Author's Note:
To whoever is reading this, thank you for your patience! This chapter proved a bigger challenge than I initially thought, but I hope it will prove worth the wait. I hope also that we can all have sympathy for Charlotte as she struggles to cope with the dual crises of identity and circumstance, and cheer her on as she approaches a resolution. Happy angsting, Heybourne fans!
After the Lakes
Chapter 2 – Trust
After the disturbance to her rest brought about by the dream, Charlotte slept poorly and when she awoke, having finally managed to catch a few hours of sleep, it was late morning and the side of the bed next to her was empty and cold. Feeling slightly guilty about the lateness of the hour, she readied herself hurriedly and then hastened downstairs, only to find that the breakfast table too was empty, and Alexander's place setting cleared away.
"Is Mr. Colbourne already gone to his study?" she asked the footman.
"No Ma'am, he's gone out."
"Gone out?" Charlotte was startled.
"Some trouble at one of the farms, I understand."
"Oh dear. What sort of trouble, do you know?"
"I believe there has been a dispute between two of the farmers. The master wished to help resolve it himself. He rode over there quite early this morning."
"I see." She stifled the urge to sigh. "Do you know when he expects to return?"
"I could not say, Ma'am, but he did leave you a note." The footman indicated the silver tray usually reserved for letters, on which rested a single folded sheet of paper. Charlotte opened it hastily.
My dear,
You were sleeping so soundly I didn't like to wake you. I fear I am unavoidably called away for a few hours, but when I return I promise I shall be all yours.
- A
The few short lines went a small way toward improving her spirits, and though she would have preferred company, she breakfasted alone with a fairly good appetite, scanning the Sanditon Gazette while she ate, and pausing every now and then to glance out of the window. It was no longer stormy, but the dark skies of the day before persisted and a chill rain fell steadily and relentlessly. There seemed little possibility of a walk, even though she was longing to go out. It was a pity. She could have done with the exercise, which she was sure would have helped ameliorate the sluggishness that seemed to have taken hold of her this morning.
After she'd finished eating, she remained seated for a time at the table, trying to decide how best to spend what remained of the morning as she waited for Alexander to return. There were always letters she could write, but she was weary of thinking about correspondence. The idea of it too readily brought to mind the memory of the morning room and its eerily preserved state as a shrine to its former mistress. If only the weather were better. She might go into town and call upon the Parkers, inquire about the progress in the Old Town and whether they had heard anything recently from Georgiana. She had only been absent from Sanditon for a couple of weeks, but so much had changed in that short time that it seemed an age since she'd seen her friends. She supposed she might take the carriage, but she didn't want to be out when Alexander came back. However oppressive the house felt at present, dim and gray and silent, she did not like to think of him returning only to find her gone. In spite of her efforts not to do so, she sighed heavily, peering despondently out the window at the rain, thinking how wet Alexander must be getting as he rode between the farms, meeting with the farmers and possibly his steward as well. He would be sure to want a change of clothes and most likely a hot bath too when he returned, whenever that might be. She wondered absently whether that was something she should be arranging or at least giving instructions about. But no, surely that was a matter for one of the servants. Or was it?
She drummed her fingers nervously on the table. What did married ladies do all day? Make calls? She had already dismissed that option, for the time being. Likewise a ride or a walk. The weather was too bad. Embroider? She had never had much patience for it, though her skills with a needle were perfectly competent. Read? She supposed she might, though she suspected she would have trouble attending to words on a page right now, given how inclined her thoughts seemed to be to wandering and drifting. Glancing listlessly around the room again, she thought suddenly of the sheet music she'd brought from Willingden. That was it! She would play the spinet and bring some liveliness and cheer to the still house, and hopefully to herself as well.
Having at last arrived at an occupation, she rose and quit the dining room, making for the stairs and her bedchamber, where she thought she had last seen the music among her other belongings from home. When she came to the door of Alexander's study, however, she paused. The door stood partly open, and though she knew him to be absent from the house, her heartbeat nevertheless quickened, as if the room were an extension of himself and the mere fact of its existence a source of solace – and anticipation. She peered inside. The room was empty of course, but a fire still burned low in the fireplace and curled up in front of it, seeking comfort from the warmth, was Luna. Smiling, Charlotte entered the room and went over to the dog.
"You're waiting for him too, are you?" she said, crouching down to stroke her. With a small whine, Luna raised her head and basked in the attention, her eyes closing with pleasure. "I've half a mind to wait here with you," Charlotte murmured. The warmth of the fire was indeed welcome, as was the comforting familiarity of the room itself and the simple trust of the animal now leaning against her.
The quiet moment was broken by the sound of voices in the corridor. Charlotte detected Mrs. Wheatley's tones, then the voice of one of the footmen, though she could not have said which one. Shaking her head at herself, knowing that as mistress she ought to know such things, Charlotte rose to her feet and had taken a step or two toward the door when she became aware of being able to hear the conversation quite clearly. Not wishing to appear as though she'd been eavesdropping, she remained inside the room, thus unintentionally ensuring that she did so.
"We have our orders," the housekeeper was saying levelly. "I've assured him we shall see to everything. She's not to know a thing about it."
"Yes, Mrs. Wheatley. As you wish."
"It is not my wish, it's the master's."
"Of course, Mrs. Wheatley."
"He is counting on our discretion."
"Yes, Ma'am. I understand."
"Good. Well, get along, then. Plenty to do."
There followed the sound of retreating footsteps, and when she was sure the housekeeper and footman had both returned downstairs, Charlotte stepped into the corridor.
She was scarcely aware of her own movements as she made her way slowly up the stairs and to her chamber. She felt only sensible of being suddenly very cold, of a strange weightiness that seemed to linger in her limbs but also of a skittering up and down her veins, a reverberation that came again and again until her whole body was filled with it. Her mind felt dull, unable or unwilling to take in what she'd just heard.
As on the day before, she entered her chamber to find two maids making up the bed, though this time neither they nor Charlotte seemed surprised by the other's presence. They curtseyed to their mistress and she bid them good morning calmly enough, then inquired about the sheet music to save herself the trouble of searching for it. It was with her poetry volumes, as she'd suspected, but rather than go immediately downstairs after securing it, Charlotte lingered, wishing she could be alone in the comfort of her bedchamber, surrounded by her familiar things from home. It was well within her rights to order the two maids to leave and finish their task at a later time, but she had no wish to interrupt the rhythms of the household simply to indulge an impetuous whim. Looking fitfully around the room, her eyes landed on the miniature of Alexander on her dressing table. It was only a small watercolor portrait, but the artist had captured his likeness with startling accuracy, the seriousness of his expression offset by a slight upward curve to his lips. Charlotte knew him, knew every line and plane of his face, even of his body. Her was her husband. They were one in the eyes of God and the law. Then why did he feel so very far away and separate from her just now?
A muffled cough from one of the maids brought her back to the present, and she turned to the two young women, still diligently going about their task.
"When you go down," she said, addressing the pair, "will you tell them I wish a fire to be lit in the drawing room? I shall be practicing my Mozart on the spinet for a while and that room is disposed to be rather chilly."
They both looked surprised, and the taller of the two began, "Oh, but…"
Charlotte held up her hand to preempt her. "I know it has not been customary to have a fire in the drawing room at this time of day, but I'm sure an exception can be made."
"Of course, Ma'am."
"Thank you." Charlotte nodded at them and went to leave, but she couldn't help noticing the looks they cast at one another. She'd thought her request a reasonable one, but apparently any change to the set routine of the household was going to be received with skepticism and thinly veiled disapproval. So much for exercising her authority as mistress.
