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Chapter 19
That weekend, several hours before the ball, both Margorie and Louisa arrived at Charlotte’s estate for tea in the garden. Margorie seemed to brim with excitement; she bounced about the garden, from chair to bench and swing, from rose bush to lilac, with the energy of a much younger creature.
When she finally tossed herself upon the grass to blink at the blue sky above, Charlotte demanded, “Tell me. You must have seen Harry. What’s happened? I cannot watch you behave like this and not know the reason behind it.”
Finally, Margorie lofted her head up and leaned it against her hand, propped up by her elbow. “Admittedly, I did spend last evening with Harry.”
Louisa grumbled inwardly. “I was her chaperone.”
“She complains, as though I haven’t been her chaperone many times,” Margorie said.
“Tell me everything,” Charlotte whispered.
“It was simple. Easy. We laughed in the garden. We walked across the moors. We ate dinner with his parents, who seem entirely lovely, entirely eager to know me,” Margorie continued. “It’s such a far cry from any previous obligation. My ex-husband’s mother wouldn’t look me in the eye. Harry’s mother takes my hand and tells me what a pleasure it’s been to meet me. She then presses a rose in my hand and tells me to return soon. ‘I haven’t seen my Harry this happy in God knows how long,’ she told me.”
“It really was syrupy sweet,” Louisa said, scrunching her nose. “Almost too sweet.”
“Will he be at the ball?” Charlotte asked. Her own heart felt squeezed with sadness, as she felt this time, Jeffrey wouldn’t be in their midst.
“I believe so,” Margorie affirmed. “I cannot wait to dance with him once more. He has such finesse.”
The girls prepared for the ball: donning their enormous gowns and setting their curls and smearing rouge across their cheeks. Each inspected the other as though they were all separate paintings, meant to be perfected before formal viewing. By the time they reached the carriage that evening, their bellies ached with hunger, their corsets squeezed them tight, and their minds buzzed with excitement for the hours ahead.
When they entered the ballroom, Charlotte overheard yet another group of strangers spinning in their own lies and gossip surrounding her cousin Brooks’ death.
“I heard that he murdered someone in France,” a girl recited, her voice overly bright. “And that someone had him killed as an act of revenge.”
“That’s quite saucy, Catherine,” the man beside her said. “Although I think it quite outlandish. I never knew Brooks to go to France.”
“Yet to me, he always seemed rife with secrets,” another girl said. “He very well could have whisked off to France to murder someone—especially if money was involved.”
“Assuredly, money was involved in his death,” another man shouted. “I don’t know anyone murdered out of a passion that wasn’t somehow monetary.”
“What if a woman loved him so …” Catherine returned. “So much that she felt wronged by him?”
“I don’t believe those sorts of things happen outside of books, Catherine,” the man told her.
Catherine’s face fell with disappointment.
Louisa gripped Charlotte’s elbow. “Are you quite all right? All the colour has drained from your face.”
Yet again, Charlotte swam in guilt. She felt it impossible to gauge when the guilt would strike next. It came over her the way clouds overtook the moors. She felt herself in impossible shadow.
Suddenly, Sampson—Charlotte’s sometime friend, who generally annoyed her—appeared before her and Louisa. Sampson’s eyes zoomed towards Charlotte. Just before he spoke, Louisa turned her lips towards Charlotte’s ear.
“He always liked you, you know.”
“Of course I know,” Charlotte said, her face flushed.
“Charlotte!” Sampson cried, as though it was necessary to capture her attention beyond this ravenous stare he’d crafted. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in quite some time.”
“Some time indeed,” Charlotte said, her voice flat.
Sampson swept his fingers through his locks and widened his smile. Charlotte’s stomach clenched with panic. She wanted nothing at all to do with anyone but Jeffrey.
“How have you been?” Sampson asked.
“Just fine, thank you.”
