Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Magnus pried off another section of paneling from the nursery wall.
The rotten wood came away easily, bringing most of the aged plaster with it.
He removed the rest with his hand, piece by crumbling piece.
A framework of rough-sawn timbers lay beneath it.
There was nothing of value tucked inside of them.
No hidden jewel case or bags of coin. Only sawdust, a deteriorating rodent’s nest, and some crumpled and decaying newspaper that had been formerly used as insulation.
Yet another disappointment in his ongoing search. One of many such, growing in number by the hour.
Today, Magnus hardly felt it.
Though he’d resumed his search after Charlotte’s departure, his mind hadn’t been fully on his efforts.
It was too much occupied with what had transpired in the small parlor.
Not just the discovery of the unopened letters he’d sent to his father, but the tender things Charlotte had said to him. With her gentleness, her acceptance.
With that ill-advised kiss they’d shared.
Magnus had told her he was sealing his fate and he’d meant it. He was tied to her now absolutely. Bound by honor. By duty.
By affection.
He tossed aside the iron bar he’d used to remove the paneling. It fell to the uncarpeted floor with a metallic clang. Across the room, Chance lifted his head. The little dog had made a nest for himself in the seat of a tattered nursery chair. He’d been dozing there while Magnus toiled.
“You’re no better than Turner,” Magnus said to him.
Chance’s plumed tail stirred faintly.
Magnus went to him, bestowing a grudging pat on his head. “And I’m a fool.”
The dog’s tail thumped again, as if in acknowledgment of the statement.
Magnus didn’t blame him. Any idiot could see that it wasn’t affection Magnus was feeling for Charlotte Beresford. Or rather, it wasn’t only affection. What he felt for her was something else. Something more.
He had fallen in love with her.
The startling realization made Magnus’s hand freeze on Chance’s head. He remained there for a full five seconds, staring stupidly at the little dog, until a shout from the corridor jolted him back to his senses.
“My lord!” Turner panted, entering the room. “Didn’t you hear me calling?” The look on the valet’s face brought Magnus back to harsh reality. “You’re needed in the kitchen. There’s been folk at the door. Three of ’em. I tried to—”
Magnus’s brows snapped together in immediate irritation. “More bloody callers?”
“Yes, sir. They come one right after the other.”
Magnus stalked to the door. Chance leapt down from the nursery chair to follow, dragging his rope lead behind him.
“Who is it this time?” Magnus asked. “The constable again? That Kitteridge woman?” He exited the nursery. “Or has she managed to stir up a mob of villagers with torches and pitchforks?”
Turner jogged after him down the hall. “It’s villagers all right. But not with torches and pitchforks. They brought provisions.”
Magnus stopped briefly at the top of the staircase. Surely he hadn’t heard correctly? “What in blazes are you talking about?”
“Tradespeople, my lord. They sent carts full of goods. Some lads delivered ’em. Didn’t ask for payment, neither. They did ask questions though, impudent beggars. I sent them off sharpish.”
Magnus’s frown deepened. He bounded down the steps, Turner and Chance close at his heels, swiftly making his way to the kitchen.
There, he was greeted by an astonishing sight.
Not a few small parcels, but an enormous delivery of goods.
They were haphazardly heaped upon the wooden plank table; disorganized piles of bread, tea, bacon, cheese, and milk, along with candles and various dry goods.
His heart clenched hard.
Charlotte.
It had to be her behind this. It could be no other. There was no one else who cared for Magnus enough to bother. Not in Bead’s Hollow. Not in Yorkshire. Not in this world.
“There’s plenty here to feed us until we leave,” Turner said. “And to light the house too. Which’ll help now we have the attics to search. Bound to be black as pitch up there.” He flashed Magnus a hopeful look. “Unless you’ve given up, sir?”
Magnus picked up a jug of lamp oil. A peculiar warmth settled in his breast. By God, she’d thought of everything.
“No one could blame you,” Turner went on. “I’ve told you myself that the fortune ain’t likely to be here. No reason we should be either. Best we set out for London. We could stay there for a time, or—”
“We’re not leaving,” Magnus said quietly.
He may not know what he deserved, but he knew what Charlotte did. Moved as he was by her gesture, she shouldn’t have had to make it. It was his job to be looking after her. To be providing for her. To be keeping her in the grand manner to which she was accustomed.
That was what she deserved.
Magnus was determined to give it to her. Even if he had to tear Moorcross Manor down to its foundations do it.
Charlotte restlessly walked the confines of her bedchamber, her arms folded at her waist. Two whole days she’d waited for her father to call on Magnus.
And for two whole days he’d remained occupied with Mr. Tate, dispatching him with letters and telegrams, and sending him on various errands.
She could only guess at what intelligence the secretary was bringing Papa in return.
She paced back to her bed. “It’s beyond endurance waiting this way!” she declared to herself.
How was she meant to keep control of the situation if she was no longer allowed a hand in it?
She didn’t even know if her father had learned about the scandal yet.
About the curse, the deaths, the inquest. More importantly still, she didn’t know if Magnus had received the supplies she’d ordered for him.
Twining her cashmere shawl more firmly about her arms, she wandered to the carved walnut table beside her bed. Agatha’s letter remained open upon it. Charlotte had read it many times since Papa had first given it to her.
