Chapter Twenty-Five
The countess immediately led Charlotte to her personal sitting room and rang for tea. Despite the late hour, the service was swift and efficient. Within moments, Charlotte was seated beside her aunt on the soft sofa, a steaming cup in her hand and tears drying on her cheeks.
“Tell me what has happened,” the countess urged gently.
Pressing a hand to her stomach to quell the emotional queasiness that had settled there, Charlotte took a deep breath through her nose then replied simply, “I saw them. They were there.”
“Who—?” The countess stopped with a gasp. “Oh.” She reached out to rest a warm hand in Charlotte’s chilled fingers. “My dear, I’m so sorry. I feared such a thing would occur eventually though I did my best to prevent it. Were they awful to you?”
Charlotte gave a raw, hiccoughing laugh. “No more than expected, I suppose.”
The heavy sorrow she’d been fighting to contain mixed with a rush of anger and disgust to make a vitriolic poison inside her. “How could they do what they did?” she whispered, her throat burning. “How could they be so cruel to their own daughter? She loved them. Even to the end.”
She gasped as more sobs shook her body. When she finally managed to catch another breath of peace, her aunt looked at her with sad eyes as she slowly shook her head.
“You cannot continue in this way. Your anger and spite are hurting you far more than it could ever hurt them.”
Pain lanced through her. “What are you saying? That I should give it all up? That I should let them go on with their selfish lives?”
“Yes,” the countess said firmly, holding fast to Charlotte’s hand when she would have pulled away.
“I think you needed to hate them as a way to process your overwhelming loss. But, my dear, bringing them low will not undo what they did to your mother. The pain of their betrayal was hers to bear, not yours. And she did it with grace and forgiveness and understanding and hope. The Sarah I knew”—she paused to swallow as her eyes began to glisten—“did not believe in responding to one wrong with another. She did not believe that the ugliness of the world should be conquered with more ugliness. She brought light to the darkness. She believed in love and kindness.”
Charlotte choked on a ragged sob.
It was true. Her mother was the light.
“Is revenge really the best way to honor her?” the countess asked softly.
Closing her eyes tightly, Charlotte felt the sting of more tears. She held them back as she forced herself to fully acknowledge what her mother would have thought of her quest for vengeance. She could practically see the silent disappointment in her mother’s eyes.
“I’ll admit, when you first arrived and told me of their callous response to her letter, I hated them too.
But…as time went on, I wanted—I hoped—to see you find your own happiness…
fall in love, perhaps, and build a real life here.
It is what your dear mother chose to do.
She chose love and happiness on her own terms. She chose to look forward rather than dwell in the past. And she was happy, Charlotte.
She told me so many times in her letters.
And she was so proud of you and the young woman you’d become. ”
More pain welled in Charlotte’s heart, and though it was still devastatingly heavy, it wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been just minutes ago. She clung tightly to her aunt’s hand now, desperate to hear any words of her mother besides the sorrowful ones that had been her constant companions.
“When your father died so suddenly,” the countess continued with a lowered chin, “she swore to me that your life would not be marked solely by tragedy and loss. She wanted you to know hope and beauty and delight.”
Her aunt’s words released a rush of memories as her mother’s voice whispered through her mind. Sarah Dickson had always believed in the power of love and loss and in the value of tough lessons. She’d encouraged Charlotte to find happiness in even the darkest and most difficult circumstances.
She would want Charlotte to live despite her pain and sadness. Not live within it.
“Go to your bed and rest, my dear,” her aunt urged softly. “Sometimes these things can look so very different in the morning light. I will be here when you awaken and we can discuss what you’d like to do going forward. But for now, allow yourself to rest in the healing oblivion sleep can bring.”
Charlotte thanked her aunt and impulsively embraced her, then made her way to her bedroom with heavy feet and an exhausted heart.
Falling onto her bed, she released the tears and the sadness and the fear, letting them flow freely through her.
This was not the wracking sobs of desperate grief, this was a gentle release of the hatred and ugliness she’d clung to so fiercely.
As she cried, she allowed herself to experience all the thoughts and feelings that arose about her mother and her grandparents. And Redington.
By the time the tears had dried on her cheeks, she knew she would be getting no sleep that night.
Ralston left the Lyon’s Den with a satisfied smile. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning as his business with Mrs. Dove-Lyon had taken some time to conclude. The woman was a formidable negotiator, but he’d gotten what he wanted.
Still, it was only the first step. A vital one but small in the scheme of things.
He was mentally plotting out his next tasks when he entered his townhouse only to encounter his butler just inside the entry hall. The only reason the senior servant might still be up and about at such an hour was if there were some disturbance or problem with one of his cousins.
Ralston sighed, tensing in preparation for whatever crisis he may need to manage. “What is it?”
“A young lady, my lord, is awaiting you in the library.”
Ralston scowled. Then tilted his head. The description was odd. If his visitor were his sister or any of his female cousins, his butler certainly would have known her. “A young lady?”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Did she give a name?”
“I’m afraid not.”
A shock of irrational hope rippled through Ralston as he gave his butler a stoic nod. “Thank you. You may retire for the night.”
The man gave a low bow then retreated toward the servants’ quarters.
Ralston waited until the butler’s steps were beyond detection before he started toward the library. His entire body hummed, the vibrations increasing with every step.
It had to be her. There was no one else who’d dare disturb him at his private residence in the middle of the night.
She was here. In his home. She had come to him.
He had no idea what it might indicate. He could still recall with total clarity the look of utter disbelief that had crossed her face when he’d offered to marry her. For a moment, she’d clearly thought him mad. Her expression might’ve been humorous if he hadn’t been so earnest in that moment.
He still was.
He wanted her. As his wife. In his bed. For the rest of his life.
Stopping just beyond the open door of the library, he took a steadying breath and tried to shake off the layer of uncertainty that had settled over him.
She’d hated him once. Enough to want him brought low. He understood now how his arrogance and the entitlement he had been raised to accept would have looked to her. How it must surely still look to her—a woman who had such a personal reason to so fiercely abhor the cold injustice of classism.
Could she possibly see more in him than the role to which he’d been so perfectly molded?
Could she come to love him in spite of it? Want him for the man he was beneath it all—the man he wanted to be for her?
He gave a short shake of his head and steeled himself to accept whatever her answer may be. Then he stepped forward and entered the room.
She stood at the far end, staring into the low flicker of dying coals on the fireplace. Her back was to him and though she’d dropped her hood back, she still wore her cloak, suggesting she hadn’t intended to stay for long.
His heart gave desperate lurch against his ribs.
Almost as if she heard it, she turned swiftly, looking over her shoulder with a start.
Concern, compassion, and a healthy dose of fear rushed through him at the sight of her.
It looked like she’d been crying for hours. She was clearly exhausted. And yet a spark lit her gaze when she saw him.
After closing the door softly behind him, Ralston started toward her, his instinct shouting at him to take her in his arms, to offer comfort and strength and vow to take away her troubles. But he feared she would not welcome such a demonstration. He still did not know why she was there.
“Please,” he said gruffly as he approached her, “won’t you have a seat?”
She shook her head and flashed a tight smile. “No. I’d prefer to stand.”
Though he furrowed his brows in consternation, he gave a nod. “Can I offer you a drink? Sherry? Or a brandy?”
She shook her head again.
Not knowing what else to do, he stood patiently, waiting for her to explain her presence. Waiting for her to tell him what she wanted—what she needed of him—so he could offer it on a silver plate.