

Charlie halted its progress with the tips of his fingers. “But
why? I don’t understand.”

“Have you been helping others for so long that you have
forgotten what it is like to be blessed yourself? This is your uncle’s decision.
I knew I was doing the right thing in telling him of your engagement and your
work with the soldiers.” Mother beamed. “Now run along to Tansley. Your future
bride is waiting.” She shooed him with a playful wave of her hand.

Charlie rose, shaking his head. “Can this even be legal,
Mother? How can I be his beneficiary?”

“He has no wife, no children. We don’t share any other brothers
and sisters, you know. His great wealth is his to do with as he pleases. And he
has decided to settle it on you.” Mother straightened her cap and turned her
attention back to her cup of tea. “Be gone, Charlie. You are wasting
daylight.”

“I know I have received a gift, but I don’t know how to show my
gratitude.” Charlie turned toward the door. “Mother, surely you had no idea
about this. I feel certain you must be as befuddled as I am.”

Mother shrugged. “It’s Arthur’s money to do with as he sees
fit. After all, he has no heirs. And for him to give the money to you because he
admires your life’s purpose is most gratifying. And of course, it clears the
path so you may marry Sophie.” Mother smiled brightly. “I have always liked
Sophie. Such impeccable breeding. Such a fine old family.”

Ah, there was the real Moriah Cantrill. Charlie couldn’t
suppress the smile that crept across his face.

“Thank you, Mother.”

“You are welcome, son. Now, go forth and betroth yourself to a
Handley gel.”

* * *

The miles between Brightgate and Tansley rolled by
achingly slow, and Charlie read and reread Uncle Arthur’s missive at least a
dozen times on the journey. He was able to pick out the words now that Mother
had interpreted his uncle’s messy, thin handwriting. What she read was true.
Uncle Arthur was providing him with a fortune so he could continue his work with
the veterans and widows in Bath.

That part of his future was settled. But what lay ahead, he had
no clue. The carriage bounced and jolted along the rocky road that led to
Tansley, and with each bump Charlie racked his brain for a way to approach
Sophie. Would she be willing to receive him, or would she send him away without
deigning to say even a simple good afternoon?

Really, charging into battle was more certain than this morning
would be. At least one knew what to expect in battle. His mind drifted back to
La Sainte Haye—the stench of gunpowder, the groans of the injured, the screaming
horses. And then—blackness. So often, he had been ashamed of the fact that he
had fainted from his injury. Was he less of a man because he had given way to
unconsciousness? Should he have been left to die there on the battlefield? Why
did his men save him, only to return to the battle and die themselves?

Whatever God’s reason for sparing him, Charlie was determined
to continue living in a manner that both glorified Him and helped Charlie’s
comrades. And now, thanks to Uncle Arthur, he could continue doing so. But that
life seemed quite austere and cheerless and cold without the prospect of Sophie
Handley in it.

As the carriage continued its interminable journey east,
Charlie prayed. He prayed as he never had a chance to during the battle. For
wisdom, for courage and, most of all, for love. There was nothing he could do
without love. He realized that now—his entire work and life’s purpose was built
around giving back love.

The carriage entered the Park gates and continued meandering up
the long gravel driveway that banked to a tight C-shape in front of the massive
stone facade of the house. He had not been here in many months, and yet nothing
had changed so far as he could tell. This house was as dignified as his mother’s
home was smug. Despite his uncertainty, Brookes Park welcomed him.

He quit the carriage as soon as it halted. “I’ll send someone
down to attend the horses,” he called over his shoulder to the coachman.

A pair of boots crunched on the gravel. “I’ll see to them,” a
familiar, rough voice called.

Charlie turned, a grin breaking across his face. How good to
see Stoames. “Ho there, my good man,” he called.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. How are you doing? The captain
wasn’t expecting you, was he? He didn’t mention your visit to me this morning.”
Stoames held out his weather-beaten hand.

Charlie grasped his had warmly. “My visit is a surprise, I must
confess. Is the captain at home?”

Stoames nodded. “He’s in the study, working on his morning
ledgers.” He coughed and then lowered his voice. “Mrs. Brookes and Miss Sophie
have walked into the village.” He cocked a knowing glance at Charlie, a half
smile tugging at his lips.

