Lies and Letters

by Ashtyn Newbold

  So on the many occasions Mr. Weatherby’s eyes were drawn to mine, I saw a husband I could be indifferent to. I could allow him freedom and he could allow the same for me. One day I could be hosting a party just like this one. Occasionally, I saw Mama’s approving smile. And the thought of her approval eased something inside me.

  “Mr. Weatherby, I understand you race horses at your leisure,” I said in a coy voice, tipping my head at an angle I knew to be maddening.

  He cleared his throat. “Indeed.”

  I waited, hoping for further explanation. Nothing.

  “I cannot claim to know much of the sport. What of the activity attracts you?” My voice was sugary and my smile demure.

  He was chewing, and I waited patiently for him to swallow the chunk of meat he had just lifted from his plate. “I see myself in the animals,” he said. “A sense of adventure, a daring spirit. Very intuitive creatures, horses. They know where to turn when lost.” He sipped from his cup and wiped his mouth with his napkin. His eyes roamed over me before he spoke again. “And in the wild, they know when they’re being hunted.”

  I blinked twice. “How interesting!”

  Before I could speak another word, he turned to the gentleman beside him and started a new conversation.

  I slumped in my chair, unsure of my progress. I couldn’t tell if Mama approved, because her eyes were trained on the elder Mr. Weatherby, and I recognized my own flirtatious expression on her face. I watched Miss Camden across the table, engaged in conversation with Sir Edward. Jealousy boiled in my stomach and I reestablished my next course of action. Surely I would outshine her at the pianoforte. I had no doubt.

  After the ladies removed to the drawing room and the men had finished with their port, the first performer took her seat beside the harp. She was inept, to say the least, at the instrument. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  When Miss Camden took her place at the pianoforte, I held my breath. Her hands plinked out the notes with accuracy, but she had simplified some of the complicated elements of the piece. It was novice, and my spirits rose more and more as I listened. When she finished, she stood shakily, beaming at the applause.

  At last, it was my turn. I had brought no music, but had my piece memorized. It was a composition of Mozart, impressive, but too commonly performed to steal every attention. Haydn’s work, the one Miss Camden had just performed, jumped to my mind. It was engraved in my brain, each note and dynamic. If I was to steal the show, I was to do it right.

  Taking a seat on the bench I positioned my hands over the keys and played. I played with as much passion as I could manage. It was a lively and strong melody, and I lost myself within the powerful trills and flowing life of the sonata. Several gasps hit my ears from around the room, but slowly faded into silent awe. When I took my bow, I caught the eye of Miss Camden. In her face I saw the same expression I had seen in Clara the night before, but only now did I place it.

  Hatred.

  I smiled to myself. I could accept being hated if it meant being admired by Mr. Weatherby. I glanced toward where I knew he stood in the room. But what I saw on his face wasn’t admiration—it was disgust. My smile faltered. That was not what I had expected. The ladies and gentlemen shifted all around the drawing room, leaning and whispering as I reclaimed my seat. I dared a look at Mama. She was sitting with unbendable posture, chin held high and eyes filled with pride.

  Somewhat reassured, I kept my bearings and ignored the whispered remarks brushing the air like moth wings. Perhaps I had mistaken Mr. Weatherby’s reaction to my performance. Or perhaps his expression was aimed at Miss Camden and her horrific interpretation of the song. Whatever it was, I found peace with the fact that I had accomplished what I came here to do. I came to be remembered, and remembered I would be. As I stole one more look at the guests, though, I wondered if being remembered for what I did tonight was for the better or the worse.

  The shifting eyes continued for the rest of the evening. Yes, some people complimented my ability, but I also sensed some disdain. As someone who had always enjoyed attention, I found I did not appreciate this kind of attention. Not one bit.

  As we were leaving, I gave one last attempt to obtain Mr. Weatherby’s favor. But when I produced my signature coy smile, his eyes shifted away as quickly as they had come. He was rubbing his forehead and mumbling something to himself when the door closed him and the warm candlelight of the room from my view.

