William glowered. They were supposed to help him win Charlotte back, not agree with his mother. He’d have to find his own way.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Despite their romance being at an end, Charlotte considered both William and Ruth friends. She attended the previous earl’s funeral service to support both of them. Avoiding William as best she could so as not to encourage him, she skirted the procession offering condolences outside the chapel. She would offer her sympathies to Ruth later, one widow to another, in both written form and even later in person.
Ruth caught her gaze, though. Charlotte nodded solemnly to the countess.
I am sorry for your loss. I am here for you. I know what needs to happen now.
Ruth nodded back, then glanced at William. Charlotte wagged her head once in the negative, gave a shallow curtsy and made her way down the side of the steps and home.
Once home, she attempted to draft two more notes, one to Ruth and one to William. In Ruth’s, she offered her ear to commiserate whenever Ruth might desire, and said that she would see if she was open to a quiet social call in a fortnight. William’s was more difficult. Her own devastation interfered with finding empathy for his. He was also likely more miserable over her distance than the loss of his father, which was not ego but based on her knowledge of his frustrations at his parent. After several heart-rending tries, she gave up, unable to find words beyond the stilted condolences and best wishes for his new role she’d parsed together in her first missive.
There was nothing more to say, although that thought filled her again with despair. Whilst her grief might be different than his, it was nonetheless as deep. This felt worse than the loss of her husband. Her bereavement now had the added fillip of watching the person she had lost move around London, even as her heart felt as though he was gone as thoroughly as Charles was. The fact that she had gone into this willingly, knowing the outcome, made it worse. She’d brought it on herself.
How could she stand it?
Unable to focus through the pain and seeing the ghost of William everywhere she looked in her home, she scribbled a third note and asked the servant to wait for a response. While she waited to see if Belle was available for a call, she paced, holding her hand to her mouth as though it would force back the tears.
After what felt like hours, the servant returned, and she called for the carriage. Speeding over to Belle’s, she found her friend waiting with open arms and several bottles of sherry sitting on the sideboard for their evening.
“Belle.” She collapsed into those arms, and let it all go. Sobbing, sniveling, dripping from eyes and nose on her friend’s dress, she could not seem to stop. Taking heaving breaths in between, she tried to speak. “I…he…Belle…” She wailed again.
Belle held her and rubbed her back. After an hour or a week, she let go with one arm and led them to the sofa. “Shh, dear. I know. I am sorry.”
“Oh, lud. Why?” Charlotte frowned through her tears. “Why did you encourage me in this?”
“Because you deserve him.”
“I did not deserve this heartache, which we always knew it would come to.”
“No, you do not. But I used present tense. You still deserve him. We just need to convince you of that.”
“Ack, I cannot argue with you right now, Belle. Please? You know my reasons, and they are the right ones. Please, let us not discuss this. I can’t bear it.” Leaning her head wearily against the back of the sofa she sat sideways on, facing her friend, Charlotte closed her eyes for a second, exhausted.
“Right, then. Sherry? That was the plan, I believe.” Belle rose to pour them each a rather large glass, and they proceeded to work their way through the bottle as they talked about anything other than William. Much later that night, Belle poured Charlotte into a guest bed at her house to sleep it off.
Unbeknownst to her, Charlotte had hoped to sleep there to avoid William.
As Belle was between paramours, Charlotte wallowed, sending for a few items from her home, and spending the days playing cards, discussing investments, and drinking vast amounts of sherry with her friend.
On the third morning, morose but resigned, Charlotte picked at her apple cake as her tea grew cold. The end of her courtship with William had been a foregone conclusion. She had regularly reminded her rakelet of that fact. She’d expected to have time to plan, to see the end coming, but she’d adjust.
Belle sat across from her, watching her move crumbs around. “You know you’re welcome to stay with me forever. You might be invited to participate in a threesome now and then, but I’ve no doubt you can handle that. I think you will be more comfortable in your own space, though, to move on with your life.”
“I know,” she answered with a wan smile. “Thank you for having me these past days. I appreciate you letting me hide. And yes, I admit I’ve been hiding. It so happens I packed this morning.”
“I still think you should—”
“Please. Not again.” Charlotte waved a hand. Belle had been harping on the possibility of marriage to William sporadically, despite Charlotte’s protests. She was too tired and too sad to have the argument again. There was no getting around the risk she could not bear children. “I am grateful for your support and encouragement. But having dealt with the aristocracy at one level or another for more than a decade, I know ’tis not the right thing. The correct thing is to ensure the continuity of the title to his children.”
“What about his estate?”
“Of course. The estate and the title go together.”
“Not necessarily. Not if he cannot afford to maintain the estate—or estates, as I believe there are a few properties that are sellable, beyond the entailed assets.”
Charlotte frowned. “I knew funds were scarce, but I thought William had started to turn the corner.”
