The celebration for the Marquess and Marchioness of Ravenscroft’s first wedded year was small, consisting of family and close friends. Charlotte’s painting of the colt and filly was a success, but a moment of joy in an otherwise concerning celebration. The festivities weren’t somber, not exactly, but worry slithered through the group like an asp seeking prey.
Two months earlier, Patrick’s letters had gone from chatty to infrequent, the family and Charlotte receiving terse notes that explicated nothing. Patrick was alive, they knew that much. Yet he had not returned home nor indicated what he was doing nor why he remained away.
Rose insisted Patrick would return soon. She “felt it in her bones.”
Charlotte suspected Rose’s words were intended to soothe her husband, who near daily contacted the Admiralty with few results, other than knowing the Royal Charles had sunk and three aboard had died, though not Patrick. The family, Charlotte, too, worried as well.
Rose, Charlotte’s sister-of-the-heart, pulled her aside at the first opportunity. “Have you received any explanation from Patrick?”
“None,” Charlotte said. “Only brief notes. A line or two that told nothing of his condition or whereabouts.” She missed his chatty letters with his thoughts and feelings about life at sea or in exotic lands.
“Rhys is not doing well,” Rose said.
Charlotte glanced at the marquess. His eyes were tired, his demeanor weary. “He looks rather wan.”
“He is not eating properly and he even went off on one of his retreats. He has not done so for ages.”
Rhys’ retreats, Charlotte knew, were the result of his participation in the war against Napoleon. Months earlier, after the family had settled at Woodbine, Rhys had ceased them. Their renewal was a bad sign which must stress both himself and Rose.
“I am so sorry,” Charlotte said. “Thankfully, Patrick has not perished, and yet…”
“My pain-in-the-ass brother has failed to explain where he is or why he has not returned.”
Patrick was a pain in the ass. But he was also kind and funny and possessed other fine qualities. He positively vibrated with life.
Charlotte knew not what to say and remained silent.
Patrick’s pain merely hummed now, ever-present but tolerable, as they traveled away from Schloss Salder, a stately home where an agent said the Farffler chair resided. The chair was unique, as it was self-propelled, which would give Patrick a modicum of independence. He must find the damned chair. Nothing less would do.
Once Patrick had been strong enough for travel, he, Banby, and the barnacle had traversed numerous uncomfortable miles in search of a self-propelled wheeled chair, each stop ending in disappointment.
Patrick had tried a Bath chair, but that wheeled contraption was anathema, for he must be either pushed by a man or pulled by a horse, the indignity too much to bear. During his research, he discovered most chairs were the same until he’d found a sketch of Farffler’s. Early on, Patrick had written letters and engaged agents to suss out the chair, and one reply from Italy claimed a chair that might suit.
Six weeks had passed as they’d made their way to Italy, but the recumbent chair their agent had discovered was again too heavy for Patrick to push himself, even with his increased upper body strength. That egregious disappointment was lightened somewhat by the agent pointing them to an ephemera dealer. There, they discovered the schematics for the Farffler chair, originally constructed in 1655 for the man’s own use.
At the very least, they now had the plans. Yet they had ventured to Schloss Salder in hopes of finding the actual chair…with no luck.
Patrick’s strength had grown daily through his demanding calisthenics, his arms, torso, shoulders, chest, and neck all gaining strength. But though Banby exercised his legs each day, they remained useless sticks.
As Schloss Salder grew small in the rear window, Patrick wanted to throw something, hit something, anything to rid himself of his overwhelming loss of agency.
He reached for his flask and emptied it. Only water, when he longed for a sip of scotch or bourbon. But he had sworn not to indulge, at least until they found a proper chair.
When the pain had been intolerable, when he hated what he had become, he imagined killing himself. That would surely end his suffering.
He sighed, lifting a two-week-old English newspaper, The Times. Of course he would not kill himself. A tossing cowardly thing to do.
