by Robin Helm
Again, Henry smiled at the intuitive direction. “Perhaps it is due to our personalities that we do not enjoy playing together.”
“Why do you call your sisters by their full names but your brothers by one name only?” Charlotte continued her interrogation.
“My Mama is Marianne, with the two names forged together as one. She named her daughters, my sisters, with names that coupled well but are, in fact, separate. Her wish was to call them both names, however, and the girls seem to enjoy it. The lads and I do not relish our fanciful names and chose, instead, to adopt portions of one or the other.”
“Tom said you are Henry V. What is the ‘V’?”
Henry grinned, shaking his head.
“Why, you little minx! You shall not use your wiles against me.”
“But Henry, will you not just tell me?” Charlotte pleaded prettily.
He again shook his head.
“When playing this new game with Gabriella Maria, I would call her ‘my pretty princess.’ What name shall I call you?”
The reply was a blank stare.
“What do your parents call you?”
“Only Charlotte.”
“Well, I cannot say ‘only Charlotte’ for our game. I do not suppose Ben has any affectionate name for you?”
The shake of the head was small, her eyes forlorn.
“I once knew a Charlotte who was called ‘Lottie.’ Would that do?”
“You will call me your ‘pretty Lottie’?” asked the child eagerly.
“That is rather a mouthful,” he remarked sadly, “but I know just the thing. Shall we begin?”
Charlotte gave a slow nod of approval.
Later, after a dose of warm milk and honey, Henry and Nanny were getting Charlotte tucked into bed for a rest. She interrupted the ritual by asking a question which had been bothering her after catching her reflection in the looking glass.
“Did Gabriella Maria’s spots go away?” She sighed as she examined her exposed wrists and hands, knowing full well that the rash covered her entire body.
“Your spots have already begun to fade. They were a much darker red when I first arrived,” he soothed.
“When did her spots go away? How long before they are gone?”
Henry leaned in to smooth the hair from her brow. Cool and dry.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered as Nanny pulled the draperies, enveloping the room in darkness. “Does little Lottie like sleigh rides in the snow, or picnics on the beach, or puddle-jumping on a warm day?”
Charlotte’s smile was fleeting and wistful as it played across her face, the happy notions filling her head as she drifted off to sleep.
Part Two
Chapter One
1840
“You are so fortunate!” cried Fanny, fanning her misty eyes. Her parents had named her rather appropriately, for she always had need of her fan.
“It is so romantic!” agreed Mary, attempting to peer over her friend’s shoulder in order to get a better glimpse at the mysterious package.
“Imagine, faithfully remembering you on this special day every year,” Fanny continued, feigning a swoon onto her bed.
“Is it your birthday?” inquired the new girl, Agatha. Fanny and Mary sighed in frustration. Their German friend was not overly sensible.
Charlotte rolled her eyes in response to all of the attention.
“No, Agatha, it is not my birthday. It is Saint Valentine’s Day.”
“When gifts are sent to your romantic love,” explained Mary.
“Sometimes in secret,” Fanny concluded with relish.
“It is from my parents, most likely,” Charlotte inserted dryly, inadvertently crushing their dreams.
“Your parents would send you gifts every year with a card signed ‘Your Valentine’?” Fanny asked, voice dripping with skepticism.
“Since it began when I was but five years old, after surviving a serious illness, yes,” she concluded reasonably, thus infuriating her friends once again.
“Could it be from your brother?” suggested Agatha, becoming enveloped in the scenario. She was blessed with an excellent brother, so the suggestion seemed a reasonable one.
“Not her brother,” replied a sympathetic Fanny.
“Definitely not the brother,” agreed Mary. She had met Bennett once on a holiday and had not enjoyed any romantic sensations from that quarter. He may have greeted Charlotte in passing, but he would never be accused of being a doting elder brother.
“There must be someone,” Fanny insisted again. “Parents celebrate birthdays and Michaelmas – not Saint Valentine’s.
“I assure you, I have considered all of my acquaintance at one time or another. There is no one else. No one romantic.”
