Ransome's Crossing (8 page)

Charlotte could have cried from relief over the way obstacles kept being cleared from her path, from the knowledge Mama would not be left alone by her elopement, and from her disappointment that she would not get to see Philip.

The churning sea of emotions hindered her from eating much at dinner, and she clung to Mama when Lady Dalrymple’s carriage was summoned.

“Good heavens, child, you act as if we will never see one another again.” Mama laughed, but her voice came out thick.

Charlotte blinked back the moisture pooling in her eyes. “I have never been without you. I had not realized…I had not thought our parting would be so…” Charlotte could not find the words to articulate the overwhelming panic now surging through her.

“You must not be afraid, Charlotte.” Mama gently extricated herself from Charlotte’s embrace and cupped Charlotte’s face in her hands. “It does not matter how much distance separates us, whether land or sea. You will never be far from my thoughts, and you will always be in my heart and prayers.”

At the words she’d heard Mama speak to William, James, and Philip every time they left home for the sea, Charlotte dissolved into tears and flung herself back into her mother’s arms, on the verge of confessing everything, on the verge of insisting she wanted to go home with Mama forever.

But how could she abandon her plan now, when it appeared divine Providence was helping her out by clearing her way?

“Go, Charlotte. You must not keep Lady Dalrymple waiting.” Mama shooed her down the stairs. At the bottom, Charlotte turned to say her farewell and caught sight of Mama dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Good night, Mama.”

“Sweet dreams, daughter.”

Early the next morning, Lady Dalrymple’s driver delivered Charlotte to the Yateses’ house—just as they were sitting down to breakfast. Charlotte joined them, but once again she found herself with no appetite.

Julia arrived not too long after Charlotte. The day was spent in packing Mama’s trunk; and, after much sitting on its lid by Charlotte and Julia while Mama and Susan tried to lock it, amid gales of laughter, Susan insisted on giving Mama one of her own valises to ease the burden on the trunk.

Late in the afternoon, after a long visit from Admiral Hinds’s wife, Susan’s new butler entered the sitting room to inform Charlotte that the carriage had returned for her.

“And they brought this for you, madam.” He bowed and held a silver salver toward Mama. Startled, Mama lifted a letter from the tray. The butler bowed again and departed.

“From Lady Dalrymple.” Mama unfolded it and her eyes flicked back and forth over the page. “She has arranged for one of her carriages to pick me up at half-past seven tomorrow morning to take me home.” She let the letter fall to her lap. “I do not know how I will ever repay her.”

“I have some money set by, Mama,” Charlotte said, though she knew she would need every bit of it on her journey.

Mama’s mouth quirked up on one side. “It is not monetary recompense of which I speak, my dear. Lady Dalrymple would never accept it. Her kindness and generosity toward me, toward William and Julia, and especially toward you, can never be adequately repaid.”

Relieved she would not have to part with any of her money, Charlotte made her farewells and hurried downstairs. She had less than an hour before the shop closed.

The Dalrymple footman bowed and opened the carriage door for her. “Driver, please take me to Madame Rousseau’s Millinery in the High Street.”

“Yes, Miss Ransome.” From his high seat, the driver inclined his head. Charlotte climbed up into the carriage, grateful Lady Dalrymple’s men had brought the closed coach instead of the open-top barouche. As soon as she sat down and the footman closed the door behind her, she yanked off her bonnet and gloves and started pulling all the pins from her hair. She hated to ruin all the hard work Martha had put into creating the cascade of curls, but Madame Rousseau would need to see its full length.

She removed the last pin just as the coach rolled to a stop before the shop. She put her bonnet back on and tied the ribbons loosely under her chin before accepting the footman’s assistance to dismount to the street. His brows raised slightly at her loose hair, but he quickly hid his reaction. Charlotte smiled and almost forgot to wait for him to open the shop’s door for her. The inability to do anything for herself in the presence of the Dalrymple servants was becoming an annoyance.

An assistant waited on a customer at the front of the shop, but Charlotte knew what she needed. She moved toward the back of the room, toward where she had seen the sign that brought her here today.

Hair Bought.

“Welcome to Madame Rousseau’s Millinery. How may I be of service to you today?” A tall, large woman came through the curtains that separated the shop from the workroom behind.

Charlotte removed her bonnet. “I understand that you buy hair. I wonder if you might tell me how much mine is worth.”

