Author's Note:
Well Sanditon friends, I'm back with another Heybourne story! I could not keep away! In all seriousness, my love for this beautiful couple has only increased over the past few months and I've enjoyed immensely the time I've been spending with them while writing this story, imagining them post-honeymoon, beginning their life together at Heyrick Park. But of course, as with any great love story, the course of true love never did run smooth, so Charlotte will have to grapple with some challenges and face down a slightly Rebecca-esque situation before things right themselves again. Luckily, our Charlotte is no shrinking violet! A note on the title of chapter 1: It is taken from William Wordsworth's, Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known, which is one of a series of five poems known as the Lucy poems. Coupled with the fact that Wordsworth was one of the famous Lake Poets, a group of English Romantic poets who lived and worked in the Lake District in the early 19th century, it felt both serendipitous and slightly eerie to stumble upon this particular line of verse in the course of writing this story. The full line reads:
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide / Into a Lover's head
I hope it gives readers some food for thought as it did for me!
After the Lakes
Chapter 1: Fond and Wayward Thoughts
Charlotte gazed down the length of the long candlelit table at her new husband and thought to herself that if it had not been for him, she might not have known where she was. It was not only that over the past fortnight she seemed to have dined in almost as many places, but also during her brief time as governess she had never once sat in the dining room at Heyrick Park, instead taking her meals in the kitchen with Mrs. Wheatley or on occasion with the girls if they happened to be conducting their studies outdoors and had arranged a picnic. Certainly she had never dined with the master of the house, and certainly never attended upon by servants. It was a grand and beautiful room, surprisingly cheerful with its yellow walls and ornate chandelier lit with so many candles that it felt as if the sun itself hung suspended above them. The rich wood of the table gleamed beneath the fine china dinner service, the array of dishes laid out before her seeming unduly vast. They were only two people, yet a lavishly bountiful repast had been prepared in honor of their first dinner together at home, and Charlotte felt herself almost overwhelmed by it all.
"You're not eating, my dear. Are you well?" Alexander was regarding her with a hint of concern and she realized she had once again slipped into introspection without meaning to.
"Perfectly well." She smiled, then said with a humorous sideways tilt of her head, "it's all… rather much. I was not expecting such a banquet. Nor such an elaborately laid table."
"Nothing is too much for the lady of the house."
She let out a breath of a laugh, then realized he'd spoken with complete seriousness. Not wishing to seem ungrateful, she said,
"It's lovely."
And it was. Not only the food and the exquisite dinner service, but every other detail as well – from the beautiful bouquet that served as a centerpiece to the immaculate linens all embroidered with the monogram C in ivory silk thread – combined to lend such an air of stateliness and splendor to the occasion that the many fine dinners she had enjoyed at the Parkers' home seemed homely and modest in comparison. There was no doubt that the staff had outdone themselves, and in effort to do their labors justice, Charlotte took a bite of pheasant in sauce and nodded approvingly, then had a small sip of wine.
A footman approached with the decanter to refill her glass, but she held up her hand.
"Oh, no thank you." She smiled self-consciously, aware that across the table Alexander's glass was still half-full. He had never been much of a one for wine and she had no intention of outpacing him.
Charlotte attempted to make smalltalk, but the length of the table and the formality of the occasion had the effect of making all her words sound stilted and over-exaggerated. She felt like an actress addressing an audience, every inconsequential remark or observation taking on the character of some declaration or soliloquy. It was such a change from the small and snug inns and taverns they had dined in during their honeymoon in the Lake District, when they had sat at tables of a far more humble size, positioned so close together they might as well have been side by side. There had been a charming informality about those meals that had been so perfectly in keeping with the intimacy they were just beginning to share as man and wife, alone together for the first time, in a new place, caught up in a spirit of discovery that applied as much to the wonders of the Lakes as to each other. Heyrick Park had of course the advantage of being a known entity, and familiar as far as knowing its layout went, but it was also new in the sense that Charlotte had entered into it today for the first time as her home, and found herself in the extraordinary position of being mistress of the very place where, only months before, she had been – socially speaking – little better than a servant. All of these thoughts swirled in her head as she sat gazing at Alexander, half-wishing they were back in Cumbria, which until their visit had held no past associations for either of them. It had been a blank canvas, a veritable tabula rasa, if such a thing could be said of a place, and there had been something uniquely comforting about that which she now missed with a particular, slightly unwelcome keenness.
It was with both relief and a slight sense of guilt that she hadn't been able to muster a better appetite, that Charlotte at last rose from the table and the two of them retired to the drawing room to sit together by the fire. It was nearly the end of October and the evenings were now undeniably chilly, the warmth of the blaze doubly welcome in the large, drafty space. No sooner had they seated themselves on the settee than Charlotte felt a sense of comfortable familiarity overtake her, the awkwardness that had consumed her during dinner vanishing without a trace. Lovely as Cumbria had been, she had no wish to be anywhere other than here, in this well-known room with its soft, pleasant colors and – even more pleasant – her dear husband beside her. The staff had finally retreated downstairs. But for the crackling of the fire and the hissing of the candles, all was quiet. Alone for the first time since their arrival, the newlyweds looked at each other.
After a few moments, Alexander leaned toward Charlotte as if to kiss her, then abruptly pulled back, his eyes instead resting on hers, an expression of surprise, almost of awe in their depths.
"What is it?"
"I can't believe you're here." He shook his head wonderingly. "When I think of the number of times I dreamed of…" He broke off, swallowing reflexively. "It fairly stops my heart."
His voice had become soft and melodic, with that particular timbre that always threatened to stop hers. She stared at him, transfixed.
"Have you any idea how much I love you?" He reached out reverently, almost hesitatingly, and stroked her cheek with his thumb, his hand cradling her face.
"Can you conceive… can you possibly imagine it? You make me want to forget everything that came before, every moment of my life of which you were not a part."
Charlotte's eyes widened and a shiver passed through her, the breath leaving her lungs in a rush, the inevitable tears spilling down her cheeks. After forbearing for so many weeks and months from expressing his feelings, he seemed determined these days to tell her what was in his heart, and for her part, hearing these earnest, unaffected declarations from a man naturally so reserved never failed to move her or remind her of the lengths to which he would go to show his devotion. Despite his words, she could conceive of it. She could imagine it. Had she not lived it? Was she not living it this very moment? She had not been married a month, yet even that short time had sufficed to make her fully sensible that no other human being on earth could wish to be loved better than she was loved, and he who thus loved her she absolutely adored. It was unlike anything else she had ever experienced, and in truth she was at times almost frightened by the depth of what she felt for him, the intensity of her passion. Nothing in her life could have prepared her for such feelings, yet again and again, day after day, from the moment she had kissed him in the church, she found herself both undone and remade by the force of her love for him, and his for her. Unable to speak, she merely gazed at him, his dear face blurred through her tears.
