Page 21 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

After the copulation concludes, butterflies fly away [to] areas with an abundance of milkweed....

— M ORGAN C OFFEY, C ORONADO B UTTERFLY P RESERVE

C harlotte sat up in bed. She’d heard a sound, a moan.

This was not the wail from the French woman above stairs; this was a male cry.

The sound vibrated with anguish. It struck her deeply somehow, as though she’d heard the sound before.

But how could that be? She didn’t think it was Dr. Taylor.

And she barely knew the other men about the place.

She looked down at her little son, asleep beside her, a feather pillow keeping him close.

She’d retrieved him from the little crib at the foot of her bed for his last feeding and they had fallen asleep together.

She had awakened only long enough to secure the spare pillow on his other side to make sure he would not fall from bed.

He slept peacefully still, undisturbed by the sound.

She stroked his head lightly, needing to touch him but hoping not to wake him.

When the sound didn’t come again, she settled back against her pillow. What was it the cry had reminded her of?

Then she remembered. And that memory she had so often pushed away reasserted itself. Lying there, looking down at the profile of her newborn child in the moonlight, she let the memory come.

That night Charlotte had also awakened to a sudden sound.

Someone had called out in pain, she was sure, and her mind quickly identified the familiar voice.

Mr. Harris. Lightning flashed in her bedchamber, and for a moment she hesitated.

Perhaps she had imagined it or it had only been the wind.

She should stay in bed. Safe. But she couldn’t sleep, wondering if Mr. Harris was ill.

He had come to stay at the vicarage two weeks before, after the Christmas Eve fire at Fawnwell.

What a night that had been. Fire brigades and people from all over Doddington had come to help.

Charlotte herself had run over and was soon put to work hauling pitchers of tea and water for the volunteers.

There was little they could do to stop the fire tearing at the south wing with fiery claws.

In a matter of hours, the south wing was a black, smoking heap of rubble and skeletal ribs.

At least they had managed to keep the fire from spreading to the north.

Still in her bed, Charlotte heard Mr. Harris moan once more.

Rising, she quickly wrapped her white dressing gown over her nightdress, quietly opened her door, and stepped out.

The upstairs rooms were arranged around a square court, open to the ground floor.

She stepped to the balcony railing. A faint light from below drew her eye and compelled her toward the stairs.

She found him slumped in a chair before a dying fire in the drawing room, staring at a sheet of paper.

“Mr. Harris?” she whispered.

But at that moment, a loud clap of thunder shook the vicarage and he didn’t hear her. He crumpled the letter in his hand, dropped the tumbler he’d been holding in his other, and held his face instead.

“Mr. Harris!” She flew to his side, kneeling before his chair, reaching for the spilled glass and turning it aright on the floor. Her hands were tentative on his knee, entreating him to notice her presence. “Are you ill?”

He looked at her with strange wonderment. “Charlotte? Did I wake you? Pray forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Has something else happened? Mr. Harris, you look very ill. Should I send Buxley for Dr. Webb?”

“No. There is nothing he can do for me.”

“What, then?” She spied the crumpled letter. “Have you received bad news?”

“Yes. Bitter news.”

“Your mother?”

“No. Mother is fine—still staying with friends in Newnham. Doing as well as can be expected for a woman forced from her home.” He rubbed both hands over his face, clearly distressed.

“Is there nothing I can do? Is there something you might take for your present comfort?”

“If you mean brandy, I have had plenty ... with little relief to show for it.”

“Shall I call Father?”

“No. Let him sleep.”

“Shall I leave you alone, then?”

“Stay, Charlotte, if you will.”

“Of course.”

“You are a comfort to me,” he said idly, still staring at the embers in the grate. “Always have been.”

Lightning flashed, filling the room with light, then leaving it more shadowed than before. Wind howled, holding the curtains aloft on the breath of its wail.

“You must be freezing!” She rose and rushed to the window, wondering why on earth it had been opened on such a cold January night.

“I had not noticed ...”

She closed the window firmly, pausing to look out at the swaying tree limbs and swirling snow. “Thunder and lightning in January.” She shook her head in wonder. “This is going to be an incredible storm.”

