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

the first to toast the happy couple?” The vicar lifted his bottle, and Mrs. Chapman reached for glasses.

Instead of ratafia or ale, Dunhill poured champagne. Charles accepted his glass, puzzled. Where had the reverend managed to procure champagne? Not only was it expensive, but with the embargo on French goods, it was impossible to get.

“You wouldn’t believe it. When I first came here, nearly five years ago now, the parsonage had been empty for a long time. The church had been making do with a circuit-riding preacher. So the house needed quite a thorough cleaning before I could move in. And what did we find belowstairs but a wine cellar? Jugs and bottles of French wines. The previous parson had been something of a collector, I gathered.” He held up the gently fizzing drink. “I gave some to each of the parishioners, and I saved a bit back for special occasions. The marriage of the Earl of Rothwell seemed an appropriate circumstance for bringing out the last bottle.”

“We’re honored.” Charles raised his glass before taking a sip. He refrained from grimacing. He had never cared for champagne.

Thea finished her meal first and bounced up to explore.

“Stay away from the cliff edge,” Charles warned.

“I will. You don’t have to tell me every time.” Her words drifted back over her shoulder as she ran through the tall grass.

“Someone is going to have to take her in hand.” He pursed his lips. “I suppose that task will fall mostly upon you now.”

Sophie touched her lips with her handkerchief. With the breeze teasing her hair and fluttering the ribbons on her bonnet, she looked much too young for such burdens. Was he putting too much on her slender shoulders, placing her in charge of the girls and Gateshead?

“She’s got an independent streak, but she’s not really willful and certainly not wicked. Just high spirited. I know how she feels. My mother likes to remind me often that I was quite a hoyden in my youth. There’s time enough for her to settle down.”

“I find it hard to believe you were ever a hoyden.”

The gamine grin that flashed across her face negated what he thought. “Actually, I was, until quite recently.” She sobered, twisting the ring. “When word came of Rich being wounded, I sort of drew in on myself. Marcus used to tease me that I could talk the leg off a table when I was younger, but somehow I didn’t seem to have much to say during that time.”

“The letters you sent to the hospital were still as bright as brass fittings though.”

She checked on Thea, the girl’s dress a splash of color against the grass. “I forget sometimes that you read my letters. I tried not to let on to Rich that anything was amiss at home. Tried to be breezy and light and interesting.”

“You accomplished that and more. All the crew, myself included, enjoyed the bits he read to us.” He put his hand on hers on the grass. “I don’t want you to think you can’t mention Rich. He was dear to both of us.”

Her hand moved under his, but as she nodded her understanding, a frown crossed her face. “What’s she found now?”

Thea ran toward them, streaming a long piece of cloth from her hand. “Look at this.” She twirled, making the narrow strip of fabric coil around her. “I found it stuck in the bushes down there.”

“Let me see.” Charles held out his hand, and Thea gave him the … flag? The cloth was white canvas. About a foot of one end had been dyed or painted bright blue with a red X, and the same amount on the other end was vivid red with a blue X. “What on earth?”

The vicar chuckled. “That’s one of the homemade buntings from our celebration. The village threw a bit of a party when we heard the war was over. The ladies made at least a dozen of these, hanging them from their windows.”

Odd that it had wound up out here.

“There was quite a storm the night of the celebration. I suppose the wind caught one of the sashes and carried it along until it caught on the brush.” The vicar wasn’t looking at Charles when he spoke. “I’ll take it for you. Perhaps Miles can dispose of it.”

Miles snapped into action. “Of course, sir.” He took the cloth, wadding it into a ball.

A feather of unease flicked across Charles’s mind at the sharpness of the vicar’s tone, but he shrugged it away. It was time to go sailing.

Sophie held Betsy’s hand until Charles reached across the small gap of water from the boat deck to the pier and lifted the child aboard the Shearwater. Thea hadn’t waited for help, leaping aboard like a cat coming home. Sophie tried not to let on how nervous she was. She’d never been sailing before, and the thought of all that water around and under her made her apprehensive.

Which was silly. The boat was sound, and the weather couldn’t be lovelier. They were under the command of a naval captain and an able boatman. Nothing bad would happen.

Penny allowed herself to be aided by Miles, and Reverend Dunhill helped Mamie. Then Charles, instead of holding out his hand to Sophie, leaned over and bracketed her waist. Her hands went to his shoulders to brace herself, and his muscles bunched beneath her palms. He swung her aboard in a smooth arc, keeping hold of her until he was certain she had found her footing.

Being held by him made her feel both secure and uneasy. It was as if she stood on solid ground but on the edge of a precipice. Was the fact that she was now his wife, even if in name only, what caused her to be so very aware of his touch?

“Can we go now?” Thea stood with her feet braced apart, rocking with the slight bob of the boat. “Can we go fast?”

“We’ll go as fast as the wind