Lies and Letters

by Ashtyn Newbold

  I realized how tense I was, shoulders straight and features firm. I relaxed all at once, slumping my shoulders and smiling. “I didn’t mean it … I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t mean the glare, or you didn’t mean the secret?” He leaned an inch closer. “Do you hate me after all?”

  I shook my head, feeling like a ninny for my grin, but unable to control it. “I meant what I said. I don’t hate you.”

  He sat back, seemingly pleased with my words. “So you love me then.”

  I jerked my gaze to him. To my relief, he appeared to be teasing. “I do not!” I leaned forward to emphasize my words.

  He smiled wider, putting on an expression of presumptuous arrogance that made me laugh. “Surely you must love me. I have never encountered a woman who does not.”

  I considered swatting him with my bandaged hand, as it appeared very much like a club, but didn’t only because it would hurt me more than him. I was laughing, still shaking my head. “I do not love you.”

  His smile softened and one eyebrow arched. “So if you don’t love me, and you don’t hate me, then what?”

  I took a breath, enjoying this strange conversation. “Something in between.” He seemed far too satisfied by my answer, so I added, “But much closer to hate.”

  He shook into laughter, and I joined, feeling free and light. I had never laughed with a man before. All my conversations with men had been calculated and boring, never entertaining and genuine. I tried to stop laughing, embarrassed by the sound. At parties, Mama had instructed me to keep my laughter at an appropriate volume and tone, as a gentleman didn’t want a silly wife.

  I eyed James carefully, expecting him to be appalled by the display I had just created. But he didn’t seem to mind at all. And I was not trying to win his favor, so his opinion should not have mattered anyway.

  He shrugged, his laughter subsiding. “I suppose that is fair.” His eyes met mine again and I looked down, feeling uncharacteristically shy. I was fairly certain I had never been shy in my entire life.

  “You never answered my question,” I said, my voice returning to normal. “Why are you here?” I forced myself to look at him again.

  His face became serious, and he was silent for several seconds. I waited, heart beating faster from the weight of his gaze. And then he shook his head and stood, taking a step back. “I don’t know. I—needed to see if you were well, and you are, so I must be going now.” His voice was quick.

  “James—wait …”

  He turned around, halfway to the door. What was his sudden hurry? I searched my mind for something else to say. “That was very kind of you. I would not hate it if you visited again.” I didn’t know where the words were coming from, and I didn’t know why I wanted him to stay.

  He gave a brief nod of his head. “Thank you.” And in a matter of seconds he was gone.

  I realized I had been leaning forward, nearly falling off the sofa. I fell back against the cushions, and felt my brow furrow in confusion. What had compelled him to leave so suddenly? I bit my lip in worry. Had I done something to offend him? I stopped my thoughts as quickly as they came. Why did it matter? Only days before I had planned all my words, hoping to offend him. But now, as much as I hated to admit it, I didn’t mind his company.

  Chapter 12

  “God has given you one face and you make yourself another.”

  I counted the flakes of snow on my windowsill every morning until there were finally too many to count. So instead of counting the ones already there, I counted them as they fell. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight—

  “Charlotte!” Clara’s voice cut through my meditation and I jumped. I could hear her bounding up the stairs. I had taken to rising early in the morning, so Clara hadn’t left to work yet. She appeared in my doorway, breathing heavily, and held up a paper with a wax seal. “A letter from Mama.”

  I scooted over on my bed and she sat down beside me, tearing the seal. In her previous letter, Mama had promised us money at the end of the next month, which was only three weeks away now. But with Clara’s employment as Sophia’s governess, the money was not the most pressing issue anymore. I tipped my head over the paper, reading quickly.

  My dear daughters,

  I hope you have been well these weeks. I imagine the weather has been colder than you are accustomed to, and it is my dearest wish that you are warm and comfortable. Unfortunately, I come with dreadful news. The freezing weather has not been well for my cousin’s wife, and she has fallen ill. We fear she may die soon. But among happier things, the home is quite grand and beautiful, and my cousin, Mr. Bentford, is even more amiable than I remember. He does not treat me with the same disdain the rest of the county has adopted.