Determined not to brood, trying to force her thoughts onto the subject of the piece of music she intended to practice, Charlotte made her way downstairs and to the drawing room, stepped inside, then froze. Something was different. It had always been a spacious room, with its expansive views onto the garden and furniture clustered in various areas to suit the different purposes the room served, but today it was even more spacious than usual. The spinet was gone. It was so unexpected a change that Charlotte felt oddly destabilized by it, almost unmoored. Feeling as if she were moving underwater, she went over to where the instrument had used to stand, noting the indentations in the carpet made by its legs, standing in the void its absence had created. It was strange how different the room seemed without it, how unfamiliar. It was as if she had been passing down a well-known street with the intention of calling at a specific address, only to find the address and the building itself missing, vanished from the face of the earth.
Hearing movement in the hall, Charlotte turned to see the housekeeper passing down the corridor and, seized with a sudden desperation to know the reason for this unforeseen change, accosted her.
"Mrs. Wheatley!"
Moments later, Mrs. Wheatley appeared in the doorway of the drawing room.
"Good morning, Ma'am."
"What has become of the spinet? I'm sure I saw it here yesterday, but now it has disappeared."
The housekeeper's face became impassive. "It has been removed, Ma'am. For repairs."
"Repairs?" Charlotte could not keep the incredulity out of her voice. Surely it was only a few months ago that it had been tuned and set in perfect working order. Could it have become so damaged in the meantime as to require removal? She stood staring at Mrs. Wheatley, sheet music in hand, feeling at once foolish and uneasy. Had Alexander's tolerance of the spinet been only a temporary whim? An indulgence that he had now decided to revoke? She recalled the housekeeper's words of the day before, when she'd stated his preference for a quiet house, and unbidden, another word came to her: mausoleum. The very word she had flung at him during their first confrontation in his study. Never had the house felt so crypt-like, so somber and vacant. Then another, even more intolerable thought came to her: had he ordered the spinet removed because it had been Lucy's?
All of the doubts and worries that the removal of the portrait had engendered flooded back with full force. She recalled how he had confessed to her on their first night home his desire for his past life to be blotted out of existence, wiped from his memory. At the time it had sounded romantic, but she wondered now if there was not some more troubling motivation behind the sentiment. Was he still haunted by memories of his first wife? Was Lucy's hold over him still so strong that he could only be free of it by physically removing all evidence of her? Or was it possible that he believed this was what Charlotte wanted, even expected? That she would wish her predecessor's things banished, that the house wouldn't feel like hers otherwise? Her first instinct was to dismiss such a notion at once as ridiculous, and yet she had had that dream. That fearful dream, the recollection of which made her blood run cold and which was surely more than partially responsible for her muted spirits and the sense of dread that had hounded her all morning.
Realizing that Mrs. Wheatley was still standing at attention, she nodded faintly and made some polite noises of dismissal, releasing the housekeeper to return to her duties. Alone again, she made her way to the window and sat down heavily in the window seat, staring ahead of her with unseeing eyes.
Could she truthfully say that she did not feel – did not shrink from – the lingering traces that Lucy had left behind? It was not only the portrait and the spinet, because from the moment she'd arrived after their trip to the Lakes she had been made aware of Lucy's presence in the house. Why else would Mrs. Wheatley have so determinedly moved Charlotte from the bedchamber traditionally occupied by the mistress to the new one she now slept in, if not because she was sensitive to the memory of the former Mrs. Colbourne? And then there was the morning room and all of the tools therein marked L.C. What of them? What was she, Charlotte, to make of them? How was she to interpret the fact that they had been kept there, apparently preserved with great care, and left there knowing that she, the new mistress, was expected to use the room daily as her private study? And if that was not enough, there was now the deeply troubling matter of Alexander's peculiar behavior to contend with. She had not forgotten his evasion the previous day when she had seen him cover up his papers on the desk and hastily attempt to distract her interest in what had been occupying him as he sat in his study. Now she wondered if it might have had something to do with the subject the staff had been discussing when she'd accidentally overheard them this morning. We have our orders. She's not to know a thing about it. What wasn't she to know about? And if their mistress wasn't to know, why were the staff permitted such knowledge?
One by one, she went over these matters in her mind, but rather than tremble with anxiety, she felt a numbness taking hold. It felt like all of the things that grounded her to Heyrick Park were gone. Alexander. The girls. Now even the furniture was vanishing. And in their absence, in the silence left behind, Lucy had attained supremacy. Charlotte felt reduced to a ghost in the house, restlessly wandering down corridors, moving from room to unfamiliar room, each full of things that she did not recognize, that did not belong to her. Of course this was not entirely true – she had her own things in her bedchamber, and there were familiar faces among the staff, and the estate's familiar animals – but in her present state of mind she could not linger on them, or draw anything from them but cold comfort. She did not feel like the mistress of this place. She did not feel like she belonged at all. With a sudden, heart-twisting pang she experienced a surge of longing for her husband so powerful that it broke through the numbness and threatened to reduce her to tears. If only he were here! If only she could see his face, could go to him, could feel the comfort of his presence, of his arms around her. Surely he would dispel these disturbing thoughts, throw cold water on her agitated mind and make her see things clearly. But he was not here. He had left her alone, totally at the mercy of her own dark ruminations, on this dreary day in this too-quiet house. The image from her dream, of her own portrait weeping, returned to her again, and the thought of it made her feel sick. She was not normally given to superstitions but the dream seemed an ill omen she could not ignore. She had been so determined to make this a happy house. What if, despite her resolve, that proved impossible? What if, after all, she – along with the rest of the house – was doomed to live forever in the shadow of an inescapable past?
A maid entered to light the fire, but Charlotte did not stir from the window seat. She seemed incapable of movement, barely capable of speech. She managed to thank the girl as she retreated, but her own voice sounded distant and strange to her ears, somehow hollow. She wanted nothing more than to go back upstairs, lie down upon her bed, and sleep until this day had ended and she might start over with the new-risen sun. Perhaps it would all prove a bad dream, and she would wake in the morning to find herself back in the Lake District, in one of the small, snug inns, held close in Alexander's arms, blissfully happy and carefree and safe.
She was so lost to her own ruminations that she scarcely registered the sounds of wheels on gravel, but when murmured voices in the hall reached her, she managed to rouse herself and half sat up, and when a maid entered the room moments later and addressed her, she stood.
"Mrs. Parker, Ma'am."
"Mary!" Charlotte hurried forward, her heart leaping up in her chest. She had never been so happy to see her friend in all her life.
"Charlotte, my dear!" They embraced fondly, and then Mary stepped back to examine her. "Goodness! You're looking rather pale."
"It is nothing." She forced brightness into her voice. "I'm so glad you've come! I was just thinking earlier of going into town myself to call on you," she said, not entirely untruthfully.
"What luck you did not, or we might have missed each other."
"What luck indeed." She smiled at Mary, struck again by how grateful she felt to see a familiar face. "I'm afraid Alexander is out seeing to some estate business at present, and the girls are still in London, so you find me all alone this morning." She smiled again, but Mary, ever observant, detected an uncertainty, a hesitation, in the look.
"Never mind. It is you I came to see."
"Please, come and sit down." She ushered Mary into the drawing room, and they went and sat on the settee by the fire. "I confess, I find the house rather too quiet for my liking," she said confidentially, affecting a lightness she did not feel.
