“Charlotte.” He pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her and resting his chin in her curls. Whatever it was, he would help her with it. She would not have to face it alone. “Are you in trouble?”
She tipped her face upward, her expression the picture of resignation. “You’d better come inside.”
As they entered William’s apartment, John was hit with the stench of unwashed bodies, human waste, and vomit. It was not unlike parts of his trip from Boston back to England, when the wind was up and seasickness was high.
William was sitting in the corner of the room with his head lolled, his back against the wall, a blanket draped over him. At the other end of the room was a small palette. A young boy with red hair lay on it curled.
The boy sat up when the door clicked shut, rubbed at his eyes, and then jumped to his feet, giving a surprisingly snappy bow for somebody who was asleep ten seconds prior. He looked no more than fifteen years, yet he had the bearing of a military man.
“Good morning, m’lady.”
“Good morning, Private James. This is Lord Harrow.” Charlotte reached into her basket and removed the herbs, plant, and candles, placing them on a table. Then came packages of wrapped cloth that he hadn’t investigated. She handed them to the private, who clutched them eagerly and murmured his thanks. The boy unwrapped them, revealing blocks of cheese, cooked sausages, bread, and four pigeon pies.
Apparently, John wasn’t the only person Charlotte was feeding from the Wildeforde kitchens. He wondered if her brother had noticed the increase in his food bill.
The boy got to laying the table while Charlotte crossed to William, who was still lying in the corner. “Brother, it’s time to eat.”
Will’s eyes fluttered open. The look he gave his sister was full of contempt, and John wanted to smack the expression from him. Charlotte didn’t deserve that attitude from anyone.
She and the private dragged William upright and half carried him to a chair by the table. His breeches were split from hip to knee, revealing a wide bandage that spanned his entire upper leg.
“Perhaps today we can go for a carriage ride, my darling,” she said as she crossed the room. “I could ask Swinton to bring the landau so that you can get some fresh air. I’m sure that would help you feel better.” She pushed open the room’s only window.
William didn’t respond. He didn’t acknowledge John’s presence. He just pushed around the food on his plate without eating it.
It had been a long time since John had seen Wilde’s younger brother—close to a decade. Back then, William had been tall and full, a strapping lad who liked to eat, box, and mess about. Now he was gaunt. There were hollows beneath his cheekbones and the clothing he wore hung off him. He had the pallor of a man who’d experienced too much drink and too much pain.
Around him, Charlotte was placing candles on various pieces of furniture. Will didn’t react to any of it. He sat unresponsive in the chair, no doubt an effect of the half-empty bottle of laudanum on the shelf. Physicians were quick to prescribe the stuff, but John had seen how it could ravage a person, and he wondered how bad William’s injuries were and whether he still needed the pain relief. In John’s experience, it was better to endure some discomfort than to fall into the grip of opiates.
Charlotte continued to prattle on in a one-sided conversation about the lords and ladies of theton. John tensed as she spoke of the Mottram ball, even though he knew she would not tell her brother about their kiss.
Having placed all of her candles, Charlotte took two posies of dried herbs, held them to a candle until they were alight, and then smothered them until the flames no longer leapt and the posies simply smoldered, leaving a trail of smoke as she walked around the room.
That caught Will’s attention. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer, she just kept muttering a phrase in broken Latin over and over.
“What are you doing?” he demanded with more force.
The red-headed private spoke up. “I think she’s warding off your demons, Captain. I’ve seen my grandmother do it.”
“Don’t!” Will lunged for Charlotte.
John had never moved so fast in his life. He intercepted William before the boy could reach his sister, tackling him to the ground.
Charlotte gasped. William struggled for a moment, grunting in pain, but quickly gave up, his body going limp beneath John’s. The boy sobbed. “I deserve my demons. Don’t take them, please. Don’t take them from me. I deserve to be haunted.”
Charlotte’s hand flew to her mouth, her expression horrified, as though William’s words were more than a blow. They cut her deeply, and her small gasp nicked at John’s own heart.
Satisfied that the shaking lad beneath him posed no danger to her, John eased off him. “It’s all right, lad. We aren’t taking anything from you.” He pushed to his feet. With Private James’s help, he guided William back to the chair. The younger Stirling brother slumped over the table, his back heaving.
Charlotte rushed to him, stroking his hair. “Hush, brother. All will be well.”
John doubted it. He’d seen this before. War did awful things to people. It could destroy the mind just as easily as it could destroy the body. Except, unlike missing limbs, scars to the mind were impossible to see and just as impossible to heal.
For all of her love and commitment, Charlotte would not be enough to fix her brother the way she fixed everything else. The boy needed help that she couldn’t provide, no matter how much she loved him. No candles, no burning herbs could help someone overcome this level of trauma.
John stood and went to each candle, snuffing them out. He was by the door when the young private joined him.
