A Passionate Endeavor (19 page)

“He seems to want to lead my sister to the
altar ‘ere long, although my father is not altogether desirous of
the match. But they have been long promised to each other—since
childhood. And Charlotte—”

“And your sister desires the match?” Nicholas
interrupted.

“If I could figure out the maneuverings of
the female mind, I would not be talking to you now. I have never
understood my sister—or any other female for that matter.”

“And why does your father seem to be
disinclined to approve of the viscount?” “He considers the man to
be frivolous in his pursuits. They would not suit. Although, I
think a bit of gaiety in Charlotte’s life would do her a world of
good. She has been deprived of far too much. She has not been
exposed to the entertainments enjoyed by most young women. Instead
she immersed herself in my father’s books, and helped to nurse the
ill and infirm for the last decade. Perhaps, the viscount will have
her after all, although why he wants her I cannot fathom. Her dowry
is modest, to be sure.” Kittridge paused. “But it will not happen
without my father’s blessing.”

“Why would your father reject his suit?”
Nicholas asked, unsure of why he was persistent in the matter.

“Well, there is the matter of our heritage.
As you might have noticed, my father suppresses as much as possible
our French ancestry.”

“I daresay they are thousands of French
emigres in England today. What does he fear? The guillotine has
long been sheathed.”

The young man’s face had become white and
drawn, Nicholas discovered when he turned around to see why his
comment had met with no response. He stopped his horse again and
caught at Kittridge’s reins as he drew beside him “It is my turn to
apologize. Did you know many who died?”

“Yes,” he said. “My mother and grandparents,
during Thermidor.”

“They were declared ‘enemies of the
people’?”

“Yes. It was their wealth and titles that
killed them,” he said. Then added, “My sister witnessed the worst
of it.” Nicholas knew enough to keep silent. “I was with my father
in Paris. We shared a small town house with my cousin and his
mother’s family, who were prudent enough to hide their wealth. My
maternal grandparents were proud and defiant and refused to heed
their warnings. They remained on their estate, and Charlotte
refused to be parted from our mother. Her governess managed to
rescue Charlotte, who was just seven years old then. She dressed
her in rags, and hid in the woods until it was safe enough to walk
to Paris under the cloak of darkness.” Kittridge refocused his eyes
and looked toward Nicholas. “Do you wish to hear the rest? I must
warn you it is ghastly.”

“Tell me.”

The faraway look in his expression returned.
“My mother, her sister, and my grandparents were taken before the
tribunal and sent to Les Cannes prison. They watched their friends
led away by the cartful each morning. Soon it was their own turn.
Charlotte only ever spoke of it once to me. She had slipped away
from the town house to catch a glimpse of our mother when Charlotte
had overheard they were to be guillotined that day. She managed to
touch our mother’s hand before the crowd swelled and broke them
apart. She tried to crawl out but was unable to press through.
Charlotte did not see our mother guillotined, but she heard the
sound of the blade drop and the cheers of the crowd.”

James stopped, and tried to collect himself.
“When we lived in London, my sister would not enter any crowded
place. And she refused to be out of my father’s or my sight. My
father or I had to stay with her every moment—even while she slept.
She has a great fear of being left alone in the world.”

Nicholas felt sick to his stomach.

“I am not surprised,” Nicholas replied. “I do
not know what to say, except that I am very sorry. At least I was a
grown man of seventeen when I first witnessed the gruesome
realities of a battlefield. I cannot imagine how a seven-year-old
little girl felt upon hearing the guillotine and a crowd cheer at
her mother’s death.”

“Well, it explains why my father refuses to
acknowledge any ties to the aristocracy. Indeed, I was surprised
that he allowed my flamboyantly aristocratic cousin to visit us.
But, I suspect it was only because Alexandre’s family supported us
during those sinister days of the Terror.”

“Who were your grandparents?”

“Le Marquis and Marchioness de la Palladin.
But I pray you do not tell my father what I have confided to you. I
have told you this so you will understand why I do not want my
sister to ever have to suffer again. She has experienced enough
pain for one lifetime.”

“I assure you I would never hurt your sister.
I owe her more than is comfortable for a man to owe a lady.”

“That is all I can ask,” Kittridge
replied.

As the two gentlemen toured the lands the
grandfather had deeded to him, Nicholas kept the conversation on
topics limited to battlefield facts, to please Kittridge, and
farming, to please himself. The young man approved of Nicholas’s
ideas for the use of the vast acres, but preferred arguing over the
merits of the Brown Bess over the French musket. And all Nicholas
could think of, in the corners of his mind, was how soon the
viscount would convince Dr. Kittridge and charm the doctor’s
daughter to the altar.

It had been a frightful morning for
Charlotte. First Alexandre had so insulted Doro that the poor woman
had left, swearing never to return until “his French viscount’s
arse” was gone from the valley. Then her father had not returned
from a middle-of-the-night visit to a neighboring tenant farmer too
ill to be moved.

Her brother had been of no help as usual.
After returning from a ride with Lord Huntington yesterday, James
had lectured her all afternoon, yet again, about that gentleman’s
plans to return to his regiment. Early this morning Charlotte had
forced him out of the cottage in the direction of the abbey to get
a report on the duke’s condition.

In her father’s absence, a growing gaggle of
patients argued amongst themselves in the front room, as to who had
the most grievous illness or injury. The villager with bunions took
issue with the laborer with an inflamed cut from the new scythe,
while an infant, quite yellow, wailed his hunger to the entire
household. Most were more than annoyed to have Charlotte to
complain to instead of her father. But she had listened to them,
stitched and bandaged them, and cajoled them into compliance before
seeing the lot of them out of the cottage.