Seeming to intuit that she needed reassurance, Mary said,
"You are unused to it, that is all. And as you say, all the rest of the family are out, so it is only temporary."
Charlotte nodded. "Yes, of course." She cast a glance at the low table, the surface of which was currently clear but for an unlit candelabra, then looked back at Mary. "I know it's early, but I'll ring for some tea, shall I?"
"That would be lovely."
Having summoned and instructed the maid, Charlotte turned back to her guest, who was regarding her warmly. "Did I do alright?"
"Do what?"
"Act the mistress."
Mary smiled. "You did it perfectly."
"It's all so new to me. I admit I feel rather an imposter, as if I am merely playing at being lady of the manor. It still seems unreal."
"You will grow used to it in time."
"Yes, I suppose I will."
"Now, you must tell me about your trip. How did you like the Lakes? Was Cumbria everything you'd hoped?"
An expression of delight, even of bliss, came into Charlotte's eyes. "How can I begin to describe it? Don't tell Tom, but I don't think I've ever seen any place so beautiful in my life!"
Mary laughed at her effusion. "Excellent! It met your expectations, then."
"More than that! It surpassed them, beyond imagining!"
"And... Mr. Colbourne?"
"He loved the Lakes too! We're both ever so keen to go back someday. In the Spring or Summer, perhaps."
"I meant how are you liking married life?"
Charlotte blushed scarlet, grasping Mary's meaning at once, but she nonetheless smiled as she did so and said rather shyly, "I like it very well indeed."
Mary raised her eyebrows and Charlotte let out a little laugh, the memories of her honeymoon temporarily blotting out every worry that had arisen since.
"Oh Mary, I did not think it possible to love someone so much!"
"He is kind to you, then?"
"The kindest..." Charlotte broke off, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. She never would have guessed that finding happiness – such deep, soul-fulfilling happiness – in another human being would so often bring her to tears. "He is the kindest, gentlest man."
"I'm glad." Mary took hold of her young friend's hands and gripped them warmly. "Though I never doubted it."
The maid entered with the tea service, and Charlotte fell silent while the table was arranged and the tea things laid out, murmuring her thanks as the girl left and beginning to pour for Mary and herself.
"It's strange though," she continued, speaking as calmly as she could. "Since we returned I see so much less of him. I suppose it is only to be expected that he should return to his duties, but... I imagined it would be different. I had not thought we would spend hours of each day apart. I'm sure that sounds foolish!"
Mary shook her head. "Of course not. You're in love. Of course you would not wish to be parted." She smiled at Charlotte. "What you are feeling is quite natural. But I think you will soon find that the hours you do spend together will feel all the more precious for it. You will have new things to tell each other, new thoughts and ideas and experiences to discuss. And while Mr. Colbourne is occupied, you will have your own affairs to attend to. You have so many interests, my dear, so many activities and people to devote your energies to. And there is a great deal of satisfaction and fulfillment to be found in the managing of a household, I have always thought. Your influence will certainly make itself felt at once, in a house that has been so long without a mistress. That will be gratifying to you, I am sure."
"But that's just the trouble. I don't know where to begin. All of the usual things a new mistress does – calling on the vicar, meeting the servants, touring the house and grounds – they're all rather beside the point for me. I know Mr. Hankins perfectly well, and I used to work here so introductions and a tour seem redundant." She shrugged helplessly. "Once the girls return home I'm certain I shall have plenty to keep me occupied, but right now I feel rather at a loss."
"Have you mentioned this to Mr. Colbourne?"
"No. He's had such a lot of work to deal with since our return. And when we have been together, I haven't wished to trouble him with my silliness."
"What about the housekeeper? She seems a sensible woman."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Wheatley is wonderful."
"Could you not seek her guidance?"
"I have spoken with her about my duties, but she already manages everything with such efficiency that I am rendered all but superfluous." She looked at Mary with something close to desperation.
"It is not in my nature to sit idle, and I fear if my role is to be merely the ornamental lady of the house I shall fail at it miserably."
"I'm sure no one expects that of you."
"Perhaps not." She sighed. "If only I knew what people did expect."
"Charlotte?" Mary looked at her, concerned. "Whatever do you mean, my dear?"
"Do you remember what you said to me earlier this Autumn, of the hesitation you experienced before you married Tom? You said that you were afraid of losing sight of yourself."
Mary nodded, her expression of concern deepening. "And now you fear the same?"
"Not exactly. I think it possible Alexander doesn't fully comprehend how very different all of this is for me. Being mistress of a great estate… the grandeur, the ceremony of it all. I have not been accustomed to such things. When we were in Cumbria everything was so simple, so easy between us. But here…" She trailed off, struggling for the words to express how strange, how unlike her, her own life had begun to feel.
"I appreciate it is a change for you, but you must give yourself time. You returned what… two days ago?"
Charlotte nodded.
"I am certain no one expects you to have settled in and assumed all of your duties in a mere two days," Mary said.. "That would be highly unreasonable."
"Lady Lydia would have known what to do," Charlotte said, almost beneath her breath.
"I'm sure she would not," Mary insisted. "And why do you speak of Lady Lydia? She is not mistress here."
"But she might have been."
"You know as well as I that is not true."
"Yes. Yes, I know." Charlotte sighed again, then managed a wan smile. "I suppose I am overtired. And as you say, it is a change."
"This is not like you, Charlotte," Mary observed, with some surprise. "I have always known you to face challenges calmly. Do you truly find it so very daunting? Or are there other doubts that have been plaguing you?"
Charlotte paled, but she could not bring herself to divulge her greatest worry: that Alexander had begun to keep secrets from her, and that moreover he was deliberately instructing the servants to keep her in ignorance of some matter known to both him and them. She did not suspect any sinister motive – she knew him better than that – but she ached at the thought of him closing himself off again, even in the smallest of ways, of denying her knowledge of some part of himself or some hardship that if shared might bring them even closer together.
Mary was still looking at her intently, and Charlotte shook her head, wishing now that she'd said nothing.
"Forgive me. I had not intended to burden you with all of my foolish cares, and certainly not so early in the day! Let us speak no more of it."
"I hope you always feel you can speak freely to me," Mary said gently, "and I shall never consider it a burden to receive your confidence, my dear. If you wish to drop the subject, then of course we can do so, but let me first just say this: Marriage is a great change for a woman, any woman, regardless of her upbringing, and it will doubtless feel an even greater change for a woman of independence such as yourself. It is at heart a compromise, as I believe I told you before, and every union must find its own balance. I cannot advise you as to particulars, but remember, you have married a good man. Not every wife can boast as much. Trust him, and trust yourself."
Charlotte nodded soberly, hoping the pang in her heart that these words produced did not show on her face. It was not that she distrusted her husband, but the idea of secrets coming between them just as their life together was beginning was growing increasingly more hurtful and unbearable the more she dwelt on it. She knew him to be a man of deep integrity and everything that was honorable and good, but was it possible that her trust in his character was not returned by him? Was it possible he did not think her equal to whatever knowledge he now kept from her?
"You are feeling overwhelmed now," Mary was saying, "and I do sympathize with your experience. Certainly I have never found myself mistress of such a vast estate. But I think it possible that you already know in your heart what your role in this house will be. And perhaps it will turn out to be far more simple, more easy and natural to you than you have hitherto considered."
