Chapter 7
Charlotte lay rigid beneath the thin coverlet, listening to the steady, unfamiliar rhythm of another woman breathing in the dark.
Clara Bennet slept soundly in the opposite bed, one arm flung carelessly over the quilt, unaware of the storm of thoughts turning restlessly beside her.
The room was cold. Or perhaps she only felt cold.
Charlotte stared at the ceiling until the shadows blurred together, her mind circling the same moments again and again—the snow, the duke’s eyes, the way his voice had gone sharp with restraint. She had meant to be calm. Measured. Useful.
Instead, she felt unmoored.
Careful not to wake Clara, she slipped from the bed and drew on her slippers, easing the door open inch by silent inch.
The corridor beyond lay dim and still, lit only by a single guttering lamp at the far end. Ashford seemed to sleep uneasily, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Charlotte wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and hurried toward the back stair, drawn by the promise of air, of space—of something beyond the suffocating weight of thought.
The garden doors yielded quietly beneath her hand.
Outside, the night was sharp and clear. Snow dusted the ground in pale patches, catching moonlight like scattered glass. The air bit her cheeks, stealing her breath and leaving her lungs aching in a way that felt almost welcome.
She stood very still, letting it settle her.
The gardens lay dormant, hedges stripped bare, stone paths half-hidden beneath frost. Everything waited. Everything endured.
Charlotte took a few careful steps along the path, her slippers whispering softly against the ground. She had gone no farther than the edge of the east wing when a sound stopped her short.
A voice.
Low. Broken.
It cut through the stillness like a blade.
Charlotte froze.
The sound came again—sharper this time, torn free of sleep and restraint alike. A word followed, slurred and desperate.
“No—”
Then another. A name.
“Thomas—”
Her heart lurched painfully.
The voice came from above—from the darkened windows she had passed earlier. From the duke’s chambers.
Charlotte’s first instinct was to retreat at once. This was not her place. This was not something she ought to hear.
But the sound came again.
A cry—raw, anguished, stripped of authority and control.
Charlotte pressed her hand to her mouth as her breath caught painfully in her chest.
The Duke of Averleigh did not sound cold at that moment. He did not sound severe, distant, or composed.
He sounded afraid.
Fragments followed—half-formed words tangled together, breathless and disordered. Retreat. Smoke. A command shouted too late. His brother’s name again, hoarse and breaking.
Charlotte felt her eyes sting.
She stood rooted to the path, unable to look away from the dark window above. The man she had met in daylight—controlled, imperious, carefully sealed behind duty—was nowhere to be found.
In his place was something wounded. Exposed.
Her thoughts drifted unbidden to the night her parents had died—the carriage lurching, the scream of tearing wood, the sudden weightlessness before the impact. The scar beneath her sleeve throbbed faintly, as it always did when memory stirred too close.
She remembered waking afterward, disoriented and alone, the sound of her own voice calling out into the darkness.
Loss recognized loss.
She did not know how long she stood there, listening. Long enough for pity to bloom into something deeper—something like understanding.
The duke carried his grief differently than she carried hers, but the shape of it felt achingly familiar.
At last, the sounds softened. The words faded into rough, uneven breaths. Silence followed—heavy and fragile.
Charlotte exhaled shakily.
She could not remain there. She should not remain there.
Drawing her shawl tighter, she stepped back from the path and turned toward the house, moving quickly now, pulse hammering in her ears. She slipped through the garden doors and up the stairs without meeting another soul, her mind still echoing with his voice.
Back in the shared chamber, she closed the door gently and leaned against it for a moment, eyes shut.
Clara did not stir.
Charlotte returned to her bed and lay staring into the dark, the sounds of Ashford settling once more around her.
She thought of the duke’s son—untamed, restless, flinging snow as though daring the world to notice him. She thought of the man who ruled the house through silence and distance, carrying nightmares behind locked doors.
And she wondered—quietly, cautiously—whether she had been brought here only to teach lessons and manage schedules.
Or whether, in helping them, she might find some small way to mend herself as well.
Sleep came slowly after that.
When it did, it was filled with snow, echoes, and the strange, unsettling knowledge that Ashford Manor held more than one wounded soul within its walls.
***
Charlotte woke with the pale winter light already pressing against the windowpanes.
