Chapter 1
Chapter One
The scratching of a quill did little to settle my nerves. Neither did the pattering of rain, nor the abrupt plinking of the pianoforte from downstairs. In fact, all of these sounds produced quite the opposite effect.
Slamming my quill down on my writing desk, I jumped from my chair, striking my knee on the underside of the desk. The inkwell tipped, splattering my gown. I froze, staring at the teardrops of black. Propelled by a new bout of anger, I rushed at the door and threw it open.
I knew it was Clara at the pianoforte, rehearsing for a dinner party at which she was bound to humiliate us all.
The rain had already been enough to upset me, and now my sister carried on with her horrifying display while I was trying to write a letter to my dearest friend, Alice.
It had been two long months since I had visited her at Southcliff Manor, and I was eager to know if her eldest brother was still unattached.
I gripped my stained skirts as I stomped down the stairs toward the drawing room. It was such a relief to stomp. In public, I was only permitted to glide.
“Clara! Quit that horrendous music and look what you have done to me!” My voice was shrill. I cleared my throat, gesturing at the ink all over the front of my gown as I awaited her response.
Clara’s hands stopped for a moment, suspended above the keys. Her smile was tight as she took in my dirtied dress. And then she resumed her playing with renewed vigor.
“Clara!” I rushed at her and threw the music off the stand, missing the burning fireplace by inches. The sheets fell to the ground like dead petals. I placed my ink-smudged hand on her shoulder. “Content yourself with the fact that you will never play as well as me.”
Her face darkened to a deep shade of crimson—in anger or shame, I couldn’t tell.
“A well-bred lady will always maintain an even disposition,” I said. “I trust you haven’t applied rouge to your entire face.”
“Charlotte, stop!” She threw my hand off her shoulder. A dark smear of ink stained her ivory sleeve.
I glanced at it with mock regret. “Oh, dear sister, forgive me.”
With an animal-like grunt, she leapt from her seat and charged at me.
Her palms slammed into my shoulders and I faltered, gasping.
Clara was two years younger than me, but we were similar in proportion.
I regained my bearings and returned the action, throwing her back several steps. It was a fair fight, to be sure.
“I am going to sit beside Mr. Weatherby tomorrow, and you will be placed beside Mr. Connor and his belching!” I screamed.
“Mr. Weatherby favors me!”
I scoffed. “Well he certainly wasn’t charmed by your musical talent.”
She cast me a look of contempt. “Do not ever speak to me again!” She gave me one last shove before crossing her arms. “I wish to play music, and I will play music, and you cannot stop me!”
I caught my breath, rolling my eyes. With the clean area of my hand, I brushed back my pale curls. “Very well, but you will never master the art as I have. You will never be like me.”
She stepped closer, the light from the nearby flames flickering over her features. I expected to see a look of anger or insecurity, but instead I saw pity. “I have never wanted to be like you, Charlotte.”
I stared at her face—at the defiant gleam in her eyes. What on earth was that about? I brushed her comment aside just as Mama entered the drawing room.
“What is the meaning of this commotion?” she asked in an offhand voice.
I stood tall at her arrival.
The graceful air of Lady Pembury never changed.
Attending a ball, a musical, or roaming the corridors of our home, she walked the same.
Her head remained at the same angle, and her striking green eyes always seemed to leak of disapproval.
Even if I hadn’t won my fight with Clara, at least I knew that Mama had always favored me.
And I fought to keep that favor. Every single day.
“Clara.” Mama gasped. Her eyes froze on my splattered gown. “What have you done to Charlotte?”
“I did nothing.”
Mama’s eyebrow lifted in doubt.
“She spilled the ink,” I stated. “I was writing a letter to Alice when she ran into my room and tipped my desk.”
Clara opened her mouth to deny my words, but Mama stopped her. “That will be quite enough from you. Remove to your bedchamber at once.”
“Charlotte is lying!”
Mama’s expression hardened. “How dare you make such an accusation? You will not be dining with us at the Weatherby’s tomorrow night. As far as they’re concerned, you have caught a cold.” Her eyes shifted to the leaves of music on the ground around the pianoforte. “And clean that up.”
I stood back, fighting a victorious smirk.
Mama left the room shortly after, and Clara bent over the sheets of music, blinking back tears.
Rain continued its patter against the roof, but Clara remained silent.
I moved across the room until I stood beside her, picking up a page from the floor and extending it in her direction. I was not entirely vicious.
Slowly, Clara lifted her gaze to mine. Her anger had faded into the depths of something heavier, a look I couldn’t quite place.
But it did little to dishevel me. Mama had taught me that eliminating the enemy could mean many things.
It was a war of sorts, and securing a husband of rank and fortune required an extensive arsenal.