"Oh, don't," he pleaded, catching sight of her weeping. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." He quickly moved to brush the tears away, his fingertips light on her face. She caught her breath with a quiet gasp and while she endeavored to take hold of herself, he gave her a self-deprecating half-smile. "You mustn't mind my nonsensical ramblings, they do no good."
Ignoring his self-effacement, she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I love you too. So very dearly."
As she clasped his hand with hers, she could not help but recall the last time they had sat here together, on that evening months ago when he had unburdened himself to her, sharing his painful history, allowing her – for the first time – to see him fully, in all his brokenness and goodness. She had already begun, in spite of herself, to care for him, but after the intimacy of that revelation it had felt natural, almost inevitable, that they should know also the intimacy of touch, of hand in hand, of lips on lips. Yet the swell of affection and longing she had felt for him then was nothing to what she felt in this moment for the man who had become her husband, the man she knew so much better now, the man who had – with a strength and valor she had never seen the equal of – fought his way out of the darkness that had been his past and set about forging a new life for himself with a spirit of determination that would put any of the heroes of myth to shame.
"Are you happy?" He asked, the tracks of her tears still visible on her face.
"Yes. Are you?"
"To the heart's core."
She read the signs of bliss in his features. His eyes shone as though lit from their own source, his expression enraptured and ardent, his lips slightly parted. Now it was she who leaned in to kiss him, she who put her hand to his face, pulling him toward her, her heart flooded with both great tenderness and great desire.
If she could have spoken she might have tried to tell him, as he had so movingly told her, of all that she felt, all of the breathtaking, heart-stopping immensity of the love she bore him, but her lips were otherwise engaged and but for a little moan that unwittingly escaped her as she clung to him, she was mute, lost to the passion of the moment. Free at last now to enjoy the ease and freedom and trust she had been unable to do in those first tentative moments on that evening after the ball those months ago, Charlotte closed her eyes and surrendered, and her world became one of pure touch.
The next words uttered – minutes later? Hours? – were his, and his voice was hoarse, scarcely more than a whisper.
"Shall we retire early, Mrs. Colbourne?"
"Yes please," she murmured back. Before she knew what was happening he had risen to his feet, swept her up in his arms, and was hastening out of the drawing room, down the passage, and up the stairs with the sort of urgency that only the deepest ardor could provoke. The quiet corridors of Heyrick Park rang with her laughter.
That night, despite their exertions, Charlotte lay awake, staring up at the unfamiliar canopy of their bed, pleasantly exhausted in body but unable to still the relentless workings of her mind. Half of the day had been lost to traveling, yet it had felt as full and rich a day as any could be. From the moment that morning when they'd left the last inn where they'd spent the night, she had been filled with a sense of anticipation so intense it bordered on fear. She recalled the excitement she'd felt as the carriage pulled up the drive towards the house and the startled sensation of awe she'd experienced at the sight of the crowd assembled to greet them. Every last member of staff, not only indoor but outdoor too, down to the gamekeeper, gardeners and stable hands, had turned out to welcome their master and new mistress, and Charlotte had felt shocked by the number, which she had never seen all gathered together and had, perhaps naively, imagined to be much smaller. With no small sense of humility she had accepted Alexander's hand to alight from the carriage and smiled as graciously as she could in response to the many curtseys and tugged forelocks. But strangest of all was the fact that Leo and Augusta – who she had been eagerly looking forward to seeing – were not among those assembled. In fact, apart from Mrs. Wheatley and one or two of the maids and footmen, she did not recognize a single face. It was an unfamiliar and unexpected feeling, and might have unsettled her had she had time to dwell on it, but Mrs. Wheatley had ushered them quickly inside and Charlotte had learned that the girls' stay in London with Samuel had been prolonged by a couple of days, but that their return was now set for three days from this and that no further delays were expected.
Mrs. Wheatley, whose beaming smile and heartfelt words of welcome did more to make Charlotte feel at home than a thousand servants' gestures of obeisance, had, after expressing a hope that their journey had been an easy one, shown her upstairs to the rooms that were to be hers. She found the spaces sunny and cheerful, with furnishings in the same soft hues as the drawing room and a freshness that suggested they had been recently aired. The bedchamber couldn't have been more pointedly different than the Parkers' rich, amber-toned guest room where she had spent so many months, and she had to admit to herself that she preferred this one, with its rather more modest elegance. Furthermore, some of her belongings – those she had not brought with her to the Lakes – had already been unpacked and arranged about the room, and seeing the familiar items here in her new home struck her with a peculiar feeling, part excitement, part poignancy. On a table beside the bed had been placed one of her own well-thumbed volumes of poetry, and over the washstand was draped one of the many linens which had made up part of her trousseau, carefully and painstakingly embroidered by her mother with her initials, C.C. The dressing table was graced with a vase of flowers that closely resembled her wedding bouquet, and behind it, the large windows overlooked the garden and the park beyond. She could see the willow tree where she had spent much of her first afternoon as the girls' governess, and farther distant a grassy field where some of the estate's famous cows could be seen grazing. It was a beautiful view, and indeed one of the loveliest rooms she had ever seen, but she had felt confused to learn moments later that both it and the adjoining sitting room had been prepared expressly for her, arranged carefully to suit her, with furnishings either claimed from other parts of the house or newly purchased. Before her marriage, Charlotte had toured the private chambers with Mrs. Wheatley and insisted she wanted nothing changed and no fuss made, yet it appeared now that her wishes had gone unheeded. From a sense of curiosity that couldn't be ignored, she had pressed the housekeeper, and been made to understand that the rooms she would now occupy had by necessity required these attentions as they had not belonged to the house's former mistress, nor had they been Alexander's, but in fact had been vacant and unused for many years.
In the face of Charlotte's continued confusion, Mrs. Wheatley had explained patiently,
"Mr. Colbourne thought you would prefer the views from this side of the house. Of course you shan't be able to tell when there are people coming or going, as there is no view of the drive, but he thought you would like the peace of the garden and meadows."
"He was right. I do like it." Charlotte had smiled, then said cautiously, "But am I correct in assuming that Leonora's mother had her chambers at the front of the house?"
"You are, Ma'am. Though she was so little in residence here that I confess I do not think of those rooms as having been much occupied. And of course they have been empty for many years now."
Seeing that there seemed little point – or tact – in pursuing this line of inquiry further, Charlotte had merely nodded politely.
"I hope you'll be comfortable here."
"I'm sure I shall be." She'd glanced around her once more, feeling again the delight and mild awe that the charming space invoked, trying to let it sink in that this dream of a bedchamber was indeed hers. "You've arranged everything so splendidly. It is perfect, Mrs. Wheatley. Thank you."
As was customary in such a large house, Alexander's official bedchamber adjoined hers – his things had been moved from his old chamber across and down the corridor while they'd been in the Lake District – but there had been no question between them that it would serve as little more than his de facto dressing room and that for all intents and purposes her bedroom was theirs. This was to be their sanctuary from the world, this where their love was made manifest.