  Mama looped her arm around mine in one stiff motion, and whispered, “Well done, Charlotte.” Her voice was quick with excitement. “I am sorry to say I ever doubted you. Following Miss Camden playing the same piece … it was genius, to say the least. You exceed her talent for certain, especially with that particular song. I believe the audience was very moved.”

  I could picture the faces of reprimand and shock and disapproval, but Mama’s words were falling over them like a shadow, bringing forward smiles and looks of envy.

  “I worried it might have been too much …”

  Mama scoffed loudly. “It would be a monstrous surprise if Mr. Weatherby doesn’t call on you by morning. And Sir Edward could not take his eyes off you, especially after your performance. I daresay you have acquired new prospects.”

  My mind spun. Of course Mama was right. What had compelled me to doubt? As we entered the carriage, I brushed aside my worries and turned my thoughts to what dress I should wear tomorrow and which bonnet would most complement my eyes. If I was beautiful enough, then I could win any heart. I pictured my life as mistress of a grand house, hosting parties and presenting the home as mine. I pictured how my husband would dote on me, and he would grant me loads of pin money to spend in London. Then I could be off, and see him on rare occasions. When we grew older, he would retire to his library and I could spend hours perusing the shelves of the highest shops.

  I placed my hand on my chest and sighed. If I played my cards right, that future could be mine. I would be happier than I had ever been in my life. Love was fickle and unlasting, nothing to aspire to.

  I considered Mama and Papa. They had planned to marry from a young age, never compelled by anything but circumstance. Rarely did they speak, and both behaved as they liked. A match like theirs was drawn in fates and could never create such damage as a broken heart. A heart is fragile, and I considered it necessary to keep it from harm. Glassware was stored in sturdy cupboards, never atop a nursery table. It would be destroyed by the toddler’s curious, destructive hands.

  The sky was black when we pulled into the drive of our home. Crickets formed an orchestra through the still air as I walked toward the front doors. Our home, Eshersed Park, stood like a castle under the moonlight, the cream stone illuminated by fading candlelight shining through the windows.

  Inside, I wasn’t surprised that Clara didn’t greet us. She was likely in her room with her face stuffed against her pillow, crying over her misfortune. The image brought a smile to my face. My curiosity couldn’t be helped, so I climbed up the stairs to her bedchamber and threw open the doors. I was disappointed to see that her bed was free of a prostrate, weeping figure.

  “Clara!” I called. “Mr. Weatherby has fallen madly in love with me!”

  Nothing.

  I walked to the window and stared down into the gardens. I was about to turn away when I noticed a single dot of light gleaming among the shrubs and squat trees. It had to be Clara.

  Running to the back door, I stepped into the night air once again. After weaving my way through the intricate gardens, I came up behind my sister sitting on a large stone, her brown hair hanging in waves over her shoulders. Her head was bent over something she held in her hands. The candle was sitting beside her on the stone, bathing her face in an orange glow, and revealing the item in her hands. It was a book.

  “What are you reading?” I asked, making Clara jump. “And what, pray tell, are you doing out here in the dark?”

  She turned with the book pressed against her chest. Her eyes were wide, brimming with surpri
se. “What I am reading is none of your concern. I hear no news of an engagement, so I suppose your deception fooled no one.”

  I huffed a breath. “You are wrong. Mr. Weatherby was quite taken with my beauty and talent, and surely plans to court me.”

  She rolled her eyes and flipped the page of her book. Unsatisfied by her response, I lunged forward and ripped the book from her hands.

  She gasped and whirled around on her stone chair. “Give that back!”

  I examined the cover and turned my head to the side with disgust. “You are reading another of those silly romances, are you?” I snorted. “What do you suppose? The stoutly hero is going to ascend from the pages, desperately in love with you?”

  She jumped for the book, but I pulled it away and out of her reach.

  “Charlotte, give it back!”

  “How do you believe in this nonsense? Such behavior is harmful to your health, dear sister.” I leafed the pages open and tore out a handful of paper and inky, false words.

