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Chapter 23
Charlotte requested that Louisa and Margorie go to town with her several days later. Margorie immediately agreed, stating that she required fabric for her wedding gown. Louisa grumbled, asserting that she hadn’t a reason to go to town. “Why do you need to go?” she demanded of Charlotte.
Charlotte contemplated finally revealing the depths of the wretched situation in which she’d now found herself. With every moment that passed, she felt ever more aware of the danger in which she remained. Still, she felt as though revealing the letter, the truth of the mystic, the events that had unfolded in Jeffrey’s life, would ultimately put both Margorie and Louisa in danger. This was counterintuitive to her entire strategy.
Thus, she insisted that she, too, had to go to the fabric store, as her mother had requested another bit of fabric.
“Has he still not lifted the ban?” Louisa asked with a sneaky grin.
“No. And I don’t believe he will,” Charlotte said, grateful to have found another topic of conversation. “He’s terribly angry with Mother. Mother has made it her duty to convince everyone that he, himself, is not to be spoken to. Fortunately for him, he’s the only fabric store in town, and the people in this county have long-since deemed my mother a kind of gossip monster.”
Margorie and Louisa giggled at this.
“It’s terribly true,” Margorie said with a laugh.
It was settled, then. Margorie, Charlotte, and Louisa gathered outside the fabric store on the following afternoon. Margorie’s words were bright as she discussed with Louisa what sort of fabric she wanted for the gown. Louisa articulated her opinions, and the sisters swapped tales, describing other dresses they’d seen in the past, ones they’d detested and ones they’d loved.
All the while, Charlotte’s eyes scanned the end of town, towards the brasserie where Jeffrey had said he wanted to wait, look, and watch for any of Brooks’ known associates. Charlotte had wanted to remain close-by throughout. If anything went awry, she wanted to be the first to know. She had to support him, both emotionally and physically, if she could. It wasn’t as though she could get between him and any sort of murderer, no. But perhaps she could run to the authorities before anything got too rocky.
These were her initial thoughts. She was aware of how rickety the plan was, how quickly everything could go wrong.
“Shall we go inside?” Margorie asked. The question was poised towards Charlotte, who was clearly not paying attention.
“Of course. Let’s,” Charlotte affirmed.
The three women climbed the stairs and entered the shop. The fabric store owner greeted Margorie and Louisa brightly.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. When his eyes caught Charlotte’s, however, his smile waned. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear,” he said. “I have to request that you wait outside.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Louisa said.
“Really. This is darling Charlotte Stanton. She has nothing at all to do with her mother’s moods,” Margorie said.
“I mustn’t allow that woman any sort of business in my shop,” the man said. He pressed his spectacles until they shot up towards his eyebrow. “I’m afraid I must stick to my word.”
Charlotte took this as a remarkable opportunity. She waved her hand towards both Margorie and Louisa and said, “Please, don’t worry yourselves. I’ll wait outside.”
“Without a chaperone?” Margorie demanded.
“I’ll be just outside the door. Nothing will happen. I won’t see anyone I know,” Charlotte told her.
Margorie contemplated this for a long moment. “If you think it’s really all right. We have come all this way for fabric for my wedding gown …”
“A wedding! How marvellous,” the fabric store owner said, beaming, seemingly wanting to pull them back to the wonderful world of fabric.
Charlotte hurried outside. Her heart fluttered wildly as she rushed down the street, her feet scuttling over the cobblestones and her eyes searching. When she reached the brasserie, she stopped, gasping for air. That moment, Jeffrey stepped out from the alley between the brasserie and the butcher shop. He beamed at her. In his eyes, she felt the story they’d already built for one another: one built on love, on understanding.
“Hi,” she whispered. It seemed foolish to whisper to someone out in the open, there on the street. But it very much felt as though her voice hadn’t enough power to it. Perhaps she was simply overwhelmed by the amount of lust that stirred in her stomach—or the potential danger at hand.
“Hello,” he breathed. His hand rushed forward and spread out across her waist, then dropped quickly, to ensure that nobody saw.
“It’s good to see you,” she whispered.
“And you.”
“Do you think it’s really safe to do what you’re about to do?” she asked. “I so wish I could go with you.”
“I would never allow it, even if women could go inside brasseries,” he returned. “It’s far too dangerous. We don’t know what sorts of people the mystic works with. Someone nearby could hear me and attack.”