Charlotte turned onto her side, her eyes only just able to make out Alexander's sleeping form in the dark. Though he too had returned home to a new and unfamiliar chamber, he had had no difficulty in falling asleep, but rather than envy him she was pleased – pleased that he was so relaxed and untroubled, his mind and body so fully at ease, so able to sink quickly into the sort of peace that only complete and utter happiness could afford. For her part, there was really nothing to worry or concern her, nothing to keep her from the sweetest of dreams and the soundest of reposes. Yet as she hovered on the edge of sleep, her wayward thoughts caught themselves on a tiny snag, one small niggling observance that she'd almost forgotten in all the excitement of her homecoming but that now pricked her with the sudden sharpness of a thorn on a rose. When they had entered the house that afternoon she had noticed instantly that the painting above the fireplace was an unfamiliar one, and the portrait that had always hung there – the portrait of Lucy Colbourne – was gone.
She woke once in the night and for a moment couldn't remember where she was, endeavoring with growing agitation to distinguish some familiar shape in the darkness until she gradually became aware of Alexander's arm flung over her, holding her even in slumber, and she smiled and relaxed. She was at Heyrick Park, in her own room, in her own bed, with her husband next to her. She was home. When Charlotte next woke, it was broad day.
Breakfast found them seated once again at opposite ends of the long dining room table, but whether from the relative casualness of the morning meal or the benefit of a night's reasonably restful sleep, Charlotte felt greatly more at ease and was pleased to note her appetite had returned. It seemed the weather was going to oblige them with fair skies and her mind raced with possibilities for the day ahead, imagining a long stroll together about the grounds, or perhaps a trip into town to call upon friends and walk on the beach if they felt inclined to be sociable. Another part of her reminded her that the girls would be home in two days and perhaps on balance they ought to take advantage of the limited hours of privacy that remained to them and spend their time engaged in more intimate activities. Ignoring the blush that rose to her face at the mere thought of this, she took a bite of her breakfast and then looked on with interest as the footman presented Alexander with the morning's post. No letters had yet arrived addressed to her, but then she had not been at the house 24 hours as yet, and neither had she sent any correspondence to her family or friends to inform them of her arrival. She supposed that was one activity that ought to take precedence today, however little interest it held for her at present. As if he had read her thoughts, Alexander set down the letter he had been perusing and said,
"A thousand apologies, my dear, but there are one or two matters I must see to this morning. Though I should infinitely prefer your company, I fear I cannot afford to delay."
"You've no need to apologize. I am perfectly sensible you must have work to do."
"Yes," he sighed, evidently less than excited by the prospect. "In truth, I live in dread of entering the study. I should not be at all surprised to find a teetering pile of correspondence had accumulated during our absence."
She smiled sympathetically. "And do you mean to attend to all of it at once?"
"Oh no, Heaven forfend!" was his plaintive utterance, and she laughed. "No, my aim this morning is a far more modest one. I wish merely for a sense of having made some progress. Having achieved that, I shall come and find you."
Charlotte made a dismissive gesture. "Do not worry about me. I'm sure I shall have plenty to occupy myself."
"I do not doubt it."
With a final expression of apology, he rose, came over to the opposite end of the table where she remained sitting, kissed her affectionately on the cheek, then departed for the study.
Though she had retained a cheerful demeanor for Alexander's benefit, inwardly she felt an unwelcome qualm. It was only their first full day at home together and already he was retreating into his work. Was this how their married life was to be? He always in his study, attending to business, she always wishing him more at liberty, growing increasingly resentful of the duties that kept him from her? Feeling dispirited, she took a sip of tea, only to set the cup back in the saucer with a clatter. No! Charlotte shook her head, angry at herself for entertaining such wild speculations, even for a moment. Of course he was busy. He had been away a fortnight and much preoccupied with preparations for the wedding before that, and even she in her ignorance could appreciate that to manage such a vast estate with any degree of competence must surely require a deal of time and careful attention. She knew that he had succeeded in reversing the fortunes of the estate after inheriting his father's debts – a fact which spoke to his business acumen as well as his judiciousness and diligence as a landlord – and he obviously would have no wish to see his labors undone now through negligence, simply because he had married. She should feel nothing but pride to have such a clever and dedicated man as her husband, not petty jealousy that he could not spend every waking hour with her. She was being foolish, and she knew it. Determined to engage herself in some useful activity, she rose, straightening her shoulders and smoothing her skirts. He had his duties to attend to, and so did she.
Before doing anything else, Charlotte went up to her room to fetch a shawl, for in spite of the sunshine the house was chilly, and she didn't yet know which rooms typically had fires at this time of day. She moved with efficiency, entering the room with no particular attention to grace or quiet, and startled a pair of maids who were making up the bed. Embarrassed, Charlotte smiled at them and bid them good morning, receiving their bobs and murmurs of "Ma'am" with what dignity she could muster. Glancing around the room for her shawl, she noticed that the vase of flowers on her dressing table had already been replaced with fresh ones, and the small miniature of Alexander that had been painted in Cumbria had been set out in front of the mirror next to her hairbrushes. The sight of it dispelled the slight awkwardness that the presence of the maids had engendered, and Charlotte felt emboldened to request the shawl be fetched for her – which, it transpired, had been tidied and moved to the dressing room – and having secured it, left the room with rather more confidence and deal more decorum.
Returning downstairs, she headed instinctively for the drawing room, then realized that it was hardly the room in which she might expect to find letter paper and writing implements and she paused uncertainly in the corridor. When she had toured the house with Mrs. Wheatley earlier in the month, the housekeeper had shown her a modest lady's study that she had called the morning room and that had been where, Charlotte had been given to understand, the former lady of the house had written her letters. Recalling that it lay at the opposite end of the corridor to Alexander's study, she repaired in that direction and found, to her satisfaction, that the room indeed was where she had remembered and that it appeared to have been readied for her use. A fire played merrily in the fireplace, a fresh bouquet of flowers stood on a small table in one corner, and the chair had been pulled back slightly from the writing desk as if in anticipation of her sitting there. Now in the privacy of her own company, she felt at liberty to wander around the room, inspecting and admiring the details of the well-appointed and undeniably pleasant space, with its soft peach-colored walls and white mouldings. She could imagine writing here, reading here, in that comfortable-looking chair by the fire. She pictured the side table with her poetry volumes upon it, or perhaps an issue or two of the Sanditon Gazette. She might even receive morning callers here, if the drawing room indeed proved to be – as she suspected – preferable for afternoon and evening use. Like Alexander's study, it afforded a view of the front drive, the window seat a perfect perch for watching for the arrival of visitors, or indulging in a spell of daydreaming. Smiling to herself, Charlotte sat down at the desk, her mind already beginning to compose a letter to her parents as she reached to draw out a sheet of paper, but as she looked more closely at the writing materials, her hand froze in midair. Everything – from the embossed letter paper to the inkwell, writing box and seal – was marked plainly with the initials L.C. Tentatively, she reached out and traced the shapes of the inlaid letters on the rosewood box. Had the last fingers to touch it been Lucy's? Drawing back her hand with a start, she jumped up from her seat, nearly knocking over the chair in her haste. Despite the fire, the room felt suddenly icy-cold, as if a glacial blast of air were seeping in through every chink and crack. With a repressed shudder, Charlotte slipped out of the room and made for the servants' stair. She would seek out Mrs. Wheatley and learn whether there were any household arrangements that might require her attention. Her letters could wait.
