The Beloved One Page 5

  "After what he did to Lord Charles? Punish him, I say!" snapped Ophelia, her eyes softening as she gazed at the silent figure on his pallet. "Poor, poor Lord Charles!"

  "Yes, what a noble sacrifice our brave friend has made!" Mildred gushed. "His eyesight for Will's life. Oh, Lord Charles, how ever can we thank you?"

  Amy wasn't surprised when he didn't answer them. A half-hour before, he'd been a drain upon their resources. A half-hour before, they couldn't wait for him to hurry up and die. Now that he was Lord Charles, everything had changed. As a handsome and no doubt very wealthy aristocrat, he was marriage material, an object of competition between them both, the ultimate prize to be won. The two were out to impress him, and they wanted blood to do it. Will's blood.

  "What are you going to do, Papa?" Ophelia demanded, trying to pressure her confused and hapless father into a decision.

  "I . . . I don't know."

  "Please, Papa, have mercy on Will," said Amy, interceding. "After all, he's only fourteen. He was alone and scared, and he didn't know what else to do . . ."

  Ophelia rounded on her. "How can you defend him so? Haven't you any thought for poor Lord Charles? If Will had taken our gallant captain to Boston and handed him over to the king's troops instead of bringing him all the way up here to Newburyport, he would've been treated for his injuries that much sooner! He would've woken up to find himself amongst people he knows and trusts, instead of strangers whom he must think of as the enemy. Your concerns are with the wrong person! Lord Charles is the injured party here, not Will! Will ought to be whipped for what he did, no ifs, ands, or buts about it!"

  "What do you mean, Will? Amy's the one who deserves to be whipped!" hissed Mildred, eyes gleaming as she, too, turned on Amy. "I'll bet you knew who Lord Charles was from the start, didn't you?"

  "I knew he was a redcoat, yes, but I didn't see a need to say anything —"

  "Didn't see a need to say anything! You stupid, unthinking, idiot, Newburyport is a rebel town! We even had our own tea party last year! What happens if someone finds out we're harboring a king's officer? And what about when Dr. Plummer comes back to check on him? All Lord Charles has to do is say hello, how do you do, and the doctor's going to know immediately that he's no rebel a'tall! You've put us in as much danger as Will has, Amy, for keeping your silence!"

  "And unlike Will, you're old enough to know better!"

  Amy bit her tongue to hold back her angry retort. Of course she hadn't said anything to Sylvanus, but that was because Will had begged her not to. Unbidden, her mind drifted back to that desperate, tearful conversation she and Will had had in the barn, just following Charles's surgery . . .

  "Swear you won't tell Pa, Amy! Oh, please Amy, don't tell him, he won't understand and since the captain'll probably die anyhow it doesn't make a bit of difference —"

  "Will, why did you even bring him here?"

  "I had to," he'd said miserably, his eyes filling with tears as he sank down on a bale of hay, his head in his hands. "Oh, Amy . . . I thought war was going to be glorious. I thought it would feel good to kill one of those bastards, to know I'd done my part for America, but when it came down to it, and I saw people on both sides dying horribly all around me . . ."

  "It suddenly wasn't so glorious anymore," she'd finished.

  "It was awful," he'd sobbed, tears squeezing out between his fingers.

  "Tell me what happened, Will."

  And he had.

  "I wanted to hate the redcoats, Amy, I wanted to kill one, but how can you hate and kill someone you feel nothing but admiration for? When that young soldier ran away from the safety of the troops, the captain was just like the shepherd who leaves his flock to save a single lost sheep, heedless of all the bullets flying around him. I've never seen courage like that, Amy . . . And just as he was putting his soldier up over the saddle, I got a hold of myself and thought, here's my chance to kill one, to kill a really important one and do my part for America so that everyone'd be p-p-proud of me . . ."

  Tearfully, he'd told her what had happened next, how the captain must have realized his youth and in the last moment, spared his life, only to fall backwards against the wall. He told her how, long after the fighting moved on and the fields and woods had gone quiet, he'd gone back. "I had to —" he'd choked back a sob — "had to see for myself j-just what I'd d-d-done to him."

