Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

IN THE DARK OF NIGHT

S hadows fell over the world as Charles stood in his bedchamber, still one moment and then pacing the next, his mind circling, always returning to one thought in particular: Miss Hartley would be married soon. She would be married soon, and not to him. Perhaps in a day or two or three. In truth, it did not matter. What did matter was that she would be lost to him.

Never before had Charles felt such an agonizing pain deep in his chest. He could barely keep upon his feet, the urge to sink to the floor and weep almost overwhelming. At the same time, though, energy hummed in every muscle, frustration slipping into anger, making him move, making him pace, unable to rid himself of this buzzing hum. What was he to do?

Nothing. There was nothing he could do. She had made her choice, and she had decided against a life with him. Perhaps he ought not be surprised. They did not know each other after all. Yet Charles could not shake that overwhelming certainty that with time they would, and that with time, they would be happy. Was he a fool to believe so?

His father would certainly say so.

A knock upon his door roused Charles from his gloomy thoughts, and with a frown, he turned toward it, wondering who would seek him out this late. Quick strides carried him forward, and he opened the door, surprised to find his mother on the other side.

"Do you have a moment?" she inquired, those watchful eyes of hers tracing every line upon his face.

Charles nodded and stepped aside to allow her entry. "Of course, Mother." Closing the door, he watched her walk over to the window before turning to look at him. "What is it? Is something wrong?" For a moment, his heart paused in his chest and his thoughts inevitably drifted to Lizzie.

Soon, they would have to leave England again. Her health demanded it. And Charles never thought that he would be sad to leave it behind. Now, though, the world seemed an utterly different place.

"All is well," his mother assured him, and Charles exhaled a tense breath. "I have come here to speak to you about Miss Hartley."

Charles paused in midstep, his eyes narrowing. "Miss Hartley?" He shook his head. "Why?" He cleared his throat, his gaze falling, dropping to the floor beneath his feet, the weight upon his shoulder suddenly increasing. "There's nothing to say, is there?"

A soft chuckle drifted from his mother's lips. "Oh, there's always something to say," she remarked, amusement tinging her voice. Lifting his head, Charles regarded her most curiously. "Do you care for her?" his mother asked simply.

Taken aback, Charles frowned, moving another step closer. He could not shake the feeling that his mother knew something he did not. "Why would you ask me that? Have I not made it abundantly clear?"

His mother nodded. "So, you still wish to marry her?"

A tingle of excitement trailed down Charles's spine, and he all but held his breath. "Of course, I do. Why do you ask?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion, hope blossoming in his heart.

A deep smile came to his mother's face as she stepped toward him and grasped his hands, her pale blue eyes looking up into his. "All I ever wanted was to see you happy," she whispered, tears misting her eyes despite the smile that lingered. "This is your life, and these choices are your own. No one can make them for you." She cupped a hand to his cheek. "If she is your choice, then you have my blessing."

Staring at his mother, Charles felt dizzy, and he forced another breath down his lungs. "What are you saying?"

His mother took his hand and tugged him toward the window. There, she nodded toward a darkened carriage, unmarked, bare of any coat of arms, standing on the other side of the street, half-hidden in shadows. "Everything is arranged," she told him rather matter-of-factly, as though her interference had not suddenly changed his life. "It will take you to Gretna Green. I sent a messenger ahead to arrange for a quick wedding and a room at the local inn."

Charles could barely believe his ears. Words failed him completely as he stared down into his mother's face.

"Don't worry," she told him with a bit of a wicked grin. "I shall handle your father as well as Miss Hartley's parents." She squeezed his hands. "There's a bag by the front door with a few of your belongings packed. Take it and go." Her right eyebrow arched up just a tad. "If she is your choice."

Charles exhaled a long breath, his hands trembling, and he held his mother's hands tighter. "She is," he replied. In truth, there were countless things in life he was uncertain of; yet this one stirred no doubts within his chest. "She is."

His mother embraced him, holding him tightly for a moment. "Then go and be happy, the both of you." Chuckling, she gave him a little push. "Be off. I'll see you in a few days."

Charles stumbled backwards toward the door, his gaze fixed upon his mother. Countless times, she had impressed him, for the stories he had heard about his parents' courtship, about his mother securing the happiness of her oldest friend had always made her seem like some sort of fairytale creature granting wishes. As a boy, Charles had wholeheartedly believed that. Perhaps now, it was once again time to believe in fairytales. After all, there was always a way. Why on earth was he so surprised?

"Thank you," he said, pausing in the doorway. "Thank you for everything." Then he darted down the stairs to the ground floor, barely remembering to grab the bag his mother had had prepared for him, and dashed out the door toward the waiting carriage.

A stiff wind blew that night, its icy fingers raising goosebumps upon Charles's skin. He shivered and pulled his coat tighter around his body as he approached the carriage, his heart pounding in his chest. Squinting his eyes, he tried and failed to glimpse Miss Hartley inside, wondering what she was thinking at this moment, what his mother had said to change her mind. He nodded to the coachman, who tipped his hat, and then opened the door.