The two women sat together a long time, sipping tea and eventually finishing a plate of sandwiches. Outside the rain continued relentlessly and Alexander remained absent, but Charlotte's spirits improved as she sat with her friend, learning all of the latest news and gossip in Sanditon, the progress being made in the Old Town, the newest entertainment being devised by Arthur, the most recent outrageous remark expressed by Lady Denham. She talked and laughed and after a while felt very much as if her usual equanimity had been restored to her.
Before Mary left, Charlotte readily accepted an invitation to dinner at Trafalgar House the following week on behalf of herself and her husband, and promised to make every effort to call one afternoon with the girls before then. By the time the clatter of the Parkers' retreating carriage had finally faded, Charlotte was surprised to discover that she felt far lighter than she had a few hours ago. The visit had proved a most effective tonic, taking her out of herself for a time and giving her some distance from the dark thoughts that had consumed her that morning. With Mary's warm, thoughtful voice and calming presence still lingering within her, she straightened her skirts, turned on her heel and headed upstairs. She knew what she had to do.
The schoolroom, as she saw immediately upon entering, looked little changed since the day of her unceremonious departure as governess. Books, ribbons and shells still lay strewn on the table, a few lines of French could still be read clearly on the chalkboard, ready to be copied out, and the terrariums that had been Leo's pride and joy still stood lined up beneath the windows, though their tenants appeared to have been released back into the pond. As Charlotte looked around the familiar space, she felt the welcome sensation she had hoped for settle upon her – a sense of comfort mixed with excitement that being amongst books and tools of learning always evoked within her. And there was something else too, a special fondness and an affinity for the place where her friendship with the girls had begun. She could remember their astonishment when she had unhesitatingly begun to move things about, seeing their schoolhouse desks banished to a corner in favor of the round table where they all might sit studying together. She remembered their excitement when she'd encouraged them to adorn the room with the subjects of their studies: wildflowers and feathers collected from the grounds, extra ribbon from their sewing, curios scavenged from odd corners of the house and brought back to examine and discuss during their lessons. It had never occurred to them that learning could be a source of joy and discovery, fodder for growing the mind as well as for cultivating companionship. Charlotte had taught them that. She recalled how they had begun to soften towards her, and towards each other, their antipathy becoming acceptance, then friendship, then love. Now, the two cousins were as close as sisters. Warmed by the memories of those days, she sat down in one of the chairs, smiling to herself, and gazed toward the windows.
Mary had spoken of Charlotte's role in the house – a role that she believed she had yet to discover, despite Mary's suggestion that the knowledge was already inside her. The last time she'd been in this room, there had been no question about her position, no thought of her holding court in the drawing room or presiding at the end of a grand table. She had been the girls' governess, and her presence in the house entirely contingent upon her fulfilling that role. Yet even as she thought this, she knew it was not entirely true. Perhaps in the beginning it had been, but she had very quickly become something more than merely the governess, the position in turn becoming to her more than just a job. Were the warnings she had received from the concerned Parkers the reason for her stubborn determination to befriend the two troubled girls deemed objectionable by Tom? Or was it Alison's dismay and disapproval at her rejection of a woman's expected path that had made her double-down, bent on proving to her sister and herself that she could make a success of this new enterprise? And then there had been the challenge posed by her employer himself. Widely viewed with suspicion by the townspeople, regarded with outright dislike by Tom, painted in an ill light by the apparently upright and honorable colonel, Charlotte had had every reason to keep her distance and behave with caution and care, maintaining a strictly professional approach and demeanor in all her interactions with him. And yet that had proved impossible.
She was curious by nature, and he had puzzled and fascinated her from the start. Attracting and repelling, advancing and retreating, they had inched toward one another with tentative steps only to fall back, a peculiar dance she found herself in the middle of before she realized she had begun. Distance, detachment, had never been an option. Of course it had not been uncomplicated, and now, with the clarity of distance, she knew she had not always behaved wisely or fairly. Her greatest fault had always been a propensity to jump to conclusions about a person's character based on scant or faulty evidence, and she had come perilously close to making that same mistake with him. Indeed, when they'd first become acquainted, she had found him cold, aloof, full of a sense of prideful self-assurance and prone to fits of autocratic temper. She had suspected him, if not of outright villainy as the whispers in town seemed to suggest, then at the very least of embodying the sort of tiresome, unimaginative conventionality so common among the gentry, which she had no doubt would prove a thorny hindrance to all of her efforts to broaden the girls' minds and engender in them the spirit of curiosity and independence she believed in her heart all women should embrace, regardless of their prospects. How wrong she had been!
She was determined not to be so now. She had learned her lesson. Whatever her misgivings about her new station and all its demands, whatever her fears about the changes in the house, the secrets being kept, the bad dreams stealing her rest, she would not lay a single accusation at her husband's door without evidence. And when it came down to it, her evidence had all the substantiality of a dream. Her evidence was a whisper, a feeling. It amounted to less than nothing.
Outside, the rain seemed to have ceased at last. The window was so blurred by raindrops that she could not make out much of the grounds, but she could see a brightness in the sky, a silvery quality to the clouds that for so long had been a dark, leaden gray. Perhaps she would see the sun again soon, feel the warmth of it on her face as she walked in the garden, or rode out on Dido. She felt calm and hopeful as she turned back to look at the room. The girls would be home tomorrow. This room, for the past months a still, silent, preserved sort of space, would become a changing, living place once more.
Augusta would no longer sit with her here now that she was out, but Leo still had years of learning ahead of her. Years that Charlotte would be able to share with her, watching her bloom, seeing her own personal interests and passions take hold and shape the way she pursued knowledge. Leo was precocious and bright and spirited, curious about the world and the people in it. She would be delight to teach – and a challenge. Charlotte relished the prospect. She looked around the schoolroom again, her mind whirling with possibilities, her pulse growing elevated out of sheer excitement. There was so much life ahead, so much learning and teaching and growing. This room would see many more moments of joyful discovery, many more transformations.
In the corridor, the sound of footsteps – an unmistakably familiar tread – made her look toward the door just as Alexander walked through it.
"Charlotte! Here you are, I've been looking all over for you."
"You're back!" She rose quickly, then, noticing the state of him – his breeches damp, his hair plastered to his head – and realizing that he hadn't even taken the time to change before coming in search of her, she asked, slightly alarmed, "Is anything amiss?"
"No, nothing." He smiled at her. "I wanted to see you, that is all. What are you doing in this part of the house?"
Charlotte shrugged. "You cannot find it so very strange that I should wish to visit the schoolroom. It was my domain, after all."
"But no longer."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, and he quickly amended,
"I mean your domain is not confined to this room alone." He waved a hand in a broad gesture. "The entire house is at your disposal, Mrs. Colbourne, and all within it."
He seemed so cheerful, so genuinely untouched by the troubling thoughts and gloomy atmosphere that had so affected her spirits that morning, that she found herself returning his smile without any effort at all.
"All?" she asked, a trifle coyly, going to him and putting her arms around him.
"Every last article, and every last soul," he affirmed, bending down to kiss her. "And I most of all."
"How was your meeting?" she asked, pulling back at last. "I hear you had to mediate a disagreement."
"It proceeded very well, I think. At its root the problem arose from a misunderstanding which I pray has now been allayed. I shall tell you about it by and by. But what of you? How have you been occupying yourself today?"
"Mary paid me a call. She sends her regards."
"Ah, and how is the family Parker?"
"Very well. They have invited us to dinner next week. I took the liberty of accepting, I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all. I shall look forward to it."
Pausing, he seemed to register his surroundings for the first time, and as Charlotte had done earlier, his eyes surveyed the schoolroom with interest.
