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Chapter 3
Charlotte arrived home that evening to find her mother asleep in her traditional sewing chair. Her long neck extended backwards; her greying hair spilled out across the pillow. Charlotte’s eyes turned across the parlour, on the hunt for her father, who was almost certainly performing a similar action at his study desk.
Charlotte placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Her mother shot up, sputtered, then said, “Oh, darling. You’re home terribly late, aren’t you?”
It was traditional, Charlotte supposed, for all mothers to feel intense disappointment towards their children at the beginning and end of every day.
“Not so late,” Charlotte stated. “I’ve just returned from Louisa’s. It’s perhaps eight-thirty or nine.”
“I see.” Her mother glanced down at the half-knitted baby sweater, which, Charlotte felt sure, would be too small for the ever-growing girl by the time it was fully crafted. “I had better find your father. You’re staying up?”
“No. I’m exhausted,” Charlotte said. “Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Charlotte trod the staircase towards the third floor and entered her quarters, with her glossy four-poster bed, the gorgeous old-world painting of her long-dead grandmother in pearls, the stunning rug that brought light and warmth to the cold hardwood beneath her feet.
Charlotte had spent her entire life in this bedroom, all twenty-three years of it—and it was one of the only places in the world where she felt her thoughts firm and articulate; where she could fully comprehend the weight of the day and what she wanted to do with the next one.
Charlotte’s mind buzzed with the memory of the strange Florentia. In a sense, she resented the day’s experience, as it highlighted just how easy it was to be taken advantage of, even when one’s senses were heightened. In another, she was grateful that Florentia had lent a bit of hope to Louisa’s ordinarily tumultuous mind. She supposed that, in and of itself, was worth the money they’d spent.
Charlotte removed her garments, remembering that she’d left her own gown at Louisa’s—that this was a replacement that belonged to Louisa herself. Even still, the girls were akin to sisters, ordinarily swapping garments and hair accessories and the like into infinity. She supposed many things she currently felt she owned had originally begun at Louisa’s.
As Charlotte sneaked beneath her covers, she forced thoughts of Florentia away. The woman had known Brooks’ name, but what had that to do with anything else? After all, Brooks was a young and strapping individual, a man of incredible prowess—a friend to all. Charlotte’s eyes fluttered closed. That night, she did not dream.
**
Charlotte awoke to the sound of hysterics.
She threw aside the covers and hustled towards the door. Her eyes blinked through the grey of the morning. When she opened the door, she found the hallway pulsing with the cries of her mother. She pressed her hand over her heart and inhaled sharply. It was clear that something was incredibly wrong.
Charlotte rushed down the hallway in her nightdress. What time was it? The light was a sinister grey, such that it could have been any time—morning, night, midday amid a rainstorm. As she raced down the staircase, she found her mother in a heap on the foyer floor. Her knees were drawn tight against her chest, and her forehead actually pressed against the ground. When she cried, the sound of it echoed from every window.
“Mother!” Charlotte rushed to her side and fell beside her. Her hand stretched out across her mother’s back. “Mother, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Her heart raced in her throat.
Slowly, her mother tilted her head upward. Her cheeks were blotched and tear-stained. “He’s gone,” were the words she uttered between sobs. “He’s gone.”
Charlotte furrowed her brow. “Who’s gone? Where’s Father? What’s happened …”
Her mother’s eyes clenched tight. “And so young. So young. Far too young. It’s not fair, what’s happened. It’s not fair.”
Charlotte eased her hand down her mother’s back. Slowly, she assisted her into a seated position. Her mother’s skirt flung out before her, while her nightgown was dwarfed beside it. Her mother collapsed alongside Charlotte’s shoulder and chest, and Charlotte wrapped her arms around her and held her close.
“What’s happened, Mother?” Charlotte tried again. As she spoke, two of the maids appeared in the hallway, then hurried to either side, their eyes anxious, frightened. They’d assuredly never seen their mistress look precisely like this.
“Your cousin,” her mother whispered, her voice rasping.
At this, Charlotte’s heart pressed hard against her ribcage. “I’m sorry?”
“Your cousin. Brooks,” her mother returned.
No. It was impossible. Charlotte furrowed her brow and willed her mother to utter a different name.
“Are you quite sure? Brooks? He’s a healthy, youthful man. He has his whole life …”
“It’s true, Charlotte,” her mother breathed. “They found Brooks dead in an alleyway in town just this morning.”
Charlotte hadn’t words. She blinked into the strange grey of the morning and felt her heart drop into the bottom of her stomach. Her lips turned to a round O.
Suddenly, her father appeared at the base of the staircase. He took one look at her mother and immediately fell to his knees at her feet. “Darling, are you quite all right? Have you fainted?”
