Chapter Thirty-Two
Another two weeks had passed and Evan’s condition slowly improved.
At least, he was no longer in danger of dying.
Gilbert had sent many letters home, and twice had asked to be allowed to leave University to attend their father, but Miles had forbidden it.
Cousin Selina had sent preserves and flowers to Clayton House from her father’s home in Doddington, with a note wishing the family well, but clearly, Charlotte thought, she had no intention of sharing her good wishes with the family in person.
Such letters and notes were always welcome.
However, the one Charlotte most wished to hear from was Mr. Morton, and there had been no word at all.
Although she tried to keep her spirits up, Charlotte was downhearted.
Though her daily demeanor showed no trace, inside she felt nearly frantic.
She feared she had lost her Robert although she could not imagine how or why.
The thought kept playing in her mind that it was because she wouldn’t elope with him as he had asked.
It seemed improbable that he should break with her over that.
Still, it nagged at her—should she have said yes?
If she had, she would now be a married woman, even if the taint of an anvil wedding lingered.
At night, she wept quietly into her pillow.
Fortunately, she and Dorothea had both been so busy caring for their father that the topic of Charlotte’s romance never came up.
Or perhaps, thought Charlotte, her sister was so certain of Robert’s steadfast nature that it never occurred to her to ask whether all was well.
At one time, Charlotte had felt the same steady confidence in Robert’s affection but now, after all these days and still no word from him, she was filled with anxious doubts.
One day, Charlotte was taking a walk in the back garden of Clayton House, brooding over her situation and wondering if she should write yet another letter to Robert; she had sent four so far.
But, she did not wish to appear improper.
Although engaged to Robert in all but public knowledge, it still might have the appearance of immodest or poor manners to continue to write to him without knowing whether, in fact, the adoration he had so willingly proclaimed in the garden at Haverstone was still secure.
Desperately unhappy and with no one to confide in, Charlotte sank onto a stone bench and wept.
She felt stupid and weak. She ought not to feel sorry for herself.
Her father was still ill and her thoughts should be on him, not on her own problems. But, she could not control herself, covering her face with both hands as she released all her anguish.
“Charlotte—dearest, what is it? What is wrong?” Dorothea had gone looking for her sister and was alarmed to see the display of distress.
She sat beside Charlotte and pulled her in her arms, rocking her gently.
“Why do you weep so? Father is still ill, but he will recover—even our physician is now of that opinion. Do not be sad. Tell me, please, what is ailing you?”
“I do not weep over Papa, Dorothea,” Charlotte choked out. “It is Mr. Morton who is the cause of my grief.”
Her sister gasped. “Why? Has he done something? Did you get a letter from him ending your attachment?”
Charlotte shook her head morosely. “Had I even that unhappy news to complain of—no, I have heard not a word from him since we left Haverstone.”
“Oh…but, he could be busy with estate affairs, could he not? Or, he certainly knows you are occupied with nursing our father and likely does not wish to distract you at this time. Just because Mr. Morton has not written does not necessarily portend bad news. A letter will come soon enough.”
“I thought so, too, at first. But, you see…I have written to him—four times. There has been no reply.”
“You wrote to him? But, Charlotte, you must know that was terribly improper. Even if he hinted of making you an offer at our ball, you are not yet his fiancée.”
Charlotte wept afresh. “I am, though. I did not tell you this, but he asked me to be his wife that same day we were packing to come here.”
Dorothea gave a little cry of surprise. “He made you an offer? It is definite? But, that is joyous news, indeed.”
Charlotte wiped her face with her handkerchief and blew her nose. “There is more.”
After a pause, Dorothea said softly, “Tell me.”
“That day, Mr. Morton—Robert—came across me in the rose garden. I had gone there for some fresh air to ease an aching head after writing all the notes, alerting everyone to the cancelation of the ball. Robert had hurried over to Haverstone right after receiving his. He did propose and swore his love to me, but…but then he asked me to leave that instant with him to elope to Gretna Green.”
Dorothea’s mouth fell open. “Why? What possible reason could he have to rush you into marriage in that manner? I can scarce believe it. Why should he make you such a tawdry offer?”
“He said he believed if we were to elope in Scotland and then arrive at Clayton House as a newly wed couple, it would be such happy news it would help Papa get well. But, I rejected his plan. I could hear you in my head saying that if he truly loved me, he would wait. I told him I would not elope—that I much preferred a proper wedding with all my family around me. He became quite upset, stormed out of the garden, and…I have not heard from him since. I now fear he has ended our attachment.” Charlotte lifted a sad face to Dorothea.
“Why should he break with me simply because I did not wish to go to Gretna Green? I do not comprehend it.” She leaned her head wearily against her sister’s shoulder. “Not at all.”
“Nor do I, dearest,” Dorothea said softly.
“I wonder whether Reginald would have some knowledge of the situation, seeing as he is still at Haverstone. I shall send him an express first thing tomorrow morning and beg him to send word of any news he may have heard in the county.” She helped Charlotte to her feet and slowly the two walked back into the house.
“All will be well, dearest, you will see. A man who declares himself firmly and happily to a young lady can in no way lose his affection so rapidly. Come, let us go inside and ask Mrs. Wilson for some tea and biscuits.”
*
Dorothea and Charlotte were in the drawing room having their refreshments, though they sat mostly in silence, since neither felt much like conversing. They were still puzzling over Mr. Morton’s distant behavior and both were unable to devise any justification for it.
The door opened and Mrs. Wilson entered, carrying a letter.
“This came for you in today’s post, Lady Gillingham,” she said, handing it over. “It is from your home county, though I do not recognize the sender’s name. I just thought you might want to see it sooner than later.” She nodded and left.
Dorothea examined the letter. “Why, it is from Mrs. Sanders. Likely, she wants to know from my own hand how our father is doing. That is kind of her.” She opened it and silently read. After a moment, she gave a shriek and leapt to her feet. “No! It cannot be—oh, my heavens.”
Charlotte reached out to clutch her sister’s arm. “What is it, Dorothea? What has happened—what does she write?”
Dorothea turned a stunned countenance to her sister.
“It is about your Mr. Morton. Mrs. Sanders writes that he has just returned to Brentwood from London—married to a Miss Phoebe Graham with whom he eloped to Gretna Green. Oh, how can this be? He all but proposed to you—he swore his devotion to you.” She continued to examine the paper.
“Mrs. Sanders writes: ‘This unexpected and shocking elopement was the talk of London and now of our home county. But, I suppose it truly should not have been. Miss Graham, or should I call her the present Mrs. Morton, is that most enviable of all creatures—an orphan heiress. Said to have a fortune of five thousand pounds, she is lithe, blonde, and in my own opinion, rather a silly creature. But then, many a man has put up with a ninny of a wife for a sizable fortune.’ Oh, I cannot believe this news. She must have heard incorrectly. I shall send that express to Reginald today—he will clear up any misunderstanding. I must write to him at once.” She walked away, but Charlotte called her back.
“No, Sister. I am certain Mrs. Sanders is not misinformed. I would imagine Reginald has already heard this surprising news. Do not waste money on an express. Most likely a letter from him informing us of all the particulars will arrive here soon. I suppose I should have expected as much. Why marry a young lady with a mere thousand-pound dowry when you may have one who brings five times as much into the marriage? I thought Rob—Mr. Morton truly cared for me, but now I see I was mistaken. The fault is all mine.” She stood.
“Will you excuse me, please? I think I shall go upstairs and rest a while.” Without waiting for a reply, Charlotte hurried from the drawing room.