She found the housekeeper in the kitchen, busily making notes in a ledger, but she looked up with an expression of warm solicitude as Charlotte approached.
"Anything I can help with, Ma'am?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact I was hoping to speak with you."
"You've no need to come downstairs, you can always ring."
"Yes I know, but…" Charlotte smiled and shrugged, slightly embarrassed by the prospect of summoning in so imperious a manner the woman who only months before had been her superior in the household.
"Mr. Colbourne is occupied with work this morning, and so I thought you and I might take the opportunity to have a little talk, if you are not otherwise engaged. I should like to begin learning my duties as soon as may be."
"Duties?" Mrs. Wheatley repeated, and Charlotte realized how much her intonation of the word had implied the responsibilities of a servant.
With another embarrassed smile, she said, "I meant my responsibilities as regards the household. As you know, this is all very new to me and I beg you will forgive my ignorance, but I wondered, is there anything you think I ought to do? Anything I should see to at once, as the new mistress? Perhaps something for the servants, or I could go around to all of the tenants with a basket…"
"That's a fine idea, Ma'am, but I think you'll find it has already been seen to."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Before your departure for the Lake District, Mr. Colbourne gave all of the staff extra wages and the tenants received a month's free rent, to mark the occasion of your marriage. Did he not tell you?"
"No. No, he said nothing." Charlotte smiled, a private expression full of heartfelt fondness. "How generous!"
"It was. But then he's long had a reputation for such kindnesses."
"Has he?"
"Oh yes. Ask any of his tenants or his servants, and they will tell you he is the very best of landlords and the fairest of masters."
"Well, that does not surprise me in the least, but I am glad to hear you say so."
Mrs. Wheatley inclined her head and Charlotte was reminded of how swiftly the good woman had risen to her employer's defense on the single occasion Charlotte had dared to disparage his character, thinking not for the first time how very right Mrs. Wheatley had been, and how very mistaken she had been, in turn.
With a swell of affection that encompassed both her husband and his faithful housekeeper, she asked, trying another tack,
"Mrs. Wheatley, is there anything I ought to know, about how Mr. Colbourne likes the house managed?"
The housekeeper appeared to consider. "Well he has always preferred a quiet and settled household, but then you know that already Ma'am."
"Is he very…" Charlotte searched for the right words, "exacting and fastidious?"
"Not particularly, though he does like things to be done properly. And he has his habits and routines, like any gentleman, and expects the house to be managed in accordance with them."
Charlotte nodded. "Of course. And are there any traditions I should be aware of? Any dates of particular importance or customs… ways things have always been done?" She knew she was phrasing the question awkwardly and wished she could have sounded more natural.
Mrs. Wheatley smiled, and it was an expression not without a certain sadness. "Until this year, Ma'am, this house had not hosted a single gathering in over a decade. It shall be for you to decide what traditions will shape Heyrick Park's future."
With a slight pang, she remembered the conversation she'd had with Alison at the end of her first day as governess, when her sister, reluctantly curious despite her disapproval of Charlotte's bid for self-sufficiency, had asked for descriptions of her charges, her employer, and the house itself. The residents' descriptions had sprung readily to Charlotte's tongue, her impressions of them having formed quickly – if perhaps inaccurately, as she would later learn – but on the house, she had hesitated.
"Is it haunted?" Alison had asked, growing increasingly intrigued by Charlotte's continued silence. "Is it like Mrs. Radcliffe's castle, Udolpho?"
Charlotte had scoffed at this comparison, then grown serious. If ever a house could be said to be haunted by sadness, Heyrick Park was that house. Mere days later, in a fit of frustration, driven to an impassioned defense of her two miserable pupils, she even had referred to it – to Mr. Colbourne's face – as a mausoleum. Sobered by the memory of that confrontation, she said quietly,
"This has been a very unhappy house, hasn't it?"
"It was," Mrs. Wheatley agreed. "For many years."
"I should like that to change. I intend for that to change."
"Oh, it already has, I can assure you of that." Mrs. Wheatley fixed her steady gaze on Charlotte and said candidly,
"I've known Mr. Colbourne from a boy, you see, and I've never before observed in him such a lightness of spirit as I do now. It gladdens my heart to see it."
Charlotte smiled again. She could not claim the same historical perspective as Mrs. Wheatley, but she too had seen the changes that had taken place in Alexander. There was an animated quality to him now that she was certain had not been there when they'd first become acquainted, an ease too, as well as the lightness the housekeeper had mentioned. He had reconciled with himself, and that reconciliation had extended to his daughter, his niece, and even his brother. In daring to entertain the hope – even to believe himself worthy – of a better future, he had set in motion a transformation in the house that continued to evolve and make itself felt by all of Heyrick Park's inhabitants. Or at least, such was the impression Charlotte formed of Mrs. Wheatley's beliefs on the matter.
"Then is there nothing you can think of that I might do to ensure the house continues…happy?"
Mrs. Wheatley looked at her warmly. "You've already worked wonders, Ma'am."
Abashed, flattered, Charlotte looked down.
"Do not worry yourself overmuch about your duties. There will be plenty of time for you to discover those, and I hope you know that in the meanwhile you can leave any and all arrangements to me."
"I do, thank you Mrs. Wheatley," she responded with heartfelt gratitude, then was moved to add, "I truly don't know where we'd be without you."
Pleased by the frankness of the conversation she'd shared with the housekeeper, but at the same time slightly frustrated that she was no closer to understanding what was expected of her as mistress, Charlotte accepted Mrs. Wheatley's acknowledging nod with a nod and smile of her own, and was prepared to depart and let her go about her business when a sudden thought made her turn back.
"Mrs. Wheatley? May I ask you one more question?"
"You may ask anything of me, Ma'am. I shall always endeavor to oblige."
"What happened to the portrait that used to hang in the hall? The one of Leonora's mother?"
"It was moved, on Mr. Colbourne's orders."
"Oh." Charlotte paused, then asked with feigned nonchalance, "Where was it moved to?"
"It hangs in the East Wing now. And very fitting that it should."
Charlotte knew from her time as governess that the East Wing housed many of her predecessor's belongings, where they were presumably being preserved for Leonora should she want them someday, while Augusta was occasionally permitted to choose from among her aunt's gowns and jewelry for special occasions.
"I see. And the painting that hangs in the hall now, the landscape. Is that to remain?"
"You must ask Mr. Colbourne about that, Ma'am. I'm sure I couldn't say."
"Where is Mr. Colbourne now?"
"Still in his study I believe, Ma'am."