Dear God, but he was bored. The pain was bad. Disability was bad. But the boredom…That might be what killed him.
Patrick reached for the leather portfolio and pulled out the plans for the Farffler chair. The person sat on a low-sided wooden seat, with two tall wheels alongside. Across the recumbent legs sat a box covering gears, with two crank handles projecting from either side. A third smaller wheel was situated in front. Farffler had used the cranks to propel himself.
Though his hopes had been repeatedly dashed, he refused to quit. He thumped one of his two canes on the carriage roof, the sticks near as useless as his legs, but they gave him the leverage to stand without aid.
The carriage soon drew to a halt, and Banby appeared, along with Henry.
“You called, Captain?” Banby said with a raised brow.
The man thought he was funny. “I have been reviewing the sketches of Farffler’s chair.”
“I see,” Banby said.
“Let us have done with this mad dashing about. We shall build our own cursed chair, then return home.”
Days after the anniversary party, May in full bloom, Charlotte had returned to Halafair to focus once again on her smaller seascapes. The painting nearly done, the light perfect, and her factor now possessed preliminary sketches for clients. A wealthy farmer and Sir Alex Morrison had expressed interest, which might presage a bidding war—a good thing.
Time for the signature, the most challenging part of the process. For the name she would place on the work was Reginald Pheland, her father, famed for his paintings of landscapes and seascapes. Though he had passed away years earlier, he allegedly left a cache of his work in the attic, work their family continued to sell.
Only her mother Beatrice, and her sister Claire knew her forgeries paid Halafair’s taxes, funded their staff, and many other estate-related expenses.
Her papa, whom she dearly loved, had been a fine, albeit traditional, artist. As a child, Charlotte had been fascinated by his work, enough so that she had picked up a paintbrush at the age of three. Years later, her mother and sister claimed she had surpassed her father’s artistry. In her most self-reflective moments, she was forced to agree, due to her studies with the great J.M.W. Turner.
Women who worked in oils were few, discouraged from the pastime by ignorant men, the proceeds from those sales minuscule. On the commercial market, paintings with her signature would receive far fewer pounds than those bearing her father’s name. Or any male name, in fact.
Her family needed money to survive, hence Charlotte had become a forger to ensure their survival.
As she attributed the painting before her to her father, she fervently hoped Papa was looking down upon her with approval.
Charlotte returned to her work. Hours later, she cleaned her paints with turpentine and washed her hands with Castile soap, discarding her painter’s apron on a hook set for that purpose. She retired to the yellow salon to pen replies to letters she owed. A stack of them.
Once she had answered her friends’ letters, adding questions on fashion and on dits around town, she wrote Mr. Turner. She regaled him on her proposed entry into the Summer Exhibition and asked after his current project.
A knock broke her focus, a maid appearing at the door. “Excuse me for disturbing you, Lady Charlotte, but Lady Ravenscroft has arrived and wishes to speak with you.”
A surprise, and she began folding her completed letters. “Lovely. Please have refreshments brought.”
Halafair was but an hour’s ride from Woodbine, the Lansdowne stud farm in Devonshire. That Rose would travel without prior notice said something was up.
“Lottie!” Rose said, arms wide for a hug.
Charlotte clasped Rose to her, this sister of the heart. Standing back, she noted Rose’s appearance, a bit sallow, and couldn’t help but see the bruising beneath Rose’s eyes.
“Are you well, dear sister?” Charlotte said.
Rose grinned. “Yes! Though I spend much time bent over the chamber pot.”
Charlotte gasped. “Are you…?”
“Indeed!” Rose said, grinning. “The little sprog performs the scotch reel within my belly. I am told it will pass. I hope it is soon!”
“As do I!” She hugged Rose again. “When shall I meet the wee Lansdowne?”
“December, or thereabouts.” Her sister frowned. “Though I wish my babe were the only cause of my fatigue.”
“Rhys?” Charlotte said.