The interior was dark, no lamp lit, as it was paramount to conceal their presence. Yet Charles's eyes had grown accustomed to the half-dark of London's streets, and he could make out the soft outline of her face. "Hello," he forced from his lips, his throat dry as he climbed into the carriage, dropping the bag onto the seat beside him.

"Hello," came Miss Hartley's tentative reply, her voice trembling as much as his own.

Reaching out to close the door, Charles seated himself opposite her, and only a moment later, the carriage rumbled down the street.

Silence stretched between them, their ears attuned to the sounds from outside the carriage. It was the oddest feeling to be seated here together, shrouded in darkness, barely able to make out the other's face. Yet at the same time, they were on their way to be married. Charles felt compelled to speak, to say something to ease the tension. Yet try as he might, his mind could conjure nothing.

And so, the silence continued, grew thicker and heavier as the carriage's wheels kept turning, carrying them away from the life they had known toward a future they could not yet picture.

"Thank you," Miss Hartley said into the stillness. "Thank you for…" Even in the dark, Charles could see her shrug, no doubt overwhelmed as he was by these sudden events.

"There is no need," Charles assured her, grateful to have something to say even if it was nothing truly meaningful. "I assure you, I'm not being selfless." Indeed, he was doing this for himself as much as for her. He was doing this because not doing it would see his own life ruined, would see his own happiness snatched away. In truth, love could not be selfless, could it?

Again, silence stretched between them as they left London behind, heading north toward Scotland. Charles had never been there, as the climate of the northern countries was not beneficial to his sister's health.

"Please call me Charles," Charles blurted out when the silence once more became oppressive. "After all, we are to be husband and wife."

"Very well," Miss Hartley replied, and Charles thought to hear the touch of a smile in her voice. "But only if you call me Beatrice."

"Beatrice," Charles repeated, delighting in the echo of her name. "Will you tell me a little about yourself? It feels a bit odd that we know almost nothing about one another."

A sigh drifted from her lips, and Charles thought it rang more with relief than tension. "Yes, it does feel odd. Everything that has happened lately feels…" Again, she shrugged, the movement accompanied by another sigh. "I scarcely know how to find words."

"I find myself quite overwhelmed as well," Charles admitted, feeling the heavy boulder upon his chest slowly rise and lift away as he shared these open words with the woman he was to marry. "I never quite imagined our stay in England to take such a turn." He chuckled. Of course, he had not. Who would have?

"That is not hard to believe," Beatrice replied, her voice now lighter as well. "Well, what is there to tell you about me you do not already know?" She paused for a moment, and Charles remembered the intimate secrets she had shared with him only the night before.

"I have a little sister," Beatrice began, a touch of laughter in her voice that told Charles that she cared about her sister as much as he cared about his own. "Her name is Francine, and she's five years old. She loves to paint, and she's quite good at it, especially for her age. She seems young, and yet sometimes there are moments when I think she's a very old soul." She paused, and Charles could not shake the feeling that there was more she wished to say but did not quite dare.

"In fact," Beatrice continued with a chuckle, "she was the one who urged me to accept your proposal."

"She was?" He sat back, feeling himself relax. "That is surprising. Do you always discuss your marriage proposals with your little sister?"

Beatrice laughed. "It might surprise you to hear it, but she has a very shrewd mind. Indeed, her advice on the matter of marriage was the best one I've received." Again, she paused. "Perhaps aside from your mother's."

Laughing, Charles raked his hands through his hair. "Yes, my mother is a very… particular person. I can't even quite say in what way. Yet she often surprises me."

"She surprised me as well," Beatrice admitted, a touch of seriousness back in her voice. "In my experience, mothers do not support their sons when they wish to marry women who…" She swallowed hard. "Women who carry another man's child."

Again, a heavy silence fell over them, and Charles raked his mind for what to say. A part of him wanted to blurt out that he loved her, that his mother had done what she had done in order to secure his happiness. And was that not precisely what parents ought to do for their children? Yet Charles sensed Beatrice was not yet ready to hear these words. Her heart still beat for Lord Strumpton, he reminded himself. He would need to be patient and be her friend first and foremost.

As they continued on through the night, Charles listened to the soft sounds of Beatrice's breathing. At first, it sounded a bit strained, evidence of her own tense nerves. Then, however, it grew more relaxed, and he suspected she had fallen asleep. Indeed, her head seemed to drift forward ever so slightly. And then, when the carriage hit a hole in the road, Beatrice slumped forward.

Charles caught her in the nick of time before she could drop to the carriage floor. Oddly enough, she did not wake. She merely sighed and leaned into him, one hand upon his chest, her fingers curling into his coat.

For a moment, Charles ceased breathing, his gaze fixed upon her face hidden in shadows. Then he shifted gently, pulling her up and easing himself onto the seat beside her. He settled her in his embrace, her head coming to rest upon his shoulder, her hand still upon his chest as though it belonged there, right above his hammering heart.

In that moment, seated in a dark carriage with the woman he loved sleeping in his arms, Charles felt an overwhelming sense of being responsible for another's well-being and happiness. He silently vowed to protect her, to keep her safe, and do whatever necessary to make her smile.

For the rest of his life.