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

“Headed to the village pub, looking for a load to Dorset, where he come from. Didn’t want to waste the trip back if he could find something that needed toting.” Charles’s coachman led one of the horses out of the small stable to hitch him up.

“Trot round there and tell him I have work for him. If he’s already gone, find a wagon to hire.”

“Very good, sir.”

“’Scuse me, sir. Is it true?” An elderly man with a seamed face and pale eyes tugged his forelock, coming out of the shadows of the stable. “Pardon for interrupting. I’m Donnie, what does the gardening here. Is it true that new folks have come and they’re forcing the ladies out?”

“I’m afraid so.” Charles felt as grim as he sounded.

“And Mrs. Chapman is going with them to Haverly?” He twisted his cloth cap in his gnarled hands.

“That’s correct.”

“And them new folks isn’t nice at all?”

“Not in my brief experience.” Why wouldn’t the man get on with it? Charles had things to do.

With a sharp nod, Donnie slapped his hat against his leg. “That tears it. I’m coming too. If there’s no work at Haverly for the likes of me, I’ll find something. But I won’t work for them new folks if they’re that hard of heart to be so cruel to the ladies.”

Charles clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. You can help with the baggage.”

“I’ll do that very thing, sir.”

When Charles reentered the house, he discovered Lady Sophia in the drawing room, removing shells from a cabinet. The new owners were nowhere to be found, thankfully. She placed the seashells carefully in a small rosewood box and fastened the clasp. Her head was down, and the sunlight from the window caressed her glossy brown hair. Her shoulders had a defeated tilt, and her long lashes flicked suspiciously fast.

“Lady Sophia?”

She straightened and sniffed. “I’m almost finished.”

“I’ve sent my coachman into the village to procure transport for your things. Also, the gardener has announced his plans to accompany you and Lady Richardson to your brother’s home. I hope this is acceptable?”

“Oh, Donnie—I forgot all about him.” Her hand went to her throat. “Of course he must come if he wishes. He should be retired long since, but he’s so stubborn. There will be something he can do at Haverly. I’ll talk to my brother about him.”

“Are you nearly finished with your packing?”

With a nod, she surveyed the room. It was mostly unchanged, but Lady Richardson’s knitting basket was gone from beside a chair, and the cricket ball from the mantel. Everything they were taking from this room fit in one box, with space left over. He picked it up.

“Do you need more time? It’s ridiculous to expect you to be out in only a few hours. I would be happy to speak with the new baron.”

“No. I don’t wish to linger. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’”

Charles paused, the box halfway to his shoulder. “Is that a quote?”

“Shakespeare. Macbeth.” She shrugged. “Mamie enjoys Shakespeare. We read his sonnets, but she especially likes his dramas. We talked of going to see one of his plays performed once Rich returned.”

The wistful thread in her tone smote Charles in the chest.

If only Charles had made certain that Rich had cleared the ship of combatants. If only he had been more alert. If only Rich hadn’t tried to save his life.

By noon the baggage coach was loaded and Mrs. Chapman sat beside the driver, her bonnet firmly in place and her Bible in her lap. She stared straight ahead, as if ready to embrace whatever lay before her with courage.

Charles handed first Mamie and then Lady Sophia up into his carriage. He couldn’t help but admire her resilience. She hadn’t wilted under the blows coming her way. Beautiful and strong, just as she had shown in her letters.

The new baron and his wife stood on the top step of Primrose Cottage, their offspring tumbling about them like a pack of foxhounds waiting for the horn to sound.

He touched the brim of his bicorn to them but remained silent. He would not beg their leave, not after the way they had come in like a tide and swept Lady Sophia and Mamie Richardson out.

He instructed the driver as to their destination and climbed inside, sitting across from the ladies.

Mamie pressed her fingers to the glass, craning her neck to keep the house in sight for as long as possible, but Lady Sophia had her eyes closed. Her lips moved. Was she praying? If so, for what? Courage? Strength? Lightning to strike the cottage and deprive the new occupants of the pleasure of living there?

Small talk under the circumstances was impossible. He held his council as the carriage jostled along the road.

As Lady Sophia had said, it was not a protracted journey. Before long they turned up at a massive pair of gates and stopped. The keeper strolled out of the gatehouse, spoke briefly to the driver, and opened the carriage door.

“Oh, milady, I didn’t know it was you.” The man bowed, lifting his hat.

“Would you open the gates, Canby?” Lady Sophia’s voice was kind in spite of their circumstances. She might be retreating from battle with her sails furled and her rudder broken, but she was sailing under her own colors.

The drive curved through open meadows and copses of old trees. How had these magnificent oaks been spared the axe when nearly every tree in Britain had been felled to build the fleet? Haverly must have some pull with the government.

They passed a large stone house. “Did we bypass the manor?” he asked.

Lady Sophia shook her head. “That’s the dower house, where my mother and sister-in-law live.”

If that was the dower house, what must the manor be like? Charles hadn’t long to wait. They turned a corner, and there she was, floating on a sea of gardens like a flagship in full sail. Warm red brick, white trim,