Charlotte set the watering can onto the packed earth floor, batted aside a gauzy frond of foliage, and marched to the door. She jerked on the door latch, but the humidity of the conservatory had made the mechanism unreliable. She was still rattling the door when Elizabeth’s arms came around her.
“You love him,” she said. “You love Sherbourne, else you’d never be this overwrought. You love that man like you’ve never loved another.”
Charlotte’s ire subsided, to the bright, steady flame of indignation she’d carried thanks to Brantford for years.
“Love isn’t supposed to hurt, Bethan. Not like this. Never like this.”
“You have been hurting for a long time,” Elizabeth said, stepping back. “I didn’t see it, probably nobody saw it, but now you can’t look away from it. That’s good, Charl. We can’t heal wounds that remain unacknowledged. I’ll say something to Haverford about the mines.”
Sherbourne had seen the bewilderment behind Charlotte’s exasperation and testiness, and abruptly, all Charlotte wanted was to assure herself that her husband was whole and well. She longed to hear the decisive click of his abacus, to feel the muscular security of his arms about her in the dark.
“I’m sorry for my temper,” she said. “You’re right. I am terribly overset.”
Charlotte saw herself out, and as the horse trotted back to Sherbourne Hall, she admitted that Elizabeth was right about something else too: Charlotte loved her husband, loved him with an abiding respect that had been a significant relief, given how few men she encountered who bothered to earn her esteem. Sherbourne was at the top of that very short list, and if he should tumble, felled by financial pride, Charlotte’s heart would never recover.
Chapter Nineteen
A frisson of sympathy for Hannibal Jones stole through Sherbourne’s mind as he stared at the figures on the page. Charlotte would delight in deciphering these crabbed calculations—would have delighted in them, had she not stormed off to the safety of her sister’s castle, likely never to be seen again.
For the first time in his life, Sherbourne was tempted to consume a quantity of strong drink. Perhaps that was Hannibal Jones’s problem. He drank because Mrs. Jones was lost to him forever.
If Sherbourne mourned abandonment by his wife after less than a month of marriage, what must Jones be suffering, and how must that affect his concentration?
The library door clicked open, and Sherbourne tossed down his pen, ready to rebuke any footman who’d failed to knock when the master was intent on brooding away the evening. Brooding and possibly getting drunk.
“I missed luncheon and my sister failed to offer sustenance,” Charlotte said. “I’ve ordered a tray.”
The relief that coursed through Sherbourne was undignified and nearly complete, but for a thin vein of resentment running near his pride. He rose and remained behind his desk rather than approach his wife.
“Mrs. Sherbourne. Good afternoon.”
“Darkness has fallen. I am sorry for my earlier temper, for I ought not to have spoken to my lawfully wedded husband in anger, and yet I am angry still.”
She could be furious, and he’d still rejoice that she hadn’t left him—yet—though if she intended to cling to her anger, then Sherbourne could feel less guilty about his own.
Charlotte was no longer in her driving ensemble. She wore a day dress of unrelieved brown, her hair was ruthlessly caught up in chignon, and no trace of her earlier tears remained. She reminded him of the acerbic young woman who’d endured a bumbling proposal from Viscount Neederby.
“Your ire is understandable.” Sherbourne was prepared to be gracious but firm, and thus he sidestepped the word “justified.”
Charlotte gave the globe a spin. “Then you’re willing to cut Brantford loose?”
“Of course not. I’ve signed a contract with him, and he’ll be difficult if I’m anything other than generously accommodating.”
“I see.”
Sherbourne knew better. He knew better than to take that bit of bait, redolent with wifely indignation. “What do you see?”
She spun the globe the opposite direction. “I see that honor ceases to matter when a man’s business interests are at stake. I had thought a gentleman’s honor ought to be more scrupulously in evidence where coin is apt to tempt him from the path of decency. I see that I was wrong. Profit renders honor null and void.”
Her finger trailed along the spinning surface of the globe, a diversion children enjoyed. When the sphere came to a stop, she was touching darkest Peru.
“I esteem you above all others,” she went on. “You persist in the face of discouragement. You have a vision for the nation’s future that encompasses all walks of life, not simply your own interests. You can admit when you’ve erred, and that makes the present situation all the more baffling, because Brantford is so very, very wrong. He has no place in your affairs.”
Sherbourne would have agreed with her—but for the requirement that an honorable man provide for his dependents and keep his word at all times.
“This gets us nowhere, Charlotte.”
“Where do you want us to be?” She spared the desk a glance, where the hairpin and cravat pin lay side by side in the silver pen tray. Sherbourne had tucked the beribboned lock of hair he’d snipped earlier into his breast pocket.
“I would like to be back to the place we occupied before Brantford intruded on our marriage. You are my wife, and I esteem you above all others as well. That hasn’t changed.”
Her defenses faltered if the downward sweep of her lashes was any indication, but the damned tea tray ruined the moment. The footman set it on the low table before the sofa, bowed, and withdrew.
“Will you join me, Mr. Sherbourne?”
He wasn’t hungry, and her invitation wasn’t a concession. “One cup.”
They sat side by side on the sofa, not touching, while Charlotte poured out. She was pale, and in her very composure, Sherbourne sensed roiling emotion.
If she was preparing to tell him she was bound for the Windham family seat in Kent, he’d smash every piece of porcelain in the library, throw every book into the fire, and drink himself insensate.
Which would also get them nowhere, though it might leave him feeling less helpless.
“Sandwich?” Charlotte asked.
“Please.”
She set two beef sandwiches on a plate along with a square of shortbread. “You need not wait dinner on me. I’m developing a headache and will retire early.”
Not a month into marital bliss, and she’d trotted out the much vaunted wifely headache, though this was Charlotte, and she’d not dissemble about even so minor a detail.
“Would it help if I rubbed your feet?” Would anything help?
She set down her teacup, the saucer and spoon rattling against the library’s quiet. “That is a very gracious offer, but I’ll decline for the present.” She rose and moved toward the door. “I’ll wish you a good evening, Mr. Sherbourne.”
Sherbourne suspected she offered a civility because rote manners and platitudes were all she could manage, which was some consolation.
Not enough. “If I attempt to join you later this evening, will I find my own bedroom door locked?” Sherbourne asked.
He couldn’t see her. She stood behind him, while he studied the delicate floral pattern of the china. So pretty, so easily shattered.
“I will never lock that door to you,” Charlotte said. “But my earlier words stand as well.”
No children, she’d said, though she wasn’t to shame him before the servants. Not yet, and he couldn’t bear to shame her by setting up his own private apartment so soon after the wedding.
“Good night, Charlotte.”
The library door clicked softly, and Sherbourne pitched a pillow as hard as he could at the nearest wall.