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“We’re going to fix this, Charlotte.”
Charlotte hadn’t heard her father stand up for her in such a manner, not once in her life. Her hands fell to her sides in shock.
“How?” she whispered.
“We’re going to end this. We’re going to find a way to end this, to fight. But in the meantime, we must call in our resources. Our lawyers. Our friends who know a thing or two about the law. I don’t think you should leave the estate until we find an approach,” Lord Stanton continued.
Charlotte’s lower lip bubbled. “Do you actually believe me? That I didn’t kill him?”
“Of course, darling,” Lady Stanton said. She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around her, an act of love and generosity that Charlotte hadn’t seen from her mother in quite some time. She dropped her head forward, closed her eyes tightly, and breathed in her mother’s perfume—a smell synonymous with safety.
Charlotte hadn’t the energy to continue the conversation. Her father dismissed himself to write a series of letters, to be sent out that morning. As he marched away, he muttered, “We’ll have this fixed within the day. Within the week! Certainly, you won’t go to prison. Certainly …”
Charlotte had a letter of her own to scribe. She hugged her mother a final time, convincing her to take up a bit of stitching while she returned to her bedroom for a short cry. As she wiped the tears from her cheeks once more, she tapped towards her desk, fell upon the chair, and then lifted a quill.
The only person in the world she yearned to stand at her side at this moment was Jeffrey.
He had to be alerted of this new flub in their plan.
My darling Jeffrey,
Charles Baxter has just arrived to inform me of his plot.
His laziness has resulted in a singular vision: he believes that I’m the murderer of dear Brooks.
He will stop at nothing to put me behind bars.
Perhaps this is the end of our scheme, my darling.
Perhaps there isn’t a way to lend proof for the mystic’s scheme.
I await the axe to fall, knowing that I was lucky in this life to have met you, to have loved you.
I will think of you every day.
I hope you’ll write me and find a special place in your heart to keep me. Forever.
Eternally yours,
Charlotte
Charlotte sent the letter that early afternoon, then found herself in the depths of despair. She refused lunch, then dinner, then breakfast the following morning. Her father seemed in a similarly desperate state. His skin had turned an odd shade of grey; his eyes were bleary and strange. When Charlotte found her mother in the parlour, she muttered bizarre things over her stitching.
If Charlotte really was put away, sent to prison, she imagined that both her father and mother would go mad.
Just before lunch the following day, Charlotte received a letter in return from dear Jeffrey. She opened it with shaking hands, preparing herself for the worst. She imagined that the letter would illustrate his goodbye to her. Assuredly, he wouldn’t have wanted to link himself up with an apparent murderer—as it was horribly possible that Charles Baxter would shove him in prison, as well.
Charlotte,
A worse letter, I’ve never received.
I’m terribly sorry to hear the news of Charles Baxter’s reckless operation.
Naturally, I don’t believe it for a moment. Although you’re assuredly one of the more emotional creatures I’ve met in my life, I can’t imagine you being so emotional, so volatile, that you would take it upon yourself to murder your cousin in cold blood.
We’re close, Charlotte. We’re so terribly close to the truth.
Peter will have one of his dinner parties this evening. I can assure you that the answers will reveal themselves amid the party.
Perhaps you’re too frightened to leave your estate at the moment. I cannot say I blame you.
But Charlotte, I beg of you. Come to Peter’s tonight. Feast your eyes on the villain of our story, and watch as I set the trap.
You won’t regret it.
Eternally yours,
Jeffrey
