A scratch at the study door pulled Anthony’s attention from the letter in his hand, which contained the list that Lady Cecily had sent to him of the plant specimens she favored. And quite a long list it was at that, rendered entirely in scientific names with which he had no familiarity whatsoever. He supposed he’d have to hunt down a horticulturist to untangle the mystery of it for him and give him some idea of which might be located, and where.
“Enter,” he called, as he set the letter aside.
A moment later his sister-in-law, Esther, stepped through the door.
“You wished to see me?” she inquired hesitantly. Still there was an air of nervousness about her, but then he supposed they’d not spoken much outside of the occasional family dinner, when he was in for the evening.
“Yes,” he said.
“Please, sit, if you would be so kind,” he said, gesturing to the chair before the desk.
As he had bid, she settled into the chair he had indicated in perfect silence, folding her hands in her lap. She had been his sister-in-law the longest, though they had not had occasion to meet one another prior to the tragedy that had taken his father and brothers from the world. Nearly fifteen years she had been his eldest brother’s wife, and though their marriage had not been blessed with children, he knew it had nonetheless been a happy one.
“I have spoken with Helen and the girls already,” he said, though she was likely already well aware of that.
“Having now obtained a full accounting of the family estates and properties from my solicitor, I thought I would ask you which of them you preferred for yourself. Helen has got Northall House, since it was the one she and Frederick favored for their time away from London.”
“I—” Esther hesitated, her thin shoulders falling from their rigid set so near her ears.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t believe William mentioned a particular property in his letters,” Anthony said.
“So the decision must be yours.”
“But I have no children,” Esther said, her dark brows knitting in confusion.
“We were never so blessed.”
“You misunderstand,” Anthony said.
“Helen hasn’t got a house of her own because she has children to show for her marriage. She has got it because it is what Freddie would have wanted for her. And William—he would have wanted the same for you.” She was meant to have been the duchess, eventually, just as William was meant to have become the duke. For many, he supposed, Esther and Helen would have become poor relations, unwanted hangers-on no longer protected by the status into which they had married.
But Anthony had loved his brothers, and these were his brothers’ wives and children. His family, even if he hadn’t been home to claim it in years. It was a simple enough matter to part with bits of the ducal estates he had never expected to inherit anyway, for their future security.
“That is kind of you,” Esther said, though the tone of her voice suggested that she could not understand what would move him to make such an offer.
“I suppose I had thought—I had thought that you might wish for me to return to my parents.”
It wasn’t kind; it was the right thing to do.
“You are already with your family,” he said. Had she been waiting all this time in anxious silence, expecting herself to be sent away from the family that had been her own these last fifteen years? “I mean to say, if you would prefer to go—”
“I wouldn’t,” she hastened to interject.
“I have been a Sharp too long to be anything else. This family has become my own.”
“Good,” he said.
“You’ll have an allowance as well, one which will keep you at the standard of living you ought to enjoy. And if you should choose to marry again—”
“I won’t.” Her voice cracked on the words, rife with a sort of pain he could hardly comprehend.
“I won’t remarry. William—”
“William would have wanted you to be happy,” he said.
“I have got a packet full of his letters in my bedside drawer that will speak to the truth of that. That is not to say that I intend to pressure you into such a thing if it is contrary to your wishes, but only that no one, least of all myself, will find fault with you for choosing to seek out a new love.” Anthony cleared his throat awkwardly.
“I only wanted you to know that you will have a home here as long as it suits you. And a home of your own outside of the city, if you would like. Here, I have got a list somewhere.” Somewhere, amidst the wretched mess of documents he’d had strewn across the desk before she had arrived.
Esther, to her credit, hurried to assist him in his search, helping to sort out the mess he’d made. She began to collect the scattered papers neatly, assembling them into some sort of order.
“Oh, not that one,” he said as she came across Lady Cecily’s list.
“That one is just—”
“Plants?” Her dark brows lifted at the tidy list of scientific names.
“What an unusual list.”
“You recognize them?”
“Some,” she said.
“William—” Her breath hitched in her chest, her lips trembled.
“William once took me to a scientific symposium given by a famed cultivator of rare and exotic flora. Could I—would it be too presumptuous of me to ask what this list is meant to be?”
“Not at all.” Most especially not if she might be of assistance in locating a specimen or two.
“The list is from Lady Cecily Wainwright. She is a collector of such specimens. These are the ones she favors, which she wishes to add to her collection.”
“You are courting her?”
“Not…as such,” he said.
