The Indebted Earl

I’m thinking and feeling and wondering about, and you never quash me or tell me to spend less time talking and more time listening. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.
In addition to Marcus and Charlotte, Mother and Cilla and little Honora Mary have returned from London. They are living in the dower house. I do wonder about Cilla, whether she is content to live with Mother for the rest of her days. I hope a handsome and kind man will someday stride into her life and love her and Honora Mary the way they deserve and take them away from Haverly so she can live her own life. Not that she seemed unhappy wed to Neville. But he was so much like Father, reluctant to show emotion, more consumed with his role as the heir than anything else.
Honora Mary has grown, no longer content to sleep in her cradle for much of the day. She has too much exploring to do. Though she cannot yet crawl, she has discovered a talent for rolling that brings her closer to the item she wishes to investigate. I have a feeling that when she can walk, we’ll all be required to chase her about to ensure her safety. She looks so much like Neville, it almost hurts. Cilla says she is glad because she has something tangible to remember her husband by. I think I can understand how she feels.
There are times when I wish we had given into impulse to marry in haste rather than listen to Mother and wait until your next extended leave. Even now I might have a little one underfoot with your eyes and my thirst for adventure.
Another change has occurred at Haverly Manor. Mother and Charlotte have embarked upon a campaign of reform, and you’ll never guess. They’ve brought a coterie of ladies from the city to train as domestics in the main and dower houses. The ladies are former Cyprians … there, another delicate euphemism. They were prostitutes, Rich. Charlotte hopes to help women leave that life and find better ways to support themselves, and she will give them letters of character when they complete their training. Many are the dependents of killed or wounded veterans, which makes their plight all the more tragic. I can only imagine what it must be like to be in their situation.
I wish Charlotte every success in this endeavor. It has actually relieved my mind somewhat, because Mother has decided to champion these efforts, and as a result, she’s too busy “redeeming” these women to fuss overly about me. She has only mentioned my leaving your home and Mamie and returning to Haverly a handful of times since she arrived.
You’ve instructed me not to fret about you, nor to ask after your recovery, and yet I find that quite impossible. So many soldiers are arriving home since Paris has fallen and the war on the Peninsula is won. Now that Napoleon has been defeated and will be exiled from France, the entire country is in quite the uproar. I wish you were here to experience it. There are celebrations everywhere from St. James’s Palace to the local public houses. People can hardly believe the war is finally over. After so many years, I wonder if Britain will know how to exist without the danger.
But it is you I worry about, especially since this Captain Wyvern has taken to writing your letters for you. Are you still unable to put pen to paper yourself? Not that I am unappreciative of the captain’s efforts, and please do tell him so. Though his penmanship is difficult to decipher. It has become a sort of code-breaking exercise Mamie and I thoroughly enjoy, even going so far as to employ her quizzing glass when we encounter a particularly scrawling bit. Don’t tell the captain. I would not like him to think we make sport of him or do not appreciate his efforts on your behalf.
We miss you terribly, and we long for the day when you will come walking up the drive. We have been making a few small preparations for your homecoming here at Primrose Cottage. Mamie instructs Mrs. Chapman every day to be ready to bake your favorite plum duff dessert. For myself, I anticipate the moment when I will look into your eyes, press my hand to your chest to feel the steady beat of your heart, and know all is right in my world again.
Charles glanced up. The major’s eyes were closed, his chest barely moving as he breathed. Had he heard the words read to him?
Heaviness weighed Charles’s wounded shoulders at the thought of the woman who had written this letter receiving the news she would never again see the man she loved and had pledged to marry upon his return from battle.
War was most cruel.
While Charles felt it wrong that Rich wouldn’t allow anyone to tell his fiancée the truth about his condition, he respected his friend’s wishes. But he did so regretfully, resisting the temptation to inform her privately, hoping to somehow soften an un-softenable blow.
For weeks Rich had held on to hope that he would recover, and thus hoped to save Sophie’s worrying over nothing. When it became more and more apparent that he would not heal from his wounds, he feared Sophie would try to come to him in Portugal. As the sister of a powerful duke, she might have prevailed upon her brother to see her safely to the Peninsula now that peace had been won, and Rich would not have Sophie see him in such a state. “She must remember me as I was.”
Though he should have folded the letter and returned it to the chest now that Rich had fallen asleep, Charles hesitated. He scanned the pages until he found again the place his name was mentioned. Lady Sophia wasn’t wrong when she noted his poor handwriting. He’d received a fair few complaints from the Admiralty on the subject over