A Passionate Endeavor (12 page)

“You are jesting, Edwin. It was you who
brought all the fine marks from university. We were all so proud of
you.”

Edwin smiled and preened just the smallest
amount. “It was a jolly time there, I do admit. I was lucky how
easy it all came to me. Barely had to study. How could I, with all
the other sport… er, rather, fun there was to be found.” He
appeared to enjoy flustering Miss Kittridge. “Knowing your
scholarly pursuits, Miss Kittridge, you would have enjoyed the
academic life. It is too bad the female mind is not capable of
expanding to a male’s superior limits.” He looked first at her and
then to Nicholas. “Or at least, those of most men. I must admit
there are some gentlemen whose abilities are of a… lesser
quality.”

Miss Kittridge’s eyes appeared very large in
her face. “Lord Edwin, but I must beg to differ.”

“I am not surprised, my dear, not surprised
at all.” Edwin looked between the two of them knowingly and winked
at her. “I understand my brother has taken to haunting your cottage
as of late. Have you been showing him your sculpture? Or maybe
other matters occupy his time there. Perhaps I should make an
effort to pay my respects more often as well, my dear.”

He would fry Edwin’s kidneys for breakfast.
His brother had never crossed the thin line of courtesy before. Oh,
he had toyed with insults toward him in the past, skirting the
issue of Nicholas’s ignorance on occasion, but he had never seen
him behave this badly.

“Perhaps the sun has gone to your head,
Edwin. Apologize to Miss Kittridge, and take yourself away, before
I do something we will both come to regret later,” Nicholas
said.

Edwin jumped to his feet. “Miss Kittridge, I
do beg your pardon. I had no idea my words could be construed in a
way to offend. Perhaps it is my brother who misunderstood, as he
sometimes is wont to do,” he said, then continued after taking one
look at Nicholas, “But please do accept my apology.” He finished
with an exaggerated bow.

The entire party of young people had become
aware of the conversation, and had one by one stopped their
discussions to hear the interesting exchange.

“Charlotte, what did he say to you?” inquired
James. “I shall not stand for him to insult my sister, even if his
family provides our bread and butter.”

“No, James, I shall not hear of it. It was
nothing, nothing at all. Do let us talk of something else.” Miss
Kittridge rose. “I must go and speak with Father. He might need
something for His Grace.”

Rosamunde stood up and offered Miss Kittridge
her hand. “Oh, please, Miss Kittridge, will you do me the honor of
allowing me to go with you? I am so sorry for anything my brother
might have said. I am mortified by his behavior,” Rosamunde said,
with contrition written across her fine features.

James Kittridge had jumped up to accompany
the ladies, who were joined by Louisa Nichols.

Miss Kittridge, her face still colorless from
the exchange, looked at Nicholas for a moment, and then the group
was gone.

Nicholas was obliged by courtesy to remain
behind with Lady Susan. He was forced to endure the calculating
little smile decorating her porcelain face and her cloying perfume
fouling the air—and another half hour of wretched words that could
not be mistaken for any sort of clever conversation.

After, he would think how best to make
certain that his brother would never consider making insidious
insults to Miss Kittridge ever again, if Edwin treasured the idea
of saving his neck for further displays of frothy cravats.

It was the heat that had done it. That was
the conclusion drawn by Dr. Kittridge and his daughter in private.
They could not go against Her Grace, who was convinced that it was
the very nature of the
air outside
that had brought on the
duke’s relapse.

Charlotte hastened outside the duke’s vast
chambers, daring to leave His Grace alone for a few moments to
communicate the necessary ingredients—cinchona bark and licorice—to
make a tea to soothe the duke’s cough and reduce his fever. She
could hear him still coughing violently as Lord Huntington appeared
on the stair’s landing.

“How does he fare?” Nicholas asked, hope and
fear vacillating in his expression.

Charlotte frowned. She despised this part of
her position, that of imparting bad tidings. “He has worsened with
each passing hour, my lord. Perhaps you could bring a measure of
comfort to him now. Let us go in.”

His father lay motionless on the bed, eyes
closed. The duke’s flesh was stretched over bone, showing the all
too apparent skeleton that loomed beneath. His prominent forehead
was as still and white as marble.

“Father,” exclaimed Nicholas as he grasped
his hand.

“Nicholas, my son—so glad you came back.
Wanted you to know this before I am gone,” he rasped, his eyes
opening a crack.

“I am glad I came back as well, Father. I
missed you over the years,” Lord Huntington admitted.

“I am sorry you went away, even if we all
agreed it was for the best,” the duke said hoarsely. “But I missed
you… I missed you more than I can say.” On the last words, he began
to cough. The effort required to do so seemed to rob the old
gentleman of an energy he did not possess.

Charlotte supported the man’s frame as he
continued in a long spasm, advising him to talk less. The duke lay
back upon the many pillows she then arranged to his liking.

“Is there nothing to ease his discomfort?”
Lord Huntington gave her a haunted look.

She took his hand to comfort him. “Yes, my
lord. There is a soothing tea for the throat that is being
prepared.” He did not surrender her hand.

The duke was looking at them through
half-shuttered eyes.

“Miss Kittridge, how can I thank you?” Lord
Huntington asked, covering their clasped hands with his free
one.

“There is no need.” She felt embarrassed
under the old gentleman’s gaze, and excused herself without delay.
“I must see about the tea. My father should arrive any moment, Your
Grace.” She gave a quick curtsy and removed herself from the
room.

Running down the stairs, she held her flaming
cheeks in her hands. It had been mortifying to face the perceptive
glance of the Duke of Cavendish. Despite his age and condition,
his knowing, eagle eyes had pierced her composure. And she had fled
like a poacher caught with a tangle of game over one shoulder.