She walked to the hearth and tossed a few scoops of coal onto the fire, then turned to him. Seeing him shiver, she pulled her father’s wool lap robe from the back of the chair and laid it across his shoulders.

“Is it Fawnwell?” she asked, straightening the robe over his arms.

He didn’t answer, so she continued. “You shall rebuild—”

“In time.” He straightened in his chair. “Though it is not Fawnwell alone which weighs on my mind this night.”

She again knelt before him. “It is not the wind, is it?” She attempted a mild tease. “I have never known you afraid of a coming storm.”

But his answer was contemplative, serious. “Afraid? Why be afraid when there is nothing I can do. This I know, but still—I detest my utter helplessness to stay its hand. I dread its power over me. I dread the ... damage ... it will certainly havoc.”

She squeezed his hand and he looked down at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there.

“Good heavens, you look beautiful like that.”

“Like ... what?”

“Your hair down around you, the firelight ...”

His eyes fell from her face to her neck, and Charlotte for the first time was aware of her own state of dress.

But rather than the rush of embarrassment she would have expected, a strange feeling of power filled her instead.

She had come into this room a little girl, to comfort her dear Mr. Harris, with no care for her dress or decorum, only to soothe the man she loved most in the world.

It was as if, as she knelt there before him, she grew from little girl to desirable woman in a space of a few aching heartbeats.

And, if she was reading his expression rightly, he was witnessing the same startling transformation as well.

But perhaps it was only her view of herself that had changed, because she had indeed seen that look in his eyes before—that admiration, that desire—but had been blind to its meaning.

He leaned nearer, inspecting her closely. He lifted his hand to touch her face, tenderly outlining her jaw, her chin, with his fingers.

“I always knew you would be beautiful, Charlotte. But you always were to me. Promise me you will forget all my foolishness in the morning—chalk it up to lightning and brandy—but now I feel I must say what I very soon will no longer be able to speak of.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but she feared whatever she might say would break this pleasurable spell. He ran a thumb over her silent, parted lips and her heart throbbed within her.

“I have loved you since you were a little girl, Charlotte—I suppose you know that—and I love you still. To me, you are the dearest creature God ever made. You have always been so kind, so affectionate to me—more than I deserved. When I see myself in your eyes, I am the best man on earth. Or at least in Kent.”

His mouth lifted in the crooked half grin she’d always admired, and in thoughtless response to his warm words, she leaned close and placed a quick kiss on his mouth, and instantly his grin fell away.

He stood suddenly, awkwardly, and since her hand was still clutching his, pulled her to her feet with him. He looked down at her, then away. “You had better go back to bed.”

He stood rock still, but made no move to turn from her nor to turn her out. She stood before him, wishing she might kiss him again, to wipe that bleak look from his face, to see him smile once more. But he was too tall for her to reach, her head reaching only to his shoulders.

“Go on,” he repeated in a rough whisper, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if he wanted her to leave or to continue with her unspoken desire.

Rather than feeling dismissed or rejected, she felt instead emboldened, sure at last of his attachment to her and feeling the pleasure, the intoxicating sweetness of it.

How could she not, after a lifetime of thinking him the most handsome and cleverest of men?

After endless years of loving him, of dreaming of him, of believing him out of reach, here he was, right here now, loving her.

She lifted his hand, caressed it in both of hers and kissed it. He winced as though she were hurting him.

“Leave me.”

She looked at him, wild emotions coursing through her. “How can I?” She pressed his hand over her heart. “When I love you as well?”

“But”—his eyes fell to the discarded letter—“I cannot love you.”

“You already do.”

Slowly his hand slid lower and she could barely breathe. She leaned closer to him.

He whispered, “Charlotte. You are killing me. I am only a man.”

She lifted her face toward his, and he pulled her into his arms, lowering his lips to hers, kissing her deeply. He half sat, half fell into the chair behind him, lifting her onto his lap, holding her close, still kissing her.

Then once again he pushed her aside, standing and twisting away, leaving her sprawled in the chair alone. He ran his hand over his face. “Charlotte, go. We cannot be together like this.”