“It would be unwise to commit myself to it when my present circumstances preclude it, and while we are all still in mourning. I’ve been in Lady Cecily’s company only a handful of times. But I suppose it is a possibility, at some point in the future, should we decide we suit one another.”
“A good choice,” Esther said, her gaze lowering.
“Lady Cecily is a lovely woman. She would make you a good duchess.”
Probably she would, Anthony allowed. A proper duchess, at least. A kind one; an amiable one. Her company would be inoffensive, her conversation stimulating. The trouble of it was that he couldn’t make himself want her.
At least not half so much as he was growing to want an entirely unsuitable duchess, which was beginning to be a problem all of its own. How was he meant to choose a wife, when his thoughts were unceasingly occupied with the one he already had?
The one who didn’t want him. The one to whom he had made a promise to give Lady Cecily an honest chance.
Hell.
“I don’t suppose you could help me to locate some of these plants?” he asked.
“Or perhaps give me the name of the gentleman whose symposium you attended?”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“They are quite unusual, these plants.”
“How do you mean?”
“This one here,” she said, and extended the list to him, pointing to a name upon it.
“Dionaea muscipula. It is a plant native to America, commonly called Venus’s Flytrap. It’s carnivorous.”
“I beg your pardon,” Anthony said, nonplussed by the assertion.
“Did you say carnivorous?”
“It’s in the name,” Esther replied.
“It eats flies and other such insects. William and I saw a demonstration of it at the symposium, and it was—fascinating, I suppose one might say. And a bit grotesque.”
“Far be it from me to suggest a lady’s interests ought to lie elsewhere,” he said. Charity certainly would not have allowed something like public opinion to sway her mind; why, then should Lady Cecily be held to a different standard?
“Then of course I shall assist you,” Esther said.
“May I borrow the list? Perhaps I might be able to help you locate a few specimens upon it.”
“By all means,” Anthony said.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin, myself. And take this, too,” he said, as he at last located the list of properties he’d been searching his desk for and slid it across the desk to her.
“None of these are entailed. Choose whichever you like, and I’ll make the arrangements with my solicitor.”
She accepted the list with a small nod, offering a fragile smile.
“I hope I do not offend,” she said, “but I think we’ve all been a little…afraid of you, Your—Anthony.” She ducked her head, embarrassed by the slip.
“Yes; I know.” It would have been impossible to miss.
“It probably has not helped matters that I’ve been poor company just lately. As ghastly as my visage would imply.” He had not even realized how cross and surly he had become, until little Hattie had cast it up before him.
“I have not comported myself well, I admit. Coming back home has been difficult for me. Too many people, too much noise.” Too many stares and jeers; too often addressed by a title which felt as if it had been stolen from worthier men than himself.
He had made himself into the beast he had thought himself to be. The beast that those who gawked and stared imagined him to be. It had become a self-fulfilling prophecy, of sorts. How much happier he might have been, how much less lonely, had he simply shrugged it all off, as Charity had advised?
A lesson he’d only begun to learn now, after sixteen years of loneliness and isolation.
“It has been difficult for all of us, I feel,” Esther said, and the look she cast to him was kind, understanding.
“But perhaps for your mother the most. To have lost her husband and two sons, and to be so distant from her only living child.”
“That has been her choice,” he said quietly.
“She has every right to clothe herself in the colors of mourning, every reason for her grief. But she has rebuffed every overture I have ever made.” She’d never even responded to any of the letters he had sent to her while he had been away, and after it had become clear that she never would, he had stopped writing to her entirely. They hadn’t had a single civil conversation since he’d returned.
A little furrow pleated Esther’s brow.
“With all due respect,” she said, “I think you may have formed a mistaken impression. The duchess has been in the colors of mourning for years and years.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“She’s always worn black,” Esther says.
“For—for as long as I have known her.”
Anthony felt a frown pleat his brow. Mother had worn black for so many years as that?
“It was never my place to question it,” Esther said.
“Nor do I know of anyone who would be indelicate enough to ask. But it has been widely speculated that she wears it for you. For the son she lost so many years ago.”
Talk to your mother, Charity had said only days ago, and there had been a funny little lilt to her voice, a warble of some nebulous emotion. He hadn’t done it, yet. He hadn’t wanted to. The last time they’d shared words, he’d had to threaten to shunt her off to Cornwall only to secure her cordiality to Charity.
But Charity had been right before. Perhaps he owed it himself to give it one more attempt.
***
Charity smothered a yawn with her fingertips as she waited once again in the drawing room for Anthony to arrive home. Redding had already supplied her with tea and given her permission to wander, but it seemed the last few nights with little restful sleep to be had had at last caught up with her.
