The Affectionate Adversary (31 page)

Perhaps he had not been at home when the packet arrived. It was possible his father had opened it, even though she had addressed it to Charles. What if they had argued about her? Or what if Charles had failed to open the box at once? Or worse—what if he had opened it, read her note, and chosen not to come?

Wringing her gloved hands beneath her cape, Sarah peered out from under the brim of her bonnet. Then she looked up at the clock. Another five minutes had passed. Soon she must hurry back to the church.

Surely Charles would come if he had received her note. But perhaps he had not seen the letter. What if he had opened the box to find his coat but had not bothered to remove it from the box? Or what if the note had been too well hidden beneath the folds of the heavy fabric? Oh, why had she bothered to try to see him again? God must not mean for them to meet. She knew it was already too late to alter the course of events in her life anyway.

But what if Charles had fallen ill? Perhaps his injured leg was bothering him after the climb over the garden wall. She should not suppose his absence had anything to do with her, Sarah reminded herself. He might simply wish to get on with his studies in law as she had urged him to do.

Oh, dear
, she fretted as a young man pulled a cart heaped with silvery mackerel past her. This was all a very bad idea. She would return home smelling of fish and—

There! Charles stood just across from her near a barrel of fresh eels. He wore the coat! The brim of his top hat was pulled low, and he seemed to be searching for her. What should she do now? And look at the time!

Swallowing down her trepidation, Sarah lifted her skirts as she crossed the muddy lane between them.

He spotted her at once. Without speaking a word, he stepped to her side, took her arm, and escorted her deep into the winding maze of lanes that crisscrossed the market. Though fear of discovery left her hardly able to breathe, the firmness of Charles’s stride and his solid presence gave her comfort.

“Mrs. Carlyle,” he addressed her in a low voice when they were safely hidden from the main road. “You wished to speak to me?”

She could not bring herself to look at him as she talked quickly, breathlessly. “Yes, sir. I must clarify something you said to me during our last encounter.”

“Every word I spoke in the garden at Bamberfield was true, madam.”

“Then you did love me aboard the
Queen Elinor
?”

“With all my heart.”

“And you did not know at the time that I was Lady Delacroix?”

“I did not. As I have told you, I believed you were Mrs. Sarah Carlyle, a widow who had inherited a sum of money from her father and intended to disburse it to the needy. That is all I knew or cared to know. The essential aspects of your character were more important to me than your financial status. You had tenderly cared for the victims of the attack upon the
Tintagel
. You sang hymns and read Scriptures in testimony to your deep faith in God. Most important, perhaps, you believed in my ability to overcome all that beset me.”

They paused near a stall where mutton chops lay in neat rows on a table and freshly dressed veal carcasses hung from hooks above it. A woman was haggling with the shopkeeper about prices, while a young boy clung to her skirts and whimpered in exhaustion. Nearby, an old man whistled as he trimmed a leg of lamb.

Despite her nervousness, Sarah allowed herself to meet the blue eyes she had held so dear. Instantly, she regretted it, for Charles was no different now than he had been upon their first meeting. He was the same man—kind, gentle, sincere, honest. She could find nothing in his words to doubt. Nothing in his character to dislike. And oh, how lovingly he gazed at her!

Sarah turned away. “You must know that I have told my sisters I will marry Lord Delacroix,” she told him, barely able to make herself speak the words. “I believe you were correct in pressing his suit, and my sisters agree that it is for the best.”

Charles said nothing for fully a minute. Now they were too deep inside the market for Sarah to see the clock, and she had no desire to root through the small bag beneath her cape in search of her watch. She would be late—and face the consequences.

When Charles still did not speak, she glanced at him again. His face wore an expression of solemn resignation as she attempted to continue the message she had determined she must give him. “Mrs. Heathhill,” she continued, “has suggested that … she thinks it appropriate—and certainly it is acceptable … that you ought to … that perhaps you might wish to become attached to Miss Watson.”

“Marry Miss Watson?” Now his tone grew angry. “Why should I be at all inclined to marry your sister? It is you I love. You alone.” He let out a growl of frustration. “If you wish to marry Delacroix, I cannot stop you. But I certainly have no interest in Miss Watson beyond a brief acquaintance. Without you, she is nothing to me.”

“Think what you say, sir. Prudence is both beautiful and good. I have settled far more than a comfortable living upon her. Her connection with the Delacroix name is a good one and will bring her husband influential friends. With these advantages, you may certainly resurrect your plan to launch a tea enterprise.”

“Are you now converted from benefactress into conspirator, madam?” he demanded, his voice hard. “I had thought the very idea of marriage for the sake of social and financial advancement abhorrent to you. Yet now I see that you mean to wed yourself to a man you do not love, and you hope to attach your sister to one who cannot love her. All for the sake of convenience and security.”

“You advocated such an arrangement not a sennight ago!” she argued. “At Bamberfield House,
you
were the conspirator—scheming with my sister to press me to wed Delacroix. Despite your profession of affection for me, you showed no inclination to abandon your own plan to establish a tea enterprise. You were unaltered from the man you were aboard the
Tintagel
—the one who refused to surrender his goal of a financial empire for a life of charity and poverty. Are you now converted into someone who prizes love and compassion above all else?”

