A Passionate Endeavor (7 page)

He was so very handsome. A slight shiver ran
down her back. The three riders in the distance were just coming
over the last hill before the deep valley, and she could finally
discern that it was, indeed, he along with James and Lord Edwin
Knightly. His shoulders were broader and his posture more
commanding than that of the other two gentlemen. Her vision blurred
as Charlotte put down the delicately enameled theater glasses. She
hastened to shake the wrinkles from her gown and smooth back her
mussed hair in the off chance the threesome turned in her
direction.

It had been two days since she had seen him
last. Two days of longing for even a mere glimpse of him. She was
behaving like a silly goose. She refused to do so. She
would
behave in a normal fashion. She
would
converse naturally.
Yes, she
would
return to her previous pursuit of gazing at
birds. She moved back to the prickly hedgerow. The familiar scent
of hawthorn and dog rose teased her nostrils. She refused the urge
to look toward the riders again. Instead, she closed her eyes and
picked up the distinctive call of the cuckoo.
Cu-ckoo-cu-rico
. And then the pounding sound of hoofbeats
muffled out the birdcall. She opened her eyes.

“What’s this? Charlotte! I thought you were
with His Grace.” James and the other two riders came to an abrupt
stop in front of her.

“I was earlier, but Father ordered me to take
some air.”

“You were looking a little green about the
gills after nuncheon,” James replied. “But then, perhaps it is just
the reflection of your gown.”

She looked down at her green gown with
embarrassment. It was a very ugly shade now that it was faded.

She turned toward Lord Edwin. “Good
afternoon, my lord.”

“It is a lovely day, is it not? I hope you
have not taken your brother’s unkind remark seriously, Miss
Kittridge.” He turned and gave a sweeping glance toward Lord
Huntington.

“Brothers can never be counted on to behave
properly, you know.”

She could not think of a way to contradict
his mean sentiment without appearing as abominably rude as the
younger brother. Charlotte dared to look fully at Lord Huntington.
“And how is the mare today, sir?”

“She lives. But I am uncertain whether she
will ever recover. She has a dazed look in the eye, still.”

“I will stop in again to look at her then,”
she said.

“Are you out bird-watching, dearest?” asked
James, motioning to her theater glasses. “Find any unusual
feathered friends?”

“It is the first chance I’ve had since
arriving.” Charlotte’s senses heightened under Lord Huntington’s
serious gaze. “I was searching out a cuckoo. He is hiding somewhere
in the hedge, as they are wont to do.”

“Ah, the infamous cuckoo. The usurper of the
nesting animal kingdom,” said James.

“Do tell, Miss Kittridge,” said Edwin
Knightly, after a small yawn.

“Oh, I would not presume to keep you from
your afternoon ride.”

“No, no. We are all agog,” he insisted with a
charming smile.

“I am afraid it is an ugly story. The mother
cuckoo’s modus operandi is to find another bird’s nest, wherein she
places one of her small eggs.” She motioned toward a nest barely
visible in the hedgerow. “And the mother cuckoo—”

“Or the hatchling nudges the other bird’s
eggs or baby birds from the nest, thereby ensuring the young
cuckoo’s complete care and protection by the host mother bird,”
finished Lord Huntington as he removed his beaver hat and ran a
hand through his sweat-streaked hair. “I did not know you were fond
of bird-watching, Miss Kittridge.”

She watched the beautiful layers of his hair
rustle in the slight breeze. There were so many different shades of
brown ranging from sun-streaked to the darkest end of the spectrum.
She had dared to stroke his hair several times when he had been
asleep or delirious in the sickroom. She knew exactly where the
fine strands became coarse below his temples.

Before she could find her tongue, her brother
interrupted. “Actually, Charlotte is more interested in sculpting
the bird forms she studies in the field.”

Charlotte could feel her cheeks warming. She
detested being made to stand center stage. She moved the small
sketch pad she held to behind her back, and felt the knot in her
stomach tighten.

“Miss Kittridge, you amaze us all every day.
Your talents are boundless,” replied Lord Edwin, laughing. “Where
do you find the time for all these wonderful pursuits?”

“They are just that, pleasurable pursuits
that I engage in whenever an hour or two of liberty presents
itself. I fear my efforts are not in the talented realm as you
suggest.”

“Perhaps we could take a lesson from you one
afternoon, my dear. It would be a wonderful diversion for a dreary
day. Or at least my brother and sister should join you, as they
seem to be the more artistic members of the family tree. Never an
interest in the written word had you, Nicholas?” Lord Edwin said
before turning the subject. “But always the willing hero. Much more
important that.”

Charlotte turned to catch the granitelike
expression on Lord Huntington’s face.

“I daresay we are interrupting Miss
Kittridge’s solitary pursuit. Let us ride on,” replied Lord
Huntington. “If we dally any further, we won’t have the chance to
inspect the planting in the far fields and the herd of cattle.”

“Well, I for one, have had enough of a ride
to last me a fortnight. And I suspect Kittridge is of the same
mind.” Lord Edwin looked toward James. “Care to ride back to join
the ladies for afternoon refreshments? My brother will keep us out
here until nightfall with his infernal interest in all things
agricultural.”

James looked indecisive. “Well, all right, I
suppose. That is if you don’t mind, Lord Huntington?”

“Not at all,” Lord Huntington replied,
looking relieved by the promise of solitude.

She wanted to ask about his leg, as she could
see him rubbing it. But she did not want to embarrass him. She
could tell by the taut skin of his cheek and the beads of sweat on
his brow that he was in serious pain. It was far too early for him
to be riding. It had been only four weeks since his arrival, and he
had broken his leg a month before that time. At least he still wore
the stiffened bandage.

