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

A separate wagon had been required, driven by one of Marcus’s grooms, who would return as soon as they were safely delivered to the coast. Mrs. Chapman agreed that her place was with Lady Richardson, no matter where they went; therefore the carriage was crowded. Lady Richardson and the cook sat on one bench, and Lady Sophia sat beside Charles.

Under normal circumstances, Charles supposed most men would choose to ride beside the carriage on horseback, but as a sailor, he sadly lacked the skills of horsemanship. If he was indeed to be consigned to a life on land, he probably should look into acquiring some ability on a steed.

Not that he was complaining about the close quarters. Rocking along with Lady Sophia wasn’t the most arduous of duties, in spite of the warm day. It was just that everything took longer when women were involved. For a period of time, he thought they might not escape Haverly Manor at all. Between the hugging, the instructions, and the well-wishes, Charles had been ready to slip the mooring lines and shove off long before the women.

Then there were the stops. It seemed at least once an hour one or the other of the ladies needed to “stretch her legs.” Not having spent time around the female of the species, he didn’t know if this was normal or not. All he knew was that progress by carriage seemed infinitely slower than aboard ship.

Mrs. Chapman kept her hand on the basket wedged between herself and Lady Richardson. The woman seemed to think there might not be provisions available outside Oxfordshire and had stuffed a hamper full of victuals to stave off starvation. And she pressed food upon anyone who accidentally met her eye.

“Would you like some bread and butter, Captain?” she asked, her face hopeful.

“Thank you, no.” He’d already had his fill, merely to be polite. The warmth of the day had robbed him of appetite, and he wished he could yank off his cravat, pull off his coat, and roll up his sleeves. Yet another obligation of traveling with ladies. One must remain properly attired at all times.

Lady Sophia looked as fresh and pretty as when they’d set out hours before. And for the first time since meeting her, she wore something other than black. Her dress was a dove gray, trimmed with darker gray ribbon. Still somber, but the bonnet framing her face had a brilliant sapphire lining that brought out the blue of her eyes.

She alternated between looking out the window and poking her nose into a slim volume that the Duchess of Haverly had pressed into her hand at the last minute.

“What are you reading, if I may ask?”

“It’s Robert Herrick’s Hesperides.” She flipped the book closed, her finger marking her place, so he could see the title on the spine. “I love Herrick, don’t you? He seems so approachable and not puffed up with his own importance. Herrick and Burns are my favorite poets. Charlotte thinks one should never travel without at least a book or two.”

Charles’s education had consisted mostly of geometry, astronomy, and mathematics, taught to him by whatever first officer had held the post on the ships he served. His knowledge was sorely lacking when it came to literature. He doubted he had ever read a poem by either of the authors she mentioned, and the only rhymes he knew were sea shanties he would never utter in the presence of a woman. Learning to navigate by the stars, calculate speed, and anticipate the weather had seemed a more prudent curriculum.

Though it pained him to admit his ignorance, he could not bluff his way into making anyone believe he was deeply literate. “I fear I am not familiar with Herrick. Perhaps you could read one of his poems?”

She pressed her lips together, studying him, and then nodded. “Rich first introduced me to Herrick when he quoted part of a stanza to me.” She smiled, her expression going to another time as she leafed through the pages. “I had just burst into the parlor at Primrose, talking before I was even in the room, and I suppose my appearance was a bit disheveled. I seemed always to be in haste back then, with so much to say. As if I needed to cram as much as possible into our short time together before he returned to the marines.”

Which matched everything Rich had told the crew about his Sophie. That she filled every day to overflowing with her joyous life. Would Rich have been disappointed at the new maturity she now showed, or was her somberness solely a result of Rich’s death? Had he not died, would she still be the same effervescent romp of yesteryear?

Lady Sophia held the book to catch the late afternoon light and began reading:

“Delight in Disorder”

By Robert Herrick

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness;

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there

Enthrals the crimson stomacher;

A cuff neglectful, and thereby

Ribands to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility:

Do more bewitch me, than when art

Is too precise in every part.

Charles mulled the words and the images the poetry created. His entire world was one of order and discipline, routine and tradition. However, this Herrick fellow might be on to something. He could envision Lady Sophia just as this poem described.

Seated among the wildflowers, her hair blowing in the breeze.

Lady Sophia waited for his response, and he could feel the housekeeper and Lady Richardson looking at him as well. He cleared his throat. “Most interesting.”

At Lady Sophia’s sigh, he knew he’d disappointed her. He couldn’t feign knowledge he didn’t have and wax lyrical over literature. If her heart lay deeply with the poets, their paths lay far apart.

That gave him pause. Their paths lay far apart in any case. Though their contact had been extended for a few days by this journey, after he saw them