Madame Rousseau—at least Charlotte assumed this woman was the shop’s owner, though she did not sound French, as her name indicated—took Charlotte by the shoulders and turned her. She combed her fingers through Charlotte’s hair. “Takes a curl well.” She gathered it all together at the nape of Charlotte’s neck. “Good, thick texture.” She then pulled a comb from the pocket of her apron and ran it through the length of Charlotte’s hair. “I could get a clean eighteen inches.”

From the corner of her eye, Charlotte noticed the woman pull something else from her pocket—something that flashed, reflecting the late afternoon sunlight beyond the shop’s front windows. She spun around just in time to keep Madame Rousseau from cutting off a chunk of her hair.

Her heart thudded. To make her plan work, she would have to lose her hair. But not now. Not yet. “I do not want it cut today. I just need to know how much you might pay for it if I do decide to cut it off.”

The woman’s mouth twisted into disappointment. “Ten shillings.”

Charlotte looked around at the display of hairpieces already in the shop. The least expensive sold for two guineas. Her hair could make three of those. “One guinea.”

Rather than anger, Madame Rousseau’s eyes glimmered with humor. “Eighteen shillings. One per inch of hair.”

Charlotte stood her ground. “I believe you said my hair is thick. One guinea.”

The woman’s mouth curved into a smile. “If you need employment, young miss, you are to come to me and no one else.”

Charlotte returned the smile. “Thank you, but I already have a position.”

“When can I expect to receive this guinea’s worth of hair?”

“I…my brother, Charles Lott, will bring it by on Thursday morning before he goes to his ship. May I have your offer in writing so that he can bring it with him when he comes?”

A few minutes later, Charlotte departed with the note promising one guinea for her hair and the promise that her “younger brother” could stop by early, before the shop opened, to deliver it.

The motion of the coach lulled her into a stupor on the long drive back to Brampton Park. She played with her hair, curling a thick lock around her finger or pulling it straight and watching it bounce back into a fat curl again. Her breath caught in her throat.

When Mama had seen the young women in Gateacre begin to bob their hair like the women in the fashion plates from London, Mama had quoted something from either the Scriptures or the prayer book
about a woman’s hair being her crowning glory and that those girls should be ashamed for cutting theirs short.

To become a midshipman, Charlotte needed to look like a boy, which meant short hair. She combed her fingers through the length of hers. Did she love Henry Winchester enough to endure the shame of short hair?

F
loorboards creaked. Charlotte paused. No one else should be in this wing of the house, but she looked over her shoulder to make sure no one had heard her. Certain of her solitude, she continued down the hall to the fifth door on the left.

The latch clicked loudly when she turned the knob, but this time, she did not pause until she was on the other side of the door. Glancing around the room, she made a plan for the most methodical way to search it. One item looked out of place amidst the fancy furniture: a rough, small trunk. A sea chest. It would most likely yield treasures beyond what she imagined, but she would save it for last. The rest of the room could be searched much more quickly.

She started with the wardrobe. Not much there: a coat, a few old waistcoats, some mismatched stockings in a drawer, two neckcloths in another. She moved on to the desk: some blank stationery and a dry ink bottle. None of the other furniture in the room yielded anything of interest.

Finally, she knelt before the sea chest. Black script lettering on the lid confirmed it had indeed belonged to
Lt. Geoffrey Seymour.
She rubbed her palms together, unclasped the latch, and then lifted the lid. A musty, dank smell wafted out—the decayed smell of the sea and a ship of war.

Reverently, she lifted out the folded lieutenant’s jacket, followed by a flattened bicorne. She punched it back into shape and had it halfway to her head before she thought of what it might do to the curls
Martha managed to coax her hair into this morning. She set it aside with the jacket.

Charts and books made up most of the remainder of the contents. And a wooden box. She pulled it out and slid the top open. Like sails released from their rigging, all manner of folded pages unfurled themselves and beckoned her to pull them out. Most were from Lady Dalrymple. A few were from the former viscount. And no matter how her curiosity ate at her, Charlotte refused to read the letters. She flattened the pages and slid the box’s top closed.