It was short by Agatha’s standards. She was known for her long letters, never failing to update Charlotte on every minute detail of life at home whenever Charlotte was away. Her brevity on this occasion was the surest indication of just how worried she’d been.
Sinking down on the edge of the mattress, Charlotte picked the letter up again and, once more, cast her eye over her sister’s words.
Darling Charlotte,
I pray this finds you safe and well. Doubtless you are both. And doubtless you will be thinking me an awful tattletale. You are, however, not lacking in good sense. In time that sense will prevail and you will see that sharing Miss Champion’s letter with Papa was the exact right thing to do.
For if I did not give it to Papa, I must give it to Arthur or Nick, who would inevitably make things worse. And I could hardly go to Mama, could I, for she would only tell Papa herself. And then he would be doubly vexed for us having caused her undue distress.
There is nothing Papa cannot sort out. I am confident he will have you safely back in Somerset within a fortnight. My only hope is that you haven’t done anything unforgivably stupid in the meanwhile. You know what I mean!!
Sending scolds, lectures, and love to you.
Always,
Agatha
Charlotte set down her sister’s letter with a sigh. She did know what Agatha meant. It was an accepted fact between them that Charlotte often followed her heart rather than her head.
“It’s going to get you into trouble one of these days,” Agatha often warned her.
“Perhaps it might,” Charlotte always replied. “But my heart hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”
Charlotte was certain it hadn’t done so in Magnus’s regard. The past two days she’d spent without him had only served to make her firmer in her conviction.
“Charlotte?” A single knock announced Lucy as she opened the door. She entered, closing the door behind her. She was still in her morning dress, a frilly cap pinned atop her brown curls.
Charlotte rose from the bed. “I’m as capable as anyone of managing my affairs,” she said without preamble.
Lucy came to her. “Assuredly so. I never meant to suggest—”
“If only my father would allow me to manage them.”
Understanding registered on Lucy’s face.
Relief followed after it. “Oh, Charlotte. You take on too much.” She clasped Charlotte’s hand, giving it a consoling squeeze.
“Now your father is here, isn’t it best to let him take charge?
He’s already done so admirably. Indeed, I never saw Dr. Calthrop respond to a summons so quickly. ”
Charlotte didn’t need reminding. She’d had to endure another prolonged examination from the man, and a great deal of scrutinizing from Papa in its aftermath. Even then, Papa had not been completely assured of her health.
“And now he’s to take you to London!” Lucy continued, affecting a cheerful smile.
“Yes,” Charlotte said morosely. “To see a specialist.”
Her father had insisted upon it in order to satisfy himself that Charlotte had suffered no long-term consequences from her fall. The village doctor’s diagnosis hadn’t sufficed. Nor would any village doctors’, Charlotte surmised. At times, Papa could be dreadfully high in the instep.
“A minor indignity,” Lucy said. “Only think of afterward. You can shop in Bond Street and attend the theater. You might even begin making plans for your debut. A proper season, Charlotte, where you can meet a gentleman who is suitable instead of—” She stopped.
“But I won’t make suggestions. I’ve vowed not to interfere anymore than I already have. ”
Charlotte pressed Lucy’s hand briefly in return before releasing it. “Your interference was kindly meant.”
“You didn’t feel that way the day your father arrived,” Lucy said.
Charlotte contained a wince. Lucy had apologized profusely over the course of the last two days, enough that Charlotte had quickly come to regret the tone she’d taken with her friend when she’d first learned of her betrayal. “I was shocked,” she replied. “You can hardly blame me.”
“So long as you’re not cross.”
“I’m not cross,” Charlotte assured her.
The truth was, she couldn’t blame Lucy for sending a letter to Agatha. For all Lucy knew, Charlotte had been dead on the side of a road somewhere. Naturally she would make an appeal for help to Charlotte’s relations.
As for Agatha…
Charlotte couldn’t wholly blame her either. Nor could she fault her sister’s logic in conveying Lucy’s letter to Papa. Having Nick or Arthur coming to Charlotte’s aid would have been no end of trouble. And dear Mama would never have departed for Yorkshire without first telling Papa the reason why.
No. If anyone was to put things right, it would surely be Papa.
Or Charlotte herself.
She wandered to the bedroom window. “What I am,” she said, “is resolved.”
Lucy joined her. “Upon what?”
“Having my part in things,” Charlotte said. “My father is impossible to withstand at the best of times, but it’s my future, not his. He shan’t have it all his way.”
As she spoke, Charlotte absently drew open the curtain, casting a distracted glance down at the drive. She fully expected it to be empty, just as it had been since Papa’s arrival, his hired coach tucked safely away in the Champions’ carriage house.
It wasn’t.
The coach was parked outside the front steps of the house, the horses hitched, the driver on the box, and Mr. Tate standing patiently outside the vehicle’s door.
Charlotte’s pulse leapt on a rush of pure excitement. “He’s going at last!”
Lucy came forward. “Who’s going?”
“My father.” Charlotte let the curtain fall. Spinning around, she rushed to the wardrobe on the opposite side of the room. “Help me dress, Lucy.”
Lucy’s gave her a look of alarm. “To go where?”
Charlotte flashed her a smile. “Why, to Moorcross Manor, of course.”