She regretted now, just a little, those invitations she had insisted that he accept, for they had kept him engaged these last four evenings. And she had spent those evenings in seclusion within her own little flat, feeling startlingly lonely. While Anthony—Anthony had been taking up his proper place in society. Perhaps even in Lady Cecily’s company.
Had he worked up the nerve to hunt down a secluded spot for an illicit kiss? If he had, had he enjoyed it? Had Lady Cecily? An unsettled feeling tumbled in her stomach, the very same one that had made sleep a difficult thing to manage these last nights.
It was just nerves, she assured herself. A lingering sense of unease that had plagued her since her interview with the bishop. One step closer to the dissolution of their marriage; one step closer to the freedom she had always hoped to have.
One step closer to parting ways forever.
It was just that she would miss him, she supposed. Of course he would go on to marry some perfectly suitable woman—Lady Cecily, in all likelihood—and then…and then there would be no reason ever to see one another again. Indeed, it would be inappropriate to maintain any sort of friendship once they had obtained an annulment. Certainly it would be an affront to his new duchess.
And she hadn’t considered that. That she would miss his company. That the privacy she had enjoyed these last few years had become…rather lonelier than she would have liked, rather lonelier than she had first found it to be. That she might well have created her ideal lover, only to have to surrender him to another woman. Someone eminently more suitable.
It was always a mistress’ lot to see her benefactor off with a smile, and for the first time she suspected she might fail at doing so. Only he wasn’t her benefactor; he was her husband.
At least until he wasn’t. Would it be too ill-mannered to go wandering in search of spirits? Tea was not a strong enough drink for what ailed her at present. No, confound it. There was every chance she might cross paths with the duchess, or Anthony’s sisters-in-law, or one of the children in residence, and she really hadn’t the fortitude for it this evening.
She flounced back upon the sofa, her shoulders sinking into the plush upholstery beneath her. This part of the house, so close to the entrance, was still and silent. Perhaps a bit of a nap was in order while she waited. A small one, to refresh her mind and settle her stomach.
Charity turned onto her side, pillowing her cheek in her hand and allowing her eyes to drift closed. No one could fault her for it; it was terminally boring to be left to wait. The dim lamplight did not penetrate her closed lids, and she felt herself sinking toward sleep softly, gently. Until at last she had plunged in entirely.
The dream began, as it often did, with the wheezes of men breathing their last. The sickly-sweet aroma of death and decay followed, overwhelming even the coppery tang of blood lying heavy beneath it. So much death, too much, and she could hardly stem the flow of it. With her hands already trembling from exhaustion, with the sickness she suspected was already upon her, she could not possibly stitch every wound in need of it, heal every soldier who lay within the medical tent.
Harden your heart, she told herself with vicious recrimination. But it felt softer just now than ever it had, aching for the wounded and the suffering and the lost. A kind of death she had taken upon herself, a stain upon her soul for those she had failed to save, even if they had been judged beyond salvation before they had ever got to her.
As he had. The officer who had been brought to her only days ago, with his face torn apart by a blast of shrapnel. She had gently picked pieces of metal from his flesh, insisted that the surgeon remove the eye which had been pierced too deeply to save, stitched the wounds that had rent his skin, cleansed his face of the debris and detritus that had clung to it. A futile effort, the surgeon had told her.
For days, he had clung to life with a tenacity that had surprised her. But his strength was waning. She could feel it in the cold, clammy fingers that clasped her own. He no longer roused to the sound of her voice as he once had. As if he, too, were slipping away, nearer to death with each moment that passed.
She was going to lose him, too.
“He’s dying. He’ll not last the night,” the surgeon had warned, pity saturating his voice—
A warm hand grasped hers, and Charity woke with a gasp, her whole body trembling with relief to be free of the war once again. Reflexively her fingers clenched, as if she might use the hand that had reached out to her to pull herself from the darkness of such memories. Her throat was scratchy and raw, her eyes oddly moist—and when she blinked them open at last, it was to find Anthony crouched before her, concern scrawled across his face. And in that moment she was so very glad to see that face, with its web of scars and that ever-present eyepatch for proof that he had, in fact, survived, that a sob caught in the depths of her throat.
“You were whimpering,” he said.
“I shook your shoulder, but it didn’t wake you. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“I’m fine.” It was a croak, through a throat still too tight and tense to manage more. She extracted her hand from his, and her arms trembled as she pushed herself upright.
“It was only a dream.”
