Page 90 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

“Don’t,” she replied. “I feel badly enough as it is.”

Magnus’s countenance grew serious again. He smoothed a lock of hair from her temple, tucking it back into the pin that secured it. “Six months isn’t so long.”

She trembled beneath his touch. “Isn’t it?”

“I’ve been at sea for far longer.”

“I haven’t. I haven’t been away from anyone I care about for that long.”

“I shall write to you regularly.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You’re not obliged to answer me.”

Charlotte flashed him an offended glare, ignoring the rising temperature of her blood. “Don’t be stupid. Of course, I’ll answer you.”

“I should be honored if you did,” he said gravely.

Her pulse fluttered wildly. “I can’t promise my letters will be very diverting. Agatha is the capital correspondent in our family. She can draft pages of amusing accounts, back and front. While I⁠—”

Magnus cupped her face, silencing her with a husky vow: “I shall treasure every word you write to me.”

Charlotte was overcome by a fierce swell of emotion. Six months felt like forever. All those days without talking to him. Without seeing him. Without having the benefit of his strength to lean on, or the endearing grumpiness of his conversation.

Her vision blurred with the threat of tears. “I fear you will forget me.”

Magnus’s harsh features softened with tenderness. He bent his head to hers, bringing his forehead to rest gently against her brow. “I never could,” he said. “Have faith in me, Charlotte.”

Magnus was of no use to anyone in the days following Charlotte’s departure. He made little progress in excavating the rest of the upstairs rooms, and none at all on searching the attic. He was too preoccupied. Too bloody melancholy.

In his darker moments, there was nothing sufficient to distract him. Not even looking after Chance. Charlotte had taken the little dog with her when she’d gone—an action that had provoked her emotions as surely as parting from Magnus had.

“He can’t bear to be parted from you,” she’d said.

Magnus’s throat had been excessively tight as he’d stood outside the closed door of their carriage. Chance was within, situated on Charlotte’s lap. She had her arms around him, holding him safe. “He’ll see me again in six months,” Magnus had replied to her.

And so will you, he’d added silently.

How many of Charlotte’s tears were shed for the dog’s predicament and how many were for her own, Magnus supposed he’d never know. All he did know is that they’d filled her eyes as the carriage had rolled away, making his heart ache like the very devil.

Six months.

He reflected on it bleakly as he made his way down to the kitchen. There was still much of the house left to search. Magnus was nevertheless gradually resigning himself to the fact that he might never find his inheritance. In light of that possibility, all that remained was to sell the house in London. Only then might he have something suitable to offer Charlotte.

“They say she’s an heiress,” Turner remarked from his seat at the kitchen table. He was drinking another cup of tea. A half-eaten portion of salted beef and bread was on a plate in front of him.

“They would do better to mind their own business,” Magnus told him.

“If it’s true, happen you might keep the London house. You could fix up this one too, if you fancy.”

“I don’t fancy.”

Magnus had no intention of using Charlotte’s money to repair his diminished fortunes. His pride would never allow it. Not when there were still other avenues he could pursue. He’d been contemplating them for days. Not just selling the London house, but taking a position somewhere. A job in Whitehall, perhaps. If it came to it, he could even petition the Admiralty for reenlistment. It was a long shot, to be sure, but better than the alternative.

Crossing the kitchen, Magnus opened the door of the larder. It was filled with what remained of their meat, cheese, bread, and dry goods. Everything Charlotte had bought for them, in fact, even the candles. “Is there a reason you’ve put it all in here?” Magnus asked crossly.

“Seemed easiest,” Turner said. “Leastways we know where to find it.”

Magnus picked up a sack of oatmeal, recalling Charlotte’s words to him in the garden on the day she’d left. “This belongs in the pantry.”

Turner glanced up from his meal. “Aye? The young lady said something to that effect. Put a few things in there already, she did. The dried fruit and such.”