Chapter 5
Charlotte followed Mrs. Channing down the corridor, her steps measured, her hands clasped at her waist as though holding herself together required constant vigilance.
The exchange in the snow lingered with uncomfortable clarity—the duke’s clipped voice, the weight of his gaze, the strange, disquieting sensation of being seen and studied all at once.
She had not intended to unsettle him. Nor had she expected to be unsettled herself.
Mrs. Channing did not speak as they walked. Her pace was brisk, her posture rigid, skirts brushing sharply against the stone floor.
The farther they traveled from the public rooms of Ashford, the quieter the house became. The echoes of footsteps softened. Drafts cooled the air, slipping beneath Charlotte’s shawl and raising gooseflesh along her arms.
The faint scent of lye soap and extinguished hearths clung stubbornly to the walls, as though warmth were a memory the house no longer trusted.
“At the time of your arrival last evening,” Mrs. Channing said at last, without looking back, “the rooms had not yet been fully prepared.”
Charlotte inclined her head. “Of course.”
“Your belongings have been brought here,” Mrs. Channing continued. “You will find them already placed.”
They stopped before a narrow passage, noticeably removed from the grand staircases and formal corridors Charlotte had glimpsed upon her arrival.
“These are the inner rooms,” Mrs. Channing said, her tone neutral but unmistakably final. “You will find them more suitable for your position.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened briefly before she stilled them. She had expected as much. Expectations were safer than hope.
“Thank you.”
The housekeeper opened a door and stepped aside.
Inside was a modest chamber—clean, orderly, and plainly furnished. Two narrow beds stood against opposite walls, their quilts folded with almost military precision.
A small washstand stood beneath the window, which overlooked the rear gardens. Frost clung stubbornly to the bare earth below, the remnants of last night’s snow lingering in shaded corners where sunlight had not yet reached.
The room was spare, but not unkind.
Charlotte’s trunk stood neatly at the foot of the nearer bed. Her cloak had been hung carefully on a peg. Her shoes aligned beneath the bed as though someone had taken pains not merely to place them, but to make the space ready.
A young woman stood near the far bed, smoothing a linen sheet with deliberate attention. She looked up at once, startled, and set it aside as though caught at something she feared she had done incorrectly.
“This is Clara Bennet,” Mrs. Channing said. “She assists with several of the inner rooms.”
Clara dipped into a quick, nervous curtsy. “Miss Fenton.”
“You will be sharing,” Mrs. Channing added.
Charlotte turned fully toward her and offered a gentle smile. “I am glad of the company.”
Clara’s eyes widened slightly, as though the sentiment surprised her.
“If you require anything,” Mrs. Channing said, her gaze sharp and appraising, “you may ask Miss Bennet.”
“Yes, Mrs. Channing.”
The housekeeper lingered a moment longer, her attention flicking between the two women as though committing the arrangement—and Charlotte herself—to memory. Satisfied, she inclined her head once and left, closing the door behind her with a firm, final click.
The sound echoed.
Clara let out a breath she had clearly been holding. “She can be … particular,” she said quietly.
“I gathered as much,” Charlotte replied, a hint of humor softening her tone.
Clara relaxed at once, her shoulders lowering. “If you need anything, truly—anything—you may ask me.”
Charlotte hesitated, then nodded. “I would like to write a letter, if possible. To assure my cousin that I arrived safely. Might there be paper and ink to spare?”
“Of course,” Clara said immediately. “I’ll fetch them.”
Left alone, Charlotte crossed to the window and rested her fingertips against the cold glass. The light had shifted as the afternoon slipped into early dusk. The gardens lay hushed and dormant, their edges blurred by frost and shadow.
Behind her reflection in the glass, the house loomed—tall, somber, watchful.
Edward Thornton intruded upon her thoughts again, unbidden.
It was not merely his severity that unsettled her, she realized, but the restraint beneath it. She had known men who wore their authority loudly, who filled rooms with their presence through noise and command.
Edward did not.
His power lay in stillness—in the way he held himself as though every movement were deliberate, every word weighed before release. It was a kind of control she did not entirely trust.
When Clara returned with the writing materials, Charlotte thanked her and set to work at once.
Dearest Beatrice,
I have arrived at Ashford Manor safely. The house is vast and very quiet, though not unkind. The duke is … formidable, but his son is clever and spirited. I begin lessons tomorrow. I will write again soon.
She paused, then added carefully,
Please do not worry about me. I believe I have done the right thing.
She sealed the letter with care and set it aside.
Clara lingered near the washstand, folding linens with deliberate slowness. Charlotte watched her for a moment before asking gently, “May I ask—where is the duchess?”
Clara’s hands stilled.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she drew a quiet breath. “Her grace passed two years ago, miss.”
“I am so sorry,” Charlotte said at once. “I did not mean to—”
“It was the smallpox,” Clara continued softly. “It came through Averleigh that winter. Took Lord Thomas first.”
Charlotte frowned slightly. “Lord Thomas?”
“The duke’s brother,” Clara explained. “He was the elder. Everyone thought he would inherit. He was well loved.”
“And Lady Eleanor?”
Clara’s voice softened. “She became duchess only days before her death. Smallpox took the late duke first. The title passed to his brother while he was away … and then she was gone too.”
Something tightened painfully in Charlotte’s chest.
“The duke—” she began.
“He was away,” Clara clarified. “Fighting in the war.”
For a moment, she imagined what it must have cost him to return to a house emptied of its heart. The thought unsettled her enough that she refused to follow it further.
Understanding dawned slowly. Charlotte’s thoughts leaped to the faint scar that marked Edward’s left brow—a thin, pale line she had noticed at once. Not a blemish, but a testament.
The war, then.
“How dreadful,” Charlotte murmured.
Clara nodded. “He came home to … all of this.” She gestured vaguely at the walls. “And a child who had lost his mother.”
Charlotte sank onto the edge of the bed.
So Edward Thornton had returned from war to bury his brother and his wife, inherit a title he never expected, and shoulder the care of a grieving child. No wonder he moved through the world as though braced for impact.
No wonder Ashford felt paused between moments—caught between what had been and what it did not yet know how to become.
Dinner arrived quietly—simple fare delivered by Clara with careful deference. Charlotte ate little, her appetite dulled by thought. She sat by the window afterward, watching dusk deepen into night, her mind circling back, again and again, to Edward.
His coldness no longer felt quite so sharp now that she understood its origin.
And yet—
She could not deny the way his presence lingered with her. The intensity of his gaze. The severity of his expression softened—paradoxically—by the scar that cut through his brow. It made him more real. More human.
More dangerous.
She frowned faintly at herself.
Was it irritation that kept him in her thoughts? Or something else entirely?
Charlotte rose and paced the small room once, then twice, before forcing herself to stop.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
Tomorrow, she would meet Julian properly. Tomorrow, she would begin the work she had come to do.
And Edward Thornton—Duke of Averleigh—would be her employer. Nothing more.
She undressed slowly and slipped into bed, her thoughts finally quieting as exhaustion took hold.
Even as sleep crept closer, one image lingered stubbornly in her mind.
Dark eyes. A scarred brow. And a man carrying more grief than he allowed the world to see.
Charlotte closed her eyes and willed herself not to think of him again.
Tomorrow would demand all of her attention.