The Affectionate Adversary (22 page)
A small girl with large blue eyes opened the door and stared up at him. Her dirty cheeks were tearstained, her feet bare, and her gown nothing more than a brown rag. “Good afternoon, miss,” Charles addressed her. “I am Mr. Charles Locke, and I bring Sarah Carlyle, the dowager Lady Delacroix, and her sister Miss Watson to call on your family. Is your father in?”
The blue eyes darted to the two fine ladies who stood ankle-deep in the muck and mire that flowed down the cobbled street. Without a word, the child pulled the door back to allow them inside. Charles removed his hat, ducked his head, and entered. Sarah and her sister slipped in behind him. The smoke-filled room contained nothing more than a rough table, three stools, an old chair, and a bed pushed up against the wall. The open fire in the center of the room was encircled by stones around which sat three more children with tangled hair and dirty faces.
One of them, a gangly boy, stood. He stepped forward and made an awkward bow. “Good afternoon, sir. What do ye want of us?”
Charles held out his basket. “We come from Bamberfield to call upon the tenants in Shepton. Take this, lad. It is a gift.”
At that magical word, the other children swarmed around, opening the basket’s woven lid and pulling out a thick blanket, a box of tea leaves, two loaves of bread, a large pickled cow’s tongue, and a packet of sweet lemon drops. It was not much, Charles knew, but considering his own financial straits, it was the best he could afford.
As the children danced about in joy, his eyes fell on a female figure lying on the bed. Instantly, memories of his mother assaulted him. How terribly ill she had been, unable to rise, unable to eat, and at the end, unable even to draw breath. He and his father had sat beside her bed for hours, days, weeks. James Locke had spent all he could afford on doctors and on medicines from the village apothecary. But it was not enough.
Maria Locke needed to go to London, they were told. She must see a surgeon and be given expensive emetics and treatments. Although Mr. Locke had earned a good salary as the duke of Marston’s steward, by the time his wife fell ill, he had spent most of his savings in sending Charles to Eton and then to Cambridge. There was not enough money for transportation and surgeons and medicines. And so Maria Locke had died, and with her death, she took away the primary source of faith, love, and joy for both her husband and her son.
Awash in memory, Charles used the distraction of the children’s excitement to cross the room and speak to the woman in the bed. “Good afternoon, madam,” he addressed her, bowing. He introduced himself and the two ladies, both of whom hung back by the door, as if in shock at what they were seeing. “May I ask after your health?”
“I am not well, sir.” The woman licked her dry lips. She was small and gray-haired, no doubt much younger than she appeared. “Me ’usband died in France two years ago. Kilt, he
“But I—” Sarah hung her head.
“Lady Delacroix?” Charles bent over to see her face beneath the deep brim of her bonnet. “Are you ill as well?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. It is just that I … I do not like this any more than my sister does. And I am ashamed of myself.”
When she looked up, Charles saw that her eyes were swimming with tears. “But you assisted the ship’s doctor,” he said. “You went to Burma and—”
“Yes, but I did not have to smell such odors or see insects crawling across my slippers or touch … or touch … oh dear …” Drawing a handkerchief from her bag, she dabbed her cheeks. “In that horrid room, I realized that I should almost rather die than touch that woman. I am clean, you see, for I bathed this morning. My gown is new. And I should like to keep it white.”
“Very well, then,” Charles said gently. “This is not worth tears, dear lady.”
“Indeed it is! For now I fear I may have been too pious. I can give away my fortune easily enough. But I cannot bear the thought of sullying myself through actual contact with that woman and her children. I see now that I somehow romanticized the idea of poverty, sir. But the reality of it is … untenable. I am a wealthy merchant’s daughter. I was brought up with servants and clean gowns and good food. Oh, Mr. Locke, I am quite undone by my failings.”
As Sarah pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, Prudence wrapped her arms about her sister. “It is all right, Sarah,” she murmured. “You are not undone simply because you prefer to stand back and allow someone else to tend the poor. Give away your fortune—
some
of it—if you must. And know that you do very much good with your gift. You do not have to tread in the muck or sit in the midst of squalor and disease.”
“But I do, Pru. Have you not heard what I have been telling you and Mary all this time? Christ said it was difficult for the rich to enter the kingdom of heaven—and it is! How very difficult it is! We love our good things. We might imagine ourselves able to give up all we have and follow Christ, but in the end, we cannot do it.
I
cannot do it!”
With a scowl drawing her pretty eyebrows together, Prudence eyed Charles. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Locke, do something to repair this damage! You have needlessly upset my sister, and now we are damp and muddy and hopelessly chilled. And all for what? What did you hope to accomplish in this silly exercise?”
Charles stood in the mire, holding the umbrella over the two embracing sisters as he pondered the question. What
had
he hoped to achieve in Shepton? He had supposed that if Sarah saw England’s poor, she might be more willing to stay here. She would understand how much good her fortune could do in her own country, and then she would feel little urge to wander the globe again. In England, she would be at home, comfortable and safe. And near
him
.
That was it then. He wanted her. As much as ever, he longed to keep her close. And in his effort to do that, he had distressed and discouraged her. The outing, he concluded, had been a colossal blunder.
Spying the footman, who was trotting back toward the carriage, Charles beckoned. “Come, man, open this door for us.” He bundled the ladies toward the carriage. “We must return to Bamberfield at once.”