The girls huffed in unison and sat to think. Fanny’s eyes squinted when she glanced in Charlotte’s direction.
“You are thinking of someone! Tell us!” she demanded. The others focused in on the target and insisted on hearing Charlotte’s ideas as well.
Charlotte shook her head slowly, rolling her lips together in disgust for their enthusiasm.
“It is nothing, I assure you,” she said finally.
“Tell us anyway!” demanded Fanny once more.
“Fine,” Charlotte relented. “He is one of Bennett’s friends. Our families became acquainted while Bennett and Tom were at Eton together.” Charlotte shrugged, unconvinced. “Tom initially took as much interest in me as my brother did,” she explained to Agatha in an aside, “which is to say, none,” then she shrugged once more, “but our last meeting was slightly different.”
“Tom. Who is this ‘Tom’?” began Fanny.
“Why have we not heard of him?” Mary added.
“Twins, separated at birth,” Agatha interjected, indicating Mary and Fanny as she spoke to Charlotte.
Charlotte grinned. “They do have an uncanny way of finishing each other’s thoughts.”
“Do not prevaricate,” Fanny ordered.
“Tom. Mr. Thomas Brandon. From Devonshire. What else is there to say?”
Fanny and Mary deflated and rolled their eyes in perfect synchrony before lashing out their commands.
“Age.”
“Appearance.”
“Estate.”
“Interests.”
“Oh, interests,” Fanny noted with approval. “That is excellent information to have.”
“She does not seem to be overly attached to him,” Mary replied, leaning toward Fanny.
“And we will be out soon.”
“Is Mr. Thomas Brandon the eldest?” inquired Mary.
“Yes! Much more to the point than are age and appearance. You are on target today, Mary,” noted Fanny approvingly.
Both turned to Charlotte expectantly.
“Well,” began Charlotte, feeling dull-witted for the first time in her life, “excuse me, but why do age and appearance not matter to you?”
“The poor thing,” Fanny said sadly to Mary.
“With no older sisters looking out for her,” added the latter.
“And a mother of more noble sentiments,” chided Fanny.
“When one is worth 30,000 pounds,” remarked Mary in a very low voice.
“Enough!” Charlotte exclaimed, amusement filling her eyes. “Do you really mean to say that you would marry only for money and position, with no thought to your mate’s appearance or a shared affection?” She could only stare dumbfounded at her friends who mirrored the same expression.
“Let us hope the Market is full of handsome and wealthy nobles,” Agatha said merrily, “who have lower standards.”
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
Charlotte’s finishing school had been carefully chosen by her parents. It not only polished and refined the ladylike accomplishments that had been taught at home, but it also encouraged interests in science, math, higher languages, and other academia that was deemed more of the man’s world.
While Charlotte had no claims to being bookish, she did maintain that child
ish curiosity concerning the world about her. She did not aspire to know all of the inner workings of current machinery, but she enjoyed seeing the cogs and wheels in motion.
Fanny and Mary had no such fruitless ambition, preferring instead to spend their free time in studying annals of the peerage, but Agatha was content to trudge along for the exercise if nothing else.
“I still have the pamphlet from taking the Margery to Gravesend,” said Charlotte proudly to her friends one day, when she happened upon it as she rifled through her trunk. The lack of interest was tangible, and she never sought to include them in her outings again. That had taken place prior to Agatha’s appearance.
“Where do you go today?” Agatha inquired from her seat beside the fire in the parlour they shared. Charlotte was dressed in her warmest attire, as it was a dreadfully cold and windy day. She smiled, knowing full well the interest was feigned. Even Agatha did not care for jaunts in this weather.
“Madame Tussaud has another exhibition, and I am determined to visit that room of tragic figures we hear about only in whispers.”
“You would leave this warm fire for an arrangement of wax?” Agatha asked skeptically.
“Who knows when the exhibit and I will both be in Town again?” Charlotte returned question for question. “Convenience gives me courage.”
