A Passionate Endeavor (23 page)

“Well I see you have not lost
all
notions of propriety, Miss Kittridge,” said Her Grace, halfway
through dinner that evening. She had not condescended to say one
word to Charlotte before then. The duchess had refused to meet her
gaze, and had given the briefest nod when she and her brother had
appeared at the abbey. “I suppose we should have a mourning dress
or two made up for you so you do not have to continue to wear
Rosamunde’s.”

Charlotte would not rise to the bait. “That
will be unnecessary, Your Grace. I ordered several a few days
ago.”

“Well, I for one find this hasty marriage
business more than a little awkward. It is unheard of to marry in
blacks. Not that I was consulted. People will talk. I don’t
understand why this cannot be put off until the proper mourning
period has passed. At least a year. Indeed, I do not see why it
should take place at all.”

A long, awkward silence enveloped the room.
Lady Susan drew all attention her way with the sound of a loud
sniff and a haughty tilt of her nose.

Nicholas cleared his throat. “I am sure,
madam, that you are not intentional in your insults. However, let
me assure you that I will not allow my betrothed to suffer any
abuse. Miss Kittridge and her family have been nothing but
beneficial to us. I suggest you remember that on all future
occasions. She has done me the honor of agreeing to become my wife,
and as such I will insist that she be accorded the respect due her
position.”

“Well, of all the—” replied Her Grace before
halting when faced with the steel of Nicholas’s gaze.

Stone-cold silence invaded the room. Only the
clacking of silverware could be heard. Charlotte forced herself to
continue taking small bites of food that tasted like sawdust.

Only Rosamunde was capable of maintaining the
facade of gentility. “Will you remove from the cottage, Charlotte?
There is a lovely bedchamber next to my own in the south
tower.”

Charlotte’s gaze darted to Her Grace, who was
biting her tongue in anger. “No, I think not. At least not until
after my brother departs for London. I must sort through all of my
father’s papers and books. Lord Huntington has been kind enough to
suggest that I store the books and such in the Duke’s great
library,” she said, before continuing, “And it will be easier to
see those who stop by for the occasional complaint or two between
my visits to your father and other patients.”

“Do you intend to continue to practice your
nursing skills when you are the future Duchess of Cavendish, my
dear?” Lord Edwin asked in a mocking tone. “How utterly charming
and provincial.”

“I see nothing wrong with helping the less
fortunate, my lord,” she replied.

“Yes, but Miss Kittridge, you might bring
some horrid disease to the abbey. We can’t have that, especially
when His Grace lies so ill. And we do have a respected apothecary
in the village,” said the duchess.

“I understand your concerns. However, my
father and I tended the infirm throughout our stay in Wiltshire,
and no one expressed any concern until now. I fail to see what has
changed. Although I am sure the apothecary will be frequented much
more now, despite his ill care of His Grace.”

Charlotte glanced at Nicholas, who gave her a
small smile of encouragement.

“I would be delighted to help you in any way,
Miss Kittridge,” said the vicar. “I for one am most impressed with
your good deeds in the face of your devastating loss.”

“Oh, please do not offer me compliments. They
are unjustified. Really, I do not think I have had a moment to
comprehend what has happened,” Charlotte said in a low voice.

“My dear, we are very sorry for your loss,”
the Dowager Duchess of Cavendish said. “I fear we will never be
able to find another physician as competent as your father. We are
lucky to have you still willing to nurse my son.”

The Dowager Countess Elltrope made a
disgruntled noise. “Well, I still say my Susan would have made a
dedicated nurse to the duke as well.”

The dowager duchess snorted.

Alexandre stepped into the fray. “What? My
delicate flower—Lady Susan exposed to the dangers of the sickroom?
I think it would be most unwise. Her sensibilities would be
overpowered.”

“Thank you, sir, for understanding my wilting
Feminine Nature, although I am sure I could match Miss Kittridge’s
abilities if I was ever to Heed the Calling,” replied Lady Susan
haughtily.

“My dear, perhaps it would be better for you
and your grandmother to consider departing our little family
gathering. We would be sad to lose your delightful presence, but I
would not want to compromise your sensibilities and your delicate
health,” said the dowager duchess, with a comical mixture of false
sadness and ill-concealed triumph. “Really, the duke’s illness and
now Dr. Kittridge’s sudden demise must surely have left you feeling
unsettled in the extreme. We would understand if you must cut your
visit short.”

The elderly Hortense Elltrope easily trumped
her hand. “But my dearest friend, we could not leave you in your
hour of sisterly need, and besides, I daresay the extensive
renovations we have ordered on the country estate are not complete.
I fear we must trespass on your hospitality a bit longer,
Margarita,” she said, directing a simpering smile to the vicar.

If Charlotte had not been feeling so
vulnerable to every person’s speculations, she surely would have
found the exchange amusing. As it was, she was amazed to watch Lord
Edwin vying with Alexandre for Lady Susan’s favors as feverishly as
the two matrons fought over the patient vicar. And glad she was to
have the attention of almost everyone move to other corners.

James and Rosamunde continued to glance in
each other’s direction. Louisa Nichols tried unsuccessfully to
garner a few compliments from Lord Edwin and Alexandre, while Lady
Susan preened and pouted.