  Charlotte—why have I not heard from you? I must insist that you write me the details of your courtship with Lord Trowbridge. I am eager to know how you are succeeding. I hope you are not boring him with conversation. Has Clara learned a proper way to arrange your hair? With the lack of sunlight, I presume your complexion has not been damaged. Clara has assured me that she was hired as a governess. Not a respectable position, but suitable enough to keep you well fed and to maintain your figure. Please write me soon, if only to put my nerves at ease. You owe your success to me and our family name. I expect your response sent in the post no later than today.

  Yours etc.,

  Mama

  I was shaking my head as I finished the letter. I had nothing to say to her! I looked down at the bandages covering my hand. It had been a week since the injury, and I still hadn’t looked at the damage. Mama could not know about it. Perhaps I still had a chance at a suitable match. If Mama didn’t know about my hand, she could rest assured that I was still making progress. I needed only to lie a little bit.

  Standing, I hurried over to my writing desk. I needed to tell her that all was well. She couldn’t worry about my success. I still had time; perhaps Lord Trowbridge would still have me. Perhaps—

  I looked down at the desk and the sheet of parchment I had placed in front of me. The ink and pen were on my right. My right hand was certainly incapable of writing. I stared at the pen as tears burned behind my eyes. My penmanship had been so admired. I had spent years perfecting it, penning letters to friends almost daily. Here was yet another thing I had lost.

  Tightening my good hand into a fist on the desk, I built a dam inside me against the torrent of emotions threatening my composure. How was I ever to reclaim my place in society if I couldn’t even write a simple letter? Never mind the ugliness or the shame of how it looked. Little by little my hand was robbing me of everything I ever held dear.

  I took a deep, shaking breath. “Clara?” I didn’t turn around. I swallowed. “I need—will you write a letter to Mama for me? Please.”

  Her skirts rustled behind me and then she appeared beside my chair, kneeling at the side of the desk. “Of course.” She hesitated. “What do you wish to say?”

  Turning my gaze to her, I gave her a look of gratitude. She was looking up at me, concerned, careful. Her eyes were wide and clear, nothing like the hard, defensive look I usually saw when telling her how to help me. The difference was astounding, and I saw in her face a willingness to assist me, despite all my unkindness toward her. I had not demanded that she write for me, but I had asked. She was submitting to her own will for once instead of mine.

  I stood and gestured at the chair for her to sit. “My note will be brief.”

  Clara smoothed out the parchment and dipped the quill in ink, holding it poised above the sheet. “How shall I begin it? ‘Dearest Mama’?”

  I thought about the endearment and hesitated. I stopped myself. Of course. Yes. Dearest Mama. I nodded. “But we shall not mention the hand.”

  Clara shot me a glance. “Why ever not? She may be concerned.”

  “I fear she would disapprove,” I said in a quiet voice. My eyes flickered back to Clara and I cleared my throat, changing the subject. “Dearest Mama. You endeavor to know how
I am succeeding with Lord Trowbridge. I have captured his attention, to be sure.”

  Clara’s eyebrow rose but she started writing.

  “I have spent a great deal of time with him and think his attachment to me is growing deeper by the day. I believe I shall marry him yet.” Clara’s shoulders stiffened and the pen stopped. I ignored it. “I am doing all I can to secure his affections, but he seems to be tentative and rather slow. Have patience and I will win his heart.” My words sounded plain and dull to my own ears. I finished with, “Your beloved daughter, Charlotte.”

  I smiled as Clara finished writing. “There. That should afford us a little time.” I tried to sound happy, but found the effort exhausting. Lord Trowbridge’s affections were miles away from me, and I doubted it would even be possible to win him now. We would live in the North forever, and Mama would remain in Canterbury, visiting London every year and enjoying the society but eating the chagrin of her name. Perhaps she would return for us after all, or take us to live in a new place where I could find another man to pursue.

  My shoulders slumped and I moved to sit on the ground, leaning my head against the wall. I had never sat on the floor before, but found it to be strangely comfortable. I tucked Mama’s disapproving gaze out of my mind and brought my knees to my chest. I sighed.