She met Charley coming the other direction,
carrying a heavy book. “Miss? The doctor said you might be needin’
this. Said sumpin’ about a book you’ve been lookin’ for.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you, Charley. Is he coming
then to relieve me?”

“Yes, miss. He bewaitin’ on the medicine you
asked to be brewed. He said for you to wait until he comes.”

Charlotte took the large volume and returned
to her post, outside the duke’s door, after thanking the lad.

The door was ajar, and she could hear the
voices of the son and father clearly. Charlotte, desperate for a
distraction, opened the tome and refused to eavesdrop. But the
temptation was too great, once she heard her name mentioned, and
her resolution too weak. The voices floated from the sickroom.

“My son,” the duke said. “Don’t think I
haven’t seen the look in her eye.”

There was a long silence.

“Miss Kittridge is not for you.” Again a
coughing fit overwhelmed the father. “No, let me continue. I must…
it cannot be left unsaid.”

She could hear the bed creaking and the
whisper of the satin-ticked bedcovers being arranged. He must be
sitting on the grand bed.

“Yes, Father?”

“She would not be happy living the life of a
duchess. And our acquaintances, even the servants, would snicker
behind her back, as some do even now, guessing her roots,
questioning her French lineage and physician father. And you well
know she would never suit you. You, you,” he paused, “are not
suited for one another in any way, my son. It would be disastrous
for you and for the continuation of our line.”

“Father, I gave you my word, many years ago,
that I would follow a certain course. Do you doubt my promise? I
have never given you cause to worry. I do not plan to marry Miss
Kittridge,” he said.

Seated just outside the doorway, Charlotte
pressed her tired fingers against her throbbing temples. She didn’t
want to hear anymore. A chill had fallen through her as she had
listened to the conversation.

Her exhaustion had weakened her control, and
she felt a sob threaten to escape her tight throat. She couldn’t
bear to hear any more. She had to leave, and she would do it on
cat’s feet. Her ancient slippers would not give her away, she
thought. And they would have done their duty, save for the crash of
the forgotten tome on her lap. She stopped to pick it up, half
hoping he would come out and confront her.

But, he did not. There was to be no
enlightenment, no feelings to swell the heart. No denials. Nothing
at all. But of course there would not. She knew with all her being
that there never would be. Not for her. But then eavesdroppers
deserve every poisonous word they hear as their just desserts.

Her father appeared at the top of the stair,
and walked with purpose toward her. He whispered, “Charlotte, my
dear. You are exhausted. Go and rest. I insist you spend the whole
of this evening and tomorrow at our cottage. I’ll have Hetty sit up
with His Grace tonight.”

Charlotte felt like protesting. But in the
end, her sadness and ill ease made her accept her father’s
prescription.

The duke’s voice grew weaker. “Are you sure,
my son? Quite, quite sure? I never liked the idea of holding you
from a wife,” he said gruffly. “Perhaps I could ask your stepmother
to find a suitable young lady. Someone who is unable to produce
children.”

“With your permission, sir, I will continue
on with the original plan. It is much more to my liking. And I
shall take better care not to elevate Miss Kittridge’s
expectations.”

“I am glad to hear it, for Miss Kittridge has
become very dear to me of late—almost like another daughter. She
reads to me, and nurses me with the most gentle spirit. I would
hate to see her hurt in any way. Her intelligence is vast—even
surpassing her father’s, I believe, at times. I would not see you
overpowered by her wisdom, and her cowed into hiding it to boost
your own confidence.”

“I believe you have the right of it,
sir.”

“You hold her in very high regard, do you
not, my son?”

A long silence ensued.

“It is as I thought. Do not answer.”

“I gave you my word.”

“Nick, my son, I believe you. I promise not
to question you again. I know you will stand by your promise.”

‘Thank you, Father.”

“I began giving Edwin authority over
Wyndhurst and the other estates several years ago when I began
ailing and he was of age. The war has been a great blow to the
estates—our profits are shrinking and our expenses increasing. It
would not do to take any chances with everything in such a
precarious state. Edwin is doing an admirable job despite the
economic downfalls. I trust you will allow him to continue.”

“Of course, Father. It has been agreed long
ago. I shall have the title, in name and by law only. I will not
meddle with anything he puts into place.” Nicholas bit his tongue.
He could not burden his father on his deathbed with his ideas to
help ease the poverty in the parish.

“You will be tempted when I am gone, I will
hazard a guess. And the tenants and laborers will all come
clamoring to you, the new duke, with their lists of grievances when
I am gone. They seem to come more and more these last few months.…
But I don’t want you to worry about any of it. You chose your
course a long time ago.” His father began to cough again.

Nicholas willed himself not to leave his
father’s bedside to find out where in blazes the blasted tea was.
He poured a glass of water from the pitcher nearby and forced his
father to take a sip.

“Yes, I know, Father. You must rest now.
Please, put your mind at ease. We made the arrangements long ago,
and I will stand by them. I will not be swayed by the power of the
title. And besides, I have decided to return to my regiment very
soon.”

“I had guessed as much. But you will wait,
then, until I am… gone?”

“Let us not talk of these matters. I will
stay with you for as long as you need me.”

“Then you will stay as long as it takes to
see me on my final journey.”

“Yes, sir.” Nicholas leaned down to kiss his
father on his forehead. He had the sudden thought that they had
exchanged roles. Unlike many heirs, he loved his father. And yet,
he had never spent that much time with him -very few hours in his
youth, and almost none in his adulthood. But he loved him. He
dearly, dearly loved him. And he would honor his promises to him,
without wavering.