  "It's all right, Will. Don't cry . . . you're too big to cry now and besides, it's not your fault."

  "But it is my fault, Amy! It's like when you go hunting and you kill something for the supperpot. You know you have do it, and you get all excited when you pull the trigger, but when the bird goes up in a little puff of feathers, or the beautiful deer stumbles and goes down, there's a big part of you that hopes that when you get there, you was just imagining that you hit it . . . that it'll have recovered and got away . . . or that you killed it cleanly so it didn't suffer." He'd passed the back of his sleeve across his nose. "The captain didn't get away, and I didn't kill him cleanly. He was still lying there, right where I'd left him, with blood from his head all over the lichen on the rock behind him. And the worst part of it was, that horse of his never did leave him, and was still standing there guarding him like some big dog, with the dead soldier still lying across the saddle right . . . right where the c-c-captain had p-p-put him. I couldn't just leave him out there to die, Amy. I just couldn't . . ."

  "But how did you get him home without anyone stopping and questioning you?"

  "One of our men was lying dead nearby, so I swapped the captain's red coat, gorget and hat for the other fellow's waistcoat … took him to Uncle Eb's and told him he was a friend and then went to Boston and got a boat home. Oh, Amy, what am I gonna do?"

  She had pulled him to his feet. "We are going to go right on letting everyone believe the captain's a rebel," she'd said briskly, thinking, like Will, that he would probably die anyhow. "It'll be our little secret . . ."

  And it had been — until now.

  And now the chance for defending herself was past; with the captain awake and listening, it seemed cruel and insensitive to admit that they'd pretty much expected him to die. No. She'd take whatever punishment was coming her way, if only to spare his feelings. He'd been through enough, the poor man, still sitting on his pallet with his gaze turned toward a fire he could not see and his mind as far away as England's misty shores. Totally oblivious to everything. Totally uncaring.

  Sylvanus put down the poker. "Will's guilt is punishment enough for what he's done. But Amy —" his voice turned plaintive, — "Amy, you should have known better. You should have come to me immediately. Why didn't you?"

  "I'm sorry, Papa. Will begged my silence, and I — I thought that he should be the one to tell you, not me . . ."

  "I thought that Will should be the one to tell you, not me," mimicked Mildred, nastily. "If something bad comes of this, it's going to be all your fault, Amy! Papa's right, you should've known better!"

  "Nitwit!"

  "Imbecile!"

  Tears stung Amy's eyes. She was accustomed to getting abuse from her sisters, but oh, lordy, it felt a hundred times worse to get it in front of the captain. She glanced up at Sylvanus for help, but she should have known better than to look for it there. He stood confused and uncertain, unwilling to make a move in any direction, and treating this problem as he did all others that involved the raising of his children; that is, by ignoring whatever he found unpleasant in the hopes it would go away.

  But Ophelia didn't go away, and neither did Mildred. The former shot Amy a look of loathing, then crouched down before the captain. "Now, you mustn't worry, Lord Charles," she crooned, in a voice that was meant to be reassuring but, addressed as it was to a proud king's officer, came out sounding patronizing. "I know you must feel very sad and sorry for yourself right now, but we'll take care of you, and you can be certain that no harm will come to you here. Everything will be just fine."

  The captain ignored her.

  "Did you hear m
e, Lord Charles? I believe I'm talking to you."

  He only stared straight ahead and blinked, the exaggerated sluggishness of the action only emphasizing the extraordinary length of his lashes, the aquamarine clarity of his eyes. He did not turn his head to look Ophelia's way, or even acknowledge that she had spoken.

  This was a situation Sylvanus did know how to deal with. "Leave him alone, girls," he said gently. "The poor fellow has had a shock and needs to rest. Can you not see that?"

  Ophelia shot her father an angry look. Then, sweetly addressing Lord Charles once more, she cooed, "Well then, perhaps I can get him something with a bit of laudanum in it so that he can sleep."

  Mildred pushed her sister aside. "No, no, Ophelia, I can get that for him."