“A nightmare, more like,” he said, climbing to his feet once more to settle beside her upon the sofa.
“Your…er, friend implied that you had them upon occasion. The war?”
“You make me sound mad.”
“Not mad,” he said.
“Not unless you’d count me mad, as well. I have them myself, upon occasion. Not often, not anymore. But when I do, they are brutal. It’s like—”
“Being back in the thick of it,” she said hollowly.
“The smell, the noise.”
“God. Yes.” He shuddered, as if the words alone had sent a shiver up his spine.
“I don’t think much of anyone could understand it. Unless they’d lived it.”
“I don’t like to think of it,” Charity said, clasping her hands in her lap.
“It’s not as severe as once it was, but there are still things that can take me back there in a moment.” She gave a wretched little laugh, twisting her fingers.
“Sometimes the littlest things. A scent, a sound—even the wrong word. I cannot even make myself attend nighttime events at the pleasure gardens,” she said.
“The fireworks—”
“Sound too much like gunfire,” he said.
“And the scent they leave in the air. It’s too familiar.” Out of instinct, she thought, his hand sought hers, taking the sort of comfort from the clasp of her fingers that he once had when she had sat at his bedside for long hours in the night. Not the cold, clammy sensation she remembered in those last terrible days—but warm, strong, and solid. That, more than anything else, relaxed the knot of tension that had woven itself through her chest, and she drew in a full, deep breath.
“It’s occurred to me,” he said, his thumb stroking her knuckles, “that I never asked how you ended up as a courtesan. I remember how you ended up at Waterloo. But the bits between then and now—I’ve never asked of them.”
“Oh,” she said.
“It’s not so unusual a story, I’m afraid. A desperate girl in desperate circumstances.” She offered a little shrug.
“I recovered from my illness at a hospital in Brussels,” she said.
“Mr. Bell had paid for my care, you see. But he died before I had fully recovered, and Felicity’s school fees had come due. They were well beyond what I could have afforded to pay on my own, even if I could have found suitable employment. But there was an English doctor in training there who had overseen my care, and he was young and handsome. He hadn’t the time for a wife, and his family was far too well-to-do for me to have harbored any aspirations of becoming one. But he was willing, it so happened, to put me up in a little house and to pay my expenses—and Felicity’s school fees.”
“Did you never aspire to marriage?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said.
“At least, not once I was old enough to know better. To have seen what wreckage a bad one could leave in its wake.” His hand squeezed hers, and a feeling of comfort bloomed in her chest.
“Much better to be independent. To be answerable only to myself. That was always my goal, you see. And that young doctor, he helped me to achieve it. He taught me to speak like the lady I wasn’t, how to carry myself like an aristocrat, how to become the sort of woman who commanded attention. I was with him for a few years, and I grew quite fond of him. And when he eventually contracted a marriage, we parted ways as friends.”
“And from there?” he asked.
“Well, by that point he had brought me home to England,” she said.
“But I had months left on the lease of my little house, and money enough not to be quite so desperate.
My doctor was kind enough to leave me in a position where I could well afford to be selective.
And so I was.
There were more, of course—though not so many as the Ton would imply.
Men do love to boast, even if it is false.
I chose my benefactors with care.
They were not always young or handsome.
But they were always kind to me.
Men I could respect and feel some manner of affection for.
It so happened that my particularity made me much in demand, allowed me to command a fortune in return for the privilege of my favors.
And I found that I enjoyed many aspects of my vocation.
I don’t regret it in the least. Becoming a courtesan saved me in the end. And Felicity, as well.” Who had been far too young to support herself when Charity had first become a courtesan. Who would otherwise have been cast adrift in the world, with nowhere to go—except home to Father.
“I know society would say that you should harbor regrets,” he said, as she turned her cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the fresh, clean scent of his shaving soap.
“But I don’t believe there should be shame in surviving, however it must be done. I believe you made the best choices you could at the time, for yourself and for your sister.”
She hadn’t required his vindication of her character, her morals—but she liked that he had offered it, anyway. At last her heart had recovered its normal beat, the final remnants of the nightmare shaken free of her brain.
“I meant to ask,” she said, sighing against his throat and feeling the bob of his Adam’s apple with his long, hard swallow.
“How goes your pursuit of Lady Cecily?”
“If you don’t mind,” he said, his voice deepening as he turned his head to meet her lips.
“I’d rather not speak of her just now.”
And that was all right, she thought to herself as he bore her back down upon the sofa. Just now, she found that she did not particularly wish to speak of Lady Cecily, either.