Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Six months!” Charlotte’s hand fell from Magnus’s sleeve. She stopped alongside one of the tangled, thorn-covered rose bushes to stare up at him in disbelief. “And you consented to it in writing?”
“I did,” Magnus said.
They faced each other in the sunlight, amid the ruins of the Moorcross Manor gardens.
Papa had allowed them a brief moment to talk without the burden of his presence, so long as their conversation took place out of doors.
Strolls in the park were, after all, permitted for courting couples.
As were rides in open carriages and a dance or two at a ball.
The trouble was, Charlotte was no longer sure if she and Magnus were courting.
They had made no explicit arrangement with each other. It had only ever been implied through tender looks and touches.
And kisses.
Charlotte’s chest ached at the injustice of it. “You mean to say that all the while I was in the kitchen, organizing your cupboards, you and my father were upstairs coming to this diabolical agreement?”
Magnus’s brows lowered. “Organizing my cupboards?”
“Mr. Turner had put all of the supplies I sent you in the larder, which makes no sense at all. Everyone knows that bread and dry goods should go in the pantry. I made a start of it, but—”
“While he was drinking his blasted tea?”
She waved off his outrage. “Never mind that.”
“He was supposed to offer you refreshment.”
“He did offer. But I wasn’t going to sit there drinking tea, was I? Not with my future hanging in the balance.”
Magnus ran a hand over his jaw. “The contract is merely symbolic, I suspect.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she said. “Papa often uses legal devices to force his enemies into compliance.”
“I hope I am not his enemy.”
Charlotte wished she could be as hopeful as he was. “Was he very angry?”
“He’s protective of you,” Magnus said. “I can’t blame him for it.” He again offered his arm. “Shall we walk on?”
Charlotte didn’t accept the courtesy this time. Not immediately. When they’d set out from the house, she’d done so because she’d believed it to be a sign of his continued affection for her. Now, however, she wondered if the gesture wasn’t inspired by something else altogether.
“I’m in no danger of falling into a hole you know,” she informed him, “whatever warnings about my health my father has given you.”
“I would feel better if you took my arm.”
“Because you care for me? Or because you’re eager to resume our walk so that it might be over all the sooner?”
“The former,” he said. “Obviously.”
Her heartbeat quickened in spite of herself. “Oh, very well.” She tucked her hand back in his arm with a disgruntled grumble. “Since you put it so eloquently.”
Magnus’s mouth hitched in a fleeting smile at her sarcasm.
Charlotte’s pulse again lost its rhythm. Too easily she remembered what it had felt like when he kissed her. The memory was such that it almost made her forget her distress at his and Papa’s autocratic tactics.
Almost.
She frowned to herself as they continued down the garden path. Heaps of dirt dotted the tangled landscape, marking the boundary of every hole that Magnus had dug in the search for his missing inheritance. He ably guided her around them, unfailingly steering her to the safest path.
“Your father will expect us back momentarily,” he reminded her. “We can’t linger overlong.”
“We’ve scarcely begun,” she said. “You still haven’t told me the whole of what transpired between you and my father.”
“There’s not a great deal to tell.”
“Aside from the fact that you promised not to see me again for six months?”
“Your father makes a compelling argument for it.”
A nameless anxiety settled in Charlotte’s breast. Despite her confidence in herself, and her own judgment.
Despite what they’d been through together.
She was still not entirely sure of his affections.
“No one could persuade you to do something you didn’t already want to do in the first place,” she said.
“I want to do what’s right,” Magnus replied.
Some of the apprehension in Charlotte’s chest eased. A different sort of ache took its place. Of course he wanted to do what’s right. Given his past, observing proper decorum in their courtship—even at this belated date—must strike him as being of paramount importance.
“We’ve been much in each other’s company during a volatile period of time,” he said. “Your injury and memory loss. My return to Yorkshire to confront my past. It’s made us both vulnerable to emotions we might not have had if we’d met under other circumstances.”
She glanced at him in swift suspicion. “Are those my father’s words or yours?”
“His,” Magnus admitted. He brought them to a halt beneath the gnarled branches of an old ash tree. “I can’t argue with them.”
Charlotte gazed up at him as he turned to face her. Anguish and frustration warred within her. “It sounds as if you didn’t argue at all.”
“I was tempted to.”