“He is well enough.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “Then what?”
Rose pressed her fingers to her closed eyes. “As you know, Patrick’s ship sank during a terrible storm. We have learned that in saving the life of a cabin boy, Patrick was gravely injured.”
“How badly?” A pit yawned in Charlotte’s belly for that brave, irritating man. He’d escaped unscathed from the Napoleonic wars, only to suffer this. “Will he live?”
“Yes. But it is terrible, Lottie.” Tears filled Rose’s eyes. “He is paralyzed. His legs, I mean. They no longer work.”
For such an active man, the loss would be a devastation. She had first met Patrick at Fielding Manor, Rose’s former home. An intense man, one quite different from his brother the marquess, his sarcasm and quips could be funny…or lethal. Yet she would never forget his honorable display saving her reputation at the Devonshire ball. Not all men would act thus, and she owed him much. But it was his letters, missives that illuminated the inner man, that intrigued her. He had revealed a reader, a model shipbuilder, and a captain who cared for his crew. A man who found humor and delight in a small cabin boy. Patrick Lansdowne was more than she had first perceived.
“Will he walk again?” Charlotte asked.
Rose opened her knitting bag, removed her current project, and began weaving stitches. “The doctors refuse to give a definitive answer, only hints that Patrick’s debilitation is permanent.”
“God in heaven, I grieve for him.” Charlotte rubbed her forefinger and thumb together again and again as if aching for a paintbrush.
“I wanted you to be apprised,” Rose said, her fingers swiftly weaving stitches onto her needles. “He is, thankfully, on his way home. Three sailors died in the storm, and they were blessed not to lose more men.”
“I suspect,” Charlotte said, “Patrick does not feel particularly blessed.”
“I am sure he does not,” Rose said. “You understand, yes? To decide?”
“Decide?” Then Charlotte realized Rose’s implication. “You mean our engagement?”
“His injury puts you in an awkward position if you renege.”
Charlotte enjoyed life at Halafair with her mother and sister and would be content to remain there. The only stick in the spoke was that without access to the beau monde, Charlotte would have trouble selling her forged paintings. And without the paintings’ sales, her little family would suffer.
Rose knew they were not flush in the pocket, for they often spoke of personal matters, but Charlotte would never reveal the dire state of their finances.
“Given the loss of his legs,” Charlotte said, “I cannot imagine how Patrick will deal with his injury upon his return. It frightens me a bit, if I am honest. I would also prefer the ton not vilify me.”
“I doubt they will,” Rose said. “They disdain anyone with disabilities.”
“Fools! Because of Locke’s and others’ words.” Charlotte sighed. “But that is for another discussion. No, they will turn on me because Patrick is a viscount and the brother of a marquess. The ton will find my rejection offensive. But in truth, Rose, I like the Patrick I came to know during our letter exchanges, and I shall not cry off, at least not until Patrick returns.”
“In a week, Rhys and I go to meet the ship carrying Patrick,” Rose said. “Of course, Patrick did not tell us when his ship was docking. Rhys discovered it on his own. Just like him to be that inconsiderate.
“Sister,” Charlotte said. “You are being harsh. Patrick has been through much.”
“You are right, Lottie.” She wove another stitch. “I sometimes cling to the memory of the boy who was such a pain in my arse.”
Charlotte smiled. She could picture that boy, all full of himself. A second son’s life was often a challenge. She suspected much of his bravado had come from that.
“I thought you might join us,” Rose continued. “We plan to bring him to Woodbine.”
She very much wished to see Patrick and to help in any way possible. “I shall eagerly accompany you.” Her thumb rubbed back and forth, back and forth. “Though what I shall do afterward is a conundrum.”
“Nor can I advise you,” Rose said, shaking her head.
Charlotte peered out the tall windows, where early summer blooms rioted.
“His accident will change him,” Rose examined her knit stitches. “He may want nothing to do with us.”
