“But…” Charlotte winced as she grasped her side. “He may have followed me. You need to go. Get away from—” She doubled over, her whole body straining as she cried out in pain.
“Faye, go find Doctor Bertram,” Margarete commanded. “Hurry!”
Faye didn’t waste time, leaping to her feet and dashing away in search of the doctor. Margarete pulled her shawl from around her shoulders and used it to cradle Charlotte’s head. She could feel her shivering in her arms and she rocked her gently.
“Hold on, Charlotte,” Margarete whispered. “Help is coming.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Words of Encouragement
IT TOOK A WHILE FOR Faye to locate Doctor Bertram, but when he was found he came as quickly as he could. While Faye had searched, Margarete did her best to clean and bandage Charlotte’s wound. The knife had gone deep, and it took some time for her to stop the bleeding. Despite her efforts to cushion Charlotte with a few of her blankets, nothing Margarete did seemed to help make her comfortable. Every motion was agony, the pain unrelenting.
By the time Bertram did arrive, Charlotte was falling in and out of consciousness. He’d set to work immediately, administering a tonic and cleaning the wound, with Margarete and Faye assisting wherever they could. They watched Bertram work, assessing his expressions for any insight into his diagnosis so that they might relax their fears. But he worked with severe focus and they were forced to wait for any answers he might provide.
Finally, after nearly an hour, Charlotte appeared to relax. The tinctures and tonics Doctor Bertram brought seemed to be doing their job.
Margarete stood to the side, her arms wrapped around herself as she watched the slow rise and fall of Charlotte’s chest. Now that things had slowed down she was finally getting a chance to process what had happened. Charlotte had only managed to say a few words, but from her description Margarete was certain she knew the man responsible for the attack. The same soldier who’d accosted her at the bank.
She watched in stunned silence, her cheeks wet and her senses numb as Charlotte slept. Her eyes were fixed as she unconsciously counted the shallow breaths. Each defied the nightmare she feared to enter, and with each she prayed earnestly for the next.
This is your fault.
Margarete’s own voice resounded inside her head, tormenting her as she watched.
If you had only been satisfied where you were then none of this would have ever happened. You brought this upon her. How will the girls get along without their matron now? And she won’t be the last to suffer as long as you run.
Margarete shook her head, but the words stuck with her. There was no denying the truth. In chasing a life outside the city she’d ended up biting the hand that fed her, and it had cost more than she could ever have imagined. She wished for nothing more than to be able to turn back the clock to the night she’d broken the mirror—before any of this had been set in motion. Had she another chance she’d have destroyed those letters and severed all ties to Worthington. She’d have surrendered before the fight.
Funny, she mused in wearied humor, how she’d never expected the worst outcomes.
Bertram rose from the floor with a heavy sigh, his legs shaking from the awkward position he’d kept for so long. When finally he was on his feet, he stretched out his back and joined Margarete at her vigil.
“Is she going to be alright?” Margarete asked.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do for her,” he said, his expression grave. “The wound was deep, and she lost a lot of blood before I arrived. But I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it. The blade has punctured her liver. I did my best to make her comfortable, but I’m afraid there is no way to stop the bleeding internally. Had I not been detained elsewhere I might have been able to do something more for her. She is a strong woman, but I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time until…”
They stood in the lingering silence. The gravity of the statement shook their foundations even without having been said.
Margarete’s stomach flipped places with her heart, leaving her both sick and beyond feeling. With heavy eyes she glanced back toward Charlotte. Her body was rigid, but her expression was visibly relaxed. It was a strange sight, she realized, how calm she looked even as she clung to life so delicately.
Margarete watched her chest rise and fall once more. Once more.
Once more.
“Couldn’t we take her to a hospital?” Faye asked. “Couldn’t they help her?”
“There’s little more they could do that I haven’t already tried, and I fear she couldn’t be moved. I’m sorry,” he said as fresh tears surfaced in Faye’s eyes, “but I don’t believe she’ll make it through the night.”
Margarete fought too to contain her emotions. It was no easy task, trying to remain collected when every part of her wanted to break apart, but for the sake of Faye and the other girls she knew someone would need to be strong if they were going to weather the coming days.
“I’ll leave her in your care now,” Bertram said as he donned his coat and fetched his kit. “I’ve left you a few vials that will numb the pain if she seems uncomfortable.”
“Thank you,” Margarete said, accepting the vials. “For everything you’ve done.”
“I only wish I could do more,” he said, his own emotions fighting to come through as his eyes dampened. “If there was ever someone worthy to save, it would have been her.” He placed a comforting hand on Margarete’s shoulder. “She won’t be long. I suggest you take this opportunity to say goodbye.”
With that Bertram stepped away, giving Charlotte one final look of admiration. “Septigonee guide her,” he whispered, and he left.
“I never…” Faye started. “I never thought something like this could happen.”
“Neither did I,” Margarete said. She drew Faye close to her, clutching her tight as they wept together.
“What will we do now?” Faye managed between sobs.