The piece de resistance arrived in the petite
form of Lady Susan, who had condescended to visit that Den of
Disease, their cottage, to be of Service to the Less Fortunate.
Charlotte doubted her lofty motive because the lady kept her gaze
glued to the doorway, no doubt in high hopes of seeing a certain
French gentleman and his Impressive Unmentionables. She was only
able to dislodge Lady Susan when Charlotte described a bilious
gastric complaint that seemed to be circulating the area. She was
lucky enough to get rid of both Alexandre and Lady Susan by calling
the former, when he emerged from his toilette, to offer escort to a
most Willing Recipient of his Services.

Ah, peace at last. The clatter of hooves
broke the momentary lull. She sighed as she rose, knowing she must
attend to the visitor herself given Doro’s defection and her
father’s absence.

A familiar deep baritone voice raised the
hairs on the back of her neck. The intensity of the tone cut her to
the marrow. “Charlotte! Charlotte, make haste! Your father—”

She entered the hallway to see Lord
Huntington half dragging, half carrying the crumpled form of her
beloved father through the doorway. “My God, what happened?” she
implored as she helped carry him into the front room, laying him on
the carpet. He was unconscious and muddy. She peered under his
closed eyelids and felt for his pulse at his wrist.

Lord Huntington, completely out of breath,
began a halting speech. “I found him at the edge of the stand… of
trees near the lake.… It’s his head, I’m afraid,” he said,
indicating a bloody patch near the back of the skull. His fingers
were covered in blood when he pulled his hand away.

Charlotte rocked back onto her heels, her
father’s hand still in her own. There was no pulse, no breath,
no—nothing. Numbness spread from her hand to the rest of her body
as an immense blast of coldness invaded her being. She refused to
acknowledge the scene before her, so filled with horror was she.
She looked up to Lord Huntington, who was staring at her and saying
something. How long had he been talking to her? “Is he beyond all
hope, then?” he asked, leaning from the other side of the body to
grip her arms. He shook her.

“He is gone,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes and released her, sighing
heavily. Within moments she found herself being lifted from her
spot. “No… no, I won’t leave him,” she insisted.

Lord Huntington settled himself behind her
and tried to force her to lean back into the circle of his arms.
But Charlotte felt frozen like a block of ice, all cold, hard
angles that refused to yield to his embrace.

“I am so very sorry,” he said. “I shall go
and find your maid. Where is your brother?”

“No, they’re not here.” With that she
crumpled, and the tears began to fall. “For God’s sake, what
happened?” she said through her tears, still refusing to lean on
him.

“He fell from his horse, I believe. I found
the horse he uses grazing nearby, the saddle askew. If I were
forced to hazard a guess, I would say that in his haste he didn’t
retighten the girth after mounting. And that horse is known to fill
his lungs to avoid a tight girth,” Lord Huntington said. “I shall
have the animal destroyed at once.”

She covered her face with her hands and wept.
“No, please don’t. There is to be no more bloodshed.”

He shook his head. “Let me find someone to
attend to you—the vicar and a maid perhaps?”

He was leaving her? Here, with her dead
father in her arms? Why did everyone always leave her
alone
?
No, it was unfair, she was not being rational. Rational thought was
impossible. She looked at him. He must have seen something in her
expression to give pause.

“Come. You must come away with me now. I
cannot leave you here, alone. At least let me take you to my
sister.”

“No, I must stay here,” she said. “It is all
right. I will stay. I cannot leave him,” she said, looking down at
the gray countenance of her father. The image wavered as her eyes
filled with tears again. “What if my brother returns? I must be
here.” Her voice sounded very far away to her as the walls of her
vision began to cast dark shadows toward the center.

At the last moment, she knew she was losing
consciousness, and she was grateful for the surcease of pain…
endless pain… endless loneliness… always alone.

The next hour proved to be one of the most
difficult in Nicholas’s life. It was a full ten minutes of trying
to revive Miss Kittridge before she allowed the peaceful bonds of
unconsciousness to give her up to the real world. Even then she
wore a pale, expressionless mask and refused to speak, curling
herself into a ball.

Cursing his leg, which he had overstrained in
his exertions, Nicholas lifted her onto the settee and brought a
blanket before starting water to boil for tea. Where was the
blasted maid? Then, despite her mewling cries, Nicholas carried her
father’s lifeless body into the doctor’s bedchamber and covered him
with a sheet before returning to the kitchen.

With a murmur of approval, he unearthed a
nearly empty bottle of good French brandy in one of the cupboards.
At least the viscount had served a purpose, for surely no one else
in the household imbibed. It was her turn to try it today—if there
ever was a time for it, it was now, he thought, shaking his head.
He poured two glasses, emptying the bottle, and carried the tray
into the front room.

She was shivering on the settee when he
returned but took the spirits without protest. Nicholas downed the
contents of his share in one swift movement as he watched her
sputter and cough after one small sip. “Keep drinking, if you can.
It will offer temporary warmth.”

She appeared very pale. He kneeled down in
front of her, despite the stabbing pain from his thigh, and grasped
her hand, rubbing it to soothe her. “Miss Kittridge .”

Her gaze moved to him, but there seemed no
life in her. When she didn’t speak, he tried again. “Charlotte, I
don’t want you to worry. I will take care of everything… of, of
you, and your brother. I won’t have you worry,” he insisted.

“No. You are not to play the hero. No one can
do anything to help me. I have feared this day, but—” she said,
then burst into tears. “But, I realize now that I somehow always
knew it would come. And no matter how hard I tried to protect my
father and James, it was all in God’s destructive hands.”