"I don't think I've set foot in this room since…"
"Since our conversation about the garden party?"
He let out a breath of a laugh, though his smile looked more like a grimace. "Yes." He looked down, evidently still discomfited by the memory of his behavior that day.
"That seems an age ago, does it not?" She put her arms around him again, and he seemed to take reassurance from the gesture.
"It does," he agreed, his smile softer now.
"I suppose it has been nearly as long for me." She looked again at the various decorations left by the girls, the evidence of their time together with her. "It hasn't changed. Well, but a for a bit of extra dust here and there, but that is a problem easily solved."
"That reminds me," he said with a sigh. "I've been putting off advertising for far too long."
"Advertising? For what?"
"For a new governess for Leo."
Charlotte was so shocked by his reply that she physically drew back. "Why?"
Mistaking her surprise for archness, he chuckled. "Much as she might prefer to run wild, she must continue her studies if she's to become the learned woman we both wish her to be."
"But I thought… Surely I shall teach her!"
"My dear, you cannot imagine I would expect you to continue with governessing duties now we are wed. I did not marry you for the benefit of obtaining free instruction for the girls."
"I never dreamed you did." She continued to stare at him, at a loss for how to proceed. Was it possible he did not understand how dearly she held the prospect of continuing Leo's education, how much she had planned for and looked forward to it? How was she to bear the idea of another woman sitting with Leo hour after hour, teaching her, molding her young mind, perhaps imparting values that were at odds with her own? How could she endure it, just when Leo had at last become her family – her daughter – to have her all but taken away and put in the hands of another? However many responsibilities lay before her as mistress of Heyrick Park, surely they paled in importance beside the joy and privilege of opening a young girl's mind? But perhaps her husband did not agree. Perhaps he saw her duties as his wife and mistress of the estate as paramount. Or worse, perhaps he considered such labors to be beneath her now.
Chafing against the idea of such a bounded existence, forced at last to a point of crisis by his words, Charlotte knew she could no longer delay the confrontation she had known in her heart was inevitable.
"Alexander, what do you expect from me?" It was a blunt question but it had to be asked, and it was one he alone could answer.
He looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"As mistress of this house. What do you wish me to be? How do you wish me to be?"
He stared at her, astonished. "I wish nothing but that you should be yourself."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!"
"Because I am not a great lady. I was not raised as one nor was I taught how to become one. I shall do everything in my power to be a good mistress and always a credit to this house, and once I learn the full extent of my duties I hope I shall be able to execute them to your satisfaction and not disgrace you. But I fear I shall always be a farmer's daughter at heart."
"Satisfaction? Disgrace me? Charlotte, I…" For a moment he was rendered speechless, slack-jawed with surprise. Then he rallied and said gravely,
"If I have given you the slightest reason to think I could ever feel anything but pride in you – pride and the deepest admiration – then I am profoundly sorry. Sorry and indeed appalled! That I could have made such a blunder unknowingly…"
She shook her head and cut in hastily, "You have not made a blunder."
"But you suspect my disapproval?"
"I know you prefer everything to be done properly, for the house to be managed just so, and I sincerely wish to do that for you, but I shall make mistakes. A great many mistakes, I'm afraid. I was not born to this sort of life, as you were. I am not grand, and I am not always proper. And I confess I shall always prefer happiness and comfort and conviviality over dignity and conventionality any day of the week."
He listened in silence as she spoke, and as always when he was attending to her words, she found it difficult to gauge his thoughts.
"Can you have patience with me? Can you overlook my missteps and learn to tolerate a bit less formality than you have been used to?"
"Formality? Confound formality!" said he, with quiet vehemence. He seized her hands, looking at her intently. "My dear Charlotte, do you truly believe I would ever place anything before your comfort and happiness? I love you. I would never ask you to be what you are not." He was earnest and insistent, his eyes probing hers. "Please know that. You must know that."
"But… the servants turned out to receive us, the formal dinners… I assumed they were on your orders."
"I only wanted you to receive the respect you are due. Perhaps I went about it wrong, but I wanted you to know how much you are valued and esteemed in this house, and to receive every attention, every deference that was fitting. You are not governess here now, you are my wife. But if you find it to be too much..."
"Alexander." She smiled at him, her anxiety retreating, her face softening. "I don't need to be continually bowed and scraped to or feted with pomp and ceremony in order to feel valued. Your love is enough."
"You know you have that."
"I do." She gave a little shrug. "What else do I need?"
"Very well. If you say you do not want ceremony, then we shall dispense with ceremony. I do not care a jot one way or the other. All I desire of you is that you should come to consider this your home. All that matters is that you are here with me, that we are together in this house, a family."
"Then you shan't object if things are done differently? If I dispense with a few conventions, if there are changes in the house, in how things are run…?"
"Of course not!" He let out a short laugh. "Good God, I hope there are changes! If I had not wanted things to change I should never have married you."
She felt the beginnings of tears prickling her eyes, of the first swells of a huge wave of relief.
"We promised each other a new beginning, did we not? Let this be it. Let it start now. All that is mine is yours also." He opened his arms expansively. "Do with it what you will. I trust you unreservedly and I hope – I think – that you have learned to harbor a similar trust in me."
"I have, of course I have!"
"Well then."
They looked at each other, his eyes pleading to reassure her, hers slowly accepting his reassurance, slowly internalizing his words. Expecting an argument, she had marshaled her courage, her heart pumping, her nerves on edge. Now, completely disarmed, she struggled to come down from that heightened state, sensible of feeling oddly deflated in the face of his defenseless capitulation. His own deep trust in her – in her capability and courageous spirit – had perhaps blinded him to the unease and doubt that had beset her, her trepidation surrounding her new role and station, but that was hardly a quality to resent. She realized she had been unfair to him all this time. She had made assumptions about his expectations based on her own insecurities, while all of his words and actions had demonstrated nothing but faith in her and a genuine liberality that she knew few wives ever enjoyed from their husbands. She had spoken truthfully. She did trust him. Why had she allowed her own fevered thoughts – thoughts with no basis in actual fact but mere guesses and suspicions born of simple fear – to ever throw that adamantine certainty into doubt?
"So, as to Leo..."
"You earnestly wish to take on Leo's education yourself?"
"Yes."
"Well then you must do so."
"You don't mind?"
"I would mind only if I thought you were denying yourself those things you most wished to do." He sighed. "You are without a doubt the best teacher Leo ever had. You have a gift for it my dear, that is undeniable, and Leo blossomed under your guidance in a way I'd never observed before. She will be fortunate indeed to have the benefit of your continued instruction and wisdom, for as long as you wish to impart it."
Charlotte's breath left her in a sigh of relief that she felt down to her very bones.
"And the best of it is," he added with a smile, "now I needn't bother with that pesky advertisement."
Charlotte laughed, then stopped her own laughter by kissing him. "Thank you!"
"For what? It is I who should be thanking you."
She let the matter drop, not wishing to slip into a battle of words over who was more indebted to whom, but she knew how fortunate she was in him, in having a husband who wholeheartedly accepted her and had no wish for her to change. She knew she was unconventional and opinionated and outspoken, occasionally even ambitious, and in another marriage those freaks of character would have been frowned upon as unwomanly – faults to be stamped out rather than qualities to be admired – but not in hers. Just because she was now his wife and mistress of his house was no reason in his eyes for any of those qualities to undergo any alteration or even adaptation. He loved her as she was.
