Once Again a Bride

Three



“All the servants are looking for new positions?” Charlotte asked Lucy.

Her maid nodded. “After the way they treated you? They know you won’t be keeping them on. Good riddance, I say.”

After Lucy went out, Charlotte wondered what choices she would have. She had brought a good bit of money to her marriage, and inherited more when her father died. But it had all fallen under her husband’s control, and Henry had added lavishly to his collections during the time she lived in this house. Some of the items looked quite expensive. They could be sold, she supposed; there would be records. She could discover how to do that.

She fingered the folds of the mourning gown she had worn for her father, and only just put off. Black didn’t become her, but Henry’s nephew would expect it. The nephew she hadn’t known he had, who was due to visit her in a very few minutes. Henry had never mentioned his family; she’d assumed he didn’t have one. It was bizarre how little she knew about Henry, personally. But he treated any question like an insult—became abrupt, sneering, critical. Of course she had stopped asking. Charlotte’s chin came up. She was sorry for what had happened to him, but she wasn’t going to miss him—not one little bit. If this nephew of his expected a great show of grief, he would be disappointed.

The bell rang. She heard the door, footsteps on the stair, and then Lucy ushered in the caller, and Charlotte’s spirits sank. He looked like Henry—tall, lean, regular features, and sharp green eyes. His hair was wheaten rather than silver, but the relationship was only too obvious. His face was not set in the harsh, intimidating lines that Henry’s had exhibited, but he was much younger, after all. Time would no doubt limn them.

“Sir Alexander Wylde,” Lucy announced. He looked as if he didn’t approve of her country accent, or the fact that she dropped his hat and coat and gloves on the sofa.

Charlotte rose. Mr. Seaton had warned her that her visitor was a baronet and must be treated with all due respect. “Hello,” was all she could manage.

He stared at her. “You are Mrs. Henry Wylde?” He spoke as if he didn’t believe it.

Charlotte heard clear echoes of Henry’s constant disapproval. She wanted to burst into tears; she wanted to snap at him; she wanted to throw him out of her house. With difficulty, she controlled herself and said, “Yes.” She sat back down. “Thank you, Lucy,” she added as her one ally turned to go.

Sir Alexander took the chair opposite her without invitation. “I beg your pardon, but we had no idea… how the dev… how did you come to be married to my uncle?”

“In the usual way.” Charlotte sat very straight. She kept her chin high, trying to show that she would not be intimidated. “I was told you have charge of his will?”

He looked around the room, evaluating and disdaining, Charlotte thought. “Have you no family to lend you support in these… trying circumstances?”

Clearly, he thought she was a nobody who had latched onto his uncle. “My father, George Rutherford, died last summer at his estate in Hampshire. I have no other family. He told me that he had he seen to all the necessary legal matters when I married. I brought a substantial dowry…” Stop babbling, she told herself.

Her visitor’s expression was odd. It almost looked like pity, if such an emotion had been possible from a connection of Henry’s. Charlotte braced herself for bad news. Was there anything left in the world but bad news?

Had her father’s mind been up to legalities? She had so wanted to rely on him, to believe he was still the man who had cared for her so kindly all her life.

“I see.” The two words were heavy with foreboding. “My uncle’s will is… unusual.”

He looked as if he wished she didn’t exist. Well, Charlotte wished he didn’t. Her hands closed into fists in her lap.

“It mandates that this house is to become a museum for his collections.” The man spoke quickly, as if to get it over with. “Scholars and other… qualified visitors are to be admitted on request. You are permitted to remain as long as you oversee these visits, learning as you can about the objects and imparting this knowledge. There is, apparently, a catalog. If any item is sold, all his assets, including the house, revert to the British Museum.”

“What?”

“There is sufficient income from investments to maintain a… small household. Not perhaps on the scale…”

Charlotte was speechless with outrage.

“I took the time to go over the document with my solicitor before visiting you, and—”

“Took the time? How very kind of you.”

“—his opinion was that the will would stand up in court, I fear. If you had been married for a longer time…”

“I brought him eight thousand pounds!” Charlotte burst out. “Along with what my father left me. Are you telling me he spent it all on his wretched ‘collections’?”

“I cannot say for sure…”

“He did.” She clasped her hands so tight they hurt. “He married me for the money, of course he did; why did I not see it? Why did my father not…?” Her voice broke, and she despised herself for it.

“Mrs. Wylde…”

“Do not call me that! Do not ever call me that!” She should have known. There were so many things she should have known. Why had she let herself be moved about like a chess piece? Why hadn’t she thought?

“If I can assist…”

“Apparently you cannot.” No one was going to tell her what to do again, ever, Charlotte vowed. She would never again be taken by surprise in this horrible way. “Just give me…”

The drawing room door flew open, and Holcombe strode in, brazen as ever. Lucy trailed him, making helpless gestures. “I want to know what I have inherited,” he said.