Underneath the stationery box lay the real treasure. Charlotte pulled out three leather-bound volumes. She untied the thong wrapped around the top book and opened it. Faded script filled the pages warped by long exposure to damp environs. Geoffrey Seymour’s journals. Not every officer kept personal diaries in addition to their logbooks, but a perusal of the pages revealed Mr. Geoffrey’s detailed records of his voyages. He hadn’t written more than the date, ship’s heading, and his assigned duties for many of the entries, but others went on for pages—when and where they’d docked, incidents and disciplinary actions he’d witnessed, storms, and, best of all, battles.

Layering everything else back into the chest, she closed it; and, with the thick journals hugged to her chest, she hurried back to her room, ready to curl up on the chaise lounge and spend the rest of the morning reading about Mr. Geoffrey’s life at sea.

Her stomach gurgled. Perhaps breakfast first. She tucked the journals into the bottom drawer of her wardrobe, under Henry’s letters, and then skipped down to the bright, sunny breakfast room in the main part of the house.

She drew up short in the doorway. Lord Rotheram sat at the table with a decanter of spirits in front of him. She’d heard of men who were well into their cups by breakfast, but she’d never expected to see it, especially in a marquess.

Remembering her station, she made a quick curtsey, though he paid no heed. Perhaps she should return to her room and give up the idea
of breakfast. But the hunger gnawing at her stomach wouldn’t allow her to move farther away from the sideboard laden with all manner of good things to eat.

Her penchant for timidity around men she did not know would not serve her well in the near future. With a plate piled with eggs, sausages, and toast, she took a chair at the far end of the table from Lord Rotheram.

She ate much faster than usual, ready to get back to her room and Mr. Geoffrey’s journals. She didn’t slow or stop until Lord Rotheram finally moved. He downed his drink and then poured another, leaned back in his chair, and pinned his narrowed eyes on Charlotte.

The bite she’d just swallowed stuck in her throat.

“Tell me, Miss Ransome, why it is that a wife must be a nuisance and do the most idiotic things, like run away from her safe, secure home in London when she is in no condition to travel.” The alcohol slurred his words, and his rising anger added a harsh edge to his tone.

“I am sure I do not know, my lord.” Charlotte laid her fork on the rim of her plate. On second thought, she picked it back up again.

Lord Rotheram drained the glass in one swallow and stood. Charlotte was mildly surprised he was so steady on his feet. He paced the length of the room, passing behind her twice, mumbling to himself. She caught only words and snippets of phrases, but enough to understand he was angry at his wife’s impulsive flight from London to Portsmouth and Lady Dalrymple’s insisting he come to be with Lady Rotheram during her confinement.

Then he stopped behind Charlotte. Dread trickled down her spine, which went stiff as a ship’s mast.

“You look like someone who would understand a man’s need, not a cold, spiteful harpy.”

Charlotte’s pulse throbbed. Mama had warned her about men who took to too much drink.

She nearly jumped out of her own skin when he touched the curl that lay against the side of her neck.

“You do look like a tasty morsel.”

She shot out of the chair, gasping in pain when he did not immediately release her hair. “My lord, please remember yourself.”

Instead of becoming contrite and apologizing, the marquess laughed. “But I am acting precisely like myself. Or did not my lady complain to you about me? She has done so to half of London society.”

Charlotte backed away from the drunken man with ill intent in his gaze—until her back pressed against the sideboard.

“Did she not complain to you of how her husband has humiliated her by carrying on a dalliance with one of her closest friends?” Lord Rotheram took a few menacing steps toward Charlotte. “Did she not tell you how she had me followed, how she tried to humiliate me into changing my ways?”

“Nay, my lord. Please. I do not want to hear—”

He came within reach of her, but his hands remained at his sides. “You would not be such a shrew, would you, Miss Ransome? You would understand that a man’s needs must be fulfilled, and if his wife refuses to meet them, then he must seek to fulfill them elsewhere. Even if it means debauching young women with seductive eyes.” His arm snaked around Charlotte’s waist before she could move away. She tried to resist but was no match for his strength. She opened her mouth to cry out just as his lips crushed down on hers.

She slapped and punched at his arms, but he only increased the pressure of his hold on her. She tried twisting her head away, but he grabbed a fistful of her hair and subdued her by pulling it until she yelped.

Anger overcame her fear, and everything her brothers had ever taught her about men came crashing in. She tightened her fist around the fork but stayed her hand. Instead, she shifted her balance and, once sure of her footing, brought her knee up as hard as she could and connected right where Philip said a man was most vulnerable.

