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“Where the horizon is not a point but a world of our making,” he continued.
“Say nothing more,” she whimpered incredulously, and Matthew shushed her.
“To set you down where I found you in the garden, o apple of my eye. From a tree fallen, not of fruit but of willow.”
Her brow knitted painfully as he reached the second stanza. In unison, Charlotte’s account soundless and pleading, they finished the poem.
“I will it away beneath the willow tree; I will it away where we lie. To dream of your ghost upon cursed pillow; Where I store the taste of your sigh.”
In the flash of stunned silence before the applause, Charlotte felt something within her snap. The man did not simply share a name with her. This was no mere coincidence. He had stolen credit for her poem. The final poem of her most recently published collection, printed in December’s edition of The Ladies’ Monthly Gallery of Arts.
As she had raced up to the stage, she had wondered whether she had swiped the name subconsciously from another writer, but now there was no doubt. This man, in one fell swoop, had claimed her life’s work for his own.
She wanted to scream until her lungs burst. She wanted to climb onto the stage like a rabid animal, tear his jade eyes out and claim the glory for herself. It washers. This moment washers. The thunderous applause that came next, as she rocked herself back and forth on her feet—it was hers.
She couldn’t move; she couldn’t protest, not yet, not without causing a great scandal. She could only watch in stunned silence as the man smirked and bowed, lapping up accolades like the cat that got the cream. She hoped he might choke on it.
Lady Singberry joined him on the stage once the laurels came to term. Gentle chatter blanketed the room. She announced some other writer, but Charlotte didn’t care one bit for whoever would follow. The imposter skipped down the short stairs as the hall moved on, his polished Hessians clicking against the steps, and Charlotte turned toward him instinctively.
Matthew grabbed her by the arm. “Where do you think you’re going without us?” he muttered in her ear. “You know the rules.” He was statuesque as he regarded her, his dark brown eyes boring into hers, warning her against causing a scene.
“That man,” she whimpered, breaking free of his grasp. “I must speak with him.”
Her brother huffed and looked around to make sure no one was staring. “I will introduce you once the recital is over,” he stated. “Eleanor,” he called, for their sister was still looking up dreamily at the stage, her white-gloved hands tucked beneath her chin.
“Was that not beautiful?” she cooed as she turned to face them, her cheeks a little pink.
“You don’t understand,” Charlotte hissed at her brother, stepping away. Again, Matthew grabbed her, this time by the wrist. “He isn’t who he says he is.”
“I don’t care if he’s the King of Prussia; you will speak to him when the time is right.”
“And when will that be?”
“Once I’ve had a drink,” he quipped decisively. “Honestly, it would be utterly in your nature to cause a scene on such a pleasant night. You owe it to us all to be on your best behavior. No chasing after poets, no chasing after anyone. Eleanor!” he called again, and their sister rushed over. With a disapproving shake of his head, he led his sisters back to their father.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, he was locked in conversation with the insufferable Duke of Gamston. The two sat beneath a window on armchairs of blue panne-velvet. Charlotte’s father looked up at his children with a gentle smile, but she was powerless to return it.
“My son, my daughters,” he said at their arrival. “Was the first writer everything you dreamed?”
Charlotte was dumbfounded, so it was Eleanor who spoke first. “Oh, he was, Papa!” she replied, coming to stand beside him. He took her hand and kissed it. “It was so lovely. Could you hear much from here?”
“Hardly anything, my dove, but I think the beauty of the written word is quite lost on us,” he laughed, casting a sweeping glance over his children. To her dismay, he settled on Charlotte, not regarding her like a dove but like a sick pigeon. “Whatever is the matter, my darling? You’re white as a sheet.”
“Too much excitement, I say,” Matthew interrupted before she could even think of a lie.
Without meaning to, she caught the eye of Gamston next. He smiled that nauseating smile of his and came to a stand. “If I may, I should very much like to take Lady Charlotte for a tippling. Quench some of that excitement of hers.”
“A jolly good idea,” their father said, and Charlotte recoiled. “Matthew, if you could bring me back a splash of Madeira.” At least her father was notcompletelyoblivious. “And make the rounds with Eleanor once you’re done.” Or not.
The four set off, and Charlotte could not decide whether she or her brother groaned the loudest. The Duke of Gamston rode up beside her, sandwiching her against Eleanor. She grabbed her sister’s arm and made quick, vapid conversation—anything to thwart the Duke’s attempts at soliciting her attention.
“I feel quite rotten at leaving Papa on his own,” Eleanor murmured, looking around like a frightened doe. She craned her neck to glance back at him, and Charlotte followed suit. He was toying with a tassel on the side of his armchair, looking terribly sorry for himself. “He’s not quite so amiable these days, not since Mama, and I think he knows it.”
Charlotte turned back, and guilt shot through her chest. “Aunt Letitia is soon to arrive, and when she does, he can tend to his convalescence properly. No more traipsing after us at all these parties. It must be awfully taxing for him.”
Suddenly, dismally, the Duke cleared his throat to speak. He asked, “Lady Letitia Duval is soon to be among us, is she? What tremendous news!”
Charlotte bit her tongue—literally—before forcing a smile to conceal a wince. “Yes, Your Grace. She is recently returned from her tour around England with one of our cousins, Helen. They are poised to travel back to London following a stop in Dover on the nineteenth, then up to the Twicham country seat.”
