Chapter 14
Charlotte did not return to her room at once.
She moved through the corridor slowly, the carpet muffling her steps, her thoughts louder than her breathing. The house had settled into its nightly hush, lamps turned low, doors closed, the sort of silence that encouraged memory rather than rest.
She should not have stayed.
She knew that now. The moment Edward had entered the library, she should have risen, offered a polite apology, and withdrawn. That would have been proper. Safe.
Instead, she had seen his face.
Not the duke’s face. Not the composed mask he wore so easily by daylight. But something raw beneath it—disoriented, strained, familiar in a way that had stilled her feet before she could think better of it.
She knew that look.
The dislocation of waking somewhere unfamiliar. The sense that the past was not past at all, merely waiting for you to lower your guard. She had lived with it since the accident. Since splintering wood, screaming horses, and the moment the world had torn itself in two.
So she had stayed.
And in doing so, she had said things she rarely allowed herself to voice aloud. About the crash. About the sound of it. About how the memory surfaced without invitation, sharp and unyielding.
She had not expected him to answer her in kind.
That was what unsettled her most.
By the time she reached her door, her chest felt too tight for comfort, as though she had been holding her breath without realizing it. She closed herself inside quietly and leaned back against the wood, eyes shutting for a moment as she exhaled.
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Charlotte startled.
Clara Bennet sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her hair unbound, a half-folded stack of linen abandoned beside her. She had been humming softly to herself, but the sound faltered the moment Charlotte entered.
Charlotte pressed a hand briefly to her chest, as if steadying something that had come loose. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“That much is obvious,” Clara replied lightly. “You glanced right past me like a woman bound for the gallows.”
Charlotte managed a weak smile and crossed the room, setting her shawl aside. “I was … delayed.”
Clara’s brows lifted. “By?”
Charlotte hesitated.
It surprised her how easily the words came once she allowed them space.
“The duke,” she said. “In the library.”
Clara went very still. “At this hour?”
“Yes.”
“And you survived,” Clara observed. “That alone makes it remarkable.”
Charlotte sank onto the chair by the hearth. The fire had burned down to embers, casting more shadow than warmth. “We spoke.”
Clara tilted her head. “You never merely speak like that.”
Charlotte let out a soft breath. “I told him about the accident.”
Clara’s expression gentled at once. “Oh.”
“I don’t know why,” Charlotte continued, troubled by the admission even now. “I have avoided the subject for months. With everyone. And yet with him it simply … happened.”
“And did he recoil in horror?” Clara asked dryly.
“No,” Charlotte said. “He told me about the war. About his brother. About his wife.”
Clara absorbed this quietly. “That is no small thing.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed. “It isn’t.”
She stared at the darkened window, watching her reflection blur against the glass. “It felt strange,” she admitted. “To be understood without explanation. To know I was not the only one carrying something heavy.”
Clara considered her for a moment. “His grace is a good man,” she said at last. “For all his reserve.”
“You knew his wife?” Charlotte asked.
“Only just,” Clara replied. “I came to the house not long before she fell ill. But everyone spoke of her. She was beautiful, they said. Gentle. Very devoted to Julian.”
“And the duke?” Charlotte prompted.
“He changed,” Clara said simply. “Closed himself off. Became very still. As though feeling anything might cost him more than he could afford.”
Charlotte’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the garden. To the sketchbook. To the softness she had glimpsed when he believed himself alone. To the unsettling possibility that she had witnessed something no one else had.
“I’ve noticed him outside more often lately,” Clara went on. “Drawing. Sitting where he might be seen if one were looking.”
Charlotte’s heart gave a traitorous little lift.
Had she done that? Had her presence—her interference—loosened something long held in check?
She tamped the thought down at once.
“That means nothing,” she said firmly. “He is entitled to his habits.”
Clara smiled faintly but did not argue.
Charlotte pressed on, as though she might outrun the thought if she spoke quickly enough. “I know it was improper. Being alone like that. At night.”
“And yet,” Clara said gently.
“And yet,” Charlotte echoed, quieter now, “I did not regret it.”
The admission lingered between them.
“I do not imagine anything foolish,” Charlotte added at once. “I am not given to such illusions. But I think—perhaps—we may understand one another better now. And that can only benefit Julian.”
Clara’s mouth curved. “You sound very convincing.”
Charlotte huffed softly. “I must be.”
Clara shifted, suddenly animated. “Speaking of understanding—there is something I should tell you.”
Charlotte looked up. “What is it?”
Clara hesitated, then smiled in a way that was equal parts pleased and uncertain. “The other day when I was outside cleaning the steps … I was singing.”
Charlotte’s expression softened. “You always do.”
“Well,” Clara said, cheeks warming, “one of the gentlemen stopped to listen.”
Charlotte frowned slightly. “Which gentleman?”
“Lord Christopher.”
Charlotte’s breath caught.
“He complimented my voice,” Clara continued, almost breathless now. “Asked about the song. Said he loved music and wished to accompany me on the pianoforte. We spoke for a while. About childhood. About silly things.”
Charlotte forced a smile, though concern stirred beneath it. “You must be careful.”
“I know,” Clara said quickly. “I know what he is reputed to be.”
“Then you know how such attention ends,” Charlotte said gently.
Clara nodded, sobering. “I do. But it was … kind. Just that.”
Charlotte reached for her hand. “You deserve kindness. Just not at the cost of your heart.”
Later, when Clara had gone, and the room lay quiet again, Charlotte prepared for bed with deliberate calm. She extinguished the lamp and lay staring into the dark, her thoughts refusing to settle.
Edward’s face surfaced unbidden. The candlelight. The vulnerability.
She turned onto her side.
This was foolishness.
She had believed once in futures that vanished overnight. In promises that dissolved without explanation. In a man who had loved her—until he did not.
William’s silence echoed still.
She was not here for herself. She was here for Julian.
And when her purpose was fulfilled, she would go.
Charlotte closed her eyes and willed sleep to come, telling herself—firmly—that fairy tales had no place at Ashford Manor.
Even if, for a moment, she had wanted to believe otherwise.