“Very well,” she said quietly. “If he calls again, I will not press the matter. But, Charlotte, you must understand: Your options grow fewer as the season progresses, and you cannot dismiss every man who fails to meet your high standards. I would urge you to reconsider Sir Roger… before it is too late.”
Charlotte’s shoulders relaxed fractionally. “I understand, Mother. But please, trust me in this. Sir Roger is not right for me.”
Lady Fitzgerald shrugged, and Charlotte knew that she had not ended the matter—merely put it off for a while. “We shall see what the next weeks bring,” she said, gesturing for Charlotte to follow her into the corridor. “For now, you have been spared him—but do not assume you have forever to find a better match.”
Charlotte followed, grateful for the small reprieve. As she trailed behind her mother’s elegant figure, she knew that she would somehow have to take matters into her own hands. She could not settle for a man who treated her like a simpleton or a trinket. There had to be some middle ground between spinsterhood and shackling herself to a man like Roger Leonard.
Charlotte inhaled, steeling herself against her nerves. She no longer had the option to bury her head in the sand or hide in corners. Yes, she might have fewer options than she desired, but she would not squander them by surrendering to despair. Shemustfind a way to forge her own path—or at least reject those who would make her miserable.
After her mother left her in the corridor, Charlotte found herself lingering, staring at the intricate pattern in the wallpaper as if it could offer reassurance. The possibility that she might be coaxed—or forced—into a marriage like Victoria’s had become all too real. She could almost feel the noose of duty tightening around her neck.
Quietly, she went up the stairs to the safety of her room, determined to distract herself once again with needlepoint.She took a seat and tried to concentrate, carefully placing the needle, guiding the thread, pulling it through, creating tiny, neat stitches.
But her fingers trembled slightly, her mind fixed not on the pattern but on her dim prospects. Before she knew it, she had pricked her finger once again, a small bead of red blooming on the fabric.
“Bother,” she whispered, digging her fingertip into her handkerchief. Twice in one day. She wasn’t accomplishing anything this way. She was too unsettled to relax, to think about anything other than escaping the future that loomed before her, bleak and terrifying.
Charlotte rose from her chair, letting the embroidery hoop rest on the table. Sitting down at her writing desk, she reached for her quill and a stack of fine writing paper. If she was going to make a change—if she wanted to avoid Victoria’s fate—then she needed allies.
Her circle of friends, though varied in temperament and fortune, all shared similar concerns. Miranda, thoughtful and scholarly, was desperate to avoid a marriage that wouldn’t allow her to pursue her studies. Felicity and Genevieve were like Charlotte herself: on the shy side and not beautiful enough by society’s standards to have their pick of husbands.
Helena Steele was, thanks to her status on the edge of theton, expected to marry to advance that status rather than for her own desires, and then there was Helena’s acquaintance, Adeline, who Charlotte was sure was in much the same boat. Adeline’s family were old money, but hovering close to poverty thanks to a catastrophic loss of fortune.
Together, perhaps, they could think of a solution.
Charlotte dipped her quill into the inkwell and pressed the nib lightly onto the page. In a neat, flowing script, she addressed the first letter to Miranda.
Dearest Miranda,
I am hosting a small gathering at my home tomorrow afternoon for a select group of our friends. I am aware that this is terribly short notice, but further to our conversation at last week’s ball, there are matters we simply must attend to.
She paused, and then underlined must. It was important that she let her friends know that this was no simple afternoon tea but a matter of utmost urgency but without revealing anything that would alert prying eyes to her plans.
Two o’clock in the afternoon would be most suitable. I will have fresh cake and tea prepared.
After suggesting a time when she knew her mother would be out visiting acquaintances, leaving them some privacy, she repeated the process for Felicity, and then for Genevieve, Helena, and Adeline, leaving out the mention of the ball. Once finished, she sanded the ink dry and folded the letters neatly.
After sealing each with a bit of wax, she pulled the bell cord for a footman to deliver the messages and settled down to wait for replies.
CHAPTER 5
Henry had been sitting peacefullyat his desk in the oak-paneled study, the late morning sunlight filtering through the tall windows and falling in bright rectangles onto the polished surface, before his mother came barging in.
He ignored her for a moment, focusing instead on the letter in his hand that he’d received earlier that week from the manager of his country estate. It was filled with details about the harvest, the current price of grain, and the projected yields for the coming season. Not the sort of reading that inspired much passion in a man of his age, but Henry found comfort in these practicalities.
Unlike the unpredictable and exhausting pressures of the marriage market, which his mother was sure to bring up any second now, the land and its cycles were reassuringly steady. He could count on seasons passing, on fields growing green and then golden, on tenants working and thriving. As long as all was handled properly.
He leaned back in his chair, pushing a strand of dark hair away from his eyes. The figures were better than expected this year—if the autumn rains held off, there would be ample wheat and a fair return. The barley, too, looked promising, and theorchard trees, newly fertilized, should yield more apples than in previous years. Such incremental improvements pleased him. They were small victories he could take pride in.
“Henry,” his mother barked, clearly unimpressed that he hadn’t immediately dropped his letter to address her.
“I’m rather busy, Mother,” Henry said as neutrally as possible.
His mother swept farther into the room as though he had issued a warm invitation instead. She carried herself with the assured grace of someone who always knew her place—and everyone else’s.
“My dear Henry,” she began, gliding closer. Her slender fingers, adorned with a single emerald ring, trailed along the back of the leather armchair opposite his desk. That ring itself was worth a few orchards, Henry thought. “Whatever you are reading is not more important than what I have to say.”
Henry placed the estate letter face down on his desk and folded his hands over it. He raised an eyebrow. “More important than ensuring the prosperity of our lands and the welfare of our tenants? I hope not. Without proper stewardship, the name Arundel would mean very little.”