Charlotte felt the weight of the duchess’s
disapproving stare and Nicholas’s gaze in her direction throughout
the rest of the lavish meal. She would count the days until she
could leave these argumentative and frequently unkind
personalities. She was only song to leave Rosamunde and perhaps
even the Dowager Duchess of Cavendish, who had offered a kind word
or two when she could be torn away from the fray.

All in all, the idea of her union with
Nicholas had gone over as well as could be expected. And at least
no one had thought to bring up the embarrassing topic of possible
children the union might bring. She would not have been able to
hide her sadness. Without a doubt, the duchess would place
infertility at the top of her list of requests—or demands—to God in
her evening prayers. Little did Her Grace realize that her prayers
were unnecessary.

She kept putting off the date of their
nuptials. Nicholas wondered if he would have to bundle her up and
force her to face the vicar. He rested on a log, taking a brief
respite from helping to finish building the brewery’s sluice
gatehouse. How many more days could he stand the delay of the
marriage?

The commission was in her brother’s eager
hands, and he was panting to be off. And Nicholas very much wanted
to accomplish the deed before his poor father departed this earth,
and he feared the end was near. For the last three weeks he had had
to withstand his stepmother’s insistence that the news of his
engagement had led to the current spiral downward. He had refused
to listen to any of it.

And now the brewery was well on its way to
completion. The ponds had been dug, the buildings almost completed,
and the barley planted. The expert from Prussia had proved his
weight in gold. Mr. Gunter had spent hours teaching the ragged
group from the countryside all there was to know about his trade.
The man had even gathered orders from several neighboring counties,
and he had agreed to stay on through the first several batches.

In the upper areas, more and more neighbors
were beginning to use the fields and pastures Nicholas had declared
common land. The laborers and tenant farmers did not know it yet,
but he had also arranged for the purchase of twelve milk cows for
the most needy families.

Those animals would not be the first to munch
their fill of the verdant pastures. Already, old Silas had brought
in the first small flock of prize sheep he had been sent to
purchase in Lancashire. Altogether, three shepherds would be
required to oversee the flock once it filled out. Rough enclosures
were planned to provide protection for the prime animals.

Edwin had been furious, calling Nicholas all
kinds of unchivalrous names for not using his funds to support the
ducal lands. Edwin had pulled out the ledgers, indicating every
reason why the estate could better use his monies. Nicholas had
listened patiently and promised to consider the dire situation. The
steward had coughed once and asked who would be overseeing the
enterprises once his lordship returned to the military life.
Nicholas had a growing unease with Wyndhurst’s steward, despite
Edwin’s assurances of the man’s past successes. Mr. Coburn had
shaken his head when Nicholas had mentioned Owen Roberts’s
name.

It was here in his own fields that Nicholas
felt a glow of pride fill his being at all the productivity. He
loved to see progress. It was the first time he had ever
experienced it. For so many years he had seen only destruction. He
had witnessed the devastation of war and had participated in it.
And he had been excellent at it—too excellent in many cases.

Until now, he had not realized how much it
had weighed on his conscience and on his soul. He prayed he would
not have to return to it. The fragile peace with France must hold.
Nicholas would help preserve it, or better yet, help the
war-ravaged countries rebuild.

The one little burr in his future was
Charlotte. Would this marriage prove disastrous? She was so
hesitant to go through with it. He could envision many bleak
evenings with her at the hearth reading a huge tome, trying
occasionally to give him false hope in his first childish
workbooks.

He thought of his endless reams of blotched
papers, filled with rows of ill-formed letters. At least the
headaches had disappeared altogether. And he had even taken a few
moments to form numbers out of clay, to put in the first firing in
the kiln he had had constructed near the brewery. It was a secret.
He had planned to show the kiln to Charlotte right away, but she
had avoided him at every opportunity.

“Hey ho!” hailed Owen Roberts. “We’re ready
to unleash the last dam.… Come along, if you want to see it,
then.”

Nicholas arose from his shady perch, rubbing
his aching thighbone by habit. “Go on, I’ll meet you.”

He smiled. Owen was someone he trusted to
ensure the proper running of all Nicholas’s endeavors when he
returned to his duty. Owen had told him that being literate did not
make a man; being a leader of men made a man. It was Owen who had
insisted Nicholas was the only one who could organize the menfolk
to save themselves.

Nicholas arrived below the ridge and watched
a dozen men remove obstacles from the stream’s flow. A series of
eight interlocking reservoirs, increasing in size, would provide
spring water for ale making. Another dozen men were finishing the
work on the sluice gatehouse and the adjacent building containing
the rudimentary elements needed to begin the brewing process. Owen
and Mr. Gunter joined him at his vantage point.

“A fine sight is it not, my lord?” exclaimed
Mr. Gunter in his accented English. The spring water flowed into
the first pond before them.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Nicholas. “The hops
should arrive from Kent in two weeks time. And the barley should be
ready to harvest then if the weather holds.” Nicholas glanced up at
the brilliant blue sky. “My father agreed to allow the dray and
draft horses I purchased to be stabled at Wyndhurst. And the first
of the wooden kegs should arrive tomorrow.”