For a moment, she lay still, listening to the hush of the house, to the distant creak of settling timbers, to the unfamiliar rhythm of a place that was not yet hers but would be, at least for a time.
The weight she had carried since her arrival felt lighter this morning. Not gone but eased. As though the night had loosened something tight in her chest.
She rose quickly, eager in a way that surprised her.
Today would be her first true day with Julian.
She dressed with care, choosing a simple gown that allowed ease of movement, pinning her hair back but not too tightly.
When she glanced at her reflection, she looked—if not confident—then at least resolved. This was why she had come. Not to dwell on the duke’s silences or the echo of grief in Ashford’s halls, but to work. To be useful.
She made her way to the nursery with confident steps, rehearsing nothing, expecting very little.
After yesterday’s display, she fully anticipated chaos.
The door stood ajar.
Charlotte slowed, brow furrowing slightly.
Inside, the nursery lay quiet.
Julian sat at the small table near the window, his legs dangling, hands folded with exaggerated neatness before him. He stared straight ahead, back rigid, expression solemn in a way that would have been impressive had it not felt so utterly contrived.
As Charlotte crossed the threshold into the nursery, she paused—just a heartbeat. For an instant, she expected the familiar warmth of her mother’s voice behind her, reminding her to straighten her collar, to smile.
The silence answered instead.
She drew a steady breath and stepped fully inside.
“Well,” she said lightly, “this is unexpected.”
Julian did not look at her.
She crossed the room and set her book down, noting the way his shoulders tensed slightly. Still, he remained motionless, as though determined to prove something by force of stillness alone.
Charlotte smiled to herself.
She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat, smoothing her skirts. “Good morning, Julian.”
Silence.
“Did you sleep well?” she tried.
Nothing.
She studied him openly now—the set of his jaw, the careful way he avoided meeting her eyes. This was not obedience. This was performance.
“Very well,” she said, as though conceding defeat. “We may begin whenever you’re ready.”
She had just reached for her book when Julian’s hand moved.
Quick as lightning, he lifted something from beneath the table and dropped it directly into her lap.
Charlotte gasped—not in fear, but surprise—as something cool and damp landed against her skirts.
A frog.
It sat there, squat and blinking, entirely unconcerned with the small drama into which it had been conscripted.
Julian turned at last, eyes bright, mouth already opening in anticipation.
Charlotte looked down. Then she laughed.
It was not a startled sound. Not forced. It rang clear and genuine as she cupped the frog gently in both hands, lifting it with reverent care.
“Well, hello there,” she murmured, utterly delighted.
Julian’s jaw fell open.
Charlotte examined the frog as though it were a marvel, stroking its smooth back with her thumb. “You’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you?” she said softly. “Cold this morning, I imagine.”
The frog blinked again.
Julian stared.
“You’re … not scared,” he said finally, incredulous.
Charlotte glanced up at him, eyes bright. “Why should I be?”
“It’s a frog,” he said, as though stating an unassailable fact.
“Yes,” she agreed cheerfully. “And a rather fine one.”
Julian leaned forward, confusion overtaking triumph. “Miss Harper screamed,” he said. “So did Miss Wilton. One of them dropped her book and cried.”
Charlotte winced slightly. “That must have frightened him terribly.”
Julian hesitated. “Him?”
She nodded, still cradling the frog. “Creatures feel fear, too, you know. Especially when they’re handled roughly or used for tricks.”
Julian frowned, processing this. “He didn’t look scared.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Perhaps not now. But it isn’t very kind to use an animal simply to mock someone. It isn’t fair to them.”
The room felt suddenly very still.
Julian glanced at the frog, then back at her. “You’re not angry?”
“No,” she said simply. “But I would rather you didn’t do it again.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said gently, “pranks that rely on fear often hurt more than they amuse. And because creatures deserve better than to be frightened for sport.”
Julian looked down at his hands.
“I didn’t think about that,” he admitted.
Charlotte smiled. “Few people do.”
She rose and carried the frog carefully to the window, opening it just enough to place the creature gently on the sill. It hopped away at once, disappearing into the frost-dusted garden below.
“There,” she said, closing the window. “Safe and sound.”
Julian watched the spot where it vanished.
“I found him by the pond,” he said after a moment. “There are more. Sometimes salamanders.”
Charlotte turned back, interest sparking. “Are there?”