"Then I shall seek him there. Thank you, Mrs. Wheatley."
The door to the study was open, but nonetheless, out of habit, she stood hesitating on the threshold and knocked to draw his attention.
He looked up, saw her, and smiled, the serious, set lines of his features softening, transformed in an instant. Bathed in the warmth of his expression, struck anew by how the mere sight of him still tugged at her heart even after these weeks together, she felt her apprehension vanish as if it had never existed.
"Charlotte!" He at once set aside the pieces of correspondence he'd been perusing and hastily placed a book on top of them, almost as if to conceal their contents.
"What are you standing there for?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you," she said preemptively. "I know you've a great deal to attend to after our absence, and…"
"Come here." His voice was gentle, and as she entered the room and approached his desk, he rose and came around to her, taking her face in his hands.
"You could never…" he kissed her. "Ever…" he kissed her again. "Disturb me."
"I'm glad to hear it," she murmured, kissing him back with relish.
"But," he added, pulling back, the better to see her upturned face, "if I don't take care to keep my wits about me I fear you could prove a most troublesome distraction."
"Oh, I'm a distraction, am I?"
"Yes. The most deliciously… delightfully… devastatingly lovely distraction." After each word he stole another kiss, and by the end of the sentence her body had become so light, her knees so weak, she felt as if she might just sink straight into his arms and lose herself for a time. As it was, she was forced to cling to his shoulders to simply remain upright, bracing herself against the waves of desire that suddenly coursed through her. Despite her best efforts, though it was not yet midday, she found her thoughts straying to their bedchamber.
"Now," he whispered, when she had become so distracted herself she could hardly attend to his words, "what was it you wanted to ask me?"
"I beg your pardon?" she said faintly.
"I assume you came here with an inquiry, unless it was merely the pleasure of my company you sought?" His voice had returned to a normal register now, his eyes shining with amusement.
She recalled suddenly, as if waking from a trance, that she had intended to ask him about Lucy's portrait, but standing there with his hands around her waist, her hands on his shoulders, her lips tingling from so many kisses, she balked. What did it matter if the portrait was gone? Surely she should be glad of the change, glad that the specter of Heyrick Park's former mistress no longer made itself felt every time someone entered the hall. As if to emphasize this point, Charlotte's gaze landed by chance on his desk and she saw that the miniature that had been painted of her in Cumbria – the companion to the miniature she had of him on her dressing table – now sat in pride of place next to the inkwell, easily visible every time he paused in his writing to reapply ink to his quill. At the sight of it, any thought of a confrontation vanished. Like his many words and acts of affection, it was a sign that her husband loved her, that even though they were now married and living in the same house, he still wanted to keep her likeness close at hand in this, his private room. Clearly he had meant it when he'd spoken early in their engagement of looking to the future with nothing but joyful anticipation. What was wrong with her that she would question that sentiment, that she would even imagine begrudging him that pleasure? She had thought all this time only in terms of her new life, because her position in the house was so very different from what it had been, but his life had begun anew as well. If he wanted the portrait removed, why should she belabor that point?
"What are you working at?" She asked instead, her eyes roving over the desk with curiosity.
"Oh, estate business. Accounts. Nothing to interest you." He spoke casually, but there was a clipped nature to his words and something strangely evasive in the way his eyes suddenly refused to meet hers.
She smiled, trying not to mind about his dismissive manner, but the expression felt somewhat forced. Perhaps he simply had no wish to dwell on the topic of work he found tedious, but she could see plainly that he had been reading letters and that the accounts ledger sat off to one side, decidedly closed, and from the look of things, untouched for some time. He had been preoccupied with something, but it had not been the estate's accounts.
"I see," she said, endeavoring to remain calm and rein in her wayward thoughts which this morning seemed frustratingly inclined to jump to dire conclusions. "Well," she added lightly, "you've been at it for quite a long while."
"I know. I'm sorry. We've only just got back and already I'm neglecting you, which I swore I would not do."
Charlotte shook her head to demur, not wishing him to think her so incapable of occupying herself that she had to resort to interrupting his work.
"But," he added, his expression broadening into an almost conspiratorial grin, "I think I'm due a respite, don't you?"
"What did you have in mind?"
He smirked, reading her unbidden thoughts at once, and she blushed at her own transparency. "I usually go for a ride this time of the day," he said casually, "if not earlier. Would you care to join me?"
Charlotte smiled again, and it was unforced and effortless now.
"I can think of nothing I'd like better, but..."
"I suppose you do ride?" But before she could reply, he made a noise of disparagement and continued, "But what am I saying? Of course you do. We rode together in the Summer."
"I remember." When Leo had gone off to the soldiers' camp, they had both rushed – on horseback – to retrieve her, neither giving a moment's thought to the other's equestrian abilities, though of course Charlotte had already known him to be an accomplished horseman. Presumably he had assumed, given she had grown up on a farm, that she could sit a horse with at least some degree of aptitude, and he'd not been wrong.
For a brief second she thought she saw a shadow pass over his face at the remembrance of that afternoon and all the pain that had followed from it, but then he said cheerfully enough,
"We can ride around the whole estate. You've not seen the tenants' homes before, have you my dear?"
"I haven't."
"Then I shall show you them today. And the farms. Before long you shall know this land as well as I do."
"Nothing would make me happier," she said earnestly, "but I'm not sure I have the proper riding attire." She looked down at her thin, rather plain gown. It was one she had brought with her from Willingden, and while the fit was good and she knew it suited her well, it was far from the type of attire she imagined the lady of Heyrick Park would wear riding around the estate, where she might be seen by her husband's tenants.
"Oh, don't worry about that," he said easily, "I'm sure Mrs. Wheatley can find you something suitable, if you find your own wardrobe insufficiently equal to the exercise."
That Mrs. Wheatley possessed truly enviable powers was undeniable, but unless she could magic together an entirely new costume in a matter of minutes, Charlotte very much doubted the truth of his assertion. However, she brushed the thought aside and instead let herself be swept up in her husband's enthusiasm as he took her hand and hurried her, with boyish energy, out of the room.
In the corridor they met the housekeeper and Alexander's face lit up.
"Ah, Mrs. Wheatley," he said with alacrity. "Excellent!"
She met her employer's evident high spirits with her usual unruffled demeanor, though Charlotte thought she detected a certain glint of amusement in the good woman's eyes.
"Mrs. Colbourne and I are going riding. Will you see to it she has everything she needs?"
"Certainly, Sir."
"Thank you."
After eliciting from her a promise not to be long, they parted ways, he to give instructions about the horses, she following Mrs. Wheatley upstairs to change. To her relief, Mrs. Wheatley made no suggestion of plundering the wardrobes of the East Wing, instead helping Charlotte assemble something approximating a riding habit from her own things. The traveling costume that had formed part of her trousseau of new gowns seemed to suit quite well, and a fine top hat purloined from Augusta's wardrobe and apparently worn by her "not once" completed the outfit. Inspecting herself in the glass, Charlotte beheld a surprisingly stately and distinguished looking figure and had to fight a childish urge to poke out her tongue. What would her brothers and sisters say if they could see her now? Our Charlotte, she imagined them confiding to a nosy neighbor, has become insufferably grand.
