On the warm September day that Matthew Crawley was expected to arrive with his mother, Charlotte Crawley took herself off to meet her new cousins and to invite them to dinner. She had not been instructed to do so—her father's plan had been to send a footman with the message—but she thought it would send a far better message (a message that they were respectable people who were to be, well, respected) if a member of the family came in person, and she had proposed dropping by herself to her father over breakfast. He had no interest or time for accompanying her, not when he'd be meeting these people that evening, but he had no objections to Charlotte's errand. Her mother would not be going either, of course—it was far too much hassle to get her into the carriage for such a short, unnecessary trip—and, much to Charlotte's relief, her sister was occupied with a long letter to Evelyn Napier. (If Charlotte heard one more comment about how he was soon to propose, she thought she'd scream, but she was glad to find Eleanor busy. Eleanor was far too flighty to convey the image of strength that Charlotte wanted to send to Cousin Matthew and Cousin Isobel.)
It was her mother whom Charlotte was worried about—specifically, how these new Crawleys might treat her. Parties and dinners had of course not been events Charlotte had attended as a child, but she had gathered, in the way that children often do, that in the early years after her mother's injury, Cora had been snubbed by most of the aristocracy, regarded as a freak who made for good gossip but poor company. Matters had improved over the course of Charlotte's life, with her mother stepping up to run Downton after her father had become earl. Cora and her wheelchair were now an accepted part of the Yorkshire landscape, but that was not the case in London, when they were among peers they saw rarely. Eleanor's recent debut had been particularly unpleasant, with the king demanding to know what in heaven's name was wrong with the countess as she presented her daughter. Cora had managed to smooth over the moment and quiet His Majesty's sputtering, but when Charlotte had found her dabbing at her eyes later, regretting having embarrassed her youngest daughter, it had filled her with a mad desire to take to the streets with a cry of revolution.
Strangers, like the king, were the worst, having had no experience with or prior knowledge of "the crippled countess," as Charlotte's mother had become known. It was this sort of scene that Charlotte was hoping to prevent with her preemptive visit to the Crawleys.
It was a bit of a hike to the house they'd been provided, but Charlotte was accustomed to that. It always seemed so unnecessary to drag the carriage out for a one-person trip to the village on a nice day, and of course, she had never been allowed to ride. Not that she wished to. The very idea frightened her, after what had happened to her poor mother.
She was let into the house by Molesley, the man her father had engaged as both valet and butler for the small household.
"Ah, Miss Crawley! Yes, I'm certain Mr. Crawley and Mrs. Crawley would welcome your visit. Please follow me."
As she did so, she heard a young, irritated, male voice. "I have to be myself, Mother. I'll be no use to anyone if I can't be myself. I may be inheriting a title I don't want, an estate I don't need, and a fortune I won't use, but I won't change for them. And before they, or you, get any ideas, I will choose my own wife."
An estate and a fortune? Charlotte's nostrils flared. Where on earth had he gotten the idea that he would be getting her inheritance? He'd certainly not been told that; surely he knew it wasn't his. Likely he thought he'd swoop in, charm her parents, and make off with the whole package. He had another thing coming if he thought…
A middle-aged female voice. "What on earth do you mean?"
"Well, they're clearly going to push one of the daughters at me. They'll have fixed on that when they heard I was a bachelor."
Charlotte gasped at this. He thought she'd marry him? Molesley, she noted with satisfaction, was well-trained enough to ignore her sharp intake of breath, and he merely opened the parlor door.
"Miss Charlotte Crawley," he announced, and Charlotte swept into the room. The young man she took for Cousin Matthew—a tall, rather handsome blond—was staring at her with horror. Good, she thought. He might be quite full of himself, and extremely presumptuous, but at least he had the good sense to know he'd behaved badly. Perhaps that would lead him to politeness this evening.
"I do hope I'm not interrupting," Charlotte said.
The woman she took for Cousin Isobel gave her a small smile. "Certainly not." Matthew continued to gape at her.
"Papa wishes to invite you both to dine at the abbey this evening, if you're not too tired from your journey."
"We would be delighted," Cousin Isobel said.
Matthew still did not speak. A good sign, Charlotte thought. He would have little opportunity to be rude if he were too embarrassed to open his mouth.
"Good," Charlotte said, trying to project an air of authority that she hoped would intimidate Isobel as well. "We'll expect you at eight."
"Won't you stay and have some tea?" Isobel offered as she turned to go.
"Oh no, I wouldn't dream of it. Not when you've just arrived." It wouldn't be a bad idea to take a dig at Matthew before she left, she thought, adding, "And I wouldn't want to push in."
"Lady Charlotte!" she heard Matthew call as she stepped out of the house. She turned. "Lady Charlotte, I hope you didn't misunderstand me—"
"I'm not Lady Charlotte," she corrected. "I'm Miss Crawley. But Cousin Charlotte will do."
He stopped short. "Are you—forgive me; I must have misunderstood. I had thought the earl had a daughter called Charlotte. Who are your parents? Who is it that's invited us to dine?"
"My parents," she said, irritated that he had poor enough manners to inquire after her history, "are the Earl and Countess of Grantham. Robert and Cora Crawley."
There was a silence, and she saw him wet his lips in discomfort. Clearly, he knew enough to know that a daughter of an earl ought to be a lady, but he was not confident enough in his own knowledge to say so. She decided she ought to offer an explanation—everyone else in Yorkshire knew, and she was not ashamed of her background.
"I am their adopted daughter," she said. "And so I have no title—it wasn't possible, legally. Or at least not simple. But they are my parents."
"Is adoption common among the northern aristocracy?" he asked, and she read a professional interest in the question—he was, after all, an attorney. "I was not aware—"
"No," she said, wishing to end this line of inquiry. She did not believe it would be profitable to explain her mother's injury before he arrived at dinner. She'd decided he'd be better behaved if he were shocked. A shocked Matthew seemed to be a quiet one. "It is not common. But my parents' situation was not common. If you'll excuse me?" She nodded toward the road.
"Of course, Cousin Charlotte. Your horse…" He glanced around, confused.
Charlotte fought the urge to roll her eyes. Yes, they were some distance from the abbey, but what was more likely: that the animal had wandered off, or that she'd walked?
"I didn't bring a horse," she snapped. "My sister and I do not ride."
And she flounced off down the path before he could pepper her with questions about aristocrats who didn't ride.