The threesome began to move off. “Charlotte,
dearest, best retrieve your bonnet, lest a freckle or two appear,”
her brother said in mock playfulness.

“The air has only brought a pleasing color to
your sister’s cheeks, Mr. Kittridge,” said Lord Huntington. He
looked at her for a moment before turning away from the others to
canter off through the valley.

She waved her hand, a silent good-bye on her
lips. A pleasing color. He thought she had
a pleasing color
on her cheeks. She touched her face in wonder. She would not
replace her bonnet now for her life.

Her brother and Lord Edwin made their
good-byes, and she was left to ponder the meeting in the
afternoon’s glorious sunshine.

She placed the sketch pad at the bottom of a
nearby shaded stile and clattered to the top. Seating herself on
the old timber, she retrieved a small volume from her pocket. Lady
Rosamunde had lent it to her one evening as she sat watch over the
ailing duke. She ran her fingers over the gilt lettering,
Pride
and Prejudice
. She couldn’t wait to read it. So much for her
vow to stop nurturing her newly formed romantic turn of mind. The
devil with it. If she would never have her heart’s desire, at least
she could live vicariously through the mysterious “Lady’s”
characters. Ah yes, the Devil was very clever in providing excuses
for her behavior.

“
I do not want people to be very
agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great
deal
.”

—Letters of Jane Austen

WE would accomplish two goals, Nicholas
decided the next morning, his leg stiff from evening’s slumber. He
would exercise his leg again, despite the pain, and he would
contemplate a solution to the sorry state of affairs he had
witnessed yesterday afternoon in this little corner of
Christendom. Nicholas also rode out, he admitted to himself, to
escape the hours of dreary conversation at the abbey with people
whose only contentment in life could be found in discussing other
people and events instead of ideas that could improve the mind.

He had risen at his customary hour before
dawn and hastened below to the kitchens, hidden away from all of
the upstairs household’s eyes save his. The scullery maid, there
early to stoke the fires, spied him and returned to her work with a
blush. Nicholas took the bits and pieces that would make up his
breakfast and left before Cook discovered him.

He saddled his own horse with the help of a
sleepy stable boy intent on impressing the heir. Nicholas worked
the aching muscles in his mending leg as he rode past the acres
planted with hay, wheat, and other crops for future fodder. After
touring the pastures and village the day before, an idea had
simmered in his brain. He had noticed that many of the fields lay
fallow.

He had also observed a steady trickle of
returning soldiers flowing through the village. The honorable,
worn, and wearied soldiers had a certain bleakness in the eyes he
had not encountered while they faced the French army’s guns. This
was hopelessness. Each had a similar story to tell, one of farms
lost to the enclosure acts, displaced families, and abject poverty
dogging their trail home.

Nicholas had stopped one haggard fellow
wearing his regiment’s rifleman green and bought him a meal at the
inn. The soldier told a sorry tale about how the parish had done
everything possible to deny honorable men a supplement, humiliating
and challenging each soldier’s qualifications to be on the roll. It
was a disgrace. Some of these disheartened souls he had seen in his
childhood, some he had seen on the battlefield, and some he had
never seen before as they were wandering without a place to call
home. Something needed to be done before desperation turned to
looting and looting turned to gaol or worse.

He must speak to Edwin and the steward about
the idea of planting barley and hop vines. This was the beginning
of a solution, he was convinced. From that, it was just a harvest
away from a brewer’s dream. The valley would be an ideal place for
a brewery. The water from the spring flowing through the estate had
long been declared the best in the county. It would take a while
for the hop vines to produce pistillate catkins of the same high
quality as those found in nearby Kent, but they could be purchased
until then. And a brewery could provide employment for these men as
well as the others living on the edge of poverty.

Nicholas rode by a series of laborers’
dwellings in deplorable conditions. Edwin would condemn the idea of
any lowering sort of industry on the estate. Perhaps the inducement
of a steady flow of ready blunt would soften the blow to his
brother’s pride. He doubted it. But before he returned to his
regiment, something must be done for these poor people who were
barely scratching out an existence. As he passed a small cottage, a
scrawny child of three or four years of age, dressed in rags,
tossed a tiny handful of grain to two of the sorriest-looking
chickens Nicholas had ever seen.

He shook his head and continued on past the
far acres to an untouched parcel of land his maternal grandparents
had deeded to him a long, long time ago. This, perhaps, might prove
to be the true answer. The land, adjoining Wyndhurst Abbey’s acres,
had been purchased by his maternal grandfather who had loved him.
He’d given the parcel to Nicholas at age ten because as he had put
it, “It has everything a boy could like; fields for riding, roaming
and hunting, a very good, clear stream for bathing and fishing. I
find nothing wanting, and everything good in nature.”

Nicholas surveyed the vast acres with a
critical eye. This land would have to be the solution if Edwin
could not be convinced to aid the poor people of Wiltshire.

The dew had burned off the bracken bordering
the small path when Nicholas rode toward Dr. Kittridge’s cottage an
hour later. If only the sharp thread of pain emanating from the
point of the break in his leg would ease. But he had made a promise
to the doctor, and he would keep it.

He knocked on the small wooden door and
looked up at the uneven patches on the thatched roof. It looked
greenish and moldy in places. He must speak to the steward about
the upkeep. Several of the laborers had complained to him of
similar conditions at their families’ cottages. He shook his head
as he entered.

The maid-of-all-work, Doro, bobbed a curtsy
and bade him to wait in the small sitting room. The eastward window
allowed the sunny day to invade the blue room filled with books
from floor to ceiling along one long wall. A few volumes had
escaped their cramped quarters and lay in small stacks near the
base. The sight of them always brought a deep sense of longing
coupled with fear. The secrets encoded between the covers
fascinated him, yet he dreaded being around the printed page lest
someone call on him to read aloud.