Ransome's Crossing (9 page)

Panic flooded Julia’s chest. “Charlotte?” She skirted the bed to the opposite side from the man, climbed up on it and crawled across to Charlotte’s side.

A red welt marred Charlotte’s right cheek. But that mark was nothing compared with the ugly bruises around her throat, as if…

Julia looked at the man, and then at Lady Dalrymple. “What happened?”

“Lord Rotheram, as my daughter has been trying to tell me since she arrived on my doorstep, is no gentleman. He is a philanderer of the worst sort, and apparently he has become so depraved that if a woman does not give herself willingly to him, he takes her by force.”

Julia’s head throbbed with the force of the anger pounding in her heart. She’d heard of men in Jamaica who treated their slaves in such a manner. She had even allowed Jerusha to give refuge at Tierra Dulce to a woman who’d escaped a master who’d done such a vile thing to her. But Charlotte?

She covered her eyes with one hand. “Did he…?”

“No. Charlotte managed to fight him off before she fainted. Stabbed him in the side of the neck with a fork.”

Julia dropped her hand and gaped at the viscountess. “Stabbed—with
a fork.”

“She had been eating breakfast.” A slight smile started playing around Lady Dalrymple’s mouth, and her eyes filled with fondness as she gazed upon Charlotte’s prone form.

“Lord Rotheram…is he…he is not…how badly did she injure him?”

“The marquess bled a fair amount,” said the man beside the bed, “but he will recover.”

“Mrs. Ransome, this is my personal physician, Mr. McKeith.”

Julia nodded at the doctor. “How is Charlotte?”

“A bit knocked around. She will be sore and will sport a bruised throat for some weeks, but she will survive with no lasting physical effects.” He pulled out a vial of smelling salts and flicked it under Charlotte’s nose a few times.

Charlotte jerked, started, opened her eyes, and would have flown from the bed had not Julia stopped her. It took several moments’ soothing for Julia to calm her sister-in-law enough to convince her of her safety.

“Lord Rotheram?” Charlotte’s voice came out as a croak.

“My men bundled him into his carriage and watched as it drove away to take him back to London,” Lady Dalrymple said, coming over to stand behind the physician.

Julia stroked Charlotte’s hand, silently grateful Rotheram would shortly be too far away for William to chase down and challenge to a duel.

Charlotte turned to Julia. “Do not tell William or Mama.”

Julia considered the request. What had happened had happened to Charlotte, and nothing William or their mother could say or do would change it.

Julia nodded. “I promise, I will not say anything. But how will you explain the bruises?”

Charlotte reached up and touched her throat, wincing at even the light pressure of her fingertips. “Lady Dalrymple’s dressmaker brought me some beautiful lace collars. Between those and a little powder, we should be able to conceal them.” She looked at the doctor. “May I assume the injuries are not life threatening?”

“It will take the bruises some time to heal, but you will make a full recovery.” Mr. McKeith patted Charlotte’s hand. “I have done all I can. Tea will soothe your throat. Rest is the best medicine for you.” He packed several vials into a bag and then stepped away from the bed and flourished a bow. “Mrs. Ransome. Miss Ransome.”

Julia inclined her head. Lady Dalrymple left the room with the doctor. As soon as they were alone, Julia helped Charlotte sit upright in the bed, piling pillows behind her, and then she asked Charlotte for her version of the event. Julia kept her disgust and outrage over Lord Rotheram’s behavior to herself, though she did climb off the bed and set to straightening the coverlet when Charlotte got to the most harrowing part of the tale.

“And I must have fainted, for I do not know what happened from then until I awoke here.”

Julia started to tell Charlotte that the impromptu weapon she had wielded had found purchase, but the young woman had been through enough turmoil for one morning.

“Julia?”

“Yes, Charlotte?” She stopped fussing with the bedding.

“I am monstrous hot.” Charlotte kicked off the neatly arranged coverlet, revealing herself to be fully clothed still. “Since the doctor said I am well, I see no need to malinger.”

“I agree.” Lady Dalrymple swept back into the room. “I know it is far too early, but I have ordered a full tea service to be sent to Sophy’s room. She has been quite anxious to meet you, Julia.”

“I would be delighted to make Lady Rotheram’s acquaintance.” Julia turned to offer Charlotte assistance from the bed, but her sister-in-law had already sprung from its confines.

In an apartment more grandly appointed than Charlotte’s, a woman
who resembled Lady Dalrymple so greatly their relation was undeniable greeted then. Julia’s sympathy went out to her. She had never seen a woman so heavy with child.

Sophy—who insisted on Christian names, as she could not bear to hear herself called Lady Rotheram—fussed over Charlotte, apologizing every few minutes for her husband’s dastardly behavior.