But Charlotte had not been completely forthcoming with the details of her outing. Usually, the girls of the establishment were escorted by teachers or sponsors, but today, Charlotte’s aunt was picking her up in comfort and playing chaperone.
She bade them good day to wait in the hallway for her aunt’s arrival. Before long, she saw the familiar conveyance through the windows and hurried through the front door, held open for her by the butler.
A footman stepped from the back of the town coach to assist her up the steps.
“What a dreary day!” Aunt Georgiana noted as the carriage door was closed against the gusts of icy wind. “Here is your rug, dear, and you must rest your feet upon the hot bricks,” she instructed.
“Dear Aunt! How kind you are to keep your appointment with me today.”
“Well, I must confess to my share of curiosity for the curiosities of Tussaud’s,” the aunt acknowledged ruefully, “and with the boys away at university, the house is too quiet in the winter.”
The beautiful Georgiana Munstead, née Darcy, though shy in her youth, had caught the eye of nobility. The courtship had been charming and romantic, and the marriage had seen her blossom. As the Countess of Montclair, she now had all the connections an aspiring debutante might need or want for a successful Season. She preferred the setting of their country place, Chattem Castle, to Town, but her husband’s presence was required often, and now their sons were at university as well. The aunt happily volunteered to sponsor Charlotte, for she loved the girl and had no daughters on whom to lavish that feminine affection.
Charlotte, for her part, was in no hurry for a Season or for marriage, so she requested, and was granted, an additional year at the finishing school which put her coming out just as she gained her eighteenth year.
“Why, this figure of Marie Antoinette’s head is brilliant!” Charlotte muttered enthusiastically to her aunt. They had paid the extra sixpence each to be allowed into the Separate Room.
“The poor dear lost it most tragically,” shuddered Lady Montclair.
“But you must remark on the appearance of it! The flesh looks as real as yours or mine,” Charlotte insisted.
“Considering her face was used for the imprint of the mask, there is every reason for its realism.”
Charlotte jolted to attention at the sound of the familiar voice behind her. She turned quickly, flashing a smile of joyful surprise.
“Henry!” she cried.
“Miss Darcy,” he replied, bowing. In confusion at the formality between friends, she dropped the slightest curtsey and nearly forgot to introduce her aunt. It was the lady’s clearing of the throat that brought her duty to mind.
“Oh! Yes, Aunt, may I introduce Mr. Brandon? Mr. Brandon, my aunt, Lady Montclair.”
Georgiana extended her hand, seeing her niece was eager for familiarity.
“Mr. Brandon?” repeated the aunt. “Could you be a son of Colonel Brandon’s?”
“I am his eldest.”
“I have not had the pleasure of meeting your father, but I have seen your mother about Town. She is quite lovely. I had no idea of her having a son your age.”
“She would be delighted to hear it. I shall pass on your compliment,” Henry noted with a smile and bow.
Charlotte was growing impatient to have her share of conversation, so Georgiana ducked her head and excused herself, being sure to stay close by.
“I suppose you must call me Miss Darcy in public now, though it makes me feel I have been very naughty and made you cross,” she sighed.
“Have you ever made me cross?” he inquired softly.
The etiquette of the Room was such that conversation was discouraged. They moved to an exhibit as if in discussion about its horrors.
“Perhaps displeased would be more accurate,” the girl conceded, “but I am used to your calling me Charlotte then.”
“Ah,” he acknowledged. “Does Little Lottie like guillotines,” he asked, indicating the wax sculpture before them, “or heads,” he continued, nodding to a few arranged nearby, “or prisons?” he finished, leading her to the Bastille.
Charlotte’s eyes danced. “Just so,” she nodded approvingly, pleased to restore the natural balance of their friendship.
“And will Little Lottie be having her Season soon?” Henry asked.
“I will stay on at Lucy’s and have my Season next year,” was the gloomy reply.
“Do your parents not deem you of age?” incorrectly interpreting her tone.