“We carry on,” Margarete said matter-of-factly. “We’ve been through our share of struggles before. We’ll find a way.”
She was surprised at herself as she spoke. The way she said it sounded almost as if Charlotte were speaking herself. She glanced back toward Charlotte curiously.
Another rise. Another fall.
“Faye,” she said. “I know this is a lot to ask of you, but will you go see to the girls? Someone needs to prepare them for what’s coming.”
Faye wiped her eyes furiously, clearly distressed by the thought of leaving, but she seemed to understand. She nodded slowly. “Alright,” she said. “But what about you?”
“I’ll stay here with her,” Margarete said. “Until she…” She couldn’t say it. Faye understood and embraced her once more before she too gathered her things and hurried off to tell the other girls.
Left to herself, Margarete knelt down by Charlotte’s bed. Again she was surprised to see Charlotte so calm, though she appeared pale in comparison to the bright, bold Charlotte Margarete knew. She clenched her hand in hers and discovered that it was cold. She hurried to cover her with more the blankets.
How could she do it? Margarete asked herself. How could she say goodbye to the one person who’d looked after her all these years? She’d known Charlotte for most of her life. In fact, as she thought about it, she could hardly recall her life before knowing Charlotte. She’d always been there for her, making the best of whatever circumstances they’d been dealt. She was responsible for making Margarete everything she’d become.
And now fate had turned on her, rewarding her charity with malice.
Charlotte’s eyes were closed, but she turned her head ever so slightly as Margarete tucked the blanket around her. Margarete’s heart rose in her chest. Charlotte was awake.
“So,” Charlotte said. “This is it?”
“What is?” Margarete asked.
“The end.”
Margarete pursed her lips. “I wish you wouldn’t talk that way,” she said.
&
nbsp; “Child…” Charlotte’s eyes opened, and she turned to look at Margarete. “I’ve seen this day coming all my life. There’s no sorrow in death for me. I am sorry to leave you and the girls though. I’ve always thought of you as my own. A family I’ve come to love so deeply. You all have given me such purpose and filled my life with so much joy. If I saved any of you from the hardships that I bore then I count my time worthwhile.”
“Don’t,” Margarete said. She couldn’t bear to hear more. She knew what Charlotte was doing. She understood where her words were leading her. But Margarete did not want to follow her there. She did not want to face the truth—a world without Charlotte.
She wanted more time.
“Please,” Margarete begged, laying down beside Charlotte and resting her head on her shoulder. “I don’t want to see you go.”
“None of us get to choose our hour,” Charlotte said. “Come now. This is not so unwelcome. I’ve suffered the better part of my life. Trust me, a rest will do me good. I wasn’t much longer for this world anyway. And you have a journey of your own to make. You don’t need to worry about me any longer.”
“I don’t even know if I want to go anymore,” Margarete said.
“I hope that isn’t fear I hear in your voice,” Charlotte said, her voice taking on its familiar scolding tone despite the weakness in it. Her expression grew serious as she clasped Margarete’s hand in hers. “Don’t you let others scare you away from the dreams you’ve kept with you all this time. There are a thousand reasons to abandon a dream, but it would be a shame to see you do so on my account.”
“I don’t know where I’d go.”
“Well, don’t take too long deciding,” Charlotte said, her expression softening again as she lay back against the shawl. “Time has a way of getting away from us. But… if you do need more time to think about it, perhaps you’d look after the girls for me while you do?”
“I’m sure they can look after themselves,” Margarete said, wiping another tear away from her cheek.
“No,” Charlotte said, her voice straining as she looked earnestly at Margarete. “That’s not true. We’re only as strong as we still have the capacity to care for one another. We’ll only make it so long as we look to bring others with us.” Her voice was faltering as she relaxed into the bed. “We were never meant to do this on our own,” she whispered.
Margarete thought about that a moment. She recalled the countless times when Charlotte had gone out of her way for each of them—for her. Despite the multitude of forces that rose up to oppose and threaten to snuff them out, Charlotte had somehow managed to preserve something more valuable than anything any of Margarete’s suitors could provide.
A home.
In that moment a wealth of memories flooded Margarete’s mind as she remembered a seemingly endless chain of kindnesses stretched across her life. It had held her together when she felt weak, anchored her when she was unsure, and guided her whenever she’d doubted. It was Charlotte’s unquenchable love in the face of such hopelessness that the world offered that sustained all of them. It had always been the strongest sentiment in the home. The force that bound each of the girls to one another no matter the challenges they faced.
If they suffered, they suffered together. And if they overcame, they overcame together.
Another tear came to Margarete’s eye and brushed over her cheek. She finally understood what Charlotte had tried to explain to her all these years.
Looking down, Margarete could see Charlotte’s eyes were closed. Her body was no longer rigid, but relaxed into the blankets. Her head rested at a slight angle, her face peaceful and calm. The sight pricked Margarete’s heart, and she lay down again beside her, clutching her body to hers as her tears flowed freely.
“Enjoy your rest,” she whispered.
