Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [175]
Gradually, the color seeped back into Charles’ face. Strength returned to his body, and he was able to weather an attack of pneumonia. His wounds slowly began to heal with no signs of infection. But throughout the long months that she nursed him, Caroline was aware of what would happen once it became certain that he would live. Charles’ father would tell him the truth.
She saw that day inching closer when the doctors allowed Charles to leave the hospital and recuperate at home in Court End. His servants carried him inside and laid him in the bed they’d prepared in the small parlor, near the fireplace. His father still allowed Caroline to come and see him for a few hours each day, but Mr. St. John never left them alone in the room, watching her closely, listening to every word she said.
“I want to marry you,” Charles murmured to her one day, more than two months after he’d been wounded.
“I know. You already asked me.” She slipped her hand into his so he could feel the engagement ring on her finger.
“No . . . I mean now . . . before the war ends. Like Sally and Jonathan.”
Caroline felt Mr. St. John’s eyes on her, boring into her. She glanced up at him, then quickly looked away. But she’d seen the unspoken threat in his eyes as he silently shook his head. No.
Caroline gently squeezed Charles’ hand, willing herself not to cry. “You’ve been away so long you hardly know me anymore. I’ve changed since the war began. Maybe you should get to know me all over again before you decide if you still want to marry me.”
“I know all that I need to,” Charles said. “I know that you have a tender, loving heart . . . that injustice makes you angry . . . that you want to make the world right more than you want pretty dresses. Those are all the reasons why I fell in love with you. Have any of those things changed?”
She lost the battle with her tears.
“Listen now. Don’t cry. Maybe it’s not fair to ask you to marry me when I’m . . . like this. . . .”
“Oh, Charles, it’s not because you’re wounded. You’re the only man I will ever love or ever want to marry.”
Mr. St. John slowly rose from his chair at her words. He planted his hands on his hips. Charles didn’t notice, but Caroline did.
“There are some other things about me . . . that you don’t know,” she told Charles.
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t. There isn’t enough time today. I have to go home now so you can rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She stood to leave, but Charles clung to her hand for a long moment, refusing to let go. “I should have listened to you, Caroline,” he said softly. “I should have married you the last time I came home.”
Yes, she thought. Yes, if only you had.
A light blanket of snow covered the ground the next morning when Caroline awoke. It dusted the tree branches and squeaked beneath the carriage wheels as she and Gilbert drove down the hill to Charles’ house. Richmond looked almost beautiful again, its war-torn shabbiness hidden by the sparkling whiteness. Even the city’s usual noises seemed muffled and still, the streets nearly deserted as few people ventured outside into the cold.
“Everything looks so pretty, doesn’t it?” she asked Gilbert.
“Yes, Missy, it sure do.”
But when the St. Johns’ butler opened the door for her, the mansion seemed ominously silent, as if the cold air that had breathed across the city had seeped inside, turning its inhabitants to ice. Caroline walked into the parlor and noticed right away that Charles was alone. His father’s chair stood empty.
Charles stared at her from across the room, his face white with pain, his eyes red with grief.
“What’s wrong?” she cried out. She started toward him.
“Wait.” He held up his hand.
“Is it your father. . . ?”
He shook his head. “I had a long talk with my father last night after you left. We talked some more this morning.”
Caroline grew very still.