Charlotte chuckled. “I sigh only because I must have a Season at all. Seems such a waste of effort when I have no interest in marriage.” She leaned in a bit to whisper solemnly, “But do not tell my aunt. She is so excited to sponsor me, and I would not wound her for the world.”
“Your thoughtfulness does you credit,” Henry replied, adopting the tones of an elder brother, “but how is it that you do not wish to marry?”
Charlotte shrugged, showing disinterest. “I do not need to marry, and none of the happy couples I know were introduced during a London Season.”
“It is well for you to extend your time at Lucy’s,” stated Henry, patting the hand that held his elbow before gently removing it. “I believe I have seen enough horrors for today. I must return you to your aunt.”
Once deposited securely, Charlotte remarked to her aunt that Henry made a much better elder brother than Bennett ever did. Still, Georgiana wrote to her sister-in-law immediately upon returning to her own house, wishing to be assured that the Coming Out was still expected to take place.
The relationship is a special one, I grant you. It was Mr. Brandon who maintained vigilance at Charlotte’s bedside while she was so ill, it was he who recommended the treatment we followed, and it is he who still manages her amusements when our families reunite on holidays. After Charlotte’s full recovery, Marianne, his mother, confided that her youngest daughter had suffered complications of the same illness and had passed away. Henry felt to blame, because it was he who brought the illness from Eton. Marianne had also become ill and was unable to care for the girl, so it had been Henry who stayed at the bedside offering comfort and distraction. Marianne and her husband suspect that Charlotte has replaced Gabriella in his affections. In truth, Charlotte is still such a girl, in no hurry to reach adulthood, that I do not wonder at their continued relationship. I cherish and guard her youth, but I pray she finds a man who appreciates her ways as much as I do – or even as much as Mr. Brandon does! Your brother and I would both be pleased to make him our son in due course, so do not discourage them. I welcome your insights on any person or persons of interest, of course, especially once her Season is underway. Now, you must tell me more o
f Madame Tussaud’s …
Chapter Two
1841
“Happy birthday, dear!” Mrs. Darcy exclaimed, surprising her daughter with a visit. Charlotte’s birthday happened to fall within a few days of her Presentation at Court, and so mother and father were eager to celebrate and ogle. With Darcy’s sister, the Countess of Woodbridge, as Charlotte’s sponsor for her Season, there were no doors left unopened, no cards or invitations withheld. To call the Coming Out a raging success lacked only that pivotal element of a marriage proposal by a wealthy noble.
“Mama! Papa!” Charlotte squealed in delight, offering her cheek to the one and a hand to the other.
Now eighteen, Charlotte was in the older bracket of debutantes having a first Season, but, though she carried herself well and boasted all the accomplishments an aspiring young lady could afford, she maintained a youthfulness that was both refreshing and attractive.
Charlotte’s eyes were the colour of her aunt’s, a cerulean blue; however, where Georgiana’s eyes were angelic and round, Charlotte’s were sharp and intelligent, often brimming with amusement. She had chestnut curls like her father that glistened with streaks of gold after time spent in the sun. Her colouring was not the most fashionable white but was more of a rich cream, flushing a beautiful rose when exercising out of doors or while dancing. Charlotte’s health and vigour were unrivalled, and she created a fashion all her own as the girls raised to be fainting misses were left unattended as soon as she entered a room.
Yet, she did not seem to notice her success. She was known to leave the most eligible suitors in order to arrange dance partners for the less noticed debutantes. Most found it difficult to begrudge her popularity and chose instead to compete for the status of close friendship. Comments such as: “Charlotte and I are inseparable!” or “Could I introduce you to Miss Darcy? Why, we have been friends for an age!” and even “Dearest Charlotte! I absolutely could not go on without her!” were just a few of the exclamations the gentlemen might hear from the other hopeful debs.
After a cozy tête-à-tête over tea, Charlotte’s court instructor was announced, and she rushed upstairs to change into her court dress. The instructor was a bit put out to be kept waiting, since the dressing took more time than the actual practice, but Lady Montclair did her best to alleviate the tension. Praise and apologies from a Peer went a long way.