Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Somerset, England
Charlotte perched on a stone bench overlooking the stream that ran through the grounds of Beasley Park.
Trees surrounded her, making the secluded spot something of a sanctuary.
She frequently retreated here when she was at home, either to read or to sketch, or sometimes simply to stare at the water.
It had been sketching today. A pretext, really. She had wanted to get away from the house. Never mind the looming rain clouds that darkened the sky. It was too busy indoors, with both the family and all of the staff in the throes of preparations for their departure for Heywood House in the morning.
They were to spend Christmas with Charlotte’s maternal grandparents, Arthur and Phyllida Heywood.
At the advanced age of more than eighty years, her grandfather was too infirm to travel to Beasley this year, and not well enough at all to make the longer journey to Worth House.
Instead, Charlotte and her family would go to him.
“He’s not ill,” her mother had assured her. “Only more easily tired.”
Charlotte was looking forward to the visit, truly. She loved her grandparents, and Christmases at Heywood House were always a special treat. At the same time…
“It’s been six months,” she said. “And still no word yet from Magnus.”
A sketchbook lay atop her lap, an unfinished drawing of Chance gracing the topmost page. The dog himself was ambling close to the stream, in company with several other of her family’s dogs—two spaniels, a Maltese, and three good-natured mongrels of indeterminate ancestry.
Hearing her voice, Chance looked up from sniffing a clump of weeds.
Charlotte took a sighing breath, inhaling a lungful of crisp morning air that was still damp from yesterday’s heavy rain. “Yes, I know he’s written before.”
Magnus had been true to his word on that score. Letters had come regularly, both from Yorkshire and, more recently, from London. Quite formal letters, so proper and respectful that, at times, Charlotte had begun to question whether he still had feelings for her.
“But he hasn’t written lately,” she said. “Not this week. Or last week either.” A frown etched her brow. “I wonder if there’s something wrong with the post?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the post.”
Charlotte’s head jerked. Magnus stood atop the grassy bank.
But not the Magnus she had parted from six months ago in Yorkshire.
Gone were the disheveled locks, shadowed jaw, and rolled shirtsleeves.
They had been replaced with scrupulously cut raven hair, a clean-shaven countenance, and an impeccably cut Chesterfield of heavy black wool.
The overcoat set off his broad shoulders to magnificent effect.
She surged from her seat with a startled gasp. “Magnus!”
The dogs erupted into a chaos of barking. Chance raced up the bank to his former master with a flurry of yips and yaps. The other dogs joined him, barking as well, both in greeting and alarm at seeing a stranger appear. Mud flew beneath their scrabbling paws.
Magnus stopped briefly to acknowledge Chance and the other dogs. All the while, his smoky gray eyes remained on Charlotte.
Warmth flooded her veins at the look in his gaze. It was exceedingly intent.
“How are you here?” she asked.
Magnus came down the bank, paying no mind to the mud and the damp, though they played havoc with what appeared to be a rather expensive pair of leather boots.
Instead of irritation, his face lit with a rare smile.
“The usual way, I expect,” he said. “First a carriage, then a train, then another carriage.”
Charlotte closed the distance between them. “I meant…how are you here?”
Magnus took her outstretched hands. He pressed them tightly as the dogs leapt around them. “I arrived an hour ago,” he said. “Your mother told me you would be here.”
She stared up at him in astonishment. “You’ve spoken with Mama?”
“I’ve met all of your family,” Magnus said.
Her heartbeat quickened, understanding what this must mean. Oh, heavens. Oh, goodness. She wasn’t prepared. Indeed, she’d been afraid he was losing interest in her.
She said as much before she could stop herself.
Magnus’s smile dimmed to hear her fears. “Didn’t you get my letters?”
“You know I did. Did you not get mine?”
“I did.”
“Poor as they were,” she said. “There’s only so many ways one can describe autumn and winter at Beasley. I did send sketches, however, and—”
“I have them all.” He pressed her hands again. “I wish you’d sent a sketch of yourself. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful you are.”
Charlotte blushed. “Not today I’m not.” She cast a grimacing glance at her simple broadcloth skirt and sturdy wool paletot. “We’re both of us covered in mud from the dogs.” Her gaze returned to his with a hint of shyness. “But you look splendid.”
His voice deepened. “I’m pleased you think so.”
