“Oh, ma’am, you must not say such things.” A flicker of the old Heulwen showed in her mortification, so Charlotte took two steps closer.
“If we’re not to be honest here and now, Heulwen, then what place has honesty in any of our dealings? The child is not to blame for your impetuousness or Hector’s stupidity.”
“There can’t be a child,” Heulwen said. “I tried the teas and tisanes, I tried not eating. I thought if I fell down the steps, maybe, but I couldn’t make myself…”
Her gaze dropped to the dark, wet cobbles of the churchyard forty feet below.
“I had a friend,” Charlotte said. “She was ruined by a fine lord and didn’t survive the birth by more than a few weeks. I will not let you die for something as stupid as shame, Heulwen. My family is rife with children who arrived but a few months after the vows, and my uncle is a duke.”
Heulwen’s consternation was genuine. “Them as has money can marry and do as they please. I haven’t any money, and Hector has only his wages.”
Charlotte ventured another step closer. “Children cannot eat money. Money does not comfort them when they have nightmares. Money doesn’t stay up until dawn singing lullabies to a colicky baby. Money won’t explain to a small boy how to tie his shoes or apologize for a harsh word.
“Money is not love,” she went on, “money is not joy, money is surely not happiness or a kind heart or a keen mind. London is awash in money and yet beggars abound as well. Money is not the problem, Heulwen. I have money, and you are welcome to it, but if you dash your brains out in a foolish moment, my money is useless.”
Charlotte was nearly shouting but she dared take only one more step, and still Heulwen was beyond her reach.
“I can’t take your money,” Heulwen said, gaze swinging back out to the frozen landscape. “I should not have done what I did.”
She was a large woman. If she so much as leaned out over the railing, Charlotte would be unable to stop her fall.
“Are you to die for your mistake? Is that what Hector wants?”
“No, of course not. He wants me to go to a place in Cardiff for women like me and let them have the baby. He has some funds—not a lot, but enough that they might let me stay there when the time comes.”
“Then your baby will die,” Charlotte said, for that’s exactly what happened at such institutions all too often, “because you haven’t enough coin to raise the child.”
Heulwen’s tears ran in silent torrents. “I can’t give up my baby, and I can’t keep my baby. I don’t know what else to do.”
Her fingers went to the frogs of her cloak—no sense getting blood on a fine wool garment?—and Charlotte moved, tackling Heulwen headlong and pushing her away from the railing.
Heulwen had both height and size on Charlotte, and refused to budge. She got an elbow to Charlotte’s ribs, and a grip on the railing, and all the breath left Charlotte’s lungs.
“You cannot die, Heulwen. You cannot die—”
Another elbow, this time clipping Charlotte on the chin. Heulwen’s cloak was coming loose, and Charlotte was losing her grip on the maid. A glimpse of the slick, deadly cobbles far below closed a vise around Charlotte’s lungs.
“Let go, Missus. Let go, please, just let me go.”
Never. Charlotte forced air into her lungs, forced herself to find another handful of Heulwen’s clothing to clutch, forced herself to remain upright. Simple physics weighed against Charlotte, but determination tipped the scales back to an even fight.
Almost. Charlotte was determined, she was strong, and she was fast, but she was also cold, tired, and not accustomed to physical combat.
Heulwen had a big, worn, wet boot up on the rail when a pair of strong arms plucked her away.
“You heard your mistress,” Sherbourne said. “She asked you to step back, and you will step back.”
Heulwen struggled, but she was no match for Lucas Sherbourne intent on a goal. He simply held on, arms lashed about the maid, until she ceased thrashing and hung limply against him.
“Thank you,” Charlotte panted. “I would have lost her.”
“Miss MacPherson!” Sherbourne bellowed.
The vicar’s daughter appeared, no bonnet, no gloves, snow melting in her hair. “I’m here. Heulwen, you will come with me to the manse and have a cup of hot tea.”
Heulwen’s weeping was audible now, sniffly, broken-hearted crying that would eventually stop. The ache in Charlotte’s heart felt eternal by comparison—without beginning or end, like the bleak, leaden sky.
With Sherbourne’s arm across her shoulders, Heulwen shuffled to the door of the belfry and let Miss MacPherson take her by the hand. They left, their footsteps and Heulwen’s crying fading into the bowels of the church.
“You came,” Charlotte said. “You came. Thank God, you came and you brought help. I need a handkerchief, and I left my reticule…” She had no idea where her reticule was or how she’d remain standing one more second. The village and even the countryside stretched out far below, and weakness assailed Charlotte, but not because she was too high above solid ground.
She flew across the belfry into her husband’s arms. “You came. She nearly pitched us both over, nearly…but you came.”
She burrowed into Sherbourne’s embrace, and mashed her face against the soft wool of his coat, and let the tears flow.
*
“I can walk,” Charlotte said, as Sherbourne carried her up the front steps to their home. “I’m not an invalid.”
“You are my wife,” he replied as a surprised Crandall opened the door. “Carrying you on occasion is my privilege.” Still he did not set her on her feet—could not—but continued straight to the library, doubtless leaving a trail of snow and mud on the carpets.
He’d finally carried his bride across the threshold of their home, and that…that helped.
“Lucas, it was a bad moment, and—” Charlotte fell silent long enough to lift the door latch.
“It was an awful moment,” he said, kicking the door closed behind them, “one I’ll relive in my nightmares until I’m so old I can’t recall my own name.”
Sherbourne set her on the sofa, cloak and all. Thank God that Charlotte had given orders the library fire was to be kept roaring at all times, for the room was relatively warm. Sherbourne went no farther from Charlotte’s side than the distance to the sideboard, where he poured her a tot of brandy.
“Drink this,” he said, setting the glass down so he could unfasten her cloak. He untied her bonnet ribbons next, and put the damned hat on the floor before the fire. Her boot laces were the worse for being wet, and when he finally had her footwear off, he wanted to toss the damned things across the room.
He set them around the end of the sofa, where the fire’s heat would do little damage.
“You don’t have to drink the brandy,” Sherbourne said, “but I need to do something for you to calm my nerves, so you will please at least pretend to take a sip.”
Charlotte held the glass beneath her slightly red nose. “I’m well, Lucas. I came to no harm, and Heulwen came to no harm, thanks to you.”
He settled on the hassock before her, drew her feet into his lap, and searched beneath her skirts for a garter.
“You were nearly pitched to your death by a maid grown hysterical over a situation that developed under my very nose. All I could do was stand outside that belfry and listen, pray, curse, and hope.”
He’d also heard Charlotte’s speech about money—and love.
He gathered Charlotte’s feet and bent over them. He’d nearly lost her, nearly lost everything that mattered. Inside, he was shaking, but as long as he could touch his wife, the shaking did not overpower him.
“Drink this,” Charlotte said, holding the brandy out to him. “The quality is excellent, but at the moment, it might not agree with me.”
Did she know she was breeding? Suspect? Something in between? Had he been wrong?
Sherbourne took the brandy, downed half of it, and set it aside. “I’ve realized something.”