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Chapter 21
Several mornings later, Charlotte, Louisa, and Margorie sat in the back garden of Charlotte’s estate, while Margorie explained the events of the previous day.
“He explained the situation to my parents, explained that he’d fallen in love with me,” Margorie said, her words spinning over themselves and catching in her mouth. “And the fact of the matter is, my parents would do anything to have me out of the house. Assuredly, any man could have asked for my hand in marriage, and they would have given it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charlotte said. Her heart felt akin to a butterfly, fluttering through her chest. “Harry is a remarkable individual. I’m terribly happy for you, darling. You deserve it, far more than anyone else I know.”
Louisa cast her a dark look, one that translated just how little Louisa cared for such a sentiment. Even still, Charlotte didn’t allow her happiness for Margorie to dissipate.
“I suppose it won’t be all the same as before,” Margorie continued. “We’ll hold an engagement party and a small ceremony, but we won’t invite as many as last time. That was particularly wretched, wasn’t it? All those people coming up to me and telling me what a beautiful bride I’d been.”
“Yes. It must have been wretched to hear so many compliments,” Louisa said, her voice bubbling over with sarcasm.
“Don’t be silly, darling. You know you’ll have a wedding of your own. Things have shifted with Zachary, admittedly, but …” Margorie trailed off.
Charlotte furrowed her brow. “What’s happened?”
Louisa’s eyes found the ground. “I just haven’t heard from him.”
“Perhaps he’s just busy,” Charlotte said.
Louisa rolled her eyes. Her hand wrapped around her neck as she answered. “Perhaps the mystic didn’t mean him when she spoke about my assured romantic future …”
“You can’t put such stock into the mystic,” Margorie told her. “The mystic informed me, essentially, that I’d never find happiness.”
Charlotte had forgotten about Margorie’s tearful departure from the mystic. Her own feelings around the mystic had assuredly stomped out all other memories.
“I suppose that’s true,” Louisa said. “But the woman has worked across all of Europe. She’s an expert. She—”
“You should take a page from Charlotte’s book,” Margorie told her. “Clearly, the woman knows not sand from soot.”
Charlotte shifted in her chair. What did she believe about the mystic? She’d forecasted Brooks’ death, yes, but Jeffrey had assured her that it hadn’t been her fault that Brooks had died.
What was she meant to believe?
That moment, the butler arrived at the garden gate. He dropped his head and shoulders forward in greeting, then said, “Lady Charlotte. A letter has arrived for you. Would you like to take it here?”
It wasn’t a normal thing, Charlotte receiving a letter.
“Yes. Thank you,” she said. She rose, accepted the thin envelope, then watched the butler depart, perplexed.
“Who do you suppose wrote to you?” Louisa asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” Charlotte replied.
“It must be Jeffrey,” Margorie said.
“A love letter?” Louisa said with a giggle.
“Naturally. What else could it be?” Margorie said.
But Charlotte wasn’t so sure. She tipped her finger beneath the edge and tore the envelope open. With shaking fingers, she extended the letter out to read. The handwriting was beautiful to read, the sort that seemed oddly artistic and romantic. The words themselves, however, were soaked with danger.
Beautiful, darling Charlotte,
It has come to my attention that you’ve made it a priority to get to the bottom of your cousin Brooks’ recent departure from this earthly plane.
I must assure you that the task you’ve set out for yourself is far more difficult and dangerous than anything you’ve conducted before.
