Chapter VIII
VIII
Back at Clement Hall, time always took Charlotte by surprise.
One day it seemed that spring had just arrived, and the next autumn was rushing in, the sun no longer warm enough to burn off the morning chill.
London is no different.
One moment April stretches as far as she can see, and the next, somehow, it is behind her.
Days trip into weeks and the balls roll out in even stride, a steady cadence of affairs, each followed by a short reprieve.
A chance to catch one’s breath, and have a new dress fitted, to rest and ready to do it all again.
In the intervening days, the parlor fills with suitors—not for Charlotte, of course, as she has yet to be presented—but Edith and Margaret both entertain a string of them, bland smiles fixed firmly on their faces as they pour tea, and talk of weather, and country homes, and strolling in the park, as if that is enough to build a life on.
Charlotte, meanwhile, suffers through lessons on etiquette, posture, speech, and grace, punctuated by Aunt Amelia’s nagging voice.
“Charlotte, sit up straighter.”
“Charlotte, cross your ankles.”
“Charlotte, stop frowning.”
The sheer relentlessness of it makes her look forward to the corsets and the pins, the sore ribs and heels, the nights in other people’s houses. And, of course, the company.
“Charlotte, pay attention.”
“Charlotte, did you hear me?”
“Charlotte, are you listening ?”
She is, but only because she doesn’t have a choice. Still, as her father said, she is a quick study, and by the end of the month, Charlotte has become a decent mimic of the girl she’s meant to be. But it is only ever that, a posture, a charade. Playing dress-up for a life she does not want.
It is worth it, though, for those evenings with Sabine.
Sabine, with her biting wit, her wicked humor, two things seemingly concealed from everyone save Charlotte. They pass whole nights strolling arm in arm, or with their heads tipped together in a corner, their voices tucked beneath the music.
How easily they’ve grown together. How right it feels.
How nice, to have a friend.
And that is what they are, Charlotte tells herself, friends.
Even though, when she thinks back on those half a dozen balls, what she remembers are not the gorgeous venues, or the young men in their fine suits who now and then ask her to dance, but the widow Olivares and her many dresses.
Each one tailored perfectly to fit, and each two shades darker than the sea of other girls.
Honey when the rest are cream. Garnet when they are rose. Forest when they are mint.
Eventually, to her surprise, Charlotte’s dance card begins to fill.
She doesn’t think much of it—after all, this is not her year—and so she dances with a carousel of young men named Henry, Philip, George.
She smiles and nods and lets them lead her through the motions, does her best to be polite without encouraging them more, never accepts the offer of a drink, or an invitation to take the evening air, or walk arm in arm around the room.
And if she blushes when they dance, it is only because she knows Sabine is watching her.
As if her hand’s right there, at Charlotte’s back, guiding her across the floor.
Now and then Sabine herself agrees to dance, and though her partners usually leave looking flustered, Charlotte still feels an odd pang at the sight of her in someone else’s company.
Once, Sabine even steps outside with a handsome young man, and Charlotte is shocked by the force of her own jealousy.
Even though she is only gone for the length of the next dance, a well-lit turn around the garden, the sight of her walking away makes Charlotte want to cry.
But then Sabine is back, and slipping an arm through hers. “How tiresome men are,” she says, and then, with that crooked little smile, “Did you miss me?”
And Charlotte doesn’t want to lie, so she makes her voice teasingly bright. “Far too much. You mustn’t abandon me again.”
“Don’t worry,” says Sabine, and in that softer tone, the one that seems reserved for her, “I far prefer your company.”
And just like that, the momentary grief is gone.
The words make Charlotte feel as if she’s bathed in light.
It is not only Sabine’s beauty, or her charm.
It is the fact that when she is there, the rest of the world seems to fade. What dazzled suddenly goes dim when compared to the weight of her presence, the force of her attention.
Sabine arrives and Charlotte’s heart begins to race.
Her eyes leave trails of heat on Charlotte’s skin. And when Sabine laughs, it’s like the first hasty gulp of champagne, the fizz gone straight to Charlotte’s head. Intoxicating.
She finds herself thinking of something her father said about her mother—that on the day they were first introduced, it felt like a reunion. As if they’d known each other all their lives, and forgotten, until the moment when they met again.
But that was love, and this is friendship.
Don’t you see, it must be friendship.
She would be a fool to ruin things, as she did with Jocelyn.
So it is enough, she tells herself, just to share this S eason with Sabine.
It is enough, just to spend these evenings in her company.
It is enough.
Until—