12. In Which a Gentleman Flees and a Lady Pursues – Ashford House, Berkeley Square, London to Ashford Hall, Nottinghamsh
IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN FLEES AND A LADY PURSUES
EDWARD
ASHFORD HOUSE, BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON TO ASHFORD HALL, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE
Ileft London the morning after the garden.
I didn't plan it. Didn't wake up intending to flee. But I couldn't breathe. Couldn't be in the same city as Charlotte without wanting to go back to Ashbourne House, find her, and finish what we'd started in the dark.
So I left.
I found Father at breakfast. Told him I needed a few days at Ashford Hall. Estate business. Quiet. The Season was rather much.
All lies.
Father looked at me with eyes that saw too much. "Take the time you need."
I packed. Rode out before nine. Pushed hard enough that I made Ashford Hall by nightfall—a journey that should have taken two days compressed into one punishing ride.
The house was quiet. Most of the staff were in London with Father and Marguerite. Just the skeleton crew left to maintain the property.
I didn't go inside.
I went to the churchyard.
My mother's grave was in the Ashford family plot in the churchyard of the small stone church on the edge of the estate. Elizabeth Margaret Ashford. Beloved wife. October 24, 1803.
Twenty-three years she'd been in the ground.
Twenty-three years I'd been alive.
The math had always been simple. Brutal. Inescapable.
I sat with my back against the headstone. The stone was cold even through my coat. The evening was settling into dusk, the kind of soft Nottinghamshire twilight that turned everything gold.
I should have come here more often. Should have visited when I was at university. Should have stopped running long enough to actually sit with what I'd never let myself feel.
Instead, I'd spent eighteen months on the Continent. Hiding. Running. Pretending I could outrun guilt.
"I don't know what to do," I said aloud.
My voice sounded strange in the quiet. But talking to a headstone felt less mad than the alternative—sitting in silence with thoughts that were eating me alive.
"I told myself I came home for Juliet's sake. To help with Charlotte's Season. To be present. I was lying. I came home because I was tired of running. And then I saw Charlotte and?—"
I stopped. Started again.
"She's seventeen. I've known her since she was six. I should not—I cannot—" My voice cracked. "But I do. I want her. Not as family. Not as someone to protect. I want her the way a man wants a woman, and it’s wrong, and I know it’s wrong, but I can't stop."
The headstone said nothing. The evening birds were singing. Somewhere in the distance, sheep bleating.
"Last night in the garden, I almost—we almost—" I pressed my palms against my eyes.
"I told her to prove it wasn't just rescue.
To choose for herself. And then I ran because I'm a coward.
Because if she does choose me, if she actually wants me, then I have to accept that I deserve to be wanted. And I don't know how to do that."
The guilt was a weight in my chest. The old, familiar guilt about my mother. The new guilt about wanting Charlotte.
They tangled together until I couldn't tell them apart.
"You died giving birth to me," I said to the headstone.
"That's fact. Papa says it's not my fault.
He says I was a gift. But the fact remains: if I hadn't been born, you'd be alive.
And now I want Charlotte—this brilliant, impossible woman who makes me feel things I've never let myself feel—and it feels like proof.
Proof that wanting anything for myself is selfish.
That I'm exactly the burden I've always believed I was. "
The evening was darkening. I should go inside. Should eat something. Should sleep.
I stayed.
"I don't know what you'd tell me," I said quietly. "Whether you'd say I deserve happiness or that I'm a fool for wanting someone I shouldn't have. But Charlotte—" My voice caught. "Charlotte told me I didn't kill you. That I lived. She said it like it was simple. Like the difference mattered."
It did matter. Somewhere deep down, beneath years of guilt, I knew it mattered.
I just didn't know how to believe it.
I sat with my mother's grave until full dark. Until the stars came out. Until my back ached from the cold stone and my thoughts had circled so many times they'd worn grooves.
Then I went inside. Ate whatever the cook had left. Went to bed in my childhood room.
And dreamed of Charlotte in a dark garden, saying "I want you,” and me being brave enough to say it back.
Charlotte
Ashbourne House, Grosvenor Square, London to Ashbourne Park, Derbyshire, to Ashford Hall, Nottinghamshire
I woke the morning after the garden scene, knowing something had shifted.
Edward had challenged me. Told me to refuse Dunmore on my own terms. To prove this wasn't just rescue.
I'd spent all night planning how to do exactly that.
But when I came down to breakfast, Grandpapa was there.
He sat with Papa at the breakfast table, discussing something about investments. Mama was managing correspondence. Eleanor was eating toast with alarming focus.
Normal. Perfectly normal.