  Clara stopped trying to reach the book, but melted into tears. “Stop! Stop!” She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned over, hiding her face from me.

  I pulled out and crumpled another fistful of the pages. “You will thank me,” I said. When I finished, I dropped the binding to the dirt and laughed.

  “How can you be so awful?” She spit the words at me and tears fell slowly down her cheeks. “I hope you fall in love someday, Charlotte. And I hope he breaks your heart.”

  I shook my head with my hands on my hips. “Impossible.”

  She stooped over the bench, gathering up a few pages and organizing them in a neat stack. Amid her movements, she glanced up at me, eyes like stone. “You’re right. I don’t believe you even have a heart.”

  I kicked the remaining crumpled pages away from her reach before turning to leave. Before I moved, I said, in a voice just as hard, “That is because a woman is much better off without one.”

  z

  The house was not silent as I had expected when I walked through the door. I could hear loud voices from near the front entry. Alarm bolted through me and I walked faster.

  I heard Mama’s words, shrill and unidentifiable, laden with sobs. As I came closer, I recognized the low rumble of Papa’s voice. When had he returned? It must have been just moments before. Mama shouted something else, but I couldn’t understand through the strong echo of the walls. Caution took over my steps and my heart raced as I made my way down the long hall and rounded the corner. I stopped with one hand on the wall, shocked by what I saw.

  Mama was standing with her head in her hands, far from the composure I had come to know and expect. Papa was trying to console her. His hand was stiff and unfeeling on her shoulder. She jerked back and raised her face with a hard look. Papa’s face was dark in a gaunt way, eyes falling back into hungry sockets, age displayed in every line.

  “We will never recover from this!” Mama shouted. Her eyes moved to where I stood, now in plain view of both my parents. She ran to me, a wave of fresh sobs shaking her frame. “All I worked for! All I cared for!” The feathers of her headdress crumpled against my neck as she cried into my shoulder. She had never done such a thing in my entire life.

  “We are ruined, Charlotte, utterly ruined! Because of him.”

  I pushed her away and took a step back, my wide eyes staring into her tear-filled ones. “What do you mean?” My gaze moved to Papa of its own accord. I realized it was the first time I had spoken to him in months. I had given up trying long ago.

  He dropped his head and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked like a guilty child confessing to a nanny.

  “Papa, what have you done?” The words scratched my throat.

  He approached us, and his bloodshot eyes only blinked once. I expected a thorough explanation, maybe an excuse for Mama’s reaction. But he spoke just two words. “I’m sorry.” And then his slumping form retreated into the hallway and I heard a door shut. I couldn’t breathe as the image of him faded. In all the years I had known him, he had never appeared so broken. I tried again to think of the last moment he had spoken to me, besides a brief word, but could think of nothing. My heart thudded with dread as I turned my attention to Mama. She had always been a woman of pristine composure. Something must have been terribly wrong.

  With her face in her hands, Mama paced away from me and wailed into the open air, cursing Papa between gasps of breath.

  Clara entered the house through the front door, freezing at the sight of Mama so uncollected.

  “My lord has ruined us!” She whirled around and crossed the room to his portrait that hung on the wall. Her fingers slid over the copper frame, nails pressing into the canvas. I could see her ribs swell with a breath through the back of her gown. “He has gambled away the bulk of his fortune—our livelihood! And that is not the worst of it. He was caught cheating at cards in London among the ton. All the elite, the gentry in attendance, now know of our family’s disgrace. He has no means to repay the debts! My husband is to be exiled to France and nothing will be left to us. Nothing!” She scratched her nails over the portrait of Papa in a quick slash, but it made no mark. With another cry of outrage, she pushed away from the wall and turned on us.

  Despite our recent fight, Clara and I exchanged worried glances. Something within me was sinking at Mama’s words. I struggled to draw a breath with this revelation tearing through me. Fear pooled in my chest so deeply I thought I might faint.

