CHAPTER ONE
Charlotte Wentworth sat on a stone bench among the roses. The tree above her head cast a small shadow, protecting her from the day's heat, and bathing the grass about her feet in dappled sunlight.
She often came into the garden to write. It was pleasant to listen to the chirp of the birds in the trees and the rustle of wind about the branches while she scribbled in her journal. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, the ink staining their tips. The sight of it had been a constant companion over the past few years.
Rotating her wrist, she briefly paused in her writing, having filled almost five pages of her journal with her thoughts for the day. As usual, her musings led to poetry, and she read through the few lines she had created with a critical eye. She was rather proud of the little sonnet, finishing the final stanza with a flourish.
Charlotte was grateful for the moment of stillness amongst the flowers; it was one of the few times of late that she had felt any semblance of peace. As she watched a swallow flit in a darting line above her head, the quiet calm was fractured by the approaching sound of footsteps on gravel.
Charlotte swiftly secreted her journal in the folds of her dress as the familiar form of Sarah Gilmore, her governess-turned-companion, walked toward her. Charlotte’s heart sank when she saw the expression on Sarah’s face.
“What is it?” she asked mournfully, already knowing the answer.
“Your father has requested your presence at dinner,” Sarah said solemnly, her expression carefully blank. She stood primlyin the gardens, her dark dress contrasting against the bobbing heads of the pale flowers.
“How is his mood today?” Charlotte asked, watching the familiar look of furtive worry cross her friend’s face as Sarah glanced back toward the house. “He is not so bad,” she said carefully. “He was rather anxious as to your whereabouts.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “And where should I be but, in the house, and grounds?”
“You know he worries about you.”
“He does not worry; he likes to beobeyed.”
Sarah stepped forward, her head on one side, giving her a look of admonishment. “He has had a difficult year. We all have.”
Charlotte sighed, rising from the cool bench and walking out into the sunshine to join her friend. Sarah was right; of course, they had all had a terrible year.
Her eyes strayed to the far walls of the house, where the ivy cascaded over the bricks and mortar beneath her mother’s window. Sarah had grown intimately familiar with that view over the past three and a half years. The curtains covering the pane were a painful reminder that no candle would be visible inside the room that night, or any night, now that her mother had left them.
She hooked her arm in Sarah’s, sighing heavily. “I am only saying that Papa does not worry aboutme.He worries for the sake of the estate. If I should vanish into the winds, who would he have to ensure an advantageous marriage?”
“Charlotte, you are being unfair.”
“I am being realistic.”
Sarah squeezed her arm. “Your father loves you in his way. Have you not considered that perhaps his mind is elsewhere these last few months?”
“I know he misses Mama. We all do.”
Sarah remained quiet for a long time as they walked toward the house through the grasses. The lawn had been left to grow, and the stems brushed their feet as they made their way inside.
“I know how difficult it has been for you. But provoking your father will lead to nothing but pain.”
Charlotte felt the weight of those words more keenly than ever as she glanced at Sarah. Their long friendship had been forged over the years, both with Sarah as her tutor and guide and her closest confidante. Charlotte often needed Sarah’s steady sensibilities when her own hot-headedness ruled her, and now was no exception. It occurred to Charlotte that placating her father was in both of their best interests.
“I have heard you,” she said softly. “I shall behave. I know he means well.”
Sarah laughed. “That has never been in question; I hope you know that. You are the easiest pupil who ever lived.”
“Such praise!” Charlotte said with a wry smile. “I wish I could list the benefits in my character; I could hand a card out to suitors to recommend me when I eventually return to society.”
“Did I say easy? You are quite impossible,” Sarah said good-naturedly as they reached the door to the house. It was opened by a footman, and Charlotte nodded to him gratefully as she went to prepare for another interminable meal with her father.
***
Lord Richard Wentworth, the Marquess of Wensingdale, was an imposing figure. His greying, slightly curling hair was swept away from his face, making his bushy eyebrows all the more pronounced. Since her mother’s death, his mouth had been set in a perpetually stern line, his cheeks hollowed out and sunken from lack of sleep.
Charlotte took a seat opposite him, her fingers trembling slightly in his presence. Although she had been eating mealswith him all her life, his demeanour and general temper had changed a great deal since her mother’s death. His stern exterior was even more pronounced, and he rarely acknowledged any comments his daughter might make when he asked for her opinion.