  "You're going to Lucy Preble's poetry reading, you don't have time to see to Lord Charles's wishes as I do."

  "And you're going out driving again with Matthew Ashton!"

  Sylvanus said, "I think Amy can see to Lord Charles's needs just fine."

  "Now Papa, you know that Amy has so many other things to do, she doesn't have time to see to him," Ophelia protested. She gave her father her sweetest smile, but above it her eyes were harder than stone. "We only want to help her out."

  "Yes, help her out," put in Mildred, not wishing to be outdone.

  "Divide his care between the three of you then," he said wearily. "But if there's anything, er, delicate that needs doing, leave it to Amy. There are some things the two of you just shouldn't be seeing."

  Ophelia and Mildred giggled. Sylvanus turned away. On his pallet, Lord Charles remained unmoving, and as Amy looked from him to her sisters, both of whom were regarding her, she saw that their eyes gleamed with malice and loathing. Don't think we're going to let you take care of him, those glittering eyes warned. He's ours, now.

  He's his fiancée's, Amy wanted to retort, taking a certain delight in anticipating their response when they found that out.

  Sylvanus eased himself down into a chair. "And now, I'd like to speak to Captain de Montforte in private," he said, reaching for his cider. "Mildred, go get ready for your reading. Ophelia, you've got an outing with Matthew Ashton to prepare for."

  "But Papa —"

  "Come now, girls, go. I wish to speak to our guest alone."

  "What about Amy? Why does she get to stay?"

  "Because she's making supper. Now hurry up, or you'll be late."

  They pouted. They pleaded. But for once Sylvanus didn't give in to them. As soon as they stormed from the room in a huff, he turned to the lone figure sitting before the fire.

  "I am sorry, Captain de Montforte," he said. "This cannot be easy for you, and you have my sympathies for your plight."

  There was no response from the captain.

  "Dr. Plummer wants you to rest for the next fortnight, but after that, we need to think about getting you back to the army in Boston," Sylvanus continued. "If you ask me, your spirit's taken a far worse blow than the back of your head, and I think it would do you a world of good to be with your own people." His voice gentled. "You need to be with friends, not strangers."

  The captain only blinked again in that slow, exaggerated way he had, and continued staring into nothingness.

  Sylvanus, growing worried, glanced at Amy, who shook her head and motioned with her hands to let the man alone. But out of guilt for his son's part in this tragedy, Sylvanus persisted. "I know you must be eager to return to Boston, and as much as I'd like to take you back there myself, I just can't leave my flock, I can't spare my son, and it is, of course, unthinkable that I allow my two daughters to bring you . . . though if you're determined to go, I suppose I could always send Amy."

  The captain, still staring straight ahead, finally spoke. "Is Amy not your daughter also?" he asked flatly.

  "Er — well, uh . . . she bears my name, yes. But she doesn't have a reputation to consider, as do Ophelia and Mildred."

  "All young women have reputations to consider."

  "Yes, but Amy is — well, never mind, Captain. Suffice it to say that, unlike her sisters, Amy's reputation does not demand careful care and protection."

  Amy wanted to die.

  The captain's jaw hardened.

  And Amy, seeing it, quietly stirred the stew in its big black kettle. "Papa, if Lord Charles wants to go to Boston, I can take him anytime he wants to go —"

  "No!" barked their guest, startling her with the vehemence of his tone. He glared sightlessly into the flames, his fists clenched. "I will not allow it."

  Sylvanus began, "Really, Captain, Amy's a very capable young woman —"

  "Precisely that, she is a young woman, and Boston is a den of rascals, sailors, blackguards and scum. It is no place for her, and since I've been rendered useless in my ability to protect her, I will remain here until someone can come up from Boston to collect me. I will not see her life or virtue risked on my account. By God, I will not!"

  Sylvanus's brows shot straight to the roots of his sparse white hair. And Amy, who had never before had anyone defend her in such a gallant way, had never thought of herself as a woman worthy of "protection," and had never been the focus of such gentlemanly concern, widened her eyes and put her hand to a suddenly fluttering heart.

