She had done it. She’d stood her ground and defied Silas Prior, again. She only hoped it would be enough.
Chapter 19
It had been nearly half an hour since Silas Prior left the property when Anthony returned to the great hall.
He’d not intended to overhear the conversation between Charlotte and her guest, but even with the parlor door closed, he’d heard almost everything.
Normally, he would not give such an exchange a second thought. But this was a personal matter.
Charlotte’s personal matter.
The manipulative tactics in Prior’s tone and words sickened him, but her ability to stand up to such a man spoke volumes about her character. But even so, how long could she, a single woman, withstand the demands of a man as influential as Silas Prior?
While deciding how to proceed, he removed his hat and shoved his fingers through his hair, which needed a cut, and swiped the dust from the sleeves of his wool coat. He was aware of how different he looked from the day he had left for war, and he could only imagine what she thought of his altered appearance. He slid his palm over his full side-whiskers and the stubble on his cheek and chin, left there intentionally to mask the scar. Nothing could be done about his appearance now, and besides, the way he looked surely mattered not to her—especially not since her life was in such turmoil.
He rapped his knuckles on the doorframe as he entered the parlor. Charlotte stood at the west window, and she did not acknowledge his entrance. Her long black gown swung slightly about her legs as she swayed slowly. Henry was asleep in her arms, and Anthony’s chest tightened.
How many times had he dreamed of this very sight when he was alone on the battlefield? The thought of her—a haunting vision of beauty, home, and love he’d tucked close when everything around him spun with death and anguish. During his brief visit back to Blight Moor after he’d returned from war, he heard she had married, but he’d not asked for specifics. Now, as every bit of new detail came to light, he did not like the picture that was forming.
He cleared his throat. “Mr. Prior has departed.”
“You heard that conversation, I suppose,” she said without turning away from the window. “You forget I was raised in this house. No conversation in this chamber is totally private. I don’t think my father ever fully realized that. I know I heard more than my fair share of private conversations.”
He stepped next to her and took in the late-morning light over the moorland, unsure of how to respond. The watchman in him knew he should stick to the facts of the case. But the other side of him—the side that would always care for her—could not. “One could not help but overhear.”
“Then you heard that Roland died of natural causes. His heart.”
Anthony remained quiet, giving her space to say what she needed to.
“And the mill workers are up in arms. Roland had hired them to do illegal work, apparently, and he did not pay them. I wish I could say it was not in Roland’s character to make a promise to do something and then not honor it, but that would be a falsehood.”
There was a sharpness, a bitterness, in her tone he’d never heard before.
When it was clear she was not going to say anything else, he shifted his attention to her bandaged hand. “What happened to your hand?”
She finally drew her gaze from the moorland and gestured to the other side of the chamber. “I was cleaning that window overlooking the courtyard and broke it.”
Sure enough, the pane was shattered. Only shards remained. “Did you make sure there’s no glass in the wound?”
“Yes. I cleaned it.”
“May I see?”
It was her turn to hesitate.
At length she adjusted Henry in her arms to free her hand and extended it toward him.
He helped her remove the bandage. A long, deep gash ran the length of her forefinger, and several smaller scratches reddened the top. His bare fingers touched hers long enough to angle them toward the light. It was a simple, light touch, and yet the softness of her skin transported him to a time when his touch would have been welcomed.
Her fingers trembled subtly against his, and he forced his thoughts to remain steady. “It’s not too deep. I don’t see any glass.”
“I should have been more careful.” She sniffed and withdrew her hand. “It was an error on my part.”
“When Timmons returns, we will have him make you some of his salve. He’s a genius when it comes to healing.”
She attempted to wrap the bandage back around her hand, but with Henry in her arms, she was struggling.
“Let me.” Without contacting her skin he rewrapped the bandage and tied it off, then stepped back to reestablish the space and silence between them.
The east wind rushed against the stone wall, rattling the old panes of glass. The fire in the grate sizzled and snapped, and even though it burned with a fervor, it would never be enough to warm the frigid room.
She pushed a lock of hair away from Henry’s face and did not look at Anthony when she spoke. “If you heard the entire conversation, then you must think me a terrible fool for not taking Silas up on his offer to fund the repairs.”
Her statement caught him off guard. She’d been closed off about the entire topic since leaving Wolden House, but now her statement made it seem as if she invited his opinion on the matter. Perhaps this was the first crack in her firmly constructed facade.
He considered his response, for he did have a great many thoughts on what he’d heard: Anger at Silas Prior for attempting to manipulate her. Pride in how she held her ground. Regret that he was not by her side.
“I don’t think you’re a fool.” He stared down to the sleeping baby in her arms. Wisps of white-blond hair covered his head. With hair that color there was no denying he was a Prior. “How old is your boy?”
The corner of her mouth lifted as she gazed down at him. “Seven months.”
Anthony had always believed Charlotte would be a good mother—the strong, determined sort who would insist her child learn right from wrong and love that child with the fiercest of devotion. “He’s a fine boy. If you ask me my opinion, you must do whatever you think is right by him. And if that means refusing the money, then so be it.”
“If I accepted my brother-in-law’s terms and his offer of money, I’d be at his mercy. Never again will I be at anyone’s mercy. Neither will my son. Silas claims to want to guide Henry. To mold him. Yet he did not even ask to see him before he left to return to Leeds.”
Anthony could only wonder when she’d been at someone’s mercy, but her determined timbre suggested it had been significant indeed. “Well, then, it sounds as if you’ve made your decision. And I know once your mind is set, it is very difficult to change.”
She shot her gaze up at him at the personal reference.
They might have only just reacquainted, but a charge still reverberated between them, the bolt of lightning that had been present from their very first encounter. It surged through him. She had to feel it too.
It had been so long since he’d given himself permission to access the emotions from that day they’d parted. They’d been safely locked away where they could do no further damage. But now they waged a fresh offensive and refused to be defeated. “I have something I need to say to you, and I don’t know how long I will be here, so there may not be another opportunity.”