19. In Which a Lady Makes a Plan – Ashbourne House, Grosvenor Square, London
IN WHICH A LADY MAKES A PLAN
CHARLOTTE
ASHBOURNE HOUSE, GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
Ispent two days in my room after speaking with Mama and Papa.
Not hiding. Not exactly. But—processing. Thinking. Trying to sort through everything they'd said.
Was I in love with Edward? Or was I in love with being rescued?
Did he love me? Or did he love having someone to save?
The questions circled endlessly. And the more I thought about them, the less certain I became.
Eleanor found me on the third day.
I was in the library, staring at my notebook. The page with Edward's name. With all my entries about him.
Every rescue. Every stolen moment. Every time he'd appeared when I needed him.
The pattern Mama had seen. The one I'd been too close to notice.
"You're not writing," Eleanor observed. She sat beside me on the window seat.
"No."
"You always write. When you're planning. When you're thinking. You write everything down."
"I don't know what to write."
Eleanor pulled out her own notebook. Opened it to a page filled with her careful handwriting. Statistics. Observations. The data she'd been collecting all Season.
"Uncle Edward attended fourteen events in May," she read. "He rescued you from Lord Dunmore thirteen times. He created seven different escapes. Three involved fabricated family emergencies. Four involved interrupting conversations. Two involved physical interception."
I looked at her. "You've been keeping track."
"Of course I have. You taught me to take notes." Eleanor turned the page. "But Charlotte—I also kept track of the other things."
"What other things?"
"The times he didn't rescue you. The times he just—watched.
Or talked to you. Or made you laugh without there being a crisis.
" She showed me the page. "Uncle Edward had six conversations with you that weren't about rescue.
Three in libraries. Two in gardens. One in the Ashford House conservatory during the garden party. "
I stared at the numbers. "You tracked that?"
"You taught me to see patterns. So I did. And Charlotte—" Eleanor's voice was serious. "Mama is right that Uncle Edward rescues you. The numbers prove it. But she's wrong if she thinks that's all you are to each other."
"How do you know?"
"Because I watched. At the Waverly garden party, Uncle Edward stood on the opposite side of the terrace for twenty minutes.
Just watching you. Not rescuing. Not intervening.
Just—watching. And he looked—" Eleanor paused, searching for words.
"He looked like you were the most interesting thing in the world.
Not because you needed saving. Just because you were you. "
My chest tightened. "Eleanor?—"
"And at the Ashford House conservatory. You and Uncle Edward sat on the bench and talked for half an hour. About books. About travel. About nothing important. And you laughed. Both of you, as if you'd forgotten anyone else existed."
"Mama thinks we're confusing rescue with love."
"I know. I heard her and Papa talking." Eleanor closed her notebook. "But Charlotte—I don't think you're confused. I think you're scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Scared that Mama might be right. That if you examine this too closely, you'll find out it's not real. So you're not examining it at all. You're just—doubting."
I looked at my little sister. At eleven-year-old Eleanor, with her notebook and her observations and her ability to see things I'd been too close to notice.
"What should I do?" I asked quietly.
"Prove it."
"What?"
"Prove it's real. Not to Mama and Papa. To yourself. And to Uncle Edward." Eleanor leaned forward. "Charlotte, you've spent weeks being rescued. Letting Uncle Edward help you. Letting him feel needed. But—have you ever rescued him?"
"I—" I stopped. Thought about it.
At the churchyard, I'd told him he wasn't a burden. That had helped him. But was that rescue? Or was that just—honesty?
"I don't know."
"Then find out. Stop letting Uncle Edward save you all the time. Start showing him you see him. Really see him. Not as someone who rescues you but as Edward. Complicated, guilty, brilliant Edward who needs someone to tell him he's worthy."
"Mama says I already do that. That I rescue him from guilt."
"So what? Uncle Edward rescues you from Dunmore.
You rescue him from guilt. Maybe that's what love is.
Two people saving each other from different things.
" Eleanor's voice was fierce. "But if you want to prove it's not just about rescue—if you want to prove you love him for who he is—then stop making it about what he does for you. Make it about who he is."
I stared at her. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've been watching you matchmake for five years. I learned from the best." Eleanor stood. "Now stop doubting and start planning. You're good at planning. So plan this."
She left.
I sat in the library with my notebook and Eleanor's words echoing.
Stop making it about what he does for you. Make it about who he is.
I picked up my pen.
What do I love about Edward?
Not what he does. Not how he makes me feel. Who he is.
I started writing.
I love that he's honest. He doesn't try to manage me, change me, or make me into someone I'm not.
I love that he questions everything. Including himself. Especially himself.
I love that he's been carrying guilt for twenty-three years and still somehow managed to be kind. To be gentle with people who are hurting.
I love that he went to the Continent for eighteen months trying to outrun something he couldn't outrun and came home anyway.
I love that he reads. Really reads. The kind of reading where you disappear into books and forget the world exists.
I love that he's terrible at dancing but does it anyway when his family needs him.
I love that he makes terrible jokes when he's nervous and then looks surprised when people laugh.
I love that he sees me. Really sees me. Not the Duke of Ashbourne's daughter or the girl with the notebook. Just—Charlotte. Messy, uncertain, and not always in control.