  “What are we to do, Clara?” My voice had changed to a desperate tone. I looked up at her. “Lord Trowbridge will never love me now!” I held up my hand and dropped it to my lap, cringing. “Mama will write again, and I cannot continue to lie to her. She will discover his indifference to me and she will despise me for it.”

  Clara crossed her arms and leaned over. “You are still beautiful. And if you are correct, that beauty is all a man cares for, then that should be enough.” Her voice was soft. I thought I heard sadness in it. I looked up but she smiled in an effort to contradict her voice. “Do not give up.”

  I puzzled over the look on her face. The smile was forced. She played with a piece of hair, obviously uncomfortable with my study.

  “Perhaps you could marry him,” I said.

  Her eyes flew open wide. “What? No.” Her cheeks were flushed pink.

  “You have a much better chance than me. You see him every day, and you find him agreeable.” I smiled as her cheeks turned even darker. “You have grown attached to him, haven’t you?” I exclaimed.

  She crossed her arms in defense. “I have not!”

  Laughing, I sat forward and crossed my legs in a most improper, girlish manner. “It is quite obvious.”

  I studied her face as it melted into a confession. She moved over to my bed and sat down, slumping her shoulders in defeat, but with a faint smile curving her lips. My smile was wide as I walked over and sat on the bed beside her.

  She sighed and fell back on the blankets, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I don’t know what to do, Charlotte. He is much too old for me, surely. Why would an established, widowed earl such as he consider marrying a silly girl ten years his junior? It simply isn’t logical.”

  I scowled at that, feeling a strange reversal of roles. “I thought you believed in love? If there is anything in the world that isn’t logical it’s love.” I rolled my eyes and looked at her again.

  Her eyes were cast down now, and she lay there, twisting a loose thread on the waistband of her dress. She looked so distressed and afraid, and I felt a sudden surge of protectiveness toward her. I had always tried to make her feel inferior to me, remind her of her lack of talents and beauty, but seeing her now, I was overcome with hatred—for myself. I had been so unkind. So selfish. So belittling. The realization stabbed at me with pain stronger than the ache throbbing in my mangled fingers.

  Clara bit her lip and I saw a tear streak down her temple. Had I done this to her? Had I changed the way she viewed love? What had once been a giggling, romantic girl was now cold and sad and afraid. My heart quaked within me. What had I done?

  She took a deep breath, breaking me from my thoughts. “I still believe in love. But I—I am not worthy of him. Lord Trowbridge is too wealthy and he bears a title, and—”

  I cut her off, shaking my head. “Why are you speaking like this? It’s as if you were me.”

  “But I am not you, Charlotte! That is precisely right. I am not pretty, and I am not flirtatious, and I am simply not talented. He will never have me.” She sat up, blinking back tears.

  I stared at her, surprised. I never knew how much it affected her, being compared to me all the time. Her hair was crinkled from laying down, and her round cheeks were splotched with tears, and her clear blue eyes were wet. Looking at her now, I noticed what I hadn’t before—she was beautiful. She was adorable, really. Besides that, she was kind and forgiving and humble. She was not like me.

  My heart beat fast, and I found myself wishing I could be like her. How had I been so unkind to her all these years? What benefit did it bring me to treat her so poorly? Guilt crept into my soul with an inky blackness I couldn’t ignore.

  I was appalled by the way she was speaking. It had annoyed me so much before to hear of her romance novels and ridiculous dreams, but seeing them dashed was so much worse.

  “I should be very surprised if he does not fall madly in love with you.” I smiled and clasped her hand with my whole one, feeling the threat of tears in my own throat. “I have treated you as less than you are all these years, and for that I apologize. I think I was just … incapable of treating you with the kindness you deserved.” A tear slipped out of my eye despite my effort to hold it. “I’m sorry.”

  She looked surprised at first, then blinked back her own tears and smiled. Without any words she leaned forward and hugged me. I squeezed her back, a sudden surge of gratitude filling me, head to toe, for this sister I had taken for granted.