Lord Rotheram yowled and doubled over, releasing her—a string of curses flowing from his lips like bilge. When he dropped to the floor, Charlotte stepped around him, ready to put as much distance between them as possible. But she only made it two steps before Lord Rotheram grabbed her ankle and pulled her foot out from under her.

She cried out and tried to catch herself but hit the wood floor with her chin. Pain shot through her mouth, and she tasted blood where she’d bitten her tongue.

“If you think you can get away with that—I am Lord Rotheram. You are no one. I could have you arrested for assaulting me.”

Charlotte grabbed for purchase as Rotheram pulled her toward him, but nothing solid lay within her reach. He flipped her over and straddled her.

Charlotte punched him as hard as she could. Blood spurted from his nose. He howled with outrage and backhanded her. White spots exploded in her vision. His hand clasped around her throat and squeezed.

A fleeting image of another time when she lay prone, unable to breathe, looking up into a man’s face, flooded her mind. Only that time, Ned had saved her life. Why couldn’t he be here now to do the same? Darkness obscured her peripheral vision. Metal bit into her palm.

Metal. The fork. Unable to see enough to aim her blow, Charlotte swung her arm and prayed God would guide her weapon—not to kill, but to cause him to release her and leave her alone.

Consciousness began to slip away. The comfort of darkness beckoned.

Lord, please let me live.

Julia lay the package of new stationery in the bottom of her lap desk and checked the wax seal around the cork in the new bottle of ink. She couldn’t imagine she would need more than that in the next two months—especially as she would be able to post her correspondence only once, when they docked at Madeira to resupply. But she wanted to be certain she had enough on hand, since the days would be long and filled with tedium.

She flinched at a brisk knock on the door and looked up.

Creighton inclined his head. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. A
carriage has arrived from Brampton Park along with a message requesting your presence urgently.”

“Brampton Park?” Julia’s mind whirled. She rushed to her wardrobe for gloves and a bonnet—and remembered only when she looked into the empty space that everything had been moved to the room she had shared with William.

She retrieved the necessary items from the other room and followed Creighton downstairs. The footman in Lady Dalrymple’s green livery bowed. Julia jammed the bonnet over her unruly hair—no time to put it up now—and worked at tying the ribbon under her chin as she turned to face Creighton.

“Send word to Mrs. Yates that something has come up and I’ll be unable to accompany her on calls this afternoon, but with reassurances I will be there in plenty of time for Mrs. Ransome’s farewell dinner.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

“Send Elton to Brampton Park to fetch Miss Charlotte and me at three o’clock, if I have not already returned by then.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She tugged her gloves on and then turned to slide her arms into the sleeves of the spencer Creighton held. “Thank you, Creighton.” She gave him a half smile. “Are you absolutely certain I cannot convince you to come with us to Jamaica?”

“What would the admiral do without me?” Amusement tugged at the butler’s studied dour expression.

Julia allowed her smile to linger until the Dalrymple footman closed the coach door behind her. She could not think what emergency required her presence with
urgency,
but she refused to imagine that something bad had happened to Charlotte…though she did wish the coachman would drive a little faster.

Fifteen minutes later the coach rolled to a stop before the imposing manor house. Alighting from the coach, Julia managed to constrain her pace to a quick walk up the curving steps that led to the main entrance.

The housekeeper met Julia inside the front door. As quickly as she
could, Julia divested herself of jacket, gloves, and bonnet and followed a tight-lipped Mrs. Melling upstairs and down a silent corridor. If Julia had been summoned because Lady Dalrymple’s daughter had gone into labor, it was one of the quietest birthings Julia had ever witnessed.

Mrs. Melling stopped and opened a door. Instead of entering, she moved aside and motioned for Julia to go in. Wary of what she would find, Julia stepped into the room.

At first she thought she’d entered Lady Dalrymple’s apartment, so lavishly was the bedchamber appointed. But the dowager viscountess stood at the end of the enormous, curtained bed, while a man leaned over a prone figure obscured by the hangings and coverlet.

Julia cleared her throat.

Lady Dalrymple spun around. “Oh, dear, dear Julia. I was not certain for whom I should send.” She extended her hand toward Julia.

“What has happened?” Julia joined her at the foot of the bed.

“I should have listened to my daughter. I should have believed her. But she was always given to the melodramatic and exaggeration. Now, poor Charlotte…”