by Sara Reinke
Chapter Three
The next morning while dressing, Charlotte noticed an unfamiliar traveling bag on the floor by her wardrobe. “What is that, Una?” she asked, grunting as Una jerked against her corset ties, crushing the wind from her.
“Your father’s valet had it delivered upon our arrival,” Una said. “There are some books and gazettes inside. I did not know if you would want them unpacked.” She cocked her head, looking around Charlotte’s shoulder, her brow raised. “It is not yours?”
“No,” Charlotte said. “I have never seen it before. It must be Aunt Maude’s.”
Una snorted quietly and returned her attention to the stay. “Not unless Lady Chelmsford has suddenly taken interest in Isaac Watts’s Improvement of the Mind,” she said. At Charlotte’s inquisitive glance, Una said, “That is what is in the bag. A copy of Improvement of the Mind; Voltaire, I think—Letters on the English Nation and The Pleasures of Imagination, I do believe, though that author escapes me.”
“Akenside,” Charlotte murmured, puzzled. “Yes, thank you,” Una said, wrenching back
against the corset again and managing to fetter the ties. “Very good. You can breathe now, Charlotte.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” Charlotte said, somewhat breathlessly, and Una laughed.
“At any rate, I did not consider the fare in the knapsack to be of your aunt’s…preferences…” Una said as Charlotte turned to her.
Charlotte laughed. “Not at all.”
“And I assumed it was yours,” Una said. “It is not mine. That leaves few to choose among.”
“It must be Mr. Cheadle’s,” Charlotte said, still perplexed.
Una met her gaze, raising an interested brow. “Mr. Cheadle is well-read, it appears.”
“He certainly is,” Charlotte said. “I will bring it with me this afternoon, and see it is returned to him.”
Charlotte and her family were due to attend a midafternoon party in honor of Margaret Houghton and her fiancé, Frederick Cuthbert at nearby Chapford Manor. James would attend. Charlotte genuinely meant to bring the knapsack with her, but in the hustle and bustle of her preparations—spurred to a nearly frenzied pace by Lady Epping’s harping and fretting over tardiness—she forgot. They were well underway, and almost through Warliss Park before she realized she had not brought the bag along, and by then, it was too late to turn back.
“Damn,” she muttered. Cheadle had not noticed the missing bag yet, but it was only a matter of time. She had figured opportunity least presented was that least encountered, and knowing James, he would only return to Darton to claim the sack and pester her mother again.
“Charlotte, your mouth,” Lady Epping said, poking her elbow firmly against Charlotte’s arm. “Wherever did you pick up such atrocious language? Not in our house, that is for certain.”
Charlotte glanced toward Reilly, seated across from her with their father. The corner of Reilly’s mouth hooked, and he drew his hand to his face to muffle a quiet snicker.
“Well, she did not learn it in London at my home, either,” Lady Chelmsford said, her shoulders stiffening, and the abundant swell of her bosom shoving forward in prim indignation.
“You will display good manners today, young lady,” Lady Epping said, waggling her forefinger at Charlotte.
“Yes, Mother,” Charlotte said, forcing a pleasant smile for Lady Epping.