“Is it too much?” she asked, patting her hair tentatively before the mirror.
I stepped back, shaking my head with a smile. “Not at all. You look like a sea princess of some kind.”
“I do not,” she said, fighting a smile.
“Stop it. You do. Now, are you ready?”
She took a shaky breath, rubbing her palms over the skirts of her simple cream gown. “No. But I mustn’t be late.” She stood and moved toward the door and steadied herself on the frame.
I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh. “Go on.”
She dropped her hand from the door and I watched her walk like a ghost down the stairway. I was afraid she would topple over before she reached the bottom. I stood at the top of the staircase and waved as she walked out the door. I sighed. I couldn’t wait until she returned home tonight. Time would crawl by like an ant crossing this room. Patience had never been a virtue of mine.
Clara had already helped me into my gown for the day, but my hair had not been touched. I hurried back to my bedchamber and stepped in front of the mirror. I just stared, taking in every change in my appearance, every newfound flaw. The hand, the diminished curves, the disheveled hair. I expected it to bother me, but something in the sight gave me new confidence, a different kind that I hadn’t known before.
It wasn’t the confidence that I would catch the attention of every eligible gentleman, but the confidence that I was capable of anything I set my mind to. I had undertaken much over the last months, and still I stood here. I was changing. I was improving on the inside while I was deteriorating on the outside. The realization struck me, and I decided I didn’t mind. The people here had taught me that character was far more important than beauty. For now, this was fine. But once I returned to Canterbury, I would find beauty again for just enough time to win my perfect match. But for now, I could find peace in the good changes and uncover a way to forget the bad.
After I had made myself somewhat presentable, I decided to spend the day with the Abbots. When I arrived at their home, Lucy and Rachel were working on embroidery. I sat beside them and watched, knowing I was now incapable of yet another of my previous skills. Soon Mrs. Abbot ordered a tray of food and we all spent several hours visiting in the sitting room, listening to Rachel sing while Lucy played roughly on the pianoforte, and reading our favorite passages from the books we had already spent time discussing.
Mrs. Abbot sat up straight, as if suddenly remembering something very important. “Charlotte, I do not believe I have given you the details of our planned Christmastide parties. It is a tradition.”
I smiled. “Lucy told me briefly.”
“Oh, the parties are all the rage around here.” She fanned her hands in a mock dramatic fashion and laughed. “We would love your assistance with the plans and decoration. The few servants we have are going to be cooking a large variety of food in preparation, and this year, Lord Trowbridge has offered to host! Can you believe it? We will be able to accommodate triple the people from town.”
“How exciting!” I truly was excited, but still worried over James being in attendance. I quickly stopped my worries. I could easily avoid him. “I would love to help in any way I can.”
“Wonderful. The largest of the parties will be Christmas Eve and twelfth night.”
We went on to chat about the parties for another hour, with the three of them telling stories of parties in the past—mistletoe incidents in the servant’s wing, spilled bowls of pudding, and the time a man’s sleeve caught fire playing snapdragon.
I laughed, becoming even more eager to attend the parties. How delightful it would be to spend night after night with friends and strangers coming together in celebration. The people of this town much anticipated this time of year, especially the poor. How often did they get to enjoy a feast and be given warm clothing?
I left the house late in the afternoon, hurrying home so I didn’t miss Clara’s return. I realized I had been skipping, and quickly stopped myself, looking around to be sure no one noticed. I pressed down my grin and walked in a dignified manner the rest of the way home.
I hardly had time to open the door before Clara met me there, looking sullen and upset. My gaze froze on her face. Closing the door behind me, I guided her to the sofa.
“What happened?” My voice was hushed.
She put her face in her hands and huffed an audible breath. “He acted as if—as if he hadn’t received the letter at all. He went on aloof and distant.”
I scowled. “How could it be?”
She was clenching her teeth as she always did when holding back tears.
“Oh, Clara. Tears over a man are wasted. Don’t cry.”
Her lip quivered and her eyes were wet. She tried to speak but it came out muffled between sobs. “I’m not c-crying. I’m weeping! Th-there is a d-difference!”
I brought her head to my shoulder and cradled it as she wept. “There must be an explanation for this. Perhaps he misunderstood the words? Perhaps he didn’t read it at all?”
“He must have read it. How could you not read a mysterious letter thrown through your door in the dark?” She swiped the tears from her cheeks and shook her head. “I should have never believed myself capable of marrying a man like him. Living in a home like his, being admired by society. I never wanted any of it before, but I let myself hope for all the fancy things only because they were attached to him—to Thomas. I loved him first.”
“Don’t give up,” I said, widening my eyes to emphasize my words. “Soon enough he will come to his senses.”
She just shook her head, defeated. I couldn’t bear to see it.
“He will,” I said with more force.
I hoped I was right this time.
Chapter 19
“Love cannot be found where it doesn’t exist, nor can it be hidden where it truly does.”
We received another letter from Mama the next morning, as if it had been sent just days after the previous one. Clara and I stood with our shoulders pressed together, heads bent close over the parchment. It shook in her hand.