The mother and daughter kept Julia and Charlotte entertained with stories from their lives—from both of their presentations at Court to Sophy’s coming out to humorous anecdotes of family life, carefully avoiding anything unpleasant.

Sophy then questioned Julia about Jamaica and life on a sugar plantation, which seemed to enthrall Charlotte as much as the two ladies. Julia dismissed renewed disappointment at William’s decision to stay Julia from asking Charlotte to travel with them to Jamaica.

The tea and food disappeared, but the conversation continued—as did Sophy’s fussing over Charlotte, and Lady Dalrymple’s fussing over both of them—until Mrs. Melling interrupted.

“Mrs. Ransome’s driver has arrived.” She held up a small valise in one hand. “He brought this for you, Mrs. Ransome. And a gown hangs in Miss Ransome’s dressing room for you.”

“A gown?” Julia looked down at her lap—and heat instantly flooded her cheeks at the sight of the ancient yellow work dress. How had she not had the presence of mind to change into a suitable gown before leaving the house? What must Lady Dalrymple and her daughter think?

Bless Creighton, for she knew he was behind the action. She should write her father and demand he raise the butler’s pay immediately.

After farewells to Sophy and Lady Dalrymple, Julia took the valise from Mrs. Melling and followed Charlotte back to her suite. She quickly changed into the ivory silk underdress and indigo velvet over-tunic she had worn to the Fairfaxes’ ball—the night she had asked William to marry her. Had Creighton remembered the significance of the last time she’d worn this gown and asked Nancy to send it? Or had he left the choice to the maid, who knew Julia had not worn this gown to an event recently? Whichever was the case, wearing the
same gown in which she had made the most courageous—and most momentous—decision of her life infused her with a sense of peace over seeing William tonight for the first time since their awkward farewell kiss before he returned to
Alexandra.

But would it give her the strength to keep Charlotte’s secret?

C
harlotte’s hand hovered over the sparkling silver utensil. The sharp tines seemed to taunt her with the knowledge of what she had done. For all that she had told Julia she did not remember anything after Lord Rotheram wrapped his hands around her throat, every time she closed her eyes, every time she was still or it grew quiet around her, she relived the moment when she felt the fork connect with Lord Rotheram’s flesh. She still did not know where she had poked him, but her stomach turned at the thought of picking up the fork on the table before her and piercing the quail breast on her plate. However, if she did not eat, Mama would want to know why.

She fingered the lace collar to ensure it remained in place, covering the marks that would mock her for weeks to come. She still could not believe her good fortune that the redness in her cheek was mostly gone, making its puffiness unnoticeable—until she touched it and was reminded of its tenderness.

She plunged back into the conversation with Mama and Susan about fashion. William and Collin discussed William’s ship and preparations, to which Charlotte listened with half an ear. She also noticed Julia did not join either conversation but appeared to be listening to both. She hoped Julia was not angry with her for asking her not to say anything about the incident to Mama and William. She was grateful Lady Dalrymple had sent for Julia and not one of the other two. Yet she had known Julia for so short a time, and Julia was married to William—meaning her loyalty should be first to her husband, not his
wayward sister. Deep down, though, Charlotte was certain that Julia would honor her commitment of confidentiality.

The hour grew later. The food grew colder. The conversations grew harder. And Charlotte’s conscience grew heavier. On the morrow, Mama would leave for Gateacre, believing Charlotte would be joining her there in less than six weeks, possibly with a beau or even a marriage proposal. Instead, Charlotte would be nearing the Caribbean and the one man her mother would least approve of.

“That lace is lovely, Charlotte. You must let me examine it tonight to see how it is made.” At Mama’s words, Charlotte’s hand once again flew to her throat. Though the cosmetics on her skin provided some camouflage, they did not completely hide the finger-shaped bruises.

“Susan, was not there a piece of the lace from your mother’s dress left when my wedding dress was finished?”

Afraid what her expression might reveal, Charlotte avoided looking at Julia. She would try to find some way to pay back the debt of gratitude she owed her new sister.

“There was the piece we used for your veil.” Susan nodded. “Are you interested in learning to make lace, Mrs. Ransome?”

Mama’s blue eyes glinted Charlotte’s direction. “I have thought for a while now that being able to net such beautiful patterns would be a wonderful skill to have—when one has a young daughter who, one day, might want more lace trim on a dress than I could purchase.”

A wedding dress. Something to wear to church in which she would proudly declare her undying love for Henry Winchester. She had not thought about that. And one of the new dresses from Lady Dalrymple would be perfect. But she could not take it with her. Who would believe her as a midshipman if she had a pale lavender silk gown in her sea chest?

“I do believe it is time for the ladies to retire.”

William stood at Susan’s words, as did everyone else, and fought to keep the words crowding his mind from spilling out of his mouth.

