Neither, in truth, was Charles.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
That morning John Cuthbert carried a full basket to deliver his betrothed. He’d asked Eleanor Merrinan just last week to marry him and by God she’d accepted.Him!He was happy as a lark, yet feared her sister’s wrath. Not to mention Wellesley’s wrath. Which is why he’d not told either of them yet.
Nor would he need to, it seemed, for when he’d delivered Eleanor’s latest letter to Charles she’d torn into it at once, face dropping precipitously as she began to read. He’d scurried so fast from her he’d nearly tripped hurrying down the hall to the kitchen. He’d packed the basket in a rush, looking a few times over his shoulder as he left the Abbey for fear the blasted housekeeper might tail him, frypan in hand.
Fortunately, she had not.
When Charles sat down between tasks to read anew the letter Cuthbert had handed her, she swore she’d beat the steward bloody and wallop his lordship one too. This couldnotbe happening—not so soon. She read it a third time, still disbelieving its contents.
Dearest Charles,
Your silence is more deafening than you know, sister, for each letter unanswered is like a dagger to my heart. Yet I cannot write what you wish to read, because that same heart demands precisely what you would deny it. John has asked for my hand in marriage and I have accepted. Papa has given me his blessing. At least, he has not rescinded it, though he has surely forgotten, for he is worse, I fear, falling asleep more frequently of late in the middle of sentences. I have noticed a new palsy of the hands too, and this despite how well we now eat. I hope it will pass, but I think you should visit before he has another fit. I do not know if he could withstand one. Come for his sake, Charles, if not mine. Only come soon, I beg.
Charles’s own hands trembled.
John and I are happy, and I write you this because you are still my precious sister, whom I love with all my heart. Therefore I must be honest. We are in love and I cannot wait to become John’s wife! He intends to speak to Lord Wellesley to see if his lordship will let John live here once we wed. He must obtain a license yet, which will take time, but I do not care how long it takes. I shall wait an eternity for him, if I must. Oh Charles, if only you could share in the joy and fullness of my heart! There is no other feeling in the world, truly, than to love and be loved, to give oneself to another. I understand, at last, why Mother left her family to be with Father, and why he suffered so upon her death. It must have felt, to him, as if he’d lost his very soul the day she passed. No wonder he is now a shell. I should feel the same too, if John ever . . .
Charles thrust the letter aside, too angry to read more. She nearly threw it onto the fire, stopping herself at the last second and wadding it into a tight ball in her pocket instead, crammed beside Lord Wellesley’s timepiece. Her rage was unreasonable. She knew it went beyond mere concern for her sister’s future. It bordered on something awful and insidious. If she dared stare deep into her soul, she could see the greenish cast, for in truth she was jealous of Eleanor, that her sister should have the man she desired, the happiness she deserved, and the freedom to express it while she, Charles, would have none of these things, ever, with the man she . . .
Onlythatwas too terrible a thought to admit.
Charles threw herself back into her work with brutal denial.
“And it was your great-grandmother who commissioned this turret?”
Miss Mowry asked so many bloody annoying questions Wells could barely keep his answers straight. She kept touching him too—light little touches that made him flinch with distaste. Not for her person; she was a perfectly attractive young woman, good-looking even if viewed objectively. No, it was all the lady represented which made him recoil.
“Yes, I believe so,” he mumbled. “A twelfth-century abbey originally, so there may have been a turret here then. Or from when it was a fortified castle. I’m not sure which came first, miss. You shall have to ask my mother for more history.”
He moved her along, wishing this charade of a visit would end soon. End yesterday.
“Lord Wellesley.” She abruptly stopped in her tracks, looking demurely at her feet. “May I speak frankly with you, sir, now that we are a moment alone?”
His heart sank to hear her say it.
“Of course, Miss Mowry.” Wells’s smile tightened. “Frankness is ever refreshing.”
“I am aware my visit to you, clearly unexpected and at such time when you are renovating the Abbey, is ill-timed, my lord.”
She surprised him, as did the genuinely kind tone she used.
“Your mother failed to inform me of your circumstance here, even of your feelings towards marriage.” She dared to glance at him. “I am not so naïve as to not see the disagreement between you, and I apologize if my presence here has further complicated your relationship with her grace.”
The lady amazed.
“Which is all to say that I apologize, Lord Wellesley, for having descended upon you thus,” she rushed her words, “as I would never have imposed upon your hospitality had I known the truth of matters. I feel, to a certain extent, somewhat manipulated by the Duchess,not”—she hurried to correct herself—“that she did anything untoward by bringing me with her. Only that, well, she is perhaps attempting to press something clearly undesired by yourself.”
Miss Mowry looked anxiously at Wells for a response, in both fear and hope, it seemed. And for the first time this young woman appeared almost human to him, rather than mere object of his mother’s machinations. He felt sorry for her, that she’d been dragged here without fair warning, and softened to her a little.
“And you, Miss Mowry, is marriage undesired by you, too?” He searched her face for an indication that she had no interest in him, but found to his dismay the opposite: The lady blushed.
“I am not . . . opposed to the idea, sir,” she stammered before she collected herself. “I am of an age to marry and am reliant upon the Duchess now for guidance, given my own mother’s recent?—”
“I am very sorry for your loss, Miss Mowry,” Wells quickly interjected.
“Thank you, Lord Wellesley.” She dabbed a corner of her eye. “I am under no illusions, however, as to what marriage entails, my lord.”
