Page 38 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)
Chapter twenty-seven
Charleston
T he harvest season had come and gone. The grain had been cut, the sheep had been sheared, the profit had been tallied—and somehow, throughout it all, Bel’s heart had been completely absent.
For the first time, she had even been tempted to let Harold Brownlee’s steward negotiate the sale of her wheat and wool simply so that she could stay away from any crowds or questions.
Aunt Lucy was too happy in her new connubial bliss at Amsworth Park to notice the gloom that hung over her niece.
Whatever listlessness lay in Bel's manner, she ascribed to the change in residence.
“I realise that Jack's house is not quite to your taste,” she said—and, indeed, Bel could not feel at ease in the Rococo flamboyance of a residence that had been decorated half a century ago— “and that you cannot come and go as you please in your trousers in all times and all weathers, but please remember how fond of you we both are.
And it is ever so kind of you to play piquet with James after dinner so that he is not so cross to lose his brother's constant companionship.”
The presence of Gyles and Louisa Audeley added other “young” people to the neighbourhood, but Bel found little in common with the lively Louisa.
And besides, seeing Louisa only reminded her of the lady’s absent uncle.
She was cordial whenever Louisa came to call, but she could not find friendship there.
The periodic visits of Horace Townsend continued to punctuate the monotony of autumn in Derbyshire.
The vicar—and his sensitive nose—was relieved that Bel had left Magpie at Morrison House in Jenny's care, rather than taking the cat to her aunt's new home. “I see you’ve had the kindness to dispense with your feline companion for my sake,” he said with feeling.
Bel’s left eyebrow answered that impertinence eloquently, but the vicar—unlike the duke—was not fluent in the language of the face.
The sole reason for Magpie’s absence was that old James Ferris considered all cats to be of a devilish disposition; the vicar’s sneezes had nothing to do with the matter.
The long-legged vicar was fond of a brisk walk and loved to find the differences between this countryside and his home county of Shropshire.
Bel often took the air with him when he came calling, finding it easier to endure his conversation when it was wafting through the fresh, loamy air rather than echoing loudly in the drawing room.
“I daresay you're relieved to have your new uncle's guidance with the Morrison estate,” said the vicar, on his last visit. “A heavy weight off shoulders not created to bear such a burden.”
Formerly, Bel would have bridled at such a comment, but now, she felt only a mild annoyance that she managed to overlook.
She still cared deeply about the Morrison land, but without the hope of Charlie’s return, her single-minded passion had lost its fuel.
The vital spark inside her had burned low, and she did not know if would ever flame to life again.
“Have you completely accustomed yourself to the parish duties?” she asked, changing the subject.
“More or less. You will be delighted to hear that I have prevailed upon your tenant Mrs. Hogg to attend divine services.”
“Yes, I saw her there last week.” Bel did not mention that she had promised the old woman an extra basket of provisions each fortnight if she would be more civil to the vicar and heed his admonition to attend church.
It was better than hearing Mr. Townsend complain about the old woman every time he came to call.
“It's further proof that I can do some real good here. The people are not so entrenched in their sin that they cannot experience a change of heart. They have not experienced the soul-poisoning miasmas of the metropolis.”
“So, you have no hope for sinners in London?”
“Did not Our Saviour say it is easier for a camel to enter the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God? ”
“And did He not conclude that, despite that difficulty, all things are possible for God? After all, Mr. Brownlee and Mr. Ferris are quite well-off, and surely you do not doubt their salvation?”
“I doubt no man’s salvation unless he gives me cause to do so.
But even so, there are few that live godly lives in our present time.
Our recent visitors from London only illustrate the truth of that.
Wide is the gate and broad is the path that leadeth to destruction , Miss Morrison.
The less intercourse that we have with London, the better. ”
As the month of October ended, Bel began to feel increasingly despondent.
She was usually too busy to ask her heart why it felt the way it did, but in this season of enforced inactivity, she had a surfeit of time for self-examination.
Was this depression still grief over Charlie? Or was it grief for something else?