She had thought all this time that her identity as mistress would lie in achieving mastery over the minutiae of household affairs, in going through the motions of daily life in a particular, prescribed way, even of being seen to possess the sort of grandeur and gravitas of a woman such as Lady Denham, when all along Mrs. Wheatley and Mary and now even Alexander had been telling her differently. They were not holding her to an impossible standard, all of that pressure had come from herself alone. But she had been doing herself a disservice as well. By declaring herself to be a humble farmer's daughter she'd been unconsciously asserting that she was incapable of changing, incapable of evolving. It was not that she need become someone new, but why could she not be a farmer's daughter and the lady of Heyrick Park? Why did she need to choose at all? She could be both – she would be both. As Mrs. Wheatley had said, it was up to her to shape the future, and surely that applied as much to herself as to the house. They would evolve together.
Having received her husband's blessing in as explicit a manner as she could ever wish for, Charlotte did not hesitate to exercise her new-realized discretion as mistress, and at dinner that evening she requested her place-setting to be moved closer to the head of the table, so she and Alexander might sit at right angles to one another and converse more easily without the entire length of the table between them. There was also the added benefit, as they discovered minutes into the meal, of being able to clasp hands at will, her right hand over his left or vice-versa. If the staff was astounded by this change to the proceedings, they remained silent and impassive. For his part, Alexander voiced his unstinting approval at once, declaring his enjoyment of the meal greatly improved by virtue of his lovely wife's proximity, and his gaze upon her all throughout dinner was so ardent and unrelenting that afterwards they dispensed entirely with their customary retreat to the drawing room and retired at once to their bedchamber.
For a time, as evening became night, all capacity for thought and rumination was lost to Charlotte. There was no past or future, no memory or hope. All that existed was this present ecstasy, the heat and weight of his body pressed to hers, his lips everywhere, his breaths matching pace with her breaths. It was only afterward that reality returned, and with it, the ideas that had preoccupied her until he had come upon her in the schoolroom.
In the tender quiet that always followed their lovemaking, as he ran his finger up and down her arm, tracing her form in the darkness with a lightness of touch that sent chills through her and engendered in her a sense of closeness she had never felt toward any other living being, she felt as though she could ask him anything – tell him anything – and not fear the consequences. Since the start of their engagement, he had never once refused to answer any question she had put to him, however painful or sensitive. After the misunderstandings that had so nearly succeeded in separating them forever, both had been resolved to move forward in a spirit of openness and honesty and mutual trust, he as much as she. Mary had encouraged her to lean into that trust.
Meditating on all that Mary had said to her that morning, and all that she and Alexander had said to each other in the afternoon, she lay quiet until his hand at last stilled its gentle caresses. Then she spoke.
"Dearest, there is something I must say to you."
"Hmm?" His tone was low and relaxed, and she knew he had detected no anxiety or tension in her voice. Proceeding as calmly as she could, she said,
"I know you have had a great deal of work to occupy you since we returned from the Lakes, and though I freely admit to being ignorant of the full array of responsibilities and worries that must fall to you as owner of the estate, it has not escaped my notice that there is something happening you do not wish me to know of."
She paused, but as he seemed to have no inclination to interrupt her and merely lay listening intently, she continued.
"You said this afternoon that you trusted me unreservedly and I pray that I shall always prove worthy of that trust. I shall not demand that you tell me what it is, but I hope that, as your wife, I might be permitted to help shoulder any burden or misfortune that has befallen you. And I wish you to know that you need not shield me from any ill news out of a sense that I must be protected. I flatter myself I possess enough strength of character to endure any hardship, however ugly or unexpected, and my greatest wish is that we should pass through life – through every element of life – side by side, weathering its storms together. That... that is all." Charlotte finally fell quiet, listening to her heart hammering, waiting for his reply. Surely he would tell her now! Surely he could not fail to be moved by her steady, reasonable words and would at last explain everything, free to unburden himself in the comforting intimacy bestowed by night's darkness.
Instead, he said nothing, and after waiting as long as her patience would allow, she turned her head on the pillow and tried to make out his face.
"Alexander?"
But he lay still and unresponsive, and in the rich, ponderous silence that grew ever wider between them, she could hear the slow evenness of his breathing. Her heart sank. He was sound asleep, and had not heard a single word.
Charlotte woke the following morning to rays of sunlight escaping through the gaps in the curtains. Beside her, Alexander still slept, and in the dim light, she turned over on her side and watched him. He looked younger in sleep, the lines that grief had wrought in his face made softer and gentler. She fancied she could picture the youth he had been before she'd known him, and it made her feel fondly indulgent towards him, even protective. Looking at his unconscious, peaceful face it seemed impossible that he could be keeping any secret from her, withholding any confidence. Despite her disappointment of the previous night, when the question it had taken a great deal of courage to voice had gone unaddressed, she had so profoundly misapprehended his wishes regarding her behavior as mistress that she was determined not to compound the error by indulging in more unjustified speculations about the snippet of conversation she had overheard. There was, as she considered now after the clarity bestowed by a sound night's sleep, every possibility she had misheard what had been said, or misunderstood the subject. Perhaps the servants had not been referring to her at all. Perhaps they had meant Leo, whose parentage was indeed a secret that Alexander wished kept – a secret in which Charlotte was as invested as he. Or perhaps it was Augusta they had been referring to, and a desire to spare her some painful information that might disturb the progress she had made in mending her own heart after the incident in Falmouth earlier that Autumn. But if so, why should Mrs. Wheatley's aid have been enlisted to "see to" matters? What circumstances would she have been called upon to arrange? Charlotte mentally shook her head. These thoughts were precisely the sort that had lead her dangerously close to suspecting the worst of Alexander, of imagining in him a determination to prescribe her behavior according to a certain blueprint, when his only sin – if it could even be referred to as such – had been to inadvertently cause her discomfort by overwhelming her through his boundless generosity and devotion.
If she put her questions to him point-blank, she had no doubt that he would answer them. But by articulating them she would also be revealing that she had been harboring fears and suspicions, and she knew how hurt he would be by any suggestion that she did not hold for him the same measure of trust that he claimed to do for her. No good could come of such a thing. Until she had more justification, or until she was pushed past endurance, she would keep her own counsel.
Unlike her solitary repast of the day before, this morning they breakfasted together, and though Alexander did again regretfully express the need to attend to some matters in his study, he assured her his work today would be of a much shorter duration and promised to seek her out the moment he had finished.
Charlotte, who knew that she had delayed her letters long enough, resolved to at least make a start on her correspondence and chose the round table in the drawing room as her desk. Though the room still felt strange to her with the spinet gone, it remained the space she preferred most in the house, and she'd got as far as having the fire lit and was about to ring for the writing materials to be brought in when Mrs. Wheatley entered the room and greeted her solicitously.
"Good morning, Ma'am."
"Good morning, Mrs. Wheatley."
"Can I do anything?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Mrs. Wheatley indicated the bell pull with a nod. "You wished for some assistance?"
"Oh! Yes. I'm going to write some letters this morning. Might some paper and a pen and ink be brought in?"
"You mean to write here? In this room?"
"Yes." Charlotte felt slightly defensive, as the housekeeper clearly regarded this request as unorthodox, but she managed to maintain a tranquil expression.
"Was the morning room not to your satisfaction, Ma'am?"
"Oh, no, on the contrary! It's a lovely room, only…" She took a breath, forcing herself to speak calmly. "All of the things there appear to have belonged to Leonora's mother, and it feels wrong somehow to disturb them."
