The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

declined. Again Charles felt the sinking weight of guilt. It was his fault Rich was here at all. If only he hadn’t been complacent, had followed through on protocols, most likely neither would have been injured and Rich wouldn’t now be dying.

He reached Richardson’s cot and pulled up a chair. The young officer’s hollow cheeks, his taut, yellowed skin, and the way his body seemed sunken into the bedding all spoke of his waning condition. The chair creaked as Charles sat, and Richardson stirred, his eyes fluttering open.

“How are you faring today, Rich?” Charles kept his voice quiet. The way his comrade looked, even a whisper might cause him pain.

“Still here, Captain.”

The rasp in his throat had Charles reaching for the water pitcher, and he dipped the corner of a towel into the water and let a few drops dribble into Rich’s mouth. Charles smiled that Rich, though given permission weeks ago, couldn’t quite bring himself to call his captain by his first name. It wouldn’t be proper, he’d said. He wouldn’t want anyone to think he was trading on their friendship and treating the captain cavalierly.

“Thank you.” A weak smile touched Rich’s cracked lips.

“What else can I do for you?” Charles didn’t wait for Rich to ask, easing him up in order to flip his pillow. Though the coolness wouldn’t last, it had to feel better for a while.

Rich grimaced as he lay flat again. “How are you, sir?” His voice was as thin as a frayed rope.

“I’m coming right.” Charles rolled his shoulders slightly, wincing as familiar pain—though much reduced—arced across his shoulders. He’d received a rather nasty slice from a cutlass during the capture of a French vessel, and the injury had taken far too long to heal.

Charles didn’t know how to tell Rich he’d received the all clear to head back to Britain. An anchor lodged in Charles’s chest every time he considered leaving the dying marine behind.

After all, Rich had saved Charles’s life at the expense of his own.

Charles had thought Rich would have passed on by now, and yet he lingered. Day after day his body fought to keep its tenuous grip on this world, retreating in protracted increments. Though he had fought valiantly, he would soon have to strike his colors and raise the white flag.

Charles shooed away the incessantly buzzing flies and touched Rich lightly on the shoulder. When they had first been transported together to the hospital in Oporto, the major had been hopeful. He’d taken a musket ball to the right side, and though in considerable pain, had remained cheerful and expectant of restoration to health. He’d maintained that hope, holding on to the thought of all he had to return home to in order to keep his spirits up.

“Sophie?” Rich asked.

“Of course.” Following their well-worn routine, Charles opened the sea chest under the table beside the cot and withdrew a packet of envelopes. “I’ll read the latest.”

He unfolded the letter dated two weeks before. One nice thing about being on the beach, the mail arrived regularly. Charles received no mail, not having anyone left to write to him. When he had first gone to sea, his mother had penned a note twice a year, but when she passed away, his mail had stopped. Any news from home was welcome aboard ship, and it was common to hand letters around the officers’ mess, or at least read aloud snippets of a less personal nature.

Clearing his throat, he read to the major:

Dearest Rich,

Summer has finally arrived in Oxfordshire. The gardens are a riotous glory of color, so heartily greeted after the drab and cold winter refused to take the hint it had overstayed its welcome.

Is it wrong that I love the informal gardens, bursting with flowers run amok, far more than the parterre garden at Haverly with all the box hedges perfectly trimmed and every sprout consigned to its well-planned spot? The more serendipitous garden at Primrose Cottage suits my temperament better, I think, allowed to roam and bloom and burst forth when and where it pleases.

Mother would say it is my undisciplined ways leading me to embrace unruly flower gardens, but I prefer to think of the blossoms—and my ways—as adventurous rather than rebellious. Spending time in the informal gardens speaks to my soul, and I find peace and inspiration there. After all, it is our special place, and I long for the day when we will wander its free-spirited paths once more.

Our darling Mamie is well enough. She occasionally drifts into a sort of twilight of thought where she appears to see memories from the past with more clarity than her current surroundings, but then she is back, not realizing she’s been gone. The physician assures me this is normal for an aging person, though perhaps on the early side for a woman of Mamie’s years. He says I am not to worry. Have you noticed how often people tell you not to worry, even when there is something definitely worrisome occurring? Still, the doctor is a dear man, and he is so gentle and kind with Mamie.

Mother is still not resigned to me fulfilling my promise to you of caring for Mamie while you are gone. She doesn’t understand it is so much more than mere obligation. I truly love Mamie, and I am honored you would put your dear mama into my care until you return.

Marcus and Charlotte have arrived from London to inhabit the manor for the summer. Charlotte is now in “a delicate condition.” Why can’t we just say she’s going to have a baby? Why must we be coy, with little side glances to invite people in on the secret we all know? So silly. I prefer plain speaking myself, but then again, you know that as well as anyone. My brother smiles indulgently when I speak my mind, but Mother gets a pinch-mouthed look that says she wishes I didn’t vex her patience so much. You have always encouraged me to share what