“I see no reason why William and I should not join you.” Collin tossed his napkin on the table and rounded it to offer his arm to his wife.

William stopped clenching his teeth and assisted his mother with her chair. But now he was torn again. Should he escort Mother or Julia? Would one be offended if he chose the other?

Julia solved the problem for him when she slipped her arm through Charlotte’s and turned to follow Collin and Susan from the room. William extended his arm to his mother, but instead of taking it, she watched the others over her shoulder until they were gone from the room. She then looked up at William, her brows knit over her gray-blue eyes.

“It pains me to see strain already between you and Julia. I know getting your ship ready is no mean feat, but do not allow your duty to the Royal Navy to overwhelm your feelings for your wife.” She reached into the folds of her skirt and withdrew something from a hidden pocket. “Your father was one of the most loyal sailors to ever defend king and country, yet he never let that duty come between us.”

She held out a yellowed, folded piece of parchment toward him. “I have held on to this letter for many years. I received it the day I realized I was carrying Charlotte. I now realize I should have let you read it many years ago.”

William took the letter and gently unfolded it. The paper was so old and worn, it felt more like silk than parchment in his fingers. A chill washed over him when he recognized his father’s distinctive handwriting.

Fighting to catch his breath without giving in to the emotion coiled tightly around his chest, William flipped the page over and began reading what looked like another letter.

William cleared his throat and held on to
the letter until certain he could hand it back without his hand trembling. Mother kissed the letter before returning it to her pocket, and then she reached up and touched William’s cheek. “Love takes courage. But you are your father’s son. I know you have it within you to do your duty and love your wife.”

The back of William’s neck prickled under his high collar. Between his mother and Julia’s father, he’d had his fill of being told how he should be feeling and acting toward Julia. Though his father’s letter expressed love for Mother, William could remember the bouts of melancholy she suffered whenever Father left for sea or a letter arrived. And from what Julia related, her mother spent most of her life in Jamaica pining for Admiral Witherington. William did not want to do that to Julia. They had a mutual affection right now and enjoyed each other’s company when they were together. But if he could keep her at arm’s length, if he could keep her from falling further in love with him, his conscience would be clear, knowing he did not leave her in a state like his mother’s or her mother’s. He needed to protect her from such a fate, from such a life of pain.

He escorted his mother up to the drawing room in silence. If he spoke, he feared he might express some of his annoyance, and he did not want anything to ruin their last evening together.

Though everyone tried to put on happy faces and speak in cheery tones, a doleful air hovered in the room. When the mantel clock struck ten, William’s gaze flew to Julia. She let out a soft sigh and nodded.

He stood and adjusted his uniform coat with a swift tug at the waist. He cleared his throat twice before he could speak. “The hour grows late. I must see Julia home and then return to
Alexandra.”
He leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek. “I will pray for your safe journey.”

“And I, yours. Write as often as you are able.”

“I will. And Julia will be an excellent correspondent, I am certain.”

“Yes.” Julia appeared at William’s side. “I will write often as well.”

William stepped back to give Mother room to stand. She hugged Julia and said much to her, though in a low whisper William could not make out.

Mother turned to him next and clasped his hands in hers. “I am so proud of you and all you have accomplished in your life. And I know the Lord has many more wonderful blessings in store for you.”

He gently returned the pressure of his mother’s grip. “Tell Philip I wish I could have seen him, and that if a command is not forthcoming, he is more than welcome to come for a long visit in Jamaica.”

“You should be careful, William, with your hospitality. Philip might just take you up on that.”

They all turned at a rustle at the door. The butler’s apprentice stood framed there. “Beg pardon. The Lady Dalrymple’s carriage for Miss Ransome.”

Charlotte let out a little squeak, leapt up from the settee, and flung herself into Mother’s arms. William stood back and watched in consternation. Never before—not even when she’d fallen from the old rope ladder when she was six and dislocated her shoulder—had he witnessed such a display of emotion from his sister.

Julia slipped her hand under his elbow. He released his fists—clasped behind his back—and brought his arm around front. With her free hand, Julia reached over and squeezed his forearm. It struck him that she was trying to comfort him.

But he did not need comfort. He had done this so many times, said farewell to his mother and sister, that he had grown beyond becoming emotional at partings. Though he did usually throw himself—and therefore his crew—into such a frenzy of work the several days after a parting that he suspected they cursed his name below decks.

Julia’s attempt to comfort him
dis
comforted him. If he still reacted to parting with Mother after so many years, what would it be like the first time he had to leave Julia behind?

He stole a glance at his wife. If leaving her at Tierra Dulce when he put back out to sea were half as wrenching as when he’d walked away from her twelve years ago, his crew might mutiny within hours of weighing anchor. And he would not blame them.