It took nearly two days to reach Boston; the flight had a stopover in Dallas and despite all the time to prepare, Charlotte still felt butterflies in her stomach. She checked her reflection one last time in the bathroom mirror of the hotel room, wishing she'd chosen a different dress, and had gotten a haircut, and had a better brand of lipstick . . . At least the black eye had faded. Sighing, she stuck her tongue out at her image and laughed, feeling lighter for it.
"You are who you are," Charlotte told herself. "Francisco Colombe's daughter. Surgical nurse, morgue liaison, mediocre artist and proud of it." Sii forte."
Charles turned to her as she stepped out, his smile affectionate. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be," she gulped, and followed him out to the lobby.
This time he was the one pointing out landmarks during their taxi ride, and the delight in his voice warmed her. "We'll pass the old North Church, made famous in Longfellow's poem, and you can see the hahrbor . . ." Even now his accent was getting thicker, Charlotte noted.
"Will we see Hahr-vard too?" she teased gently. Charles harrumphed, but grinned nonetheless. The ride took longer due to the construction of the new turnpike, and by the time the taxi pulled up to 125 Myrtle Street on Beacon Hill, Charlotte was clutching Charles' lightly bandaged hand tightly enough to make him wince a bit.
"Beloved, they're not going to bite you," he murmured soothingly.
"I know," she whispered back, "But it's still a bit like walking into a lion's den."
He helped her out of the taxi as the driver unloaded their luggage and accepted fare and tip from Charles. Charlotte looked at the glossy black door set into the brick face of the townhouse, and felt an artist's sense of delight at the rich colors; the cool dapple of sunlight against the façade of the building.
Then the door opened and a wide-eyed cheerful girl scrambled out, jumping the three steps and launching herself at Charles, who caught her forward momentum with an 'oomph'.
"C-Charles!" she laughed, her hug tightening around him. Charlotte took a step back herself to give them a moment, delighted at Honoria's enthusiasm. The younger Winchester sibling was long and lanky in her sweater set, with a high ponytail of carrot red hair and a pointed nose. She and Charles had the same eyes though, and when her brother set her down, she looked at Charlotte, shyly holding out her arms.
Charlotte squeezed the girl in a hug, feeling her trepidation disappear in that warmth.
"I am s-s-s-so glad to meet y-you, finally!" Honoria whispered, smiling.
"I feel the same way," Charlotte replied. "Were you watching for us from the window?"
The girl nodded, and then another figure appeared in the open doorway, peering out.
"Chahrles," came a deep voice, rolling with the same calm and measured tone. "Welcome home, my son."
Charles Emerson Winchester the Second swung his black lacquered cane and stepped onto the first brick step, making his way down impatiently and when he reached the sidewalk he draped the cane's handle in the crook of his elbow and reached both hands out to wring that of his son, wrapping his grip around him.
"Father," Charles rumbled, looking solemn and delighted at the same time.
He was as tall as Charles, although leaner and paler. He too was balding, but the frizzy corona of white hair around his head was close-cropped, and his blue eyes appeared magnified through the reading glasses perched low on his nose. Charlotte felt the weight of his gaze when he turned it to her. She thought he looked like a professor in his button-down, cardigan and slacks.
"Father, this is Charlotte Colombe, my . . . intended," Charles introduced her quietly and she held out her hand to him, feeling his warm fingers grasp hers with gentleness.
"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance my deahr," he murmured. "Please call me Win."
She nodded, "Thank you. I'm very pleased to meet you as well, sir."
Motioning for them to enter, Win slowly climbed the brick stairs. Charles and Charlotte moved to collect the luggage with Honoria helping, her grin infectious. "F-Father and I took t-turns at the w-window."
"I thought as much," Charles replied, his voice soft. Charlotte found herself being ushered through a lovely foyer and an archway to the left; a spacious living room with thick oriental rugs in pale creams and greens topped by Georgian furniture. Rising from the sofa was the woman Charlotte knew would be her future mother-in-law.