When she and the Duke of Warrenton had parted, she had hoped that he would have the fortitude to change the life he claimed to deplore.
But ten months had gone by since then. She could not keep begging her maid-of-all-work for scraps of information via the duke’s valet.
It was common knowledge that a rake’s interest was short-lived, and in the last ten months she had received no indication that Nigel Lymington still thought of her at all.
One afternoon, she was staring out the elegant window of the first-floor parlour when she put a hand to her face.
Her calloused forefinger pressed against the place where Nigel’s lips had met her own.
It was not a practical gesture, but it was a practiced one—one she had repeated daily these last ten months.
“What’s in a kiss?” she whispered softly.
What made the sensation of it linger so long after the loved one was gone?
He had worried that she would hate him afterwards.
But somehow, she did not. She remembered him longingly and missed him.
And she was afraid that she would go on missing him for the rest of her life.
There was no moratorium on affection of this kind.
No hope that after seven years her desire for Nigel Lymington would be declared deceased.
As she stared out the window, a post chaise turned off from the road and approached the house. The carriage belonged to no one from the neighbourhood, and Jack and Lucy had not mentioned any impending arrivals. Who could this be ?
Slowly, Bel’s hand moved away from her lips until it came to rest at her side. She would not say aloud what she wished. She was too sensible. She was too cautious. She was too afraid of being wrong.
From the window, she saw a man, whose brow was shaded by a very tall top hat, alight from the carriage.
He handed down a tall, well-formed woman in a carriage gown of deep purple.
The man gave the woman his arm and they ascended the steps to Amsworth Park.
There was something familiar about the man, but Bel could tell at a glance that he was not the Duke of Warrenton.
Bel seated herself on the sofa in the parlour and waited for the butler to assuage her curiosity.
The door to the parlour opened with a slow, almost trepidatious, swing.
“Miss,” said Uncle Jack’s butler, clearing his throat more times than was natural.
“There’s a gentleman and lady downstairs claiming to be Mr. and Mrs. Charles Morrison. ”
At those words, Bel, who had barely been taken ill a day in her life, fainted dead away on the sofa.
“There, there,” cooed an unfamiliar voice.
“Let me put this blanket on you.” A woman adjusted a pillow under Bel’s head and laid a counterpane over Bel’s collapsed form.
Bel felt the woman press her hand and offer repeated assurances that everything was going to be all right.
The woman’s accent was strange—Bel could not place where it was from, but she felt too tired to lift the leaden weights that sat upon her eyes and discover who the woman was .
“Butler, are there any smelling salts?” said a deeper voice, a voice that Bel had not expected to hear again on this side of eternity.
Bel’s eyes flew open of their own accord. “Charlie!”
“I never thought you would become one of those elegant females who swooned to become the centre of attention.” Her brother—older, more weathered, but still his same incorrigible self—was standing before her, teasing her as if he had never gone away.
“Charlie Morrison!” Bel pushed herself up into a sitting position. “How dare you surprise us like this!”
Charlie ignored her outburst. “Bel, meet my wife, Hester.”
Bel stared at the pretty woman in the purple carriage gown. “But you don’t look at all like you’re from India.”
“India?” said Hester with a laugh. “Certainly not.”
“Then where did you meet her, Charlie? And where have you been all this time?”
“Where have I been? That’s a story, by Jove!
” He took a seat to tell it. “The ship I took passage in was damaged off the Ivory Coast and the hull completely stove in. The water rose faster than a spring flood, and it was only by committing myself to the mercies of the sea that I found a piece of cargo buoyant enough to hold me. I was on the ocean, under the beating sun for three whole days, without a drop of Adam’s ale to drink, when—mercy of all mercies—I saw a white sail in the distance, shining like the pearly gates of heaven.
My parched throat could barely call to them, but they saw me.
The captain brought me—and my floating cargo—aboard.
I was another human pulled from the coast of Africa to take to America, but above decks rather than below due to the colour of my skin. ”
“You were on a slave ship!” gasped Bel.
Two spots of colour appeared high on Hester’s cheeks.