I love that he told me I deserved to choose. He challenged me to prove this wasn’t just an escape. That he didn't let me hide behind rescue.
I love that he's still trying to figure out if he's worthy of being loved. And I love that when I tell him he is, he wants to believe me.
I stopped writing. Looked at the list.
None of it was about rescue. None of it was about what Edward did for me.
It was about who he was.
Complicated. Guilty. Brilliant. Kind. Honest. Struggling.
Edward.
And I loved all of it.
But did he know that? Did Edward know I loved him for who he was, not what he did?
I thought about the last two months. About every conversation. Every stolen moment.
How many times had I thanked him for rescuing me?
How many times had I told him he was worthy just for existing?
The numbers weren't balanced.
Eleanor was right. I'd let Edward save me. Over and over. And I'd accepted it as proof he loved me.
But I hadn't done the same for him. Hadn't shown him, I saw him. Not the rescuer. Edward.
I needed to fix that.
Needed to prove—to him, to Mama and Papa, to myself—that this wasn't just about rescue.
I turned to a fresh page in my notebook.
Wrote: Plan to Prove It's Real
Then stopped.
How did you prove love? How did you show someone you loved them for who they were, not what they did?
I thought about the aunts. About five years of matchmaking. About watching people fall in love and seeing what made it work.
The answer came slowly. Carefully.
You proved love by showing up. Not when it was easy or when you needed something. But when it was hard. When showing up costs you something.
You proved love by seeing someone. Really seeing them. And telling them what you saw.
You proved love by being vulnerable. By admitting you were scared or uncertain or wrong.
You proved love by choosing them. Over and over. Not because you needed them but because you wanted them.
I started writing.
Step One: Stop letting Edward rescue me. Stop creating situations where he feels needed. Show him I can manage Dunmore on my own.
Step Two: Rescue Edward. Not from guilt—I'd already done that. From something else. Figure out what he needs and give it to him without him having to ask.
Step Three: Tell him who he is. Not what he does for me. Who he is. All the things I love that have nothing to do with rescue.
Step Four: Choose him. Publicly. In front of the family. In front of Society. Make it clear this isn't an escape, a rebellion, or a rescue. It's a choice.
I looked at the plan. It was thin. Vague. Needed details.
But it was a start.
And it gave me something I hadn't had in three days: direction.
I went to find Mama.
She was in her sitting room, writing correspondence. She looked up when I entered.
"Charlotte. Are you well?"
"I need to prove it," I said.
"Prove what?"
"That Edward and I aren't just rescuing each other. That this is real. That I love him for who he is, not what he does for me." I sat across from her. "And I need your help."
Mama set down her pen. "What kind of help?"
"I need you to tell me about Edward. Not as my uncle. As your brother. The things I don't see because I'm too close. The things he needs that he won't ask for."
"Charlotte—"
"Please, Mama. You asked me to examine this. To be sure. So I'm being sure. But I can't do that without understanding Edward better. Without seeing him the way you see him."
Mama studied my face. Then: "All right. What do you want to know?"
"Everything. What he's like when no one's watching. What he cares about that he doesn't talk about. What he's afraid of. What makes him happy." I leaned forward. "I need to know Edward. Not the version of him that rescues me. The real Edward."
Mama was quiet for a long moment. Then she started talking.
She told me about Edward as a child. About how he'd been quiet. Watchful. Always trying to be helpful because he believed being useful was the only way to earn love.
She told me about how he'd read constantly. Disappeared into books because reality felt too heavy. How he still did that when he was overwhelmed.
She told me about the Continent. About the letters he'd sent. About how he'd been trying to find himself and had only found more guilt.
She told me about his relationship with Grandpapa. About how Edward still sought Grandpapa’s approval even though he had it.
She told me about his fears. That he'd hurt people just by existing. That he'd never be enough. That wanting things was selfish.
She told me about his hopes. That someday he'd believe he was worthy. That he'd find purpose beyond usefulness. That he'd be loved for himself, not what he did.
By the time she finished, I was crying.
Because I'd been so focused on how Edward made me feel that I'd missed half of who he was.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"Charlotte—what are you planning?"
"To prove it's real. To show Edward, I see him. All of him. Not just the parts that rescue me."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll figure it out." I stood. "Mama—do you believe it's real? Or do you think I'm making a mistake?"
Mama looked at me. "I think you're asking the right questions. And that's more than most people do before they commit to someone. Whether it's real—" She paused. "That's something you and Edward need to answer for yourselves. Not for me. Not for your father. For yourselves."
I nodded.
Went back to the library.
Opened my notebook to the plan.
And started adding details.
By evening, I had something concrete.
A plan to prove to Edward—and to myself—that this wasn't just about rescue.
It would take time. Would require me to be vulnerable in ways I'd avoided. Would mean risking rejection.
But if I wanted Edward—if I wanted this to be real—I had to try.
I wrote one final line in my notebook:
Tomorrow: Stop being rescued. Start being Charlotte.
And Edward will see that I love him for who he is. Not what he does for me.
If he doesn't—if I've been wrong about all of this—then Mama was right and we're making a mistake.
But I don't think I'm wrong.
I think Edward and I found each other in rescue. But what we built after that was real.
Now I just need to prove it.