A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(99)

“No.” Heulwen swiped bare fingers across her cheek. “He said what we did couldn’t get a babe, because he didn’t…I should not have conceived.”

“He withdrew,” Charlotte spat. “Thought himself a great saint for yielding the last inch of pleasure, without bothering to learn that his sacrifice was likely in vain.”

“Oh, ma’am, you must not say such things.” A flicker of the old Heulwen showed in her mortification, so Charlotte took two steps closer.

“If we’re not to be honest here and now, Heulwen, then what place has honesty in any of our dealings? The child is not to blame for your impetuousness or Hector’s stupidity.”

“There can’t be a child,” Heulwen said. “I tried the teas and tisanes, I tried not eating. I thought if I fell down the steps, maybe, but I couldn’t make myself…”

Her gaze dropped to the dark, wet cobbles of the churchyard forty feet below.

“I had a friend,” Charlotte said. “She was ruined by a fine lord and didn’t survive the birth by more than a few weeks. I will not let you die for something as stupid as shame, Heulwen. My family is rife with children who arrived but a few months after the vows, and my uncle is a duke.”

Heulwen’s consternation was genuine. “Them as has money can marry and do as they please. I haven’t any money, and Hector has only his wages.”

Charlotte ventured another step closer. “Children cannot eat money. Money does not comfort them when they have nightmares. Money doesn’t stay up until dawn singing lullabies to a colicky baby. Money won’t explain to a small boy how to tie his shoes or apologize for a harsh word.

“Money is not love,” she went on, “money is not joy, money is surely not happiness or a kind heart or a keen mind. London is awash in money and yet beggars abound as well. Money is not the problem, Heulwen. I have money, and you are welcome to it, but if you dash your brains out in a foolish moment, my money is useless.”

Charlotte was nearly shouting but she dared take only one more step, and still Heulwen was beyond her reach.

“I can’t take your money,” Heulwen said, gaze swinging back out to the frozen landscape. “I should not have done what I did.”

She was a large woman. If she so much as leaned out over the railing, Charlotte would be unable to stop her fall.

“Are you to die for your mistake? Is that what Hector wants?”

“No, of course not. He wants me to go to a place in Cardiff for women like me and let them have the baby. He has some funds—not a lot, but enough that they might let me stay there when the time comes.”

“Then your baby will die,” Charlotte said, for that’s exactly what happened at such institutions all too often, “because you haven’t enough coin to raise the child.”

Heulwen’s tears ran in silent torrents. “I can’t give up my baby, and I can’t keep my baby. I don’t know what else to do.”

Her fingers went to the frogs of her cloak—no sense getting blood on a fine wool garment?—and Charlotte moved, tackling Heulwen headlong and pushing her away from the railing.

Heulwen had both height and size on Charlotte, and refused to budge. She got an elbow to Charlotte’s ribs, and a grip on the railing, and all the breath left Charlotte’s lungs.

“You cannot die, Heulwen. You cannot die—”

Another elbow, this time clipping Charlotte on the chin. Heulwen’s cloak was coming loose, and Charlotte was losing her grip on the maid. A glimpse of the slick, deadly cobbles far below closed a vise around Charlotte’s lungs.

“Let go, Missus. Let go, please, just let me go.”

Never. Charlotte forced air into her lungs, forced herself to find another handful of Heulwen’s clothing to clutch, forced herself to remain upright. Simple physics weighed against Charlotte, but determination tipped the scales back to an even fight.

Almost. Charlotte was determined, she was strong, and she was fast, but she was also cold, tired, and not accustomed to physical combat.

Heulwen had a big, worn, wet boot up on the rail when a pair of strong arms plucked her away.

“You heard your mistress,” Sherbourne said. “She asked you to step back, and you will step back.”

Heulwen struggled, but she was no match for Lucas Sherbourne intent on a goal. He simply held on, arms lashed about the maid, until she ceased thrashing and hung limply against him.

“Thank you,” Charlotte panted. “I would have lost her.”

“Miss MacPherson!” Sherbourne bellowed.

The vicar’s daughter appeared, no bonnet, no gloves, snow melting in her hair. “I’m here. Heulwen, you will come with me to the manse and have a cup of hot tea.”

Heulwen’s weeping was audible now, sniffly, broken-hearted crying that would eventually stop. The ache in Charlotte’s heart felt eternal by comparison—without beginning or end, like the bleak, leaden sky.

With Sherbourne’s arm across her shoulders, Heulwen shuffled to the door of the belfry and let Miss MacPherson take her by the hand. They left, their footsteps and Heulwen’s crying fading into the bowels of the church.

“You came,” Charlotte said. “You came. Thank God, you came and you brought help. I need a handkerchief, and I left my reticule…” She had no idea where her reticule was or how she’d remain standing one more second. The village and even the countryside stretched out far below, and weakness assailed Charlotte, but not because she was too high above solid ground.