Rage brought Charlotte to her feet. She wanted to shout at him, at everyone. She wanted to sweep them aside like sparrows. It took every ounce of willpower to keep her voice even. “What is left to the servants?”

“Who is…?” began Sir Alexander. He paused, took in her expression and Lucy’s, looked at Holcombe. He stood up. “There are no bequests to the servants in my uncle’s will.”

“Nonsense! He promised me…”

“You heard Sir Alexander!”

The valet ignored her, addressed the visitor. “You can’t tell me it all goes to this whey-faced chit of a girl? Mister Henry would never have done such a thing.” Lucy looked as if she might hit him.

“You are dismissed, Holcombe,” Charlotte said through gritted teeth. “Pack your things and leave this house immediately.”

Holcombe glared at her. “As if any of us would work for you. I told Mister Henry you were a mistake. From the moment I saw…”

“Silence!” Sir Alexander’s voice was like a whiplash. “How dare you speak to Mrs. Wylde in this fashion?” Everyone stared; it was as if a different man had entered the room—a hard-faced, dangerous man.

“She’s nothing but a…”

“You heard what she said. You are dismissed. You have twenty minutes to vacate this house.”

Holcombe gaped at him.

“And should anything besides your personal possessions turn up missing when you’ve gone, you will find yourself before a magistrate before you can draw a breath.”

Holcombe looked almost frightened. It seemed he might speak, but he thought better of it, raising a defensive shoulder and positively slinking from the room. Lucy waited a moment, her eyes bright, then followed.

Charlotte was trembling. For so many months she had longed to see Holcombe set down, to have someone besides Lucy acknowledge his insolence. And now this stranger had demolished the man with a few words. It was overwhelming. No one in her life had ever stood up for her so fiercely. A wave of heat washed her skin; she was exultant and tearful and ashamed all at once.

“That was…?”

“H-henry’s valet.”

“His valet?” Her visitor appeared astonished. “You know, you cannot let servants overstep…”

Rage came flooding back. “Cannot? How am I to stop them when the master of the house encourages them to persecute…?” Charlotte bit off the word, battered by her conflicting emotions. He had intervened, but of course he didn’t really understand. How could he? And why would he want to? She couldn’t bear to expose the humiliations of her life to this… this Wylde. “Are there… documents I must have?”

Sir Alexander drew papers from an inner pocket. “Will you be employing Mr. Seaton?”

“No!” She wanted nothing to do with anyone associated with Henry. She practically tore the pages from his hand.

“Then I would recommend Harold Wycliffe. He is the solicitor who reviewed the will for me. His card is there with the…”

“All right!” She moved toward the door. “I need to think.”

“Of course.” He retrieved his coat and hat. “If I can be of any…”

“Lucy will show you out.” She hoped. He was probably thinking that her household was in complete disarray. And he would be right.

Sir Alexander bowed and passed through the drawing room door. “Please do not hesitate…” She shut it in his face. She couldn’t help it.

***

Now there was a proper gentleman, Lucy thought as she closed the front door behind their visitor. Silently, she went over his speech to Holcombe yet again in her mind. She’d been desperate for someone to squash that slimy bug for months and months, and this Sir Alexander had done it so thoroughly. The look on Holcombe’s face when he was threatened with a magistrate! Lucy hugged the memory to her. His defeat was so long overdue. It did her heart good. Maybe there was some hope for better things, after all.

Suddenly, the strain of the past months descended on Lucy in one headlong rush. She had to put a hand to the wall to keep from sinking right down onto the floor. The carping, the frustration, the helplessness; it had been the worst year of her life, and no mistake.

She swayed, and the movement flickered in the mirror on the opposite wall. There she was, reflected, a slender young woman in a dark gown and white apron. Lucy was always too busy checking Miss Charlotte’s hair or the drape of her gown to study herself in a mirror, but now she leaned forward and took stock. She’d never been pretty like her mistress, which wasn’t such bad news. A pretty maid had a load of extra troubles in this world. Her face looked even sharper than it used to, though, her chin more pointed. The gardener’s boy back home had claimed she looked like a fox, which was a rare compliment coming from him. She wondered what had become of Tom. He was good with plants, so he’d probably found another post.

The troubles that had burdened both her and her mistress hadn’t taken all her curves. Lucy turned a little to reveal them in the mirror. Her brown hair wasn’t as glossy as before, maybe, or her cheeks as rosy. She raised a hand to her cheek; her dad had always said she had good strong hands, like him. A person could do right well with good strong hands, he’d claimed. She liked using them, too, liked to work, liked learning tasks that she could do well.

She moved closer to the mirror. Her eyes were still a plain, steady blue. The lines of strain around them were new. She looked worried, even though she wasn’t particularly worrying just now.

Life had been weighing on her a sight more than she could let herself admit, she realized. She didn’t mind being relied on—was proud to be. But Miss Charlotte had needed—still needed—more help than she could possibly give. She didn’t know enough or have the power to change things.