Mrs. Wheatley, on the other hand, seemed to hold no such opinions, and smiled at Charlotte's face in the mirror.
"Very fine, Ma'am."
"Do you think so?"
"I do."
"I'm most grateful for your assistance. I should have been at quite a loss."
"It is my pleasure. But it occurs to me that we ought to see about finding you a maid."
Charlotte turned around abruptly to look the housekeeper in the eyes, startled by her remark.
"Oh!" She hardly knew what to say.
"It is customary for a lady in your position to have her own personal maid."
"Yes, I'm sure you are right. I… I hadn't really given it much thought." She hadn't given it any thought, if she was honest, but of course it was hardly fair to expect Mrs. Wheatley to take on the added duties of seeing to her mistress's person in addition to managing the household, and the housemaids already attended to Augusta and Leonora. "Well, would you see about it for me? Perhaps there is a young girl wishing to train. In the Old Town, or on one of the farms. We could place an advertisement in the Gazette…"
Mrs. Wheatley smiled and nodded. "Leave it to me, Ma'am."
"Thank you."
With another nod, Mrs. Wheatley left the room, leaving Charlotte feeling more self-conscious than ever. After staring for a few more minutes at her unfamiliar reflection, feeling both curious and vaguely fearful, she at last rallied, raised her chin, gathered up her long, heavy skirts and went back downstairs to meet Alexander.
He was waiting for her in the foyer, and when he saw her, his face broke into a smile of approval.
"A picture of elegance," he pronounced proudly, and she smiled back, her spirits already lifting.
"Mere borrowed plumes, I'm afraid. The hat is Augusta's, but I must say it does fit rather well. I hope she won't mind me using it."
"I won't tell if you don't."
Laughing at his sly expression, she followed him to the door.
The groom had brought the horses around to the front of the house, and as they stepped outside Charlotte recognized Hannibal at once, but the other animal, a white mare, was unfamiliar to her.
Reading the question in her look, he volunteered, "This is Dido. She is spirited, but to a sure hand like yours, not ungovernable I think."
"I like a bit of spirit."
"I thought you would."
Smiling, Charlotte went to stroke the horse's head, introducing herself to the animal in a friendly, coaxing tone.
"I hope you will find her a pleasing companion for the next hour or so."
"I'm sure we shall get along famously."
She had been so focused on the horse she had hardly noticed anything else, but now she saw that Dido had been fitted with a side-saddle and she felt the first twinge of misgiving.
With a keen sense of trepidation, she allowed the groom to help her mount and though she forced her features into an expression of ease and good cheer, her seat felt precarious, her balance uncomfortably compromised. She reminded herself it was only the saddle and that surely, after a few minutes, she would get used to the feel of it. Riding was riding after all, and she had ridden most adeptly from a very young age.
"Everything to your satisfaction, Ma'am?" the groom asked her, handing her the crop, and she managed to reply in the affirmative with convincing sincerity. Beside her, Alexander mounted Hannibal with his characteristic agility, and she did her best not to let her envy at his obvious ease show in her face.
They set off down the drive at a generous, though not aggressive, trot, and though Charlotte felt proud that she was able to keep her balance and settle into the feel of the seat, she knew she was not riding with nearly the same confidence she had possessed on their single previous ride together. Within minutes it became apparent she would not be able to keep pace, but if Alexander was surprised by her lack of prowess in the saddle, he said nothing, but merely slowed obligingly to accommodate her. The gentler pace, while less exhilarating than a brisk canter, had the advantage of allowing for more sustained conversation between them, and Charlotte couldn't bring herself to regret the opportunity for a tete-a-tete in the fresh air. The house, with all of its weighted history and unvoiced expectations, had felt more oppressive than she wished to admit, and the sense of freedom she felt now, traversing the grounds at her husband's side, was the perfect tonic for her anxious thoughts.
It was a beautiful estate, and they rode farther than any of her previous walks and rambles with Alexander or the girls had ever taken her, through fields and meadows, along hedgerows and past groves and copses of trees, and he had an anecdote or ready remark about everything. She watched him as he talked, his face animated, his gestures enthusiastic, evincing such obvious excitement at being able to share this with her, and she felt keenly his affinity with this place, his deep love of the land which – though he had not been born to inherit – fate had intervened to place in his care. She thought of her own childhood growing up on her father's farm, of afternoons spent lying in the grass with a book, climbing trees with her siblings, hunting for rabbits in the windswept fields, and knew that that same deep love ran through her veins as well.
"Tell me about your work," she said to him, when he'd paused to let the horses traverse a rough patch of ground, daring to pose the question again now that they were away from the perhaps overbearing confines of his study. "I should like to understand as much as I can about the running of the estate, as well as the house."
"An admirable aim," he said with a smile, and she thought to herself how many other husbands might have dismissed such a wish as outside a wife's purview and ordered her to keep to her own sphere. But not Alexander.
"A deal of it is at best rather dull," he began, with an air of confessing a long-held secret. "Figures and transactions and prices always going up and down. But there are interesting elements as well. Investments to consider, new methods and practices to test out. I like to keep abreast of it all and not leave everything to the steward. It seems to me the very least a landlord should do, to comprehend fully the business that keeps us all afloat and in pocket, and endeavor to keep finding ways to improve it. And the farmers are good fellows, one and all. Honest and dependable. Many of their families have been on this land as long as ours has. I hope you will soon have the opportunity to meet them."
Charlotte nodded. "I should like that very much."
But when they skirted past the cottages and farms, Alexander seemed to sense her trepidation and did not slow to accost any of the men that they saw at work there. Charlotte was silently relieved. When she met the tenants, whenever that might be, she wanted to do it on foot, when she could present herself rather more modestly. She had no wish to be thought of as proud and distant on her high horse, as she was afraid she perhaps currently appeared. But beyond a few pulled forelocks, which Alexander acknowledged with a pleasant nod, they passed unnoticed or at least unremarked. The formal introductions would keep for another day.
As the long arc of their ride curved around the edge of the estate and they began veering back towards the house, Charlotte felt the first drops of rain. She hadn't even noticed the sky darken, but now she became aware of the ominous clouds, the wind kicking up and becoming colder. She could see it coming across the fields in a great wave, the grass bending back, flattened to the earth as if by the breath of an invisible giant. The rain followed fast after, coming down in a sudden torrent that took them both by surprise. They were barely halfway home. Alexander turned to look at her, his expression grim.
"I fear this won't let up anytime soon," he said resignedly, tipping back his head and casting a resentful glance at the sky. Raindrops spattered his face and he blinked fiercely to get the water out of his eyes.
"We should hasten back to the house before we're wet through."
"I don't mind it," she said cheerfully. "I've never minded a little rain."
