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Her Aunt Cecily bowed her head in sombre recognition. “Thank you for your kind words, darling. Won’t you sit with us for a spot of tea?”
Charlotte cut through the parlour and sat anxiously at the edge of one of the chairs. Silence filled the room. Charlotte tried to drum up something to say—anything that might give some ease to Brooks’ poor mother. When she glanced up, she found that Aunt Cecily had actually begun to weep once more. She lifted the dark fabric of her sewing project to her cheeks and dotted it across.
It seemed as though, against Charlotte’s entire strategy, she’d actually created more pain in her poor auntie’s heart.
“Brooks was such a dear man,” Charlotte said, her voice wavering. “One of the greatest I met in my life.”
This did nothing to help. Her mother cast her a dark look, one that seemed to translate—just what did you think that would do for your dear aunt?
Charlotte reasoned that she’d never been particularly good at lending any sort of emotional support, regardless of the situation. When Louisa had been rather sad about a boy who hadn’t given her any romantic attention, Charlotte had found it difficult to say the appropriate things—which had resulted in Louisa falling into a heap of tears atop her bed.
Due to the goodness of Louisa’s heart, she’d naturally forgiven Charlotte for this shortcoming.
Aunt Cecily continued to weep. Moments later, Uncle Thomas marched past the parlour, his shoulders forward and his back hunched. He hardly glanced at Aunt Cecily. It seemed as though he existed in his own moving shadow.
“Darling, can I speak with you for a moment in the corridor?” her mother recited, glaring towards Charlotte.
Charlotte nodded and tightened her fists as she wandered into the hallway. She followed her mother to the back of the corridor, near to the garden. When they reached the far door, her mother swept around and placed her hands on hips. The once-fatigued and sad face transformed to one of anger.
“It seems as though you’ve created much tension in this house,” she said.
Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat. “I wanted only to lend some sort of support.”
“I understand that. I couldn’t have known what their reaction would be. You and Brooks were so close to one another in age. Naturally, it’s drawn up many memories; naturally, they’ve begun to think about the future that will never be.”
“Perhaps I can apologize?”
Her mother furrowed her brow. “Perhaps it’s best if you leave the room for a time, give me some space to speak with her. Perhaps in a half-hour, maybe more, I can find a way to calm her. Perhaps by lunch …” She gave a half-shrug.
“I understand,” Charlotte whispered. She cast her eyes towards the back staircase. “Perhaps I’ll just go for a walk. When I walk past the parlour once more, perhaps you can give me some sort of signal.”
Her mother nodded. “Yes. I’ll do my best, although I can’t promise anything. It seems to me that the moment everything changes, one can never pull one’s self back. Perhaps you’ll never know your aunt in the same way again.”
**
The first step creaked as Charlotte climbed the staircase. She paused, listening as her mother crept back down the corridor and greeted her aunt once more. She hadn’t suspected the morning to erupt with such horror. Still, her guilt consumed her in such a manner that she found it difficult to make any sort of choice.
It was better, now, to remain at her uncle and auntie’s estate until her mother informed her what to do next. If she could do anything to assist them, anything at all, she yearned to do it. She was willing to do anything to fight this strange darkness in her heart.
When she reached the second floor, she crept down the hallway. All the doors were closed; everything felt sinister and amorphous. Time seemed not to exist. Her legs shook beneath her, and she crashed into one of the closest doors. It occurred to her that she wanted nothing more than to stretch out on a bed. If she were caught, she would simply tell them that she’d thought she was on the verge of fainting. Fainting was something women did all the time. It was a worthy excuse. Beyond that, it was very nearly true.
Charlotte rushed through the door and then crunched it closed behind her. Immediately, she was overcome with happiness, as, in this bedroom, they hadn’t drawn the curtains, and sunlight poured through the windowpane and across the perfectly-made bed. It felt as though she hadn’t seen the sun in several days, although it had only been a few minutes. She’d forgotten it existed.
But after a moment of relief, Charlotte was again overcome with horror, as she realized she’d somehow entered Brooks’ bedroom. She crumpled to the ground, feeling the weight of her guilt, and pressed her face into her hands.
Brooks would never enter this room again, never sleep in the bed, never read the books upon the desk. He would never gaze into the yonder mirror near the wardrobe and engage with his personal daydreams about the day ahead. He would never do anything again.
Charlotte forced herself upward and staggered towards the desk. A quill remained out near a piece of blank paper. Three piles of books were staged out towards the right side; one book of poetry was opened and placed downward across one of the piles as though he’d been studying it. Charlotte had never known Brooks’ taste when it came to books, to poetry, to romantics. She lifted the book of poetry, hungry for some sort of view of his inner world.
As she grabbed it, however, she accidentally brushed up against another book tower—which resulted in it crashing to the ground. As the books filtered out across the hardwood, a letter fluttered out from between. It caught the light, there in the centre of the room, and seemed to beckon to Charlotte.
A letter, from one of the people in Brooks’ now-completed life.
A letter, which might reflect more of Brooks’ reality.
Charlotte burned with curiosity. She dropped before it, gripped the edge, then fell against the bed to read it hungrily.
My darling Brooks,