But this unexpected nephew, now. He did. He was a nobleman. His clothes spoke of wealth. His manner—the way he said “silence” and instantly cowed Holcombe—showed he was well accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. He would know important people and understand the law.

He’d left a card, Lucy thought, stepping back from the mirror. If Miss Charlotte didn’t put it away somewhere safe, she would make sure she did. She wanted to know how to get hold of Sir Alexander Wylde. He was just the ticket.

***

Alec strode through the March drizzle, wondering if there was any hope of finding a cab in this out-of-the-way neighborhood. He supposed he would pay now for sparing his horses a cold wait.

Nothing about the visit had gone as he expected. His uncle’s wife—he could hardly think of the girl in those terms—had turned out to be the antithesis of his pug-faced vision. Quite pretty, with her gold-copper hair and deep hazel eyes, her trim figure evident even in that stuffy black gown. No pretensions to fashion; that, at least, was as anticipated, but appealing despite her dowdiness.

Why in God’s name had she married Henry Wylde? He’d thought first of penury; yet, if she was to be believed, his uncle had coveted her money. Social advancement seemed equally unlikely. She was clearly well bred and hadn’t appeared stupid; she could not have imagined that his uncle moved in exalted social circles. The thought of affection, of his dour uncle courting, was preposterous. There must be something wrong with her that was not immediately apparent.

He spotted a hackney discharging a passenger ahead and waved down the driver. There was clearly something very wrong with her household. The behavior of his uncle’s valet was beyond anything. Even Uncle Henry would have sent the man packing, surely. And the place had felt almost… abandoned, which was ridiculous. What had the fellow said, though? That none of the servants would work for her? That had to be an idle threat, born of his obvious animosity.

He gave his address to the cabby and climbed in. He had done his duty and would continue to do so, though she didn’t seem to want his help. It was a relief, really; he had far too much to do already. Wycliffe would manage bank accounts and all the other necessary arrangements. But, bouncing over the cobblestones, he found that Charlotte Wylde lingered in his mind. Her youth—could she be even twenty?—the impression he had gained of a forlorn yet resolute spirit.

He had expected, been braced for, a weeping female falling on his chest and demanding his attentions and aid. Of course he was delighted that no such thing had happened. Of course he was completely and only relieved.

He felt even more so when Frances pounced on him in his study bare moments after he reached home, saying, “You are not actually going to let Lizzy keep that cat?”

“What has it done now?” Alec sighed.

“That is not the point! If you keep indulging Lizzy, she will never learn to control herself.”

“She’s been worried about Anne…”

“We have all been worried about Anne! But that does not give us license to ride roughshod over others’ sensibilities.”

Alec refrained from saying that it seemed to have given Frances such license. The familiar calm, equable Frances had not been much in evidence lately. As she glared at him, waiting for a reply, he suddenly noticed a resemblance to Lizzy in the lines of her face. Of course Frances had the dark hair and deep blue eyes of his mother’s side of the family, he knew that.

But the contrast between the two had always been more striking than any similarity—Frances thoughtful and reserved; Lizzy in constant motion and high flights.

Frances had the rounded shape of the maternal line, too, though it felt odd to notice. She was indelibly associated with his father in his mind, a parental figure. He’d thought of her as old, but she wasn’t more than, what, early forties? Right now, she looked older, tired and harried and thoroughly irritated. “The cat is on probation,” Alec answered at last. “It is to be confined to the schoolroom and Lizzy’s bedchamber.”

“Oh, very likely.”

Sarcasm, from Frances? This, also, was new. “Lizzy promised me that…”

“Lizzy promised? And how often has she kept a promise?”

“I think you’re being a bit harsh. Lizzy does not break her word.”

“Except when she cannot help it, because, you see, some circumstance forced her to do… whatever it is.”

Frances’s echo of Lizzy’s voice was spot on. Alec almost made the mistake of smiling. “So, as usual, you will give me no support?” Frances added. “You will leave the discipline to me, and disappear into your far more important concerns than your sisters’ conduct or future.”

This was so unfair, and so unlike her, that Alec had to say, “Frances, what is the matter? All winter you have been…” He tried to find a word that would not offend.

“I? You are going to blame me?”

“It’s not a matter of blame. I only wondered if there was something…”

“Oh, why do I bother? No one ever listens to me!” Frances whirled and stormed from the room in finest Lizzy fashion, leaving Alec bewildered and rather concerned. Was Frances ill? Had something serious happened, and no one told him? He stood beside his desk, wondering if he should go after her, and finally admitting that he did not wish to. He sat down, eyed the piles of correspondence on his desk. Was the perilous state of the country more important than his sisters’ conduct and future? Of course not. Not… precisely. But… that was an unfair comparison. He’d done nothing wrong, Alec thought resentfully. Frances had always managed the household without visible effort. She hadn’t appeared to want advice from him. It was unjust to accuse him of neglect. He would tell her so—at some appropriate point, when things settled down. As they would; of course they would. No question.

Alec reached for a letter from the pile with an incongruous sense of relief.