Page 92 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

No. Not a paper.

An envelope.

Magnus’s name was written on the outside of it in his father’s hand.

His breath caught as he reached to take it. His hand was not entirely steady.

The envelope was unsealed. Opening it, Magnus found a single sheet of paper. A letter from his father, as brief as it was nonsensical.

My son,

If you are reading this, you have at last achieved my aspiration for you. You have returned to Moorcross Manor, either with a suitable bride or with sufficient means to employ the staff necessary to manage a household of this size and distinction.

Whether wife or housekeeper, none but a woman would have cause to oversee the stocking of a pantry. It was your mother’s purview when she was mistress of the house, and Mrs. Clark’s thereafter. The pantry has since been untouched. In your absence, I had little taste for food. Less for the company of ladies and servants. Time has not rested easy on my shoulders.

A gentleman with your sins cannot redeem his past. My only hope is that you have taken steps to secure your future. I pray you have made something of yourself independent of me, and that you have at last resolved to settle into the life to which you were born and bred. If you have found this, I congratulate myself that you have achieved that aim. I can, at last, die with my conscience at rest.

Eversleigh

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Somerset, England

December 1873

Charlotte perched on a stone bench overlooking the stream that ran through the grounds of Beasley Park. Trees surrounded her, making the secluded spot something of a sanctuary. She frequently retreated here when she was at home, either to read or to sketch, or sometimes simply to stare at the water.

It had been sketching today. A pretext, really. She had wanted to get away from the house. Never mind the looming rain clouds that darkened the sky. It was too busy indoors, with both the family and all of the staff in the throes of preparations for their departure for Heywood House in the morning.

They were to spend Christmas with Charlotte’s maternal grandparents, Arthur and Phyllida Heywood. At the advanced age of more than eighty years, her grandfather was too infirm to travel to Beasley this year, and not well enough at all to make the longer journey to Worth House. Instead, Charlotte and her family would go to him.

“He’s not ill,” her mother had assured her. “Only more easily tired.”

Charlotte was looking forward to the visit, truly. She loved her grandparents, and Christmases at Heywood House were always a special treat. At the same time…

“It’s been six months,” she said. “And still no word yet from Magnus.”

A sketchbook lay atop her lap, an unfinished drawing of Chance gracing the topmost page. The dog himself was ambling close to the stream, in company with several other of her family’s dogs—two spaniels, a Maltese, and three good-natured mongrels of indeterminate ancestry.

Hearing her voice, Chance looked up from sniffing a clump of weeds.

Charlotte took a sighing breath, inhaling a lungful of crisp morning air that was still damp from yesterday’s heavy rain. “Yes, I know he’s written before.”

Magnus had been true to his word on that score. Letters had come regularly, both from Yorkshire and, more recently, from London. Quite formal letters, so proper and respectful that, at times, Charlotte had begun to question whether he still had feelings for her.

“But he hasn’t written lately,” she said. “Not this week. Or last week either.” A frown etched her brow. “I wonder if there’s something wrong with the post?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the post.”

Charlotte’s head jerked. Magnus stood atop the grassy bank.

But not the Magnus she had parted from six months ago in Yorkshire. Gone were the disheveled locks, shadowed jaw, and rolled shirtsleeves. They had been replaced with scrupulously cut raven hair, a clean-shaven countenance, and an impeccably cut Chesterfield of heavy black wool. The overcoat set off his broad shoulders to magnificent effect.

She surged from her seat with a startled gasp. “Magnus!”

The dogs erupted into a chaos of barking. Chance raced up the bank to his former master with a flurry of yips and yaps. The other dogs joined him, barking as well, both in greeting and alarm at seeing a stranger appear. Mud flew beneath their scrabbling paws.

Magnus stopped briefly to acknowledge Chance and the other dogs. All the while, his smoky gray eyes remained on Charlotte.