  I sat back. “What is it about Lord Trowbridge that you adore?” I grinned as her cheeks reddened once again. “Is he kind? Is he brave and true?” I racked my brain to remember the words she had used to describe the man she hoped to marry. “Literature,” I remembered. “Does he care for it? And care for others above himself?”

  A small sigh escaped her lips and she grinned, nodding.

  “Now all that is left is for him to love you.” I was hardly aware of my own words. I sounded like a romantic dolt, and far from logical. Since I had a heart now I needed to keep it in check. “That should not take long at all.”

  She laughed softly, wiping a stream of liquid from under her nose. I laughed, snorting by accident. Her eyes widened and she burst into giggles, and I followed. Certainly I had never truly giggled before today. It was actually quite enjoyable. She released a slow breath and choked on a laugh.

  “Now how are we going to make him love you?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “That is not how it works. I can’t make him love me. He can’t make himself love me either. It’s all up to his heart.”

  I stopped myself from rolling my eyes again. “Very well. If his heart possesses any level of intellect, then it will choose to love you. If not, his heart is irrevocably stupid, and you are better without him.”

  She grinned and put a hand over her mouth to cover it.

  “Mama never specified that it had to be me that married him,” I said. “It could very well be you.” A shard of grief hit me as I looked down again at my bandaged hand. I would grow up to be an old spinster maid. Mama would come to prefer Clara over me. A deep determination grew suddenly inside me. No. I would find a way to make Mama happy. I would still make a good match, just not with Lord Trowbridge. And if no suitable man could overlook my hand, then I would not marry at all. Surely Mama would understand.

  I shook my head in an effort to clear it and smiled again. “You must wear your lavender dress today. With the matching ribbons!”

  Clara jumped from the bed and hurried toward the door. “May I borrow your ivory shawl?”

  I grinned. “Yes!”

  She ran from the room, reminding me of the time we had filled our skirts with pastries from the k
itchen, holding the hem up to create a basket. Cook had chased us over three floors before we surrendered. I smiled at the fond memory.

  A few minutes later, Clara was standing by the front door in her lavender gown, shining with excitement.

  “You are beautiful.” I smiled.

  Her brow furrowed for a quick second then smoothed again. “Thank you.” She twirled once and took my shawl, walking down the steps. I waved and closed the door behind her.

  The house was quiet now, and I stood at the door, remembering the letter Clara had just written for me to Mama. I chewed my lip, considering disposing of it, writing instead the truth about my injury and the hopelessness of me winning Lord Trowbridge. After much thought, I decided to send it anyway. It would keep me in Mama’s good favor, and it would do no harm. Mama would simply be surprised if Clara won him instead of me. The only one that wouldn’t benefit from the arrangement was me. But that did seem to be the trend lately, so I contented myself with it.

  When Mama returned for us, I would convince her to allow me another season in London—another chance. My hand could be concealed somehow. All would be well. I could still have what I had always dreamed of. In fact, with the responsibility of winning Lord Trowbridge now primarily Clara’s, I felt a strange sense of freedom. She could save us from ruin; my life and dreams were mine again.

  I sat down on the sofa in the sitting room where James had sat beside me the night before. We had laughed and talked, and nothing had been premeditated and forced. I tried very hard not to, but I smiled at the thought. I had never heard him laugh like that before, and I found myself craving the sound. I wanted him to come visit again so I could pretend at how much I hated him and keep it a secret that I was beginning to think of him as a friend.

  I shook my head of my thoughts, calling them ridiculous, and leaned my head back on the arm of the sofa. Why was I thinking about James? Against my will, my heart beat faster at the thought of his smile and sometimes blue, sometimes green-gray eyes. I thought of Clara’s list: He must be kind, brave, and true. James was certainly kind. Too kind. And he was brave. He had fought a man for our reticule, after all. True, love of literature, selflessness … I marked them on the checklist in my mind. And handsome. Much too handsome. A new realization struck me harder, and something began to sink inside me. How could I deserve someone like that? I didn’t. I did not deserve James.