A rush of heat swept over Charlie, and he was powerless to
fight it. He was blushing like a schoolboy, but there was nothing he could do
about it now. “Oh, yes. I’ll go see the captain right away, then.”

“Need me to do a bit of announcing?” Stoames eyed him warily.
“From what I gathered, the captain is not exactly pleased with your family right
now.”

Ah, just as he had suspected. And Brookes had a formidable
temper when provoked. He would have to proceed with caution. “No, thank you,
Stoames. Brookes is right to be upset. But I have come to make amends.”

“Very good, Lieutenant.” Stoames bowed respectfully and
indicated the house with a wave of his hand. “In that case, you know the way to
the study.”

“I do.” As Charlie mounted the steps, he racked his brains for
a way to talk to Brookes without infuriating him further. He was right to be
upset.

Charlie’s boots rang hollowly on the parquet as he strode down
the hallway to the study. Were the tables turned, Charlie would have been
absolutely livid. It would take all his soldierly instinct and diplomacy to find
a way to broach the matter delicately.

He pushed open the study door, and paused on the threshold.
“What ho, Brookes?”

Brookes glanced up, his expression turning from mild surprise
to frank distaste upon seeing his old friend. “You—you blackguard,” he
thundered, coming around the desk with his unusual loping gait, the result of
his war injury. “How dare you show your face here, after breaking my
sister-in-law’s heart?”

Charlie held his hands up to signal a truce. “You are perfectly
right to plant me a facer, Brookes. But first, you should hear why I have
come.”

“The only way I could be angrier is if you brought that
scoundrel Bradbury with you,” Brookes roared, his face turning a darker shade of
red. “How dare you treat Sophie in that way?”

“Brookes, hark what I am saying.” Charlie took a step backward.
“I have come to make amends. After you hear me out, you can throw me out on my
ear, I promise.”

Brookes paused, clenching his teeth. A muscle in his jaw-line
twitched. “Very well. I will listen to you for five minutes. Not a second
more.”

“I’ll only need three.” With that, Charlie stepped into the
study and closed the door behind him.

* * *

“Aren’t you glad you posted the letter?” Harriet said in
her best elder-sister tone, as they neared the outskirts of the village, walking
arm in arm.

“Yes.” Sophie sighed. “But there is something so unseemly in
writing to Charlie. As though I am begging for his attention.”

“Don’t be so prideful,” Harriet admonished. “Pride has been the
downfall of many a person in our family. And besides, you said nothing you did
not mean. All you told him was how very grateful you are to have met him, and
how profoundly he changed your life. Would you be upset or mortified to receive
such a letter?” Harriet steered Sophie from the well-worn village path to the
sweet meadow grasses that led toward Brookes Park.

“No, I would not be angry to get a letter like that. Especially
not from Charlie.” But her inner coquette would not be shushed. It was the man’s
job to chase, and the woman’s job to dangle herself alluringly, just out of
reach enough to tantalize. She had been taught so from infancy, and it felt
wrong to go against that ingrained practice.

The sun was hidden behind some gathering clouds—another storm
was surely on the way. The two sisters trudged down the meadow, which smelled
sweetly damp as the long grasses were ruffled by the eastern wind. They walked
on in companionable silence, as Sophie grew absorbed in her thoughts.

Soon Brookes Park—familiar, safe, comfortable—loomed into view.
Sophie smiled as she gazed at it.

“I love it here.” She blurted the words out before she even
knew what she was saying.

“Hmm. I agree. As I once told John, I feel closer to God out
here, as though I can touch the sky. But I thought the splendors of Bath were
more in keeping with your style.” Harriet stumbled slightly as her skirts caught
in the moor grass. Sophie steadied her with a gentle hand and held her arm more
tightly.

“I once thought so. But no more. I love this gentle peace, the
sight of the clouds clustered on the horizon, the tiny waves that lap the mill
pond. Thank you for allowing me to stay at the Park. I cannot express my
gratitude enough.”

“Oh, Sophie. You know that the Park will always be your home,
no matter what the future holds.” Harriet squeezed her arm more tightly about
Sophie’s waist. “I would reserve your planning, though, until you have heard
back from the lieutenant.”