Rutherford made an uncomfortable sound in his throat before replying in graveled tones, “She wrote to beg my forgiveness for any scandal or shame her actions may bring upon the family but…says she can’t marry you.”
A roar sounded in Alex’s ears as he grasped the back of a nearby chair, the coolness of the metal frame muted by his silk white gloves. He blinked rapidly in an effort to halt the stinging in his eyes and swallowed to douse the burning in his throat. And a numbness such as he’d never known assailed him turning his limbs into leaden weights.
“Where is she?”
Stark pain and fear flashed in Rutherford’s pale blue eyes. “I don’t know. She’s quit the Manor but gave no indication as to where she’s gone. She merely states she is safe and that we must not concern ourselves unduly over her.”
The weight on Alex’s chest threatened to crush every organ beneath it. But such destruction would do little to his heart, for it had already broken into a multitude of pieces.
Like that, with the flourish of a pen, she was gone.
Turning, Alex made for the open door. Around him, he felt rather than saw his friends move in chorus toward him. He stopped abruptly, angled his head over his shoulder and met their gazes. “Let me be. I shall be fine.” But he wouldn’t lie to himself; he would never be fine.
The two men did not advance any further.
Alex blindly put one foot in front of the other. With every step, he discarded a piece of the dream of the life he’d foolishly thought to have with her…until there were none.
He took his leave of the room, his leave of the church, to start his way back to a life obliterated to a pile of nothingness.
Chapter One
Berkshire, 1864
Her sister was gravely ill.
The knowledge plagued Charlotte Rutherford, consuming her with such fear that a proper night’s sleep had been impossible since her good friend, Lucas Beaumont had informed her upon his return from England.
The news had catapulted her into a frenzy of activity for two days thereafter. In that time, she’d arranged passage to England and closed up her small townhouse in Manhattan. What came next required all of her endurance: an eleven-day voyage across the Atlantic Ocean. With too much time to her solitary thoughts, she’d been wracked with inconsolable grief and the bitterest regret...and heart stopping fear that her presence there would open a Pandora’s Box of a different sort.
Now two weeks to the day after she had learned of her sister’s illness, Charlotte was here. The place she’d once called home. And after an absence of nearly five years, the reality of once again being on English soil—standing at the doors of Rutherford Manor—brought with it the heartbreak of old.
All of that, however, paled in the light of her sister’s illness. For Katie, Charlotte would endure anything, even if it meant risking exposure and opening a wound that had never healed. One she feared might never truly heal.
With her heart in her throat and anxiety now a familiar—albeit unwelcome—companion, Charlotte lifted the knocker of the oak door and brought it down three times in rapid succession.
The ensuing seconds seemed to stretch on endlessly. Were they home? She hadn’t even considered that possibility when she’d arrived in Town and had proceeded directly to Paddington Station to catch the train to Reading. She shot a glance over her shoulder and regarded the phaeton parked in front of her hired coach. Someone must be in residence, as it appeared they had company. Something else she hadn’t considered.
At the opening of the door, she gave a nervous start and spun back around. Reeves, the Rutherford butler of thirty odd years, stood in the doorway, his tall, spare frame and lined visage reminiscent of happier times in days long past. But the advance of age had left its mark. Once possessed of a head of hair with equal amounts of gray and brown, his hair now rivaled the unadulterated white of Father Christmas. And his stature, which formerly would have been the envy of any uniformed man, now gently rounded at the shoulders, proving once again just how time spared no one.
Given he was a man disposed to typical English butler demeanor, she’d never imagined he had it in his personal repertoire to blanch, but that is precisely what he did upon viewing her. He said nothing for several seconds, simply stared, his eyes wide and unblinking. Charlotte stifled a laugh—one of the nervous sort—fearing any attempt at speech would cause her to dissolve into a heap of polka dot skirts at his feet.
Behind her, a horse whinnied and stomped its hooves and birds continued their cheerful chirping while Reeves appeared to be struggling to find his tongue. At length, he exclaimed softly, “Lady Charlotte.” He spoke as if he believed she was but a vision and any undue noise would send her off into obscurity.
Charlotte managed a tremulous smile, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “Hullo, Reeves. I-I’m delighted to see you looking so well.” The greeting seemed hardly adequate, but she was at a loss to find something fitting to say after so long an absence. So sudden a departure.
Her voice appeared to galvanize him into action. Throwing open the door, he ushered her through an entrance hall as large as the ground floor of her townhouse and into the vestibule. She’d quite forgotten just how large an estate her brother owned.
“I fear we were not apprised of your arrival. Such a shame as, just this morning his lordship and her ladyship went into London with the children. However, Lady Catherine is in residence. She will be happy that you’ve returned.” Reeves never smiled, and that hadn’t changed, but he did appear pleased to make the announcement.
“I hadn’t time to send word of my coming.” She’d naturally assumed everyone would be home with her sister doing so poorly. She was more than a little surprised that James had gone off to London and left Katie alone in the care of the servants—and no doubt the attending physician. Actually, it was inconceivable that he would do so.
Pivoting sharply to face the elderly butler, Charlotte laid a restraining hand on his black clad arm as he made a move to relieve her of her pelisse. “Reeves, can you tell me anything of my sister’s condition?”
Reeves’ stilled at her touch. Lowering his hands to his sides, he stared down at her, his brows furrowed. After a pause, the deep creases in his forehead eased to mere lines. “If you’re speaking of that rather nasty cold she fell ill with the month past, then I can assure you she has since fully recovered.”
A cold?
The doctor has done all he can for her. If she recovers it will be by the grace of God.
She could hear Lucas’s words as though he’d spoken them yesterday. Not even the severest of colds rose to that criticality.
Before she had an opportunity to question Reeves further, the scramble of feet and a high-pitched squeal drew her attention to the top of the double mahogany staircase.
Her sister stood in the middle of the first floor landing clutching the balustrade, her form poised for flight. “Charlotte, is that really you?” Katie cried. Then in a blur of pale green muslin, she took the right set of stairs with all the refinement of a horde of marauding boars. Her fingers skimmed and skipped over the polished mahogany banister as her skirt fluttered and quivered under the breeze of her stampeding steps.
Transfixed by the first sight of her twin in nearly five years as she flew down the stairs, Charlotte could neither move nor speak.
Katie wasn’t ailing.
At least Charlotte had never seen a person whose survival was said to have hinged on God’s mercy with so much bounce and pep, her cheeks flushed with the healthy hue of breathless excitement, not the ravages of fever. No, her sister looked as vital and healthy as any twenty-three year old woman could.
After a fortnight of anticipating the worst and ardent prayers that she’d arrive to find her sister at least on the verge of recovery, a tidal wave of emotion washed over her, and soon Charlotte was moving, her feet carrying her forward without conscious effort or thought.