She resembled Estella in that way. Though Estella’s bravery was more subdued. It was a courage built out of necessity and concern for her family rather than an inherent desire to face down her foes. But Charlotte…
She was another sort of brave altogether.
The girl kicked her heels against the seat, and when the carriage set off, she surprised Sebastian with a pleasant grin. "This carriage is very fancy. Much nicer than ours."
He wasn’t certain how he was meant to respond, but his "Thank you" seemed to suffice.
Charlotte nodded and turned back to look out the window. "You didn’t have to escort me, you know. I could have gone alone."
Sebastian’s lips twitched at the forced confidence in her tone.
It was almost convincing.
He didn’t bother pointing out that she most certainly could not have gone home alone. Not without Estella losing her mind with worry.
So instead, he sank back into his seat, his eyes on Charlotte but his mind still, as always, on Estella. Estella, who wore her bravery with a straight spine and a lifted chin—while her sister waved her fearlessness like a battle flag.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks. The line from Hamlet ran through his mind as the little girl prattled on with her opinionated comments.
About the evening drizzle, which she considered a minor inconvenience rather than the genuine hazard Sebastian had apparently made it out to be. And about the dessert course, which had been a lemon tart that Charlotte told him in a hushed tone was good, but not as good as the ones Estella made at home.
"But good enough for a second helping," he said.
"Of course."
"I see."
"Estella's are better because she puts extra sugar on top of mine," Charlotte informed him. "She thinks I don't know she used the last of the sugar for mine rather than hers, but I do."
And she clearly did not like it. Charlotte’s scowl said that clearly enough.
Sebastian filed this information away. At this point, he could write a tome about all of Estella's small sacrifices that he’d learned about over the years. The skipped meals, the mended gloves, the household budget stretched past breaking so Charlotte could have new shoes.
"That was kind of her," he finally said, because something seemed to be required.
Charlotte studied him. "Why does your hand do that?"
He glanced down. His left hand was doing its usual tremor. He'd long since stopped being self-conscious about it in private, but in company he usually kept it out of sight.
"It was injured," he said. "In a fire."
"The fire that killed Andrew?" The words were matter-of-fact.
"Yes."
Charlotte nodded slowly. She didn't offer condolences or change the subject, and he appreciated that.
"Does it hurt?"
He tilted his head from side to side. "Sometimes."
"Estella's hands hurt too. She doesn't say so, but I've seen her rub them when she's been writing at Papa's desk for too long." Charlotte tucked her legs up beneath her on the seat, unconcerned with propriety. "She does all the accounts, you know. Even the ones Papa is supposed to do."
"I know," he said, and then wished he hadn't, because there was no reason a man who'd been reintroduced to Estella a week ago should know the details of her household responsibilities.
Charlotte didn't seem to notice the slip. "Are you married?"
The question was so abrupt, and such a turn from what they’d been talking about, he blinked in surprise. "I am not."
