Page 7 of The Widow of Falbrooke Court (Ladies of Devon 3)

Chapter 3

Charles pulled on the reins, slowing his deep chestnut horse as he gazed over the expanse of barley stalks waving in the warm breeze. Had his land really been empty just a year before, void of the neatly lined fields and left to the wild whims of nature? The spring planting had gone well, and it looked to be a fruitful harvest later in the year. He slid his hand down Maximus’s smooth neck and inhaled the scent of warm earth and barley fields.

Charles’s chest swelled with the pride of accomplishment. He’d never before had to work with his own hands, but this year he’d intentionally changed that. When Mabel married Liam MacKenzie and moved to Camden Court, she’d taken their grandmother and younger sister with her, ridding Sheffield House, Charles’s home, of all his family—for his uncle had returned to his ship shortly after. The ensuing quiet had been a blessed relief for a few days, but shortly began to wear, and he’d turned his attention to managing his uncle’s project in order to fill his days.

While he’d never been particularly idle, he’d lacked much incentive for working with his hands before now. His youth had been spent in the library with his tutor when not out of doors with his friends, and more recent years had been passed in London or traveling to the Continent. The only constant for Charles had been his determination to reside wherever Amelia and her husbands had not. A typically easy feat when she’d resided mostly in London.

Now they were both in Graton, and Charles had no inclination to leave. Not when he had found a purpose in farming and managing his estate and land. He liked to believe he had matured enough not to moon over her too horrifically, either.

Skirting the field, he nudged his horse faster and took off toward Larkspur Vale, where the tenant cottages were snugly settled in a line against the woods. The Halpert cottage sat on the edge of the vale, and Charles swung down from his horse when he reached it, throwing the reins over a tree branch and tying it off. He sidestepped a purple flower and made his way to the front door, knocking softly before letting himself inside. He did not see evidence of Andrew’s presence, but perhaps his friend was running late.

“Mrs. Halpert?”

“In here, sir,” she called, her voice weak.

Charles removed his hat, holding it by the brim as he stepped toward the lone bedchamber and paused in the doorway. Mrs. Halpert lay on the bed, propped up by a few pitiful, saggy pillows, her face pale and drawn. Her husband had looked similarly just a few months prior before the illness had claimed his life. How would George Halpert feel now, knowing his wife sat at death’s door as well, even while the cause was a much happier prospect? Bittersweet, surely.

He cleared his throat. The room smelled of tallow wax and stale, unwashed linens. “Dr. Mason should be here shortly to convey you to his house. Are you certain this scheme is agreeable to you? You have time to change your mind. I can think of a different arrangement if you are uncomfortable.”

Her worried eyes flicked to the chest of drawers against the far wall. “Yes, it is agreeable, but I fear I have not been able to pack my things.” Moving to sit up, she paused, holding pale fingers over her mouth.

Charles froze, his hand resting on the door frame, unsure of what to do. Should he go to her side? Obtain a receptacle which she might use to…no, there did not appear to be anything nearby.

She seemed to settle, her shoulders dropping and her hand lowering to her rounded stomach. Wisps of dark hair fell out of the loose knot at her neck and framed her face. She had a lovely countenance, dimmed from the sickness in her body and the grief in her heart. “Forgive me, Mr. Fremont. I am so ashamed.”

“Nonsense. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He swallowed, glancing behind him to the open doorway. Where was Andrew? They were supposed to meet at the cottage a quarter-hour ago.

“Do not feel obligated to remain here, Mr. Fremont,” Mrs. Halpert said, a rosy hue staining her fair cheeks.

Drat convention. She was ill. She did not need to worry over what he thought of her. He stepped into the room, setting his hat on the chest of drawers as he passed it and stopping before her. “Tell me what needs doing, Mrs. Halpert. I am entirely at your disposal.”

“Oh, but sir, you couldn’t possibly—”

He perched on the edge of her bed and possessed himself of her hand. The thin blanket slipped around her belly, emphasizing the size of the growing baby against her thin frame. “I can, and I will. Your husband was a good friend to me last year, and if there is anything I could possibly do to ease your discomfort, I feel it is my duty to do so. George would have expected no less.”

Mrs. Halpert’s eyes grew glassy, a soft smile curving her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Fremont. My George admired you so.”

A delicate throat cleared behind them, and Charles glanced over his shoulder, his body freezing the moment his eyes fell on Amelia, tall and slender in her stark black gown, made even darker against the bright copper of her hair and milky whiteness of her flawless skin. Gloved hands clasped before her, her eyes grazed them both, her words cool and crisp. “Forgive me for the intrusion. I came to see if Mrs. Halpert needed help gathering her things.”

Charles nodded before turning his attention back to Mrs. Halpert. He was certainly relieved. Both he and Mrs. Halpert would be more comfortable with a woman assisting her. “I will leave you in Mrs. Fawn’s capable hands and await you outside. Please fetch me if you need anything at all.”

Her warm smile was at odds with the sickly pallor of her skin. “Thank you again, Mr. Fremont.”

Charles stood, bowing to each woman before letting himself from the chamber.

“Charles?”

He paused in the small front room. He knew that voice so well—though he had not heard it speak his Christian name in years, not since they were practically children. His name on Amelia’s tongue sent a volley of shivers through his body, but he did his best to tamp them down, ignoring the pleasant feeling pulsing in his chest.

It was unfair of her. She should not address him so informally, not now that they were no longer children.

Turning, he tried to deliver a pleasant smile. “Yes, Mrs. Fawn?”

Her eyes crinkled in an apologetic smile. “Mr. Fremont, forgive me. Sometimes my tongue slips despite my best intentions.”

He understood. In his mind, she would always be Amelia.

“Of course. You are forgiven.” He failed to mention that there was nothing she could do that he would not forgive, for that would surely make him sound odd. He liked hearing her call him by his name, but it was not good for him. It would be better to sweep the mishap under the rug and pretend it had not occurred. “What can I do for you?”

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