Pamela Winchester wore a wavy bob of silver hair and a tremulous expression; she extended her arms to Charles, who allowed himself to be hugged tightly by his mother.
"Oh Charles," she murmured, "Back safe and sound! I'm so . . . grateful."
"I kept my word about being careful," he assured her, "Winchesters do keep their word."
"Yes they do," his mother agreed, and turned to look at Charlotte, meeting her gaze squarely. "So you're Charlotte!"
Charlotte extended her hands but the woman hugged her as well; a delicate one consisting of a press of a cool cheek to hers, a soft squeeze of arms. Stepping back, she smiled. "You must call me Pamela, dear. And thank you."
Startled, Charlotte felt herself blush. "I haven't done anything . . ."
"Oh you have, trust me," came the knowing reply. "And I'm grateful. Now come sit down and tell us all about yourself, won't you?"
She caught Charles' amused expression out of the corner of her eye as they on the sofa. Honoria brought in a sterling tea service on a tray nearly as large as the coffee table itself and Pamela served it up.
Charlotte noted that Win sat in the large armchair and watched everyone keenly, accepting a cup from Honoria with a nod of thanks. The questions began, and Charlotte found herself telling the story of how she and Charles had met, and about the little spot along the creek in Korea. By prior decision with Charles, she avoided mentioning the charade part of their relationship, and only mentioned her brother in passing even though she felt guilty about him and how matters stood with her family at the moment.
"It all sounds rather romantic; meeting in a war zone," Pamela mused. "Like something Hemingway would write."
"N-none of his romances panned out M-Mother," Honoria pointed out with a grin, but her mother waved a dismissing hand.
"Pooh, you know what I mean. The dashing officer and the beautiful n—"
"—the beautiful officer," Charles broke in quietly. "Charlotte merits her share of recognition for her rank as much as anything else. At times her work was harder than mine."
Charlotte flushed again, but Pamela gave a slow nod of agreement. "Well said, dear. Your hand . . . are you hurt?"
"A minor puncture," Charles replied. "Nothing serious. So tell me, has the house on Acorn been aired out? Did you have someone check the eaves for wasps? You know that north corner has always been troublesome."
As they began to chat, Charlotte felt a little left out until she noticed Honoria and her father gesturing to her, and making a little murmur she excused herself and followed them out from the tea, leaving Charles and his mother behind to talk. In the foyer, Honoria gave her another smile.
"F-Father and I will show you around and to your room if y-y-you'd like a nap. Charles and M-Mother will be catching u-up for a while."
"Pamela tends to talk," Win rumbled, "a great deal. Shall we?"
For the next forty-five minutes Charlotte toured the house, asking questions and enjoying the easy company of Win and Honoria. They peeked into the sunny back kitchen and introduced her to Mrs. Linden, stopped by the wood-paneled library and study and then took the elevator upstairs. Win murmured, "Mangled my knee in the Great War; hasn't been the same since so we installed this when we had the place built."
"I justt-take it because it's fun," Honoria admitted. "Easier to g-get the harp up and down."
"A full-sized harp?" Charlotte goggled a bit, making the girl giggle as she nodded.
Upstairs were three bedrooms and Honoria's music chamber. There was also a little rear balcony that overlooked a charming but tiny back yard down below.
Charlotte found her intimidation evaporating under Honoria and Win's easy camaraderie. Honoria was bubbly and bright; her father was much quieter but open and prone to little stories about certain objects or rooms. When the tour was over, Honoria pointed to the bedroom with the slate blue walls and white trim. "Th-This one's yours. Used to b-be Charles'."
Touched, Charlotte noticed her suitcases had been brought up. The four poster with the cream chenille spread did look inviting, and she tried to stifle a yawn in response to it.
"Rest, Charlotte my dear," Win told her calmly. "We dine later in the summer, when the air is cooler."
Encouraged, she nodded and they left her there to kick off her shoes and stretch out on the mattress. Even though she was tired it took a while to fall asleep but eventually Charlotte did, comforted by the sound of the breeze through the trees outside.