Mrs. Wheatley looked greatly taken aback. "I assure you that is not…" she began, then considered her words and tried again. "I had no notion of anything belonging to that lady having been placed in the room. I apologize if there has been a mistake and shall speak with the maids at once."
"Oh please," Charlotte said, far from wishing any of the staff to be chastised on her account, "it is of no consequence."
"They should know better," Mrs. Wheatley insisted. "The morning room was always Mrs. Colbourne's and it ought not to have been altered."
"Mrs. Colbourne's?" Charlotte echoed, exceedingly confused. "But…"
"Forgive me, I was referring to Mr. Colbourne's mother," Mrs. Wheatley clarified, it finally dawning on her why Charlotte might have misunderstood. "It was her favorite room, and has always been preserved carefully to honor her memory. Miss Leonora's mother never used it."
"But..." Charlotte said again, still more bewildered, "all of the writing materials, the inkwell, the paper. They are all marked with the initials L.C."
"Leonora Colbourne," Mrs. Wheatley explained. "The master's mother. Miss Leonora is her namesake."
As Charlotte stared at her, struck dumb while a number of disparate facts fell into place, Mrs. Wheatley said sincerely,
"I apologize that the letter paper has not been replaced. Of course you should wish to write on your own paper, Ma'am. I shall see to it at once. But if I may presume so far, I am certain you need feel no sense of disturbance or embarrassment at using Mrs. Colbourne's writing implements. She was a gentle soul and I'm sure she would have been glad to think of you using them. As her daughter-in-law it would have seemed to her most fitting."
Charlotte, feeling more foolish than ever, flushed deeply but managed to stammer,
"Thank you… Thank you, Mrs. Wheatley. Most kind. It would seem I have been under a misconception. I would be honored to use the writing materials, if you think it would be appropriate. I did not know…"
Taking pity on her, Mrs. Wheatley interrupted gently,
"How could you, Ma'am? No one explained anything to you, which I see now has been a dire oversight on my part. It has been so very long since Heyrick Park had a mistress, I fear there may be one or two points upon which I have been neglectful. I must ask you to have patience with me."
"It is a change for us both, Mrs. Wheatley. I should like to think we are friends enough to grant each other the grace we require."
"Indeed. Thank you, Ma'am."
Charlotte smiled, realizing that suddenly she felt lighter than she had in days.
"Do you still wish the writing materials to be brought here, Ma'am?"
"No." Holding herself a bit straighter and meeting Mrs. Wheatley's eyes warmly, she said,
"I think, on consideration, I shall write my letters in Mrs. Colbourne's room."
"Very good. I shall bring you some new paper directly."
She felt almost dazed with relief as she made her way down the corridor and into the snug little study she had entered two days before. As on that morning, a fire crackled cheerfully in the fireplace, but the writing implements that she had disarranged had been put back in their usual places on the desk and the flowers had been replaced with fresh ones. Contemplatively, she went to the window and gazed out over the front drive, pondering the information Mrs. Wheatley had just disclosed. There had never been anything eerie or forbidding about this room. It had all been in her own head, all a mere figment of her fevered imaginings. As she looked out at the bright morning, she thought not of Lucy but of Alexander's mother – a woman about whom she knew next to nothing except for now her name – and considered how her gentle manner, as described by Mrs. Wheatley, had inspired such loyalty that this room had remained preserved and carefully tended to decades after her death. She thought also of what it meant that Leo had been christened after her, how carefully the decision must have been arrived at. It was clear to Charlotte that the name had been bestowed as a form of protection, a way of proclaiming Leo as Alexander's child, and a challenge to anyone who might otherwise have doubted her parentage. Charlotte felt humbled by such knowledge, and more aware than ever of how much she had yet to learn about the family and household of which she was now a part. But this was a familiarity that could only come with time – time and patience and an open heart.
Mrs. Wheatley bustled in a few minutes later with a stack of writing paper and more apologies, and gave the room a once-over with her eyes, ascertaining all was as it should be. What she saw she seemed to approve of, and Charlotte thanked her and had gone to seat herself at the desk ready to begin her letters when the housekeeper accosted her.
"Mrs. Colbourne, if you please, here is the menu for this evening's dinner. Cook wishes to know if it meets with your approval." She handed a sheet of paper to Charlotte, who scanned the list of delectable-sounding courses obediently. They were expecting the girls and Samuel back in time to join in the meal, and Charlotte was already looking forward to what would be the first real family dinner she would share at Heyrick Park. She agreed to the menu enthusiastically, and the housekeeper had just turned to leave when the thought of a little surprise for Leo and Augusta struck her. At its mention, Mrs. Wheatley smiled broadly.
"An excellent idea, Ma'am."
"Do you think they'll like it?"
"Oh, I have no doubt they will."
"And you're sure it shan't be difficult for Cook to arrange?"
"Quite sure, Ma'am."
"Thank you, Mrs. Wheatley."
Her spirits excited almost to buoyancy with anticipation for the day ahead, she at last sat down to write to her family, an irrepressible smile on her face. There was so very much to tell them.
Some time later – time that could have easily been minutes or hours – a knock at the door drew her attention, and she looked up from her writing to see Alexander hovering in the doorway.
"Charlotte."
"Hello dearest," she said brightly. "Have you concluded your work?"
"I have. But I'm sorry, I see I'm interrupting you."
She shook her head. "I'm only writing to Alison, it will keep."
He seemed to make up his mind and entered the room, approaching her where she still sat at the desk.
"I'm glad to see you in this room. It was my mother's."
"Yes, so Mrs. Wheatley has told me."
"I never knew her. She died not long after I was born, but everyone always said this was her favorite room in the house."
"I can understand why she was fond of it. It's a lovely room."
"I'm so pleased you think so. I believe Samuel has memories of it as a very small boy. He told me once that he could recall sitting on our mother's knee on that chair by the fire while she read to him."
Charlotte smiled, seeing how his look had become soft and distant. "How wonderful."
"Yes."
She tried to imagine her childhood without one of her parents and found she could not. Her voice gentle, she said to him, "I wish you could have known her."
"As do I." He looked at her, his eyes focusing again, and shook his head as if to dispose with this maudlin train of thought. "Forgive me. I came here to ask if you might care to take a walk. Luna's in need of the exercise after being cooped up during the storms, and I thought we might wander about the grounds while she stretches her legs." He paused, then glanced at the desk. "But if you'd rather finish your letter…"
"I thought you'd never ask!" Smiling, she rose and reached for his hand. "I would love to take a walk with you."
The grounds, still covered in raindrops from the storms, sparkled jewel-like in the sun, and it was only a minute before Charlotte's boots and the hem of her gown and pelisse were damp, but she hardly felt it, so happy was she to finally be out of doors. Luna bounded about wildly, driven almost to frenzy by her own excitement at being once more at liberty, and Charlotte felt easily as if she could have done the same. She felt a new creature, fully awake and alive, her senses alert, breathing in the cold, crisp air, feeling the bite of it on her skin. Alexander for his part appeared happy but calm as he strode at her side, looking on with amusement at the dog's antics, but then he had not been confined to the house as they had.
They wended their way toward the stables but upon reaching them did not stop, having agreed that a ride might take them away from the house for too long and they would risk being absent for the girls' return, the timing of which was still uncertain. As they ambled slowly around the stables and back toward the house, taking a long, circuitous route, Alexander picked up a small branch that had been ripped from a tree in the storms, broke off a bit of it, and threw it for Luna to retrieve, watching with satisfaction as the dog dashed away after it, then obediently sauntered back to drop it at his feet.