  "Papa," she said carefully, "Lord Charles has just woken up. He is exhausted, upset, and needs time to rest. Time to come to terms with what has happened to him. Maybe you should have this conversation with him later."

  Sylvanus, his face white, nodded. He made a comment about getting back to his sermon and hastily exited the room, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

  Once he had gone, Charles's shoulders rose on a great sigh of weariness, then fell. There was no pride to maintain, now. No reason to show strength where none was needed. He put his head in his hands and stayed that way for a long time, not saying a word while the girl moved about the room, quietly performing her slave-duties. But he could not get her out of his mind. Her humiliation had been, and still was, nearly palpable. The way her sisters had attacked her, the way her apathetic father had failed to defend her, the way her cowardly brother had allowed her to shoulder blame that was his and his alone, gave him a tangible outlet for anger which heretofore, had no other but self-pity. They were a pack of wolves after a little fawn. They were horrible. And as she silently went about preparing supper, Charles decided that he had never disliked anyone as much as he did these people who called themselves her family.

  The stew was thick and bubbling, the bread a lovely golden brown, and the fragrance of beef, onions, and herbs filled the keeping room before he finally spoke.

  "Miss Leighton."

  He heard her crossing the room, the brush of air against his face as she knelt down to his level, taking the hand he held out to her in silent apology. "Yes, Lord Charles?"

  "I am sorry for embarrassing you so. Forgive me."

  "Oh, there's nothing to forgive," she said, squeezing his hand and then releasing it. "I know you're not angry with my family, but with your circumstances —"

  "On the contrary, Miss Leighton, I am furious with your family. I do not know if I can suffer them for the remainder of my stay here."

  "I don't mind bringing you back to Boston, then, if you want to go —"

  "Damn it, girl, don't fuel my fury with such remarks!" Charles dug his fists into his eyes and then, in a calmer, quieter voice, murmured, "I need you to do me a kindness."

  "Certainly."

  "Can you read and write?"

  "Yes."

  "Providence smiles on me at last. I need someone to pen three letters for me. Will you do that?"

  "Oh, yes. We can do them right now, if you like. Supper won't be ready for a while, and I'm just tidying up a bit, that's all . . ." He heard her jump to her feet. "I'd be happy to write your letters for you, Captain de Montforte, even post them for you in the morning —"

  "No. You have more than enough to do. Let your sisters post them."

  "I don't mind, really —"

 
"I mind. Let them do it."

  "Well . . . all right." He heard the whisper of her petticoats, caught the tantalizing scent of bayberry mingled with warm, soft female as she came close. His senses heightened, his skin warming at her nearness, and Charles frowned, disturbed by his reaction to her. "Now, if you'll take my hand, I'll bring you into Papa's study, where there's pen and paper."

  He extended his hand up toward her voice, unaware that she, at the same time, was beginning to lean down. His fingers plunged through cloth and into the plush softness of a breast, and he heard her surprised gasp as he jerked his hand back, curling his fingers into his palm, into a fist, and cursing himself for his inadvertent liberty.

  "Miss Leighton, I am dreadfully sorry —"

  "N-no, you couldn't see what you were doing, there's nothing to be s-sorry about," she managed, in a breathless little voice.

  "Shall we try again?"

  "Yes — " a nervous little laugh — "yes, let's."

  He tentatively extended his arm. God help him, the feel of her breast, so soft, so firm, so ripe, was still seared on his fingertips, imprinted on his brain. Charles didn't even realize his hand was still fisted until he felt her gently prying apart his fingers.

  It was all he could do not to pull her down into his arms, to put his hands all over her so that he could see, through his touch, the face of this woman who had done so much for him, who was the only light in his world of darkness, who seemed to intuitively understand and protect for him those things he needed most. Dignity. Rest. Space to heal.

  But he could not put his hands on her, of course. He could not go about touching people. He could not, would not, go about touching young women, especially those to whom he wasn't engaged to be married. And so he rose to his feet, taking care that he didn't put undue pressure on her hand and thus throw her off balance, and then stood there swaying a little with disorientation, weakness, and a renewed pounding of his head.

  "Can you manage this, Lord Charles?"