“No!” Sarah pushed away from her sister and backed out from the umbrella into the rain. “I shall not go yet. I must give away my basket first.”
“Sarah!” Prudence called out. “Do not be so stubborn! Let us go home and have a nice cup of tea!”
At that word, Charles envisioned the comfortable drawing room with its flickering fire and fine china teapot. He thought of dark leaves brewing in steaming water and of ships sailing for England, their holds filled with chests of those very leaves. He thought of rolling green hills in China and workers plucking buds and leaves to be fired and fermented into a tonic to be enjoyed by polite society. Warehouses and ships and gold. Coins flooding into coffers. All for himself. His own happiness. His health and wealth and welfare.
Hang the poor! Let them work their weary fingers to the bone. His ancestors had paid just such a price, and he was to be their champion. The first of their line—but certainly not the last—to partake of life’s luxuries.
“Do something, Mr. Locke!” Prudence exclaimed, swatting him on the arm with her bag. “Look at my sister going off there in the rain! This is all your fault, sir. You are to blame if she catches some horrid disease. If she dies, it will be on your shoulders!”
“Let her go,” Charles said, a morbid determination creeping across his chest. He would not feel sympathy for the needy. Nor would he plunge after a woman whose aims were so opposite his own. “Let your sister see the plight of England’s poor, Miss Watson, and she will stay here. She will understand that she need not sail away to China in order to find charities enough to absorb every farthing she wishes to give.”
“This is your plan, then?”
“Once her mind is settled upon remaining here, she must be urged to marry.”
“Marry
you
, I suppose? A man who would toss her into the mud and force her to feel such guilt that she creeps from house to house with her ridiculous basket. Look at her now, going into that cottage! If she returns to us with lice, Mr. Locke, you will bear all the blame of it, I assure you.”
Battling the urge to go after Sarah, Charles held open the carriage door for her sister. “Step out of the rain, Miss Watson; I beg you. And comfort yourself with the certainty that I do not intend to make another offer of marriage to your sister, now or ever. She would do better with Delacroix.”
“Delacroix?” Prudence paused in gathering her skirts. “He is a roué. You would sentence Sarah to a lifetime of misery.”
“She sentences herself to such a life.” Charles climbed into the carriage after Prudence and took his seat across from her. “Your sister is determined to be a poor, miserable wretch, and I cannot understand why.”
“My sister believes that happiness comes only after much suffering. She has been miserable all her life. Indeed, I do not suppose she has had a single day of utter bliss.”
“How can this be? When I knew her aboard the
Queen Elinor
she was all lightness. I lived for her smile. Her voice enchanted me with the ring of joy in every word. I begin to wonder if the Sarah Carlyle I once knew is truly the same woman as Lady Delacroix. Perhaps they are twins, and I recall the happy one.”
Prudence smiled. “There is just one of my sister, sir. You must have known her at a good time in her life. She has always been determined and courageous, but I have rarely seen her cheerful.”
“Why is that? She was the eldest daughter of a wealthy merchant and then the wife of a respected and titled gentleman. What in that could have led to misery?”
“You must ask Sarah that yourself, Mr. Locke. I observed the causes of her sorrow, but I was powerless to help. It is not my place to reveal my sister’s secrets.”
“It is not my place to query her about them.”
“Perhaps not. But she is lighter in your presence. While you are here this weekend, you might make some attempt to speak with her in private.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort. It would be improper.” The very thought of talking alone with Sarah sent a ripple of tension through Charles. As it was, he could hardly trust himself in the same room with her. In private, he would be helpless.
“You prefer she should be won by someone like Delacroix?” Prudence challenged. “Do you know that man’s character?”
“He is penniless but titled. He owns two houses and an estate. He has many friends, one of whom was my boyhood companion. I cannot imagine his character is unredeemably bad.”
Prudence gave a small laugh. “Perhaps he is a better man than I suppose. Certainly he is handsome and well mannered. If he were married to my sister, would he settle down and become respectable? At least, one would hope so.”
Charles opened the carriage window and leaned out to peer down the road. What was taking Sarah so long inside the cottage? Ought he to go after her?
His concern was tempered by the realization that he might use this opportunity to encourage Miss Watson as Delacroix had urged. She, and not her sister, should become the object of Charles’s affections. And he must encourage her to incline Lady Delacroix in the direction of another man who wished to make her his wife.
A battle raging in his chest, Charles ducked back into the carriage and faced Prudence. “What of your sister and Delacroix?” he asked. “You might speak to her on his behalf.”
The young lady’s pretty mouth opened in surprise. “Has he told you to broach this with me?” She gave a high, tinkling laugh. “Upon my word, I am all astonishment! Delacroix wishes to attach himself to my sister? But this is too shocking!”
“Calm yourself, I pray. It would be a good match, and Delacroix is no fool.” Again he looked out the window, fighting to make himself speak of a notion he could not endorse. “What is your opinion of such a match, Miss Watson?”
“You must ask my sister,” she said coyly. “And now you have
two
reasons to speak with Sarah in private.”
Taking out her fan, Prudence flipped it open and began to flutter it before her face. Charles studied the muddy street. Next he examined the carriage floor. Then he observed the brim of his hat, which he held between his knees. Finally, he could bear it no longer.
“I am going after her,” he announced.
A sly smile tipped the corners of Prudence’s mouth.
“I thought you might,” she said.