My daughters,
I have received word that your father had fallen ill while traveling to France and has since died. Although the news came as a shock, I feel unshaken by the information, at ease, if not more free. I hope you will feel the same as I do. I hope you will not find me depraved for saying so, but I quite enjoy being a widow. Please do not bother with mourning; black has never been Charlotte’s color.
Yours, etc.
Mama
The silence that followed was strange; the surge of grief I expected to come refused to do anything but rustle over my skin like leaves. I had hardly known the man. Clara was unmoving beside me, reading the words over and over, as if begging herself to feel something more than indifference. I touched her arm, calling her gaze to my face. Her eyes were empty.
“How could Mama say such things?” Clara asked. “He was her husband …”
“But nothing more,” I said, watching the floor now. Is that what he had been to me? Just a father, nothing more? Not a friend, not a caregiver, not a guardian. He was just a father, filling a necessary space in my life, but leaving behind today the same void that had always been there.
Clara was quiet. “Do you remember when we were little, and Papa carried us on his back? Or when he brought us dolls from the London shops?”
My eyes shifted to her face. The memories were there, but they were faint, overshadowed by the countless memories from when I had grown older and had been ignored, censured, and forgotten. Papa had rarely been home; he had spent most of his days in travel, and, as we now knew, gambling. And when he was home, he seemed to avoid us. Almost as long as I could remember, he had been a stranger. But still, I smiled at the thought of those dolls.
I wrapped my arms around Clara and she drew a deep breath over my shoulder. We stayed that way for several seconds before she said, “May he rest in peace.”
My mind traveled back to the last moment I h
ad seen him, that day we had started our journey here from Eshersed Park.
“Soyez bénis, Papa.” I whispered back. “Be blessed on your journey.”
z
There was only one day left before Christmas Eve, and I had been keeping busy helping the Abbots arrange the greenery for decoration. Lucy and Rachel spent hours cutting up silk and gold paper and I helped pack it into boxes to be taken to Lord Trowbridge. Tomorrow we would help set all the preparations in his ballroom and dining hall. My stomach fluttered with excitement as I worked, eager to be finished and see the result of all our preparation. But I still worried over Clara, going to work each day and returning home more upset and troubled every time. How could Lord Trowbridge have missed the note? I couldn’t understand how his prejudice could be so strong against Clara to still snub her after he knew for certain how she felt. Perhaps the letter wasn’t enough—perhaps she needed to tell him her feelings aloud.
As I puzzled over this, I sorted the greenery into piles of rosemary, bay, laurel, holly, and mistletoe. The yule log sat in the corner with all the candles that were packed away to be carried to Lord Trowbridge’s home. As far as I had been told, the Christmas Eve party would consist of charity toward the poor, possible entertainment from wassailers, games, and plenty of food. The twelfth night party would be something of a masquerade, with dancing and another feast. That was all I knew. I decided I would save my red and silver gown for that night. I smiled widely to myself, forgetting the anxiety of seeing James there. It would be a wonderful evening.
Mr. Abbot returned home that evening. He was a tall man, with pale hair and spectacles. I was sitting at the table when he arrived, and watched silently as Mrs. Abbot rushed to the door to greet him. Her happiness at his arrival was genuine. When he stepped toward her, he dropped his trunk and wrapped his arms around her, proclaiming how much he had missed her. Rachel and Lucy each kissed his cheeks and hugged him as well.
Mrs. Abbot held his hand and he looked at her as if he had been away for years rather than months, and as if she were the only thing he lived and breathed for. It confused me. Papa had never looked at Mama like that. Mama never missed Papa when he was away. She didn’t even miss him now that he was truly gone. The ache of his loss hit me a little harder this time.
Mr. Abbot smiled when introduced to me, a wide grin that took me off guard. “Miss Charlotte! A pleasure to meet you. I have heard many wonderful things about you in my letters from my wife and daughters.”
Mrs. Abbot hurried to his side, clinging to his arm and gazing adoringly at his face. She smiled at me and reached for my hand. “Charlotte is a very dear friend, indeed.”
z
The following evening, I stood behind Clara in front of the small mirror in my room, trying to reassure her.
“You look lovely! He will come to his senses tonight.”
She tipped her head down and took a deep, slow breath. It broke my spirits to see her this way, less excited than I was about the party tonight. A carriage was being sent to convey us to the house, and we were both dressed and ready to leave twenty minutes early.
I put my hand on her shoulder and sighed, trying to sort through my words before I said them. “Clara—I … I will speak to James about it again if you wish. Perhaps he can help somehow. He may know something we don’t know.” That did seem to be a common trend with him.
She shook her head. “Just let it be. I’m tired of trying.”
I watched her carefully a moment longer, then nodded. But even though she was done trying, I certainly wasn’t. “Are you ready to go?” I glanced out the window and saw the carriage arriving in front of our cottage.
The streets were already filled with people making their way to the party. It was ridiculous really, that we were taking a carriage to a home so close to ours, but I was convinced Lord Trowbridge wanted only the best treatment for Clara.
