Page 32 of Wedding the Widow

“I will see to Elizabeth.” Jane hugged her cousin.

“I will be fine, Charlotte.” Elizabeth raised up on her arm, which fortunately didn’t make her head any worse. “Please, go and enjoy your wedding breakfast. Lord knows, you deserve it more than anyone else I know.”

Brows puckered, Charlotte shifted from foot to foot, glancing toward the door. “As soon as the breakfast is over, I shall come to see you. If you are not better, I will go get Mr. Putnam myself.” With that dire threat lingering in the air, Charlotte strode through the doorway.

“Now, my dear,” Jane pierced her with China blue eyes. “What seems to be the matter?”

* * *

Turning a page in the tooled-leather copy of The Monk, by Mr. Gregory Lewis, that had been left in the room, Elizabeth shuddered at the alarming illustration of a monk pulling a young woman by her hair while raising a dagger to stab her. She snapped the volume closed. No further shocks today, thank you.

Laying it on the bedside table, she glanced away from the disturbing book. Who could have left such a work here? Lord Fernley seemed a likely candidate. An extreme young man in every way. So fortunate he had not been invited to the wedding. He had quite set everyone’s teeth on edge.

Of course, now she had nothing to read. She had quite recovered her senses and felt fine. All that fuss over her had not helped as much as good, old-fashioned rest. She glanced at the book again. It wouldn’t take much effort to venture down to the library and choose something less sensational—preferably by Maria Edgeworth or Jane Austen. Somehow, though, she couldn’t muster the energy to rise and go in search of something to read. Very well, then, a nap would insure that she would be ready to go down for dinner later. She yawned, and her eyes drooped shut. With a sigh, she turned on her side, wishing to shut out the whole debacle this morning. As she was just drifting off, a gentle tap, tap at the door jerked her awake.

Groggily she rubbed at her face and called, “Come.”

The door opened and Charlotte popped around the walnut-paneled door, still attired in her wedding dress. “You weren’t asleep, were you?”

“No, please come in.” Elizabeth twisted around, her heart filled with dread. She might as well face Charlotte and get it over with. She’d ruined the wedding, and while her friend would forgive her, she would never forgive herself. Why was she doing this incredible number of horrible things?

“How are you feeling?” Charlotte settled herself on the side of the bed.

“I am truly well, save for being extremely tired. I cannot think why I cannot rouse myself more thoroughly.” A languor did seem to have settled over her. Still, that was no excuse for her behavior at the church. She glanced away from Charlotte’s face, filled with a concern and kindness that only stoked Elizabeth’s guilt.

“I have found myself more tired of late as well.” Charlotte gazed at Elizabeth’s hand, as though unwilling to meet her eyes.

“Well, of course you are, what with all the wedding preparations, and readying Lyttlefield Park to close, moving your household into Wrotham Park. Anyone would be tired.” Elizabeth twisted her hands. “I have no excuse, save an attack of the vapors.”

“As long as you are well, Elizabeth. That is what matters most.” Charlotte patted her hands and gently unclenched them. “Please don’t—”

“No, Charlotte.” Elizabeth moved restlessly beneath the covers. “I cannot excuse my . . . my disgraceful behavior at the wedding. God knows, you of all people deserved a perfect wedding day, and now I have spoiled it.” Tears pricked her eyelids. She’d be weeping outright in a few moments. Why did she have to be a watering pot on top of everything else? “I’m so sorry.”

“I said before you have spoiled nothing, my dear.” She seized Elizabeth’s fingers and shook them. “I am jubilantly happy to be married to Nash, and he is overawed in his new role of husband.” Charlotte’s face took on a serene beauty it seldom attained. “Husband. Never have I enjoyed saying that word more. Nothing you could have done, Elizabeth, save perhaps fire the church, could have taken the magic and joy from this day. So”—she fixed Elizabeth with eyes that suddenly glinted a vivid green—“what is the matter, my dear? Is there some illness I know nothing about?” She gripped Elizabeth’s hands so tightly they ached. “Have you tried to spare me some ill news because of the wedding?”

“No, Charlotte, I swear to you, there is no illness.” Elizabeth came to a complete stop, her earlier conversation with Jane weighing on her conscience.

“Nothing is wrong at home, or with the children?”

“Again, no, my dear. The children are fine, save that my mother has a tendency to try to raise them as she sees fit, rather than according to my wishes. Otherwise the children, my parents, my sisters are all very well.”

“Only you, it seems, are not.” The deepening concern on Charlotte’s face made Elizabeth’s guilt grow. “I promise you can tell me anything, Elizabeth.” Her friend took a deep breath, as though steeling herself for some unpleasantness, and gripped her hands. “Are you in love with Lord Brack?”

“Charlotte.” Wanting to squirm like a worm washed out of the garden onto a pathway, Elizabeth tried to form an answer. “I . . . we . . .”

“I know you got on well together at the house parties, but when you went away so abruptly from the last one, I wondered if you had had a falling out.” Charlotte worried her bottom lip, pulling at it with her teeth until Elizabeth feared she would draw blood. “Georgie swears she knows nothing, and Fanny refuses to speak, which makes me even more suspicious.”

“Why would you say that?” Elizabeth eased herself up in the bed. At least Fanny had kept her confidence.

“Because you two have been so much in company in London. Fanny knows something, because if you had a secret she would pull it out of you quicker than a snake sheds its skin.” She gripped Elizabeth’s hands tightly. “I want you to trust me as much as you do Fanny.”

“Fanny does know something,” Elizabeth swallowed hard, “but she does not know everything.”

“Surely, if there is a problem, I can help you now, Elizabeth. I am the Countess of Wrotham.” Charlotte sat straighter, lifted her chin. “Whatever is wrong, Nash and I will do whatever it takes to make it right.”

“I know you would if you could, but there is no help for it.” Elizabeth lay back and drew the covers up to her chin.

“Would it help if Nash spoke to Lord Brack? If he has broken your heart, he will feel not only the wrath of Wrotham, but my personal vendetta against him as well.” Eyes flashing, Charlotte jumped off the bed, her voice ringing out loudly as she began to pace the length of the room. “How dare he come here, like Lord Fernley with his advances, or . . . or make promises that he has no intention of keeping.”