“He will get us no matter his mercurial mood.”
“Are you sure you will not break your engagement, Lottie?” Rose peered at Charlotte. “Before his return?”
“I will not. For I wish to think and to spend time with Patrick.”
Rose squeezed her hands. “I suspect you already know that answer, dear sister.”
“I suspect I do.”
Charlotte sat in the Ravenscroft carriage, though this one bore no crest, Rhys disinclined to announce their arrival at the pier.
Her heart was too warm for Patrick to cast him off. Ending their engagement upon his arrival home would send the worst sort of message—that Patrick was no longer a whole man. She simply could not. Perhaps, together, they would find a workable solution.
Their carriage was positioned in the long line awaiting the ship’s passengers, the ship having docked, though it seemed to take forever for the passengers to disembark.
“How do you think he will be?” Rose said to her husband.
Rhys’ face was tight, his hands fisted. “Angry?”
“Do you not think he will be sad?” Rose said.
“I suspect his lordship has the right of it,” Charlotte said. “Patrick will be furious.”
“Perhaps,” Rose said. “I confess, I am wary of his reaction.”
Charlotte was as well. She peered out the window. Sailors lowered the dock ramp, a line of passengers queuing up behind them, disembarking once the ramp was secured. Would Patrick be carried or on a stretcher? So hard to imagine for such a formerly vigorous man.
Charlotte failed to imagine him unable to ride, to run, to dance. How would that spirited man cope?
A bit of a hullabaloo on deck as the passengers parted, their carriage too distant to see the rumpus’ cause until…
“Look!” Rose said, pointing. “Do you see that tall naval officer beside a man in a chair, the blackamoor?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said, peering out the window.
The chair seemed to move on its own, rolling down the gangway with its passenger and traveling up the pier.
“Patrick!” Rose said.
Her fiancé drove the chair, pushing its large wheels, whilst the tall dusky officer walked alongside, with a boy trotting after them.
“God’s breath!” Rhys said.
Standing at the front of the crowd was Lady Ablethorp, a dreadful gossipmonger, her mouth flapping.
“What shall we do?” Rose said to Rhys.
“That woman is the worst gossip,” Rhys said. “If we all leave the carriage, it will cause a hullabaloo, an event my brother would hate in the extreme.”
“Lottie,” Rose said. “Rhys can go meet Patrick. We will wait here.”
Nerves aflame, Charlotte shook her head. “As his fiancée, I should be the one to meet him, and damn Lady Ablethorp.”
Rhys knocked on the carriage ceiling, and a footman opened the door and let down the steps. Charlotte took his helping hand, lifted her skirts, and proceeded, her eyes never leaving the man in the rolling chair who grew closer by the minute. She prayed she was up to this particular challenge.
The nearer Patrick came, the stranger she found his chair. Unlike Bath chairs, his was crafted of large wooden wheels, the third at the front quite small. The chair Patrick used was spare, made of wood and cane. A marvel.
Charlotte clasped her hands tight as if they could compress her nerves into a ball. Patrick’s face was clearer now, clear enough she saw fresh lines scoring his tanned cheeks. But other than those, he looked much the same, a raven-haired handsome man, though his torso looked more broad, his arms thick enough to strain against his uniform’s fabric.
The moment he spotted her was indelible, his blue eyes aglow, though she couldn’t tell if they were filled with fury, fear, or joy.
She approached the dock as he neared land.
“Lady Charlotte!” cried Lady Ablethorp. “How delightful to see you.”
They exchanged curtsies. “Lovely to see you as well.”
“Are you waiting for your betrothed?” Lady Ablethorp said, her tone arch.
“I am, my lady.” Charlotte nodded and walked on.
The moment neared when Patrick would reach her, and he neither sped up nor slowed down. Now, all she saw was Patrick, the crowd receding to form a sort of bubble between herself and her fiancé, its circumference ever-shrinking. Charlotte prepared for it to burst.