"Good girl," he murmured, patting the animal fondly. Then, catching sight of how Charlotte was smiling at them both, he wordlessly handed her the stick.
She pitched it as hard as she could, and was gratified to see the dog chasing after it with every bit as much enthusiasm as she'd displayed for her master. When Luna unhesitatingly returned the stick to her, she couldn't help but exclaim,
"Oh, well done!"
Alexander smiled. "You see? She remembers you."
"Oh yes. Luna and I have been friends from the start, haven't we Luna?" Charlotte crouched down and rubbed the dog's head affectionately. "She followed me after I flounced out of your study on the day of my interview," she explained, with a self-deprecating laugh.
"Clever beast," was Alexander's reply. "She saw at once what I didn't."
"And what was that?"
"That I would be a fool to let you go."
"Well, Luna's wits may have been quicker in that instance, but it did not take you too much longer to come to that realization. You did catch me up before I'd reached Sanditon Town, if you recall."
"How could I forget?"
Straightening up, she reached to take his arm and he squeezed her hand affectionately before tucking it in the crook of his elbow. They walked on.
"Is Leo still hoping for a new dog?" she asked after a minute.
He gave a wry smile. "Yes. A mastiff."
"And shall you grant her wish?"
"As it was I who proposed it in the first place, it would be rather unfeeling of me to refuse now." Something about his tone made Charlotte look at him suspiciously.
"You've already done it, haven't you?"
"Not quite," he said, "but I have made inquiries. There is a bitch on one of the farms that is expecting a litter. If the pups are healthy, I've been promised one of them when the time comes."
"Leo will be in ecstasies!"
"Oh, without question. But you shall have your work cut out, getting her to concentrate on her studies."
She pondered this a moment, then shrugged. "Perhaps animal care and training shall form part of them."
He laughed, and looked at her admiringly. "I've never met your equal, my dear. You astound me."
"How is that?"
"The way you take everything in stride. Adapt to every challenge."
"You give me too much credit."
"I think not. We all have much to learn from your example."
Charlotte smiled at the compliment, but she had not felt particularly adaptable or resilient over the past few days, and the memory of the inner turmoil she had suffered compelled her to honesty.
"I wish I could always have the same faith in myself that you have in me."
He stopped and turned to look at her. "Is this to do with the conversation we had yesterday afternoon?"
"Yes, in part."
"I wish you had confided in me sooner. I hate to imagine you going about your day beset by doubts – doubts that I might have alleviated."
"It is no matter. Truly. It is behind me now."
He shook his head. "I blame myself. I've been so preoccupied with the estate's affairs." He looked at her soberly. "I am sorry that you have been so much on your own since we returned. It was never my desire to spend so many hours away from you, I hope you know that."
"Please don't apologize."
"And with the girls absent too," he continued. "I know it cannot have been easy for you, with your disposition so much more sociable than mine. I should have been more conscientious."
"Don't say that. I've adored this time we've had together, just the two of us. But it is true, I am looking forward to having the girls home again."
He nodded. "The house does seem rather quiet without them."
"I thought you liked quiet."
"I do, but it has been somewhat unsettling."
Charlotte laughed, relieved. "So you've found it so as well? I thought I was being peculiar."
He shook his head, smiling. "Not at all. I'd forgotten what the house felt like without children in it."
"And I've never known a house without children. I am the eldest of my siblings but I have no memories of a time before them."
"Well, for better or worse, I think it unlikely we shall have a quiet house again anytime soon."
Charlotte looked at him quizzically, then followed his gaze up toward the house.
She had scarcely registered the two figures racing across the grass when a joyous cry reached them.
"Papa! Mama!"
Leo was running towards them full-tilt, skirts stubbornly hitched up in one hand higher than was proper, and Augusta followed close behind her, lifting up her own skirts and clutching her bonnet so it didn't fly off her head in her haste. Both girls still wore their coats and Augusta carried her reticule, evidently having just alighted from the carriage. They hadn't so much as removed their gloves before coming to seek them, too impatient in their eagerness for the reunion to consider etiquette or dignity.
Charlotte had no time to feel disappointment at the fact that they hadn't been at the door to greet the girls at their arrival before Leo had reached them, dashing straight into Alexander's outstretched arms. Both of them laughing, he lifted his daughter into the air, turning in a circle before setting her down again, whereupon she immediately turned to Charlotte and embraced her, Charlotte crouching down to her level.
"Leo! I've missed you!" She felt tears in her eyes as she held the little girl close. My daughter, she thought to herself disbelievingly. My daughter!
"Did we surprise you?" Leo asked excitedly, seeing Charlotte's sudden flood of emotion and mistaking it for astonishment.
"Yes, you did! Very much!"
Augusta was next, opening her arms to Charlotte and embracing her former governess tightly, her own eyes shining with emotion.
"Aunt!" Augusta laughed as she said it, as though marveling at the word that indicated their new tie. They were bound by more than love now. They were family.
"Augusta!" Charlotte laughed too. "I'm so happy you are returned!"
When they released each other, both their cheeks were wet, but both were beaming. Then Augusta turned to Alexander.
"Uncle?" For a moment she hesitated, her broad smile easing slightly. Then, somewhat self-consciously, she stepped forward and kissed him briefly on the cheek. The demonstration of affection seemed to surprise him, but he was not displeased. He touched her arm.
"Welcome home, Augusta."
"Thank you."
They smiled shyly at one another, and Charlotte wondered whether she alone detected in those words and glances the germs of a true friendship between uncle and niece, of a sincere affection and recognition on the one side and respect and trust on the other. It was a promising beginning.
As the four of them began to make their way up to the house, Charlotte experienced a moment of déjà vu so powerful it nearly stopped her in her tracks. Surely this had happened before! Surely they had all walked this way together on some other occasion, talking and laughing as now, the grass wet and the sun shining down upon them. And then she remembered it: the afternoon of the Midsummer Fair, and the picnic she'd had with the girls that Alexander had later joined. It had begun with awkwardness, even tension, but then, gradually, things had shifted – Leo had made a joke, her father had laughed, Charlotte had received an unexpected gesture of consideration, even Augusta had been provoked out of her sullenness into smiling. The shy, tentative feelings of that afternoon were but a pale reflection of the sentiments that prevailed now, but something had awoken in each of them that day. Trust had been extended and cautiously accepted, the possibility of a new kind of life opening up in each of their minds, Charlotte's included.
Now, with a jolt of realization every bit as powerful as the lighting that had struck so many times during the storms of the past days, Charlotte knew what her role as mistress would be. It would not be to preside over extravagant dinners or host the most decadent balls, to play the spinet with the greatest degree of accomplishment or even to deport herself with the daintiest of manners: all surely dearly-held aspirations of many a new bride in her position. Her vision for the future was quite different, her purpose far more simple and far more important. All she needed to do as Heyrick Park's mistress was to love the people that resided within its walls: to hold Leo and Augusta and Alexander close to her heart and give them the warmth and affection she had been so blessed to have with her family in Willingden. Everything else would follow from that. Everything else would grow from that foundation. It was a role she had been filling instinctively before she even knew her own heart, before she suspected what they would one day come to be to each other. Heyrick Park had not become her home after her return from the Lakes. She had come home long before then, on Midsummer Day, when four former strangers had shared a picnic, a walk, an afternoon that would live in their memories and hearts forever. Without any of them being aware of it, scarcely even knowing they desired it, they had started to become a family.