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Despite all the female wisdom her governess had tried to impart, she had acted like a minx to escape her fate. She had run from home in the middle of the night. She had pretended at lovetwiceover with a scoundrel.
All of that and more she had done in her war against convention. It had been of little consequence, for the day was a warm Wednesday at the end of February, and she was set to be married before noon.
It had been three weeks since she had returned from her aunt’s home in the country. Two weeks and six days since her father had forced her hand in the matters of her heart for good. A license had been obtained, a venue had been decided, and she had not said a word for fear of her father disowning her entirely.
The funny thing was that shehadharbored all those fears about marriage… until she met Benjamin Fletcher. Having not seen the man in nigh on a month, she had suffered every day without him as though trapped in a forever period of mourning. Nightly, she would recall all she had said to him when last they had met. She tried to remember his touch, his taste, the sound of his deep voice, but with each set of dreams, she forgot him a little more.
If she had known what a life without him would entail, she would never have let him go. There had been no word of him in the time since they had parted—not even from his father, whom she was set to marry that day. Gamston had revealedallupon her return to London: his love for Benjamin’s mother, his sinful siring, his pleading with Benjamin to return to him. She wished more than anything that she could go back in time and do things differently. She would swallow her fear, all things having come to light, and she would give himself a foolish third—or fourth—chance.
Sat in the solar of her father’s London house, the room having been cleared of breakfast things and emptied, she looked out over the lawns behind her home, trying as much as she could to come to terms with her fate.
“I know it will not mean much, but you do look lovely, sister.”
It was Eleanor standing at the entrance to the conservatory. She drew out a chair, and the sound of it grating against the floorboard made Charlotte want to jump through the windows.
“You are right,” she mumbled, looking down at her ivory and gold gown, “It doesn’t mean a thing.” She suckled at her lip, a little harder than usual. “The guests… have they arrived?”
“They have,” Eleanor answered low, “Except those who are to meet us at the church. I imagine they shall be many in number. It’s a rather large affair—the marriage of a Duke.”
Charlotte breathed a mirthless laugh. “It feels like any other Wednesday to me.” At last, she peered at Eleanor from beneath her lashes. She was holding something on her lap, concealed beneath her blue pelisse. “What is that you have brought me?”
Eleanor sucked in her cheeks. “Something that will either delight you or torment you more.” She licked her lips and handed Charlotte a newspaper of some sort.
Reading the title, Charlotte whined. “TheLadies Monthly Gallery of Arts? Why would you think I would want this?”
Eleanor dodged her sister’s cool glare. “If you would open to page thirteen before tearing my head off…” She gestured for Charlotte to comply.
Turning over the first page, not daring to look overlong at the journal, she landed on the page of Eleanor’s suggestion. When she read the heading, she almost fell from her seat. “The Parting Songby… Lady Charlotte Fitzroy.”
It was one of her poems, printed where the others had been, except it had been published under her real name. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she read over the verses, recognizing them as ones she had penned prior to her encounter with Benjamin.
“I thought you hadn’t done it yourself,” she heard Eleanor muse. “Gamston dropped it off saying it was a gift from your… future husband.”
The words crawled up the nape of Charlotte’s neck, but she was quick to brush them away. She had never thought the day would come when she would see her name in writing alongside her poem. All at once, it dawned on her that Gamston could not have acted alone, as Benjamin was the only one to have her poems on his person.
“His final gift to me,” she whispered, clutching the journal close to her chest. She closed her eyes and sank against the back of her chair. “Father…has he—“
“He has seen, but he does not mind,” Eleanor replied. “I doubt he would mind a thing after all you have been through.”
“Been through?” Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying. “Why, I rather say it is my family who has been through the most.” When Eleanor did not answer immediately, Charlotte worried she had spoken out of turn. While none of the Fitzroys had said as much, she knew her antics had put her entire family’s reputation in jeopardy.
“Silly, silly mare,” Eleanor lilted to her surprise. The insult was so sweet it knocked the wind from Charlotte’s sails. “You speak of our family as though we are the picture of decorum, Charlotte. I won’t lie and say you didn’t add to our scandal, but…” She cut herself off with a laugh. “Papa has shocked no small number of peers with his madness. Truth be told, I think he likes it too. Matthew is no saint, leaning into the act as much as our father. He had scandalized himself with Ernestine before you and I knew what a Debrett’s was, for heavens’ sake.” She searched for Charlotte’s hand. “Mama was a tyrant, and I am a wallflower, or was before Mr. Pollock... andyou, my darling, pig-headed sister, have done exactly what we expected of you.”
Charlotte could not believe her sister had grown so wise. “And what did you expect of me, exactly?” she inquired through her tears.
“For you to fall in love with a rogue, be dragged kicking and screaming to a church, and stow yourself away in the night like the heroines of the Romances we would read as children against Mother’s orders.”
The solar became a blur as Charlotte released the tears she had been holding in. “The thing is,” she began, but her voice broke, “I rather expected after it all that I would be happy.” She held her sister’s hand tightly.
“We all did, Charlotte, and I hope it isn’t too late.” Eleanor was crying too. “Would Mr. Fletcher have made you happy?”
It was as if Eleanor had brought her thoughts to words. She let her tears run dry while she pondered her sister’s question, half of her heart protesting against the rumination, knowing it would only hurt her more. Finally, she murmured, “I think he damn well would have tried. I think I would have let him until I conceded to happiness.”
“Oh, Charlotte…”
“I suppose there isn’t time for it now.”
Taking a final glance at the journal, thankful for one last moment of rebellion, she picked up her bouquet of wildflowers and made her way from the light of the solar.