"But I shall mind it exceedingly when you're laid up in bed sneezing for the next month."
She laughed. "I'm a farm girl, Alexander! We can't afford to catch colds!"
In spite of his concern, he laughed too. She was so completely alive, so completely herself out here on his ancestral lands, in the middle of a rainstorm, the wind slicking a wet lock of hair to her face, her eyes shining with joy and energy and vitality. She was a sprite, a witch, a goddess. She was magnificent.
"But if you like," she called to him, a wicked smile blazing right across her face, "you can try to catch me!" And bracing herself in the awkward saddle, gripping the reins for dear life, she urged Dido with a few flicks of the crop into the fastest trot she could manage and made for the house. With a shout of laughter, he followed.
Despite the relative speed of their return ride, by the time they dismounted in front of the house both were soaked to the skin. Alexander jumped down from Hannibal, landing with a squelch of wet boots, and, preempting the groom who had approached to assist them, helped Charlotte dismount from Dido, feeling her sodden garments as he gripped her waist and lifted her to the ground.
"Rather less elegant now, wouldn't you say?" She joked, with a wry shrug at her bedraggled state.
"But still perfection." He was smiling, but his tone was serious and her heart gave a little lurch at the look in his eyes. Feeling exhilarated, she let him usher her inside, trailing droplets of water in her wake.
Mrs. Wheatley, with truly inspired foresight, had already arranged for hot baths to be drawn for each of them, and when Charlotte returned downstairs three quarters of an hour later, dry and clean and feeling pleasantly loose-limbed, to find Alexander already seated by the drawing room fire with a book, she was seized with a sense of comfort and well-being. As she sat down next to him, a low rumble of thunder drew their attention momentarily to the windows, and the next moment a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the room in lurid white light. Charlotte shivered, glad, despite her earlier boast, to not be out in such weather.
"Cold?" Alexander asked.
"No," she assured him.
"Tired?"
"Not very."
"Hungry?"
She smiled. "A bit."
"They'll be bringing in the tea any minute now," he said, pulling out his pocket watch to glance at the time. "I can ring if you…"
"No, don't get up," she responded, touching his arm to restrain him. "I can wait." She looked again toward the windows. Though it was only mid-afternoon, outside it already looked like dusk. The sky was the color of pewter, the trees, now stripped of half their leaves, bent to and fro, and the relentless rain beat upon the glazing in capricious rushes of sound that came and went with the force of the wind. It was a downright gale. She turned her gaze back gratefully to the fire.
A few moments later she said, rather dreamily,
"At my father's house, on rainy Autumn afternoons like this one, we used to gather around the hearth and toast bread for our tea. Somehow my oldest brother always managed to set his piece on fire." She smiled at the memory, then caught the wistful tone in her voice and said self-consciously,
"You must think me very quaint."
"Not at all, I think it sounds charming."
"Farm life affords very humble pleasures, you understand. We were often obliged to make our own diversions."
"Then we shall do the same." He began to bestir himself and she looked at him with amazement.
"What, sit by the fire and toast bread?"
"Yes."
"Now?"
"Why not?"
Charlotte laughed incredulously. "Have you ever done so before?"
"No, but I'm certain you can teach me." His gaze was intent and meaningful, his eyes sharing a private joke, and she smiled, grasping the allusion at once.
"Have you a toasting fork?"
"I'm sure we must have, somewhere." He looked at her, trying to discern what her expression signified. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Tell me."
"I just… I never would have thought…"
"Do you think me such a killjoy that I cannot find enjoyment in a simple pleasure? In the company of my wife?"
"No!" Charlotte laughed, regarding him warmly. "That is not at all what I was thinking."
She was thinking that he was continually surprising her in the best possible ways. She did not think of him as humorless and unbending, though she knew that in company – especially strange company – he sometimes gave off an air of stiff formality, his ramrod-straight posture and retiring manner often mistaken for pride, and Mrs. Wheatley herself had remarked that he liked things done properly in his house. But she recalled the early days of their acquaintance when she had often seen him in a state of partial-undress, waistcoat unbuttoned, cravat missing, a man casual and relaxed in the comfort of his own domain. And then there was his gentle teasing, his wry sense of humor to which none but those closest to him were privy. She had been quite reconciled – and perfectly contentedly so – to the idea that she was marrying a serious man who would always prefer calm and order over larks and frivolity, and she had believed that it would take a great deal of patient coaxing and cajoling on her part to accustom him to more playful attitudes. Yet he had demonstrated to her over and again during their honeymoon, and indeed in the weeks of their courtship, that she had done him an injustice in so quickly dismissing his capacity for whimsy, for whole-hearted enjoyment of the lighter things in life as well as its wonders and profundities.
A toasting fork was therefore duly unearthed somewhere in the bowels of the kitchen by an obliging maid, the tea and fresh bread brought in, and Charlotte and Alexander set about their homely pastime with unabashed enthusiasm. As she poured their tea, proud that she already had acquired the all-important wifely knowledge of how they each preferred to take it, and he held the first slice of bread over the flames, she was aware of his gaze on her and looked up to see an expression she recognized from their first day in Cumbria. They had returned to the inn after a rainy walk through the village of Grasmere and Charlotte, after changing out of her wet clothes, had sat before the fire on a stool to dry her hair. For several minutes he had watched her, his attention rapt, his expression almost worshipful, as if this simple, everyday action held for him a beauty that bordered on holiness. Then, shyly, he had come up behind her and with the gentlest touch imaginable, taken hold of her hair in one hand and the towel in the other, and begun to dry it, pressing her wet locks against the linen, running his fingers through them like a comb. It was one of the most tender, intimate things she had ever experienced, and long after her hair had dried and had been once again neatly arranged, the sensation of his fingers lingered, tucked away for safekeeping forever in her memory and in her heart.
This afternoon, her hair, though still damp, was pulled back in her usual style, but she could see in his eyes that he was picturing it as it had been that day, hanging long and loose, remembering the warmth and closeness of that moment.
The fond reflection was broken by an expression of alarm as Alexander yanked back the toasting fork, but it was too late.
"Oh no, you've ruined it!"
"I have, haven't I." He regarded his hopelessly burned handiwork with a sheepish expression.
"You're as bad as my brother," Charlotte said, shaking her head despairingly.
As he reached gingerly for the blackened piece of bread, she cried,
"Oh, don't eat it!" She laughed, appalled. "It will be like eating a lump of coal, it isn't fit for a dog. Oh please dearest, do put it down!"
He made a face and obeyed without protest. "There. I'll try again, shall I?"
"Here, let me."
"Yes, perhaps you had better."
He relinquished the responsibilities of toasting the bread to her entirely and instead took up the task of applying butter and marmalade as the warm slices came off the fork, all the while keeping an eye on Charlotte that was half-watchful (he had no wish to see her singe herself) and half-admiring. Her face was flushed as she knelt on the hearth, her countenance happy and relaxed, her attention totally focused on the charming domestic task. It was as if she had always belonged there, always been there, in some alternate reality that was only now merging with his own.