“Then why—”
“To what purpose? To rush you into a hasty alliance that you would only come to regret with the passage of time? Better you have a chance to clear your head and come to the decision sensibly than realize too late that marrying me was the greatest mistake of your—”
“You forget,” Charlotte interrupted, “that we have already been married.”
Magnus’s solemn face betrayed another short-lived smile. The brief expression warmed her to her toes. “That was your idea of happiness, was it? Me snarling and scowling at you all day long?”
“You weren’t snarling and scowling on the day I left the manor with Miss Champion and the constable,” Charlotte reminded him. “Or when we were in the small parlor.”
“I expect I should apologize for that,” he said.
“Don’t,” she replied. “I feel badly enough as it is.”
Magnus’s countenance grew serious again. He smoothed a lock of hair from her temple, tucking it back into the pin that secured it. “Six months isn’t so long.”
She trembled beneath his touch. “Isn’t it?”
“I’ve been at sea for far longer.”
“I haven’t. I haven’t been away from anyone I care about for that long.”
“I shall write to you regularly.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You’re not obliged to answer me.”
Charlotte flashed him an offended glare, ignoring the rising temperature of her blood. “Don’t be stupid. Of course, I’ll answer you.”
“I should be honored if you did,” he said gravely.
Her pulse fluttered wildly. “I can’t promise my letters will be very diverting. Agatha is the capital correspondent in our family. She can draft pages of amusing accounts, back and front. While I—”
Magnus cupped her face, silencing her with a husky vow: “I shall treasure every word you write to me.”
Charlotte was overcome by a fierce swell of emotion. Six months felt like forever. All those days without talking to him. Without seeing him. Without having the benefit of his strength to lean on, or the endearing grumpiness of his conversation.
Her vision blurred with the threat of tears. “I fear you will forget me.”
Magnus’s harsh features softened with tenderness. He bent his head to hers, bringing his forehead to rest gently against her brow. “I never could,” he said. “Have faith in me, Charlotte.”
Magnus was of no use to anyone in the days following Charlotte’s departure. He made little progress in excavating the rest of the upstairs rooms, and none at all on searching the attic. He was too preoccupied. Too bloody melancholy.
In his darker moments, there was nothing sufficient to distract him. Not even looking after Chance. Charlotte had taken the little dog with her when she’d gone—an action that had provoked her emotions as surely as parting from Magnus had.
“He can’t bear to be parted from you,” she’d said.
Magnus’s throat had been excessively tight as he’d stood outside the closed door of their carriage. Chance was within, situated on Charlotte’s lap. She had her arms around him, holding him safe. “He’ll see me again in six months,” Magnus had replied to her.
And so will you, he’d added silently.
How many of Charlotte’s tears were shed for the dog’s predicament and how many were for her own, Magnus supposed he’d never know. All he did know is that they’d filled her eyes as the carriage had rolled away, making his heart ache like the very devil.
Six months.
He reflected on it bleakly as he made his way down to the kitchen.
There was still much of the house left to search.
Magnus was nevertheless gradually resigning himself to the fact that he might never find his inheritance.
In light of that possibility, all that remained was to sell the house in London.
Only then might he have something suitable to offer Charlotte.
“They say she’s an heiress,” Turner remarked from his seat at the kitchen table. He was drinking another cup of tea. A half-eaten portion of salted beef and bread was on a plate in front of him.
“They would do better to mind their own business,” Magnus told him.
“If it’s true, happen you might keep the London house. You could fix up this one too, if you fancy.”
“I don’t fancy.”
Magnus had no intention of using Charlotte’s money to repair his diminished fortunes.
His pride would never allow it. Not when there were still other avenues he could pursue.
He’d been contemplating them for days. Not just selling the London house, but taking a position somewhere.
A job in Whitehall, perhaps. If it came to it, he could even petition the Admiralty for reenlistment.
It was a long shot, to be sure, but better than the alternative.
Crossing the kitchen, Magnus opened the door of the larder. It was filled with what remained of their meat, cheese, bread, and dry goods. Everything Charlotte had bought for them, in fact, even the candles. “Is there a reason you’ve put it all in here?” Magnus asked crossly.
“Seemed easiest,” Turner said. “Leastways we know where to find it.”
Magnus picked up a sack of oatmeal, recalling Charlotte’s words to him in the garden on the day she’d left. “This belongs in the pantry.”