Charlotte did not know whether to be impressed or offended. But he was right—she was anxious. Very anxious. How could she not be? But even so, he was speaking as if he were an expert in the matter.
But that had always been his way. Confident and determined.
She had, at one time, considered that attribute attractive.
They all sat in quietude, and for several moments, a feeling similar to peace settled over Charlotte. But then Anthony stood again and stepped toward her.
He was going to hand Henry back.
Inside, she panicked, and every horrible scenario pummeled her. He could cry again. He could scream.
Before she knew what had happened, Anthony lowered Henry to her arms in one seamless transition, suckling bottle and all.
And just like that, Charlotte was feeding her son.
She dare not display the happiness surging through her, for she doubted either Sutcliffe or Anthony would understand it.
Charlotte leaned down and kissed the baby’s forehead as he ate.
She could do this.
Shewoulddo this.
She and Henry would not only survive at Hollythorne House, but they would also thrive. They would build their world and their family, and this was the first step.
Chapter12
Charlotte stood in the cold, formidable great hall, a rag tied over her plaited hair, an apron over her day gown of puce kerseymere, and a wooden bucket of water in her hand. Colorless light filtered through the hall’s front leaded windows, and beyond the wavy glass spread the courtyard and then the moorland, dressed in somber shades of slate and peat. She placed the bucket at her side and lifted a soaking rag from the liquid, wrung out the excess moisture, and pressed it against the pane. Years’ worth of dirt smeared and ran, and Charlotte hurried to wipe it before it fell to the stone floor.
Even in this mundane task, Hollythorne House’s silence struck her the most.
For the past three years she’d spent nearly every day next to the hustling Leeds streets, where carts and wagons crunched the cobbles at every hour, and harried people shouted and called to one another. It was not only city life that produced a constant hum, for within Wolden House existed an army of servants, always moving. Always watching. The ever-present throb of activity—not to mention the lack of solitude—had become thebackdrop to her life. But here, in a house that embodied isolation, she noticed the absence of both. Indeed, at the moment the only sound that met her ears was the house itself as it groaned and danced with the moorland gusts.
The previous day’s exhaustion had given way to a night of sleep, for not only her but Henry and Sutcliffe as well. The satisfaction of waking up in her childhood home quickly gave way to realization of the work that was before them.
After her mother’s death, Charlotte had helped her father manage the household, but at the time the loyal servants had been with Hollythorne House for so long that the daily routines were effortless. Then when she moved to Wolden House, Roland had been determined and single-minded, and as such he’d left no decision to her. Her clothing, her jewelry, even her daily routine had been subject to his whim.
Now, the knowledge that every decision moving forward was hers to make was invigorating. It was not the time for timidity. The sooner she could prove to Silas that Hollythorne House was an appropriate home for Henry, the sooner they all might have peace.
She returned her attention to the rag in her hand, submerged it in the soapy water, and faced the smudged windows. Roland would have considered this sort of work beneath her and would have been furious to see her engaged in such a task. None of the rules from the past applied now, for she had only two options: wait until her threadbare staff could get to cleaning or do it herself.
Once satisfied the pane was as clean as it could be, she moved to the one directly next to it, trying not to notice how many panesremained. Not only did the windows require cleaning but the furniture needed to be uncovered and dusted. Floors wanted sweeping. There was even a part of the roof that would require repairs. The longer she was at Hollythorne House, the more detailed the list of necessary tasks grew. And that was only the house itself. As owner of Hollythorne House she was now responsible for the tenants and the farmland to the east and south. She could only imagine how her duties would increase after she met with Mr. Greenwood, the steward.
After an hour of working, she wiped her hair from her brow and paused to assess her progress. Through the glass she noticed a figure emerging from the edge of the front stables and crossing into the courtyard.
She studied Anthony Welbourne at this safe distance, unobserved. His presence was not as jarring as it had been the previous day. She was by no means used to being around him again, but she was accepting it. Gone was any semblance of the gangly young man she’d so ardently adored. Before her now was a much more rugged man. His gait exuded a confidence that could only be attributed to experience—of what kind she was not exactly sure. His hair, which had always been cut short, was longer and gathered in a queue at the base of his neck. Even the curl of it conveyed a newfound rebellion.
Every time she’d heard news of the war with the United States, she wondered about him. The reports were highly publicized, gruesome, and bloody, and even if the stories had been only partly true, she could only guess as to what he’d endured.
In a sudden pivot Anthony changed direction and headedtoward the house. He lifted his gaze to the window where she was standing, and their eyes met for a fleeting second.
She withdrew immediately. Heat rushed to her face.
She’d been caught staring at him from a window.
He approached the main door, and it was clear there would be no avoiding him once he stepped across the porch and through to the screens passage.
She snatched off the rag covering her hair and swiped dirt away from the apron. In truth, she shouldn’t care that she was pale and her hair hung in her eyes. She had to remember the current state of things. He was a thief-taker—dark and enigmatic. She was a widow and a mother intent on independence and autonomy.