They consumed their toast and tea with relish, pausing every now and then to exchange a smile, each of them sensible of the other's enjoyment. As appetite gave way to feelings of comfortable satiety and they settled back on the settee, Charlotte was again aware of Alexander's eyes on her.
"What is it? What has fascinated you so?"
"Why do you keep looking behind you?"
Charlotte, who had been unconscious of performing such an action, looked slightly embarrassed. "You will laugh."
"I won't!" he insisted, more intrigued than ever.
"I keep expecting the cat to return, and disturb the mice at their play."
His expression became arch. "And who is the cat in this instance, if one might ask?"
She shrugged. She had been thinking of the servants, or Mrs. Wheatley, in that role, but of course that was nonsense. Could not the master and mistress of the house conduct themselves as they chose without feeling that their merriment could only be indulged on the sly?
"Me, I suppose?" he continued, when she failed to supply a ready answer to his question.
"No!" She laughed and indicated the evidence of their "play" – the plates piled with extra toast, the tea things all slapdash on the table – with a tilt of her head. "You're a mouse, like me."
His look of amusement sobered, and he said quite seriously,
"But I wasn't always."
She followed his gaze as it turned, seemingly involuntarily, to the spinet, to the memory of that afternoon when Charlotte's efforts to inject some cheerfulness into the grim and silent house with her playing had been met with such dismay and disapproval. It was the first time since their return that she was witnessing in him any reflection on the past, any allusion to the sadness that had once pervaded both the house and himself, and she felt the weight of it in her chest as she looked, with sympathy and concern, at his regretful countenance. He had lost so many years to grief and guilt, so many years that might have been spent in familial harmony with his daughter and then later with his niece. Her heart bled for him, for all of the lost time and missed memories, but far from wallowing in the feeling, she felt if anything even more determined that he should have joy and playfulness in his life now.
"No," she agreed gently, taking his hand, pulling him back to the present. "But you're happier now, aren't you?"
"Yes." He returned the pressure of her hand and brought it to his lips. "Happier than I deserve."
"Oh, hush." As easily as if she'd been back home in Willingden, she tucked up her feet on the settee and leaned against him as he put his arm around her, thinking how pleasant it was to sit like this, comfortably tired after their ride in the rain, warm and dry before the fire as the day darkened around them. Her unease of the morning felt ages ago, a distant memory that belonged to someone else. Not to her, not to Charlotte Colbourne, happy and relaxed and content, without a care or wish in the world beyond a desire that this moment might go on forever.
"The girls would love this," he remarked after a spell, eying the remnants of their informal tea, the toasting fork cooling beside the hearth. "Leo especially."
"Then we must do it again, after they return."
"Indeed we must."
"Does the house…" she began, then reconsidered her words. "Does it not feel strange here without them?"
"A little," he agreed, then asked, half-jokingly, half-seriously, "Do you wish they were now?"
"Now? At precisely this moment?" She turned to smile at him, her expression eliciting a smile from him in return. "No." She relaxed even more fully against him and felt his arm tighten around her. "I'm glad to have you all to myself."
"And I likewise."
How did you enjoy our ride today?" He asked, after another comfortable silence.
"Oh, I enjoyed it exceedingly, but…"
"But?"
She wondered momentarily if she dared tell him, but then realized that, curled up as she was at his side, he would sense it immediately if she turned evasive. Pulling back from him slightly to sit up straighter, she said, her voice low, "I have a confession. I have not been much accustomed to riding side-saddle. I know it is the proper way for a gentlewoman to ride but to speak truth I find it quite awkward. At home I… I always rode astride."
He regarded her with surprise. "Why did you not say?"
"I suppose I was afraid you would think me unladylike."
The word so startled him that he laughed outright. In that moment she was as lovely a creature as he'd ever seen, and the thought of her performing any action or task in a way that degraded her innate self-possession and femininity was inconceivable – impossible.
"My dear, to me you are the very essence of womanly grace, and I daresay sitting astride will not diminish or in any way change that."
"You don't mind?"
He shook his head. "If it meant you were comfortable, I should not keep you from riding bare-back as an American Indian, much as that might alarm me."
Now it was Charlotte's turn to laugh. "I am nowhere near as intrepid as all that."
"Oh, I'm not so sure." He leaned in and kissed her tenderly. "But apart from the saddle, was Dido to your liking?"
"Oh yes! She's a splendid animal!"
"Then, henceforth, you must consider her yours."
"Alexander! Truly?"
"Truly."
"Thank you!" She laughed out of sheer happiness, then stifled a gasp as the enormity of the gift struck her. She had never before had her own horse, having always been obliged to share her father's good mare with her many siblings, and with her father himself. Now, all was changed. Seeing how Alexander was smiling at her, his expression one of pure delight and pleasure, she began to suspect that he had purchased Dido with the express intent of her being Charlotte's and this thought, having taken hold in her mind, was almost too much to bear. His kindness, his thoughtfulness, his easy generosity, threatened to overwhelm her, and indeed she was for a brief moment fully overcome by the knowledge of her own bliss and great good fortune. The idea that Tom – or anyone else for that matter – could ever have thought him closefisted and miserly was at best laughable and at worst slanderous. But then, in the last few days and weeks, she had learned more – seen more – of his gentle, generous heart than perhaps anyone else on this earth had ever done. Moved to a state of gratitude beyond what mere words of thanks could express, she put her hand over his. Truly, she thought to herself, her eyes brimming once more, my cup runneth over.
Unlike the previous night, Charlotte fell asleep quickly, but her slumber was not destined to be a sound one. She awoke in the wee hours from a dream so vivid that the shock of it forced her upright and she remained sitting up in bed, heart pounding, waiting for the sense of alarm – almost of frenzy – to subside.
In the dream she had been riding at a full, unfettered gallop across the fields on Dido, making for the house with an unexplained urgency. She rode astride, wearing the very garments she had used to wear when riding on her father's land: a man's wool coat over her dress, bright neckerchief around her throat, her hair flying loose as a gypsy's. Reaching the entrance to Heyrick Park, she dismounted unaided in a single, sure leap but as she approached the door, her steps were stayed by the strains of a mournful tune issuing forth from the drawing room. With a growing sense of foreboding, she bounded inside only to find the doors to the drawing room open and the spinet solitary and abandoned, with no player in sight. But in the hall, the portrait of Lucy hung once more above the mantle, that mysterious, self-contained gaze more elusive than ever, those eyes holding their own undiscoverable secrets. But no! She was mistaken. Approaching closer, she stared up at the portrait and realized it was not Lucy who was depicted there, but Charlotte herself: Charlotte, dressed in the same fine gown, her hair arranged in the same clusters of ringlets. But Charlotte's gaze was not secretive and opaque. Her brow was gathered and creased, her lips pressed tightly together, and from her eyes streamed the bright, unmistakable wetness of tears.