“Stand up, Winston,” Ben growled. “On your feet.”
Charlie stood and, at Ben’s insistence, lifted his fists. But it was a lazy effort. Half-hearted. Charlie would never hurt Ben, but he’d take the wrongful blame in bruises. Ben would put Charlie right back where he’d started.
“Go now, Rosalind.” Ben pointed toward home. He raised his fists, and he started to round on Charlie, who blocked his every advance. One hit, and then another, until Ben shouted in frustration, “Fight back, you scoundrel!”
Charlie swung out, but even I could see he’d given Ben the opportunity.
Ben rang out and hit him straight on. His fists were relentless, pummeling at Charlie’s chest, his side, his stomach.
I turned, my vision blurry, and started to run.
I refused dinner. My stomach ached so much I could hardly bear to sit up straight or move at all. I’d shaken so terribly from sickness and then fear, every muscle I possessed was weary.
Ben had come home only long enough to change his clothes, which, per Molly’s information, were only slightly tinged with blood. I was consumed with the vision of his fists raised. Consumed with worry for Charlie.
Just after I had dressed in my nightclothes, Molly arrived with a letter from Liza.
Ros,
Forgive me for abandoning you. Charlie assures me you made it home safely not long after, though I feel dreadful for never making it back.
Charlie. He was home. My eyes flew down the page.
Before you panic, I told no one of you and Charlie being alone. But I fell victim to my own sickness, and Mama sent me straight to bed. I could not stop thinking about you hunched over so, and Charlie, and then, just as I climbed the stairs to the house ...
Forgive me. Even writing about it turns my stomach. I must retire early, but I could not sleep without first sending you a most fervent apology. I worried if I asked Mama to send the carriage, she would have gone as well, and I could not risk it.
The doctor is certain I was simply overset. After resting, I am much improved, but I cannot say the same for Charlie. He did not come home until late in the afternoon, and he has a swollen eye and a fresh cut in his lip. He claims he tripped and fell on a rock. A boulder, if you ask me, and apparently straight on his face. I am unconvinced. Mama and Papa are concerned he is back to his old habits, though I cannot say how he has managed it. I am only glad there is no evidence to refute his claim.
I worry for him, Ros. He has so much potential, but I fear he will squander his opportunities and live a life full of regret. Help me save him, won’t you? I wish I could show him what his future could look like, if only he’d give it a chance.
I hope you are feeling much improved.
Write back tomorrow.
Yours, etc.,
Liza
As horrible as I felt for her sickness, I was relieved knowing Liza did not know the truth, and that Charlie had no serious wounds. But now the Ollertons assumed Charlie had resorted to old habits. Did those habits even exist? As far as I could tell, Charlie seemed to find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d had my best interests at heart since I’d first met him.
But what had I done to help him? I’d only gotten him in more and more trouble. I was the one who’d nearly drowned, who’d followed Ben into the grove. I was the one who’d made Charlie eat all those sweets, so if anything, I was to blame for this current misunderstanding.
I sunk into bed with a greater guilt than I’d ever felt before. After all he’d endured, Charlie deserved better. He deserved happiness.
And I would help him find it.
ChapterSeventeen
Ben was not at breakfast. Nor in his study. Father had left for a meeting in town with our solicitor, and Mama had left to oversee the progress on my wedding dress.
I’d claimed a headache to get out of that task.
Sitting upright was still a chore, so I spent the morning back in my bedroom, thinking about Ben. His fight with Charlie stayed vividly at the forefront of my mind. I could not forgive my brother for what he had done, though neither could I reprimand him for defending my honor.
Instead, when my stomach was healed enough to hold down a light luncheon, I gathered my abandoned notebook, still unwritten in since the day Charlie taught me how to box, and a pen and ink, and sat at my desk, which faced the double windows in my room. Bright sunlight hit my notebook, beckoning back thoughts of my favorite childhood memories. And I let myself get lost in them.
Times when laughter came as plentifully as raindrops in spring. When I still had years ahead of me before worrying about protection and money or about leaving home and starting a new family with someone else. My whole life could be reduced to frames of memory, and while I could not remember every detail, in every memory I felt the same.