She forced a smile to her face and nodded. I smiled back and swiped my gloves off my bed, slipping them over my fingers and stubs of fingers to make my hands look as natural as possible. The pieces of curtain I had torn and stuffed inside looked strange upon close inspection, but it would have to suffice.
Together we hurried down the stairs and through the front door, wrapping our shawls quickly over our shoulders. The footman helped us into the carriage and soon we were moving forward, rumbling over the narrow, uneven road. As we approached the house, I could already hear music and boisterous laughter. The house was lit brightly, and through the windows I could see smiling faces and long tables of food. I stared in awe—I had never seen a party so lively and full. The parties in London were certainly crowded, but never so exciting and genuine as this.
When the carriage stopped, we were let down from the step and Clara and I walked arm in arm to the entrance. I had spent the early part of the day decorating, but could never have imagined how beautiful the house would look at night, lit by candles and the yule log in the fire.
As we came through the door, Mrs. Abbot rushed toward us in greeting. She wore a deep green gown with white satin trim. Her eyes shone with excitement and joy. She looked absolutely radiant. “Come in! Oh, you both look so beautiful.”
She took our shawls and guided us around the corner where tables were lined with all kinds of food. Crowded around them were dozens of people I had never seen before, talking, laughing, and eating. Many of them were dressed in old, ragged dresses, mended together with neat seams and scrubbed clean of dirt. It warmed my heart to see them here, so happy and having such a wonderful time.
Mrs. Abbot was watching my face, waiting to see my reaction to it all. My smile grew and I turned to her. “This is perfect. Perfect!”
She sighed contentedly. “The preparation is always taxing, but the result is worth every moment.” She watched the crowd a moment longer, then turned her attention back to me. “After the feast, we will see a performance from the wassailers and any other volunteers.”
I scanned the crowd again and saw Lord Trowbridge standing with Sophia against one wall of the ballroom. I followed his eyes where they were set on Clara.
I looked at her face—she hadn’t noticed him yet. I nudged her arm and nodded my head discreetly in his direction. She glanced at him, then turned her head away in one swift motion. “Charlotte!”
I gave her an innocent look. “What is the matter? He deserved to be caught if he was going to stare so unabashedly at you.” I winked.
A crease set between her brows as she scanned the room. Her gaze focused on something across the room and her forehead softened and her mouth quirked upward. “Oh? Then we must put a stop to that immediately.”
I followed her eyes to where James stood, watching us—watching me. I looked away quicker than Clara had, and tried to decipher what I had seen—briefly—in his eyes. Was it resentment? Frustration? Admiration? I couldn’t tell, so I allowed myself to look at him again.
He was wearing a formal jacket, white cravat, and his hair was neat, black as the sky, the contrast of his eyes as stark as the candles shining from the windows. His jaw was set, his eyes fixed on me, and I tried to draw a breath. Slowly, a smile formed on his face, and my heart skipped. Despite my every effort, I smiled back—careful, tentative, and uncertain—and then he was walking toward me.
I didn’t know what to say to him, but then I looked at Clara, the sorrow on her face as she watched Lord Trowbridge across the ballroom, and I knew what I needed to say. James stopped just in front of me, that look I couldn’t name still in his eyes, hidden and careful.
“I need your help.” It came out quick and not at all the tone I intended.
“Your servant awaits.” He smiled, and I had to look away. “For what do you require my help?”
“I know you don’t truly wish to rob your brother of happiness. Just look at him,” I nodded my head toward where Lord Trowbridge stood, “and look at her.” Clara was standing, shoulders slack, engaged in a quiet conversation with Rachel. Her eyes darted across the room every few seco
nds without fail. “What can we do?”
James rubbed his jaw and slowly a grin lit his face. “This is a dangerous game, Charlotte. You wish to play matchmaker with me as your assistant? A dreadful team we will make I daresay—especially with business of the heart.”
“We must try, at least. We are both partially to blame for their separation. You told your brother things that you knew would distance him from Clara, and I should never have told you the truth in the first place.” I cringed at the bitterness in my voice. “You will never forgive me for it.”
His eyes searched mine and I found myself trapped in them; I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. And I wasn’t sure if I did. James took a deep breath. “I wish I could stay angry with you. But I can’t.” He crossed his arms, smiling with a gentleness that melted my icy charade. “I’m glad you told me what you did.” He stepped forward and smiled in a teasing way. “Otherwise I may have fallen madly in love with you.”
His words hit me hard, and my heart quickened. I searched his face despite the dangers of doing so, hoping to find clues of some kind. His eyes were so difficult to read—teasing one moment and serious the next—hiding a misunderstanding behind blue and green and unspoken words. I clutched my skirts and adjusted my gloves. “How fortunate then … that I told you the truth.”
James’s jaw tightened and he looked down, but quickly replaced the expression with another smile.
I tugged at my gloves another moment longer, trying to dispel the discomfort between us, then cleared my throat. “What shall we call this operation?”
He raised an eyebrow in confusion.
“If we are to play matchmaker, we must be discreet.” I gave a sideways smile. “Shall we call it … Lady Trowbridge?”
He rolled his eyes dramatically. “That is not discreet at all.”
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