“Perhaps I am converted,” he replied. “Perhaps I have been converting all along.”

Sarah stared at him. “What do you mean, sir? Do not trifle with me—I must know your meaning.”

“Your example … your words … your sweet spirit … all have taught me what I was unwilling to accept—until now. Oh, indeed, I continue to study my law books. I dwell on the possibility of enterprise. I behave in all ways like the man my father educated me to become. And yet my spirit … I believe the Spirit within me revolts against it.”

“Charles … ?”

“Do not gaze at me with those brown eyes, Sarah. Do not write to me and ask to meet in secret. Do not even think of seeing me again—and certainly not as your sister’s husband—if you truly will wed Delacroix.”

As she hesitated, hovering on the cusp of hope, the clock in the bell tower above the market struck the hour. She was late. Fifteen minutes, at least. The carriage driver and footmen would be searching for her at the church.

“Charles, I am expected at Trenton House,” she breathed out. “My carriage awaits me at St. Peter-upon-Cornhill, and I cannot delay.”

“Does Miss Watson know you intended to speak to me today?”

“No.”

“Then tell her nothing of our meeting. I would not have her waste a moment’s thought upon me.”

“She adores you.”

“She hardly knows me. You know me, Sarah. Your opinion is all that matters. What do you feel for me? Can you see beyond the harsh treatment of your father and husband, beyond the clamoring of false friends, beyond the scheming of your sisters? Do you yet know the meaning of love, Sarah? I shall ask you once and never again—do you love me?”

She lowered her head, unwilling that he should see her face as tears welled in her eyes. “I do, Charles,” she whispered. “I do love you.”

“Sarah!” He caught her around the waist and pulled her close. “Sarah, marry me. If you love me, be my wife; I beg you!”

“I must go! I have agreed to wed Delacroix, and you should marry Prudence. She is very pretty! This was not to be the outcome of our meeting. I only wanted to be sure that you had truly … on the ship … oh, Charles, let me go!”

“Sarah, how can I stand back and—”

“Now then, not in the market, eh?” the old man in the next stall cried out, waving his carving knife at them. “Save your lovemakin’ for the street corners and public ’ouses, man!”

“I must go, Charles,” Sarah gasped, pulling away from him. “My footmen will be looking for me. Please do not follow me! Please do not write to me or call on me! This cannot be. It cannot!”

As her tears spilled down her cheeks, Sarah turned from him and fled.

  
Fifteen
  

“Here you are at last, Charles!” James Locke looked up from his book as his son stepped into the library. “I returned home from my cousin’s house in time to take tea with you, but you were away. Now it is quite dark, and I had become concerned. Please tell me you are all right!”

“I am well enough, Father.” Charles tossed his hat and gloves onto the settee near the fire and sank into the soft cushions. Discouraged, still unsettled by his encounter with Sarah, he raked a hand through his hair and leaned his head against a doily his mother had crocheted many years before. “Forgive me, sir. I did not intend to distress you by my absence.”

“But where were you? Did you not take your tea at home?”

“No, sir. I confess, I did not think of tea at all this afternoon.”

“Not think of tea?” James blinked at his son. “Then did you go to Lincoln’s Inn to speak with one of your instructors? Or were you drinking ale in a public house?”

“Father, you know me better than to suppose I would stop at a pub. Nor did I give any thought to my studies. I have been walking.”

“Walking? To exercise your leg?”

“I needed to think.”

“Oh, dear me. I knew I had upset you with my stern words this afternoon. I never should have encouraged you to go away on that dreadful ship in the first place. Your mother would not have permitted it. It was rash of me—selfish. Hang that dashed chest of gold! You might have lost your life, and then where would I be?”

“Do not trouble yourself so, Father,” Charles said wearily. “Our conversation was exactly as it should have been. I needed to be urged to decide upon my future course … and, in fact, I believe I have.”

“You will go into the church!” James exclaimed, grinning in triumph over the certainty of his conjecture. “Nay, do not give me such a look, my boy. I have seen you reading that Bible of your mother’s morning and night. I know you faced death aboard the
Tintagel
, and I understand that such an event can divert the course of a man’s life. Well, if you wish to join the clergy, Charles, I shall accept it with my whole heart. I spoke to my cousin upon the matter this afternoon, and he has thoughtfully reminded me that the duke of Marston’s lands encompass two parishes. I believe if you speak to Sir Alexander, he may be very likely to prefer you to one of them. Life as a curate can be more than profitable, and certainly your mother would approve.”

“I do not mean to go into the church, Father,” Charles said. “I shall continue my studies in the law.”

“A barrister then! Well, this is fine news!” James beamed. “I had not thought this to be the outcome of your—”

“I shall not become a barrister, sir. I intend to aim no higher than solicitor. Cases in the lower courts involve debtors, petty thieves, drunkards—in short, the dregs of the city. Upon examination of my conscience, I have determined that these are the ones who most need my assistance. Men too poor to pay their debts, women compelled by poverty to sell themselves in the streets, children so hungry they resort to picking pockets … such indigents have need of a compassionate solicitor. More important, in handling their defense before the court, I shall have opportunity to speak to them about what is truly important in life.”