  Everything I had planned—my living now, my living in the future—was being ripped from my grasp. Papa often found himself in gaming halls less than reputable. But relying on the game to preserve our fortune? And cheating? I had never thought him to be so low. My heart picked up speed and tears tightened a knot in my throat before splashing from my eyes.

  “What are we to do?” I dared the question.

  Mama wiped the tears from her face roughly and swallowed hard. “We can no longer afford this house. We will have to move to a despicable little home …” All of the sudden, her eyes lit up with urgency. “Charlotte. Yes, Charlotte, you are our only hope. We shall move to the North, where we are scarcely known. There you will meet all new gentlemen, none of whom will know of Papa’s scandal. They shall not know of our fall in society. There you must win the heart of a wealthy suitor with your beauty. It is our only chance at redemption. I am much too old and Clara much too plain to succeed quickly enough.”

  My heart raced even faster. “But how—how?” I had never been unsure of my ability to catch a husband, but with the stakes so high, a new seed of fear bloomed inside me.

  “No questions, Charlotte. You must do this.” Her face had calmed a little, trained on me with determination. If only I felt it within myself. I was afraid, and for once I wondered if I could succeed. My confidence was wavering, and the feeling was completely new to me.

  Mama paced the room with fresh speed. “Northumberland. That is where we must go. Perhaps Berwick? The place has been begging to be called Scotland for years.”

  Clara and I exchanged yet another glance. I saw tears falling speedily down her cheeks. “That is a long journey, Mama,” she said.

  “No, Craster! Yes, Craster will be perfect,” Mama continued, ignoring Clara. “It is nearly as far as we can travel within the country where the people will have no idea who we are and from whence we have come.” She put the back of her hand against her forehead and swayed on her feet. “I am feeling faint, now. The hour is late. Go to sleep. And Charlotte,” she regarded me firmly as she stood near the door of her room, “I expect nothing short of a miracle from you. I have invested so very much in you. It is time you repay the favor.”

  Then she was gone, swallowed into the door of her bedchamber where her maid waited to assist her.

  My shoulders quaked with a contained sob, and emotion tore through me so strong that I felt it tingle in the tips of my fingers. Was this really happening? I choked on a breath and my legs began to shake.

  Unable to stay where I w
as any longer, I rushed away from the entry and up the stairs. My feet seemed to float, making me wonder once again if this was real, if any of it was real. I entered my bedchamber where Anna stood at attention.

  “May I help you, miss?” she asked.

  I turned my face to her and she seemed surprised at my tears. “Go! Get out!” I shooed her toward the door, my voice cracking.

  She complied, her face draining of color as she went. I slammed the door behind her and pressed myself against the frame, my body shaking with fresh sobs. Were our circumstances really so fragile? I had heard whispers of debts before, but they were always accompanied by reassurances. That was no longer the case. Our living, home, and the Lyons name were now tarnished.

  How could I find a husband now? How could I be desired? I had heard a tale of an earl’s son once enticed to marry a tradesman’s daughter. But how could I bridge such a gap as that? I turned to the mirror against my wall. My cheeks were streaked in tears and red splotches, but in my eyes I saw a flash of determination. Mama was right. I was our only hope. There was no other way to regain our wealth. Marrying well had never been as important as it was now. I was still a lady of high breeding, I reassured myself. I was still accomplished and beautiful.

  After several minutes, I found myself unable to sit still. I took the candle sitting on my desk and opened my door. Flame in hand, I made my way up the stairs to the room that was calling me. I pushed open the heavy door and walked inside, touching the tip of my candle to the other unlit wicks.

  The room blossomed in shadows and yellow light. I walked to the pianoforte that was positioned in the center of my music room. Clara’s harp stood in the corner of the room, covered in a sheet. She had given up the pursuit years ago, and the instrument stood like an abandoned thing, deserted and alone.

  I took a seat at the pianoforte and pulled music from the deepest parts of my mind. I played every song I had memorized. I was a slave to the music, driven by something other than the need to impress. The sounds drove through my skin and settled somewhere inside me, and then they pulled out the fear, the questions, and the unknown. I played and played until my hands ached and my soul begged for relief.