Until Grandpapa said, almost casually: "Edward's taken himself off to Ashford Hall for a few days."
My heart stopped.
"Ashford Hall?" Mama looked up. "In Nottinghamshire? Whatever for?"
"Said he needed some quiet. The Season can be rather much, can't it?" Grandpapa's voice was mild. "I told him to take all the time he needed."
The table continued. Conversation about parliamentary matters. Eleanor asking for more toast. Mama discussing the week's social calendar.
I sat very still, my tea cooling in front of me, my mind racing.
Ashford Hall.
Four hours by carriage from Ashbourne Park.
Edward had left London. Left me. Gone to Nottinghamshire, where I couldn't reach him unless?—
No.
That was insane.
But the thought wouldn't leave.
Ashbourne Park to Ashford Hall. Approximately forty to fifty miles. I knew the roads. I'd travelled them my entire life. Four hours by carriage, faster on horseback if you rode hard and knew the way.
I could?—
No. Absolutely not. It was reckless. Dangerous. Improper. If anyone found out?—
But Edward was at Ashford Hall. Alone. At his mother's grave, probably, the place he'd never taken me, but that I knew about from family stories.
And I'd told myself last night that I would prove this wasn't just rescue. That I would make my own catastrophic decisions.
This would certainly qualify as catastrophic.
I looked up from my tea. Found Mama watching me with concerned eyes.
"Charlotte? Are you quite well? You've gone rather pale."
"I'm fine." I set down my cup with careful precision. "Actually, Mama, might I speak with you? Privately?"
We went to Mama's sitting room. She closed the door and turned to me with the particular expression that meant she knew something was wrong.
"What is it, darling?"
I'd rehearsed this. Planned it. I knew exactly what to say to get what I needed without lying.
"Mama, I need to go home. To Ashbourne Park. Just for a few days."
Mama's expression softened with understanding. "Oh, Charlotte. Is it the Season? Dunmore?"
"It's—all of it. Dunmore is everywhere. Everyone is watching. The family is planning a wedding I haven't agreed to, and I just—I need to breathe. I need to go home where I can think without everyone having opinions about my future."
It was all true. Every word of it.
"Of course," Mama said immediately. "We'll leave today. I'll send word ahead to prepare the house."
Guilt stabbed through me. Mama was trying to help. She'd seen my distress—real, visible—and was giving me exactly what I'd asked for.
She had no idea I was using that kindness to get within riding distance of Edward.
"Thank you," I said. "I just—I need a few days of quiet."
"I understand." Mama pulled me into an embrace. "Sometimes the Season is overwhelming. A few days at home will help you see things more clearly."
I hugged her back and tried not to think about what I was planning.
We left London later that morning. Mama, Eleanor, and me. Papa stayed behind—parliamentary business he couldn't abandon. My younger brothers and sister did too.
The journey to Ashbourne Park took two days—stopping overnight at a posting inn in Leicestershire. We arrived late afternoon on the second day, in the Derbyshire countryside, still vivid with new green.
The house rose before us—grand, familiar, achingly comforting. I'd been born here. Grown up here. Every stone held memories.
Mama was right. Just being here helped. My chest loosened slightly. The constant pressure of the Season—of Dunmore, of expectations, of performing—eased.
But I wasn't here just to breathe.
I was here because Ashford Hall was forty miles away.
And Edward was there.
We settled in. Unpacked. Had dinner. Mama looked more relaxed than she had in weeks. Eleanor immediately disappeared to explore her favourite haunts.
I went to bed early, claiming exhaustion.
I got up before dawn.
I dressed in the dark. I went to my younger brother’s rooms—Richard Jr and the twins were in London with Papa, their rooms empty—and found the oldest clothes in their cupboards. Breeches that were too small for Richard Jr., but would fit me if I was careful. A shirt. A coat. A cap.
Boys' clothing.
I'd ridden astride as a child. Not supposed to, but I'd done it anyway when no one was watching. I knew how. And riding astride in a dress was impossible. But in breeches?—
I dressed. Plaited my hair tightly and tucked it up under the cap. Looked at myself in the mirror.
A slight boy stared back at me. Dusty clothes. Hair hidden. If I didn't look too closely, if the light was dim enough?—
I could pass.
Barely. But enough.
I should stop. Should go back to bed. Should be sensible.
Instead, I went to the stables.
I moved quietly. Found the tack room. Selected a strong gelding—Apollo, who knew me, who was fast and reliable and wouldn't balk at a long ride.
Left a note for the stable master, claiming an early-morning ride. It wouldn't hold once I didn't return, but it might buy me a few hours.