I’m not sure what I should do anymore. To be so removed from the feelings that once endeared me to my wife was like drowning in a desert. A cruel withholding. The slow, silent demise. To watch themselves wither these past years would have been too much for anyone in my circumstances to endure idly.
But to have found someone again who has stirred in me purpose and vigor in each day is both a most welcome blessing and the cruelest curse. She is my salvation, as she may prove to be my demise. In her I am undone, just as I am remade.
When she is near, I remember what it is that I am. Who will I be when she is gone?
In walking such a delicate line I can’t deny that I’m in the wrong. I act by the direction of my own compass. Morality has abandoned me, and reason was quick to follow. Though I know she and I could never have each other the way I crave to, I’ve allowed her to tempt my senses so that even now I can hardly consider what change will come with tomorrow’s arrival.
I love her. I confess it in the face of the fates which would see us separated.
And now she knows, for better or for worse.
—Excerpt from Worthington’s Diary
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Disillusioned
EMMALINE CLOSED HER FATHER’S DIARY and clutched it close to her chest. She sat in her windowsill still in her nightgown. She no longer felt physically ill, but her eyes were heavy and her heart was weighted with her father’s many words. She let gravity win out for a moment, resting her head on her knees as she worked to reconcile them in her mind.
She’d read through the entire night, every one of her father’s entries since he’d first left Sorrento to pursue opportunities here in Hatteras. Some of the entries had gone so far back as to before Emmaline was even born. It was strange to see someone’s life laid out like that, and to peruse it in so short a time. Where once she’d seen her father as a stranger at a distance she now felt as though she understood him better than most anyone else. Not only the man he was now, but as he’d been at each chapter of his life.
She saw his progression, and could comprehend the course of his life.
In the beginning she’d seen evidence of the curious boy her uncle had spoken of earlier, ever chasing after the new and unfamiliar. He’d met her mother and fallen in love as suddenly as he’d come into success with the shipping trade. And when her father had left Sorrento after the Great War to come to Hatteras she’d recognized the eager man of promise from her own childhood.
She could remember what it looked like when he’d smiled.
Yet, something had changed after her father had come to Hatteras. Somewhere along the way he’d stopped writing about his many dreams and bold ideas, or about her mother. He’d left them tucked away in younger days while his entries became forward-thinking and anxious—even paranoid. Opportunities gave way to responsibilities and always was he concerned with what others might think of him.
That’s when his loneliness had begun.
Emmaline read it as plainly as if she’d lived it with him. He was adrift in the unfamiliar, just as she was, detached from all that he’d know and loved. With the passing of years he’d been swallowed up in the city and its unrelenting pace. He’d drowned in it.
That was, until he’d met her.
Emmaline opened to a particular page, the one which persisted in her mind.
I’ve not entertained these feelings in years, and yet they have come to me again—as welcome as an old love. In her I find a companion of the sincerest kind. Am I wrong to say a companion like I’ve never known before?
If I were free to love so deeply again…
Emmaline shut the diary and tossed it aside. Clutching her knees to her chest she rocked herself on the windowsill. She couldn’t regulate her feelings as they clamored to occupy her mind. At one moment she felt a profound sadness and pity toward her father, but in the next a fury would well up inside and threaten to consume her.
It was all she could not to hurl the diary into the hearth and with it all the illusion of what had once been her family. Her father had confessed it in his own hand. He loved someone else and had somewhere lost his love for them.
Emmaline’s head fell against the
windowpane, her temple immediately chilled by the cold air on the other side. So, her father was unhappy. All the moments he’d seemed so fierce and severe seemed rewritten in her memory. He wasn’t the powerful authority she’d always shied away from. He was desperate and troubled, as fallible as anyone could be. But did that excuse him?
Emmaline sighed.
Where did her and her mother fit in to all of this? She wasn’t sure. She’d read his passages about her. She knew he’d found joy in her as a child, and that he had great hopes for who she was to become as a woman. But what about now, in this moment? Nothing had been said of the young woman caught between those two phases of life.
Leaning against the window, she stared down the lane. The sun was just beginning to light the world again. Except for the servants, it was still too early for most people to be out, which suited Emmaline just fine. The night had afforded her time to sort out her own thoughts, but the morning approached with a sense of dread knowing the conversations which were coming.
What was going to happen? What would change? Could they go on pretending everything was alright as they had been before?
Emmaline doubted it.
She was sitting on the windowsill still wrestling with her feelings when she spotted a solitary figure coming down the lane toward the estate. It was still a little early for visitors, but she watched them lazily as they approached, their steady progression providing her weary mind temporary relief.
But as the figure drew closer Emmaline noticed something that caused her head to rise. It took her a moment, but as the figure came into view, it dawned on her suddenly who it was coming to visit.
The mistress.
Emmaline practically leapt from the sill, crossing the room and flinging her door open before she knew what she was doing. Ignoring the fact that she was still in her nightgown, Emmaline dashed down the hall. Anne gave her a surprised and hurried greeting as Emmaline raced by, nearly dropping the small stack of firewood she was bringing to stock the hearth.
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