The husky timbre of his words sent a minor earthquake through Charlotte’s midsection. Was it normal? she wondered. To have this reaction, not only to a gentleman’s touch, but to his voice as well?
Whatever it was, it was positively thrilling.
Even more thrilling because this was the gentleman who had her heart.
She searched his face, ignoring the building heat in her cheeks. “Is that why you were in town? To see your tailor? Or was it to settle things with your London house?”
“Your father mentioned that?”
“He did,” she admitted. “I wish you’d have spoken to me on the subject first. I’d have told you not to sell it. There’s no reason to do so, not with my inheritance to—”
“I’ve no need of your inheritance.”
“But—”
Magnus’s expression turned solemn. He directed a look at the stone bench. “Shall we sit?” he asked before Charlotte could finish.
She broke off, uncertain of his change in mood.
Possibly it had something to do with money.
It had always been a sore spot with him.
Given his failure to find his fortune, it must be even sorer now.
Indeed, his letters had never even mentioned whether or not he was continuing to search for his missing inheritance.
Doubtless Papa had put an end to that with whatever he’d told Magnus during that meeting they’d had in the Moorcross Manor drawing room.
Papa had a knack for such things. She’d seen it often enough with her brothers.
Arthur and Nick were always inspired to reform their ways after one of Papa lectures, even if only for a short time.
Charlotte didn’t like it. She didn’t want Magnus to change in order to be worthy of her. She preferred him exactly as he was.
She allowed him to escort her back to the bench. Her sketchbook lay in the damp grass in front of it. She must have dropped it when she’d leapt up.
“Botheration,” she said. “It would have to fall face down, wouldn’t it?”
Magnus fetched the sketchbook for her as she took a seat. He brushed off the mud from the page before joining her on the bench. He didn’t preserve any distance between them. His arm brushed against hers as he sat down, the side of his leg pressing against her heavy skirts.
Butterflies fluttered in Charlotte’s stomach at their closeness. He was very big and very warm. The heat of his body stood in stark contrast to the chilly December air around them. She nevertheless felt a shiver go through her. It had nothing to do with the cold.
Chance and the other dogs milled at their feet a moment longer before the rustle of a bird in one of the willowy bushes near the stream’s edge diverted their attention. They raced off as a pack, setting up another storm of barks.
“It may yet be salvageable,” Magnus said, handing the sketchbook back to her.
Their bare fingers brushed as she took it. Her heart skipped a beat. “Thank you.”
He examined the unfinished pencil sketch. “Is that Chance?”
“The start of him.” A frigid breeze through the branches of the trees stirred a loose curl on her cheek.
She’d piled her hair into a corded hair net this morning.
It was ill-inclined to stay there. Tendrils had already worked their way free all about her face.
“He’s been doing very well here, as you see,” she said.
“He’s made particular friends with the smaller dogs.
The cats as well. Even Mr. Aloysius has come to tolerate him. ”
“Is this how you’ve been filling your days in my absence? Sketching?”
“And riding, and church, and shopping with my mother and sister. I’ve been reading too.
Mr. Verne has a new book—Around the World in Eighty Days.
I’ve already read it twice.” Charlotte’s pulse skittered under the steadiness of his regard.
She was rambling, she knew. “There was an assembly in Heycombe last month. I think I mentioned it?”
“You did.”
“I didn’t attend.” It hadn’t seemed right to be dancing with gentlemen acquaintances when her heart belonged to another. “What about you?”
“I’ve attended no assemblies either,” Magnus said.
She gave him a speaking look. “How have you been passing the time? That’s what I want to know. Your letters were exceedingly vague on the subject. Indeed, the postmark often revealed more to me than you did.”
“I’ve been doing what I should have done from the beginning. Getting my house in order.” His mouth curved. “I have you to thank for it.”
“Me?” She wrinkled her nose. “You must mean my father. If he’s the one who told you it was necessary—”
“It was you,” Magnus said gruffly. “You’re the one who urged me to put the dry goods in the pantry.” He withdrew a folded envelope from the interior pocket of his Chesterfield coat. He held it out to her. “I found this there, inside the wall, not long after you left Yorkshire.”
“Inside the wall?” Charlotte took the envelope in surprise.
“Open it,” he said. “Read it.”
Charlotte did as he bid her, unfolding the letter and reading it, not once but twice. Her brows lowered with disapproval at the words his father had written. This is what Magnus had found in lieu of the missing treasure? A nonsensical letter lacking in all finer feeling?