I figured that infliction upon family was merely part of the game.
Mr. Weatherby had indeed seemed to favor Clara—which was quite difficult to comprehend.
I smiled at my sister in the dim light. “Forgive me if I steal his heart.” Then I turned away from her and smoothed back the golden curls that had fallen over my brow.
As I walked away, I yelled for Anna, my maid.
It was late, and husband-catching required a plentiful night’s sleep.
Just months before, my dearest friend Alice had captured the attention of my husband of choice, and a short time before that, a plain girl had stolen the heir to Willowbourne from me.
I was tired of losing. My chest felt tight, my pulse beating fast. How many more opportunities would I have?
How long would it take before Mama gave up on me?
I could not allow Clara to steal Mr. Weatherby.
He was one of Mama’s top choices for her daughters, and I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her again.
Flirting came naturally to Lyons women, and if I was to win the heart of Harold Weatherby, then tomorrow night I would employ that great weapon to my advantage.
At breakfast, I pushed the food around my plate and stared out the tall windows. The rain had finally stopped, and tiny streaks of sunlight broke through the dark sky. I took a nibble of a biscuit, shifting my eyes between Mama and Clara.
“Where is Papa?” I asked, my voice nonchalant. “Was he not scheduled to return early this morning?”
Mama released a slow breath and straightened the pendant at her neck. It was a miniature of her own mother, who looked more like me than Mama did. We both had the same golden curls and pale blue eyes. I had determined that my skin was fairer though, because an artist rarely depicts blemishes.
When Mama’s breath was all the way out, she held it. “Yes, he was due to arrive.”
I studied her stoic expression. “I wonder what has delayed him.”
Clara looked up from her plate. Her puffy eyes avoided contact with mine. “Don’t you worry about him?”
Mama lifted her chin and dabbed her mouth with a napkin.
“What you must learn is that in a marriage, settlements must be made. Your father and I have agreed to allow one another a sense of freedom. What your father does or does not do is none of my concern.” She sipped from her cup. “He will arrive when he sees fit.”
I made a note in my mind of her words.
Clara’s scowl deepened. “He has been in London for months now. Don’t you wonder—”
“Enough!” Mama barely concealed her glare. “A woman is much better off keeping out of her husband’s business. The same is true for her silly daughters.” After taking a huffed breath, Mama turned her attention to me. “Is your piece prepared for the dinner party this evening?”
I nodded. “I shall play more beautifully than any other lady there, I assure you.”
Mama clucked her tongue and folded her napkin into a neat square. “You must do far more than that if you wish to win Mr. Weatherby, Charlotte. Many eyes are trained on him. You must turn his to you.”
“I will, Mama. Your daughter will be the mistress of Candleworth Manor.” I chuckled deeply at the thought. “I will become Charlotte Weatherby. It sounds lovely, does it not?”
She shrugged. “I would prefer that you obtain a title…but he is wealthy. I suppose it will have to do.”
My face fell.
“Clara will be my last hope of further connections to the ton.”
As soon as she said the words, I burst into giggles. What a preposterous idea. Mama soon joined me, our laughter cutting the air like birdcalls. Clara shifted uncomfortably at her isolated corner of the table.
“Regardless of your success with Mr. Weatherby, I trust that you, Charlotte, will make an advantageous match. And what I ask of you, Clara, is that you…surprise me. Impress me if possible.”
My sister’s grip tightened on her fork before she scraped the final scraps of food from her plate and excused herself to the gardens.
Finishing my food, I watched Clara’s retreating form out the window. She spent an unhealthy amount of time out of doors. I made it a firm endeavor never to spend more than one hour susceptible to sunlight or wind, even with my parasol. It was alarming the damage nature could do to a complexion.
There were still several hours before I needed to get ready for the dinner party, so I wandered the house, trying to decide on an entertaining pastime.
The music room was available. And so was the library, but nothing intrigued me.
With the dinner party approaching that evening, I found it impossible to focus on anything else.
My nerves heightened, twisting my stomach as I entered my bedchamber.
Anna, my maid, kept the room in acceptable condition. She had replaced my inkwell, I noticed, and the stains were scrubbed clean from my writing desk. I sat down in the chair and placed a sheet of foolscap in front of me. Picking up the quill, I rubbed the plume over my lips, thinking.
At the party tonight would be several guests, similar in rank to me, and comparable in accomplishment. Every lady would be vying for Mr. Weatherby’s attention. If I was to win, I needed a plan.
I dipped the quill and positioned it at the top of the page. I would start with what I’d been taught.
I titled it: How to catch a husband: Charlotte’s list of requirements. Tapping my finger on the table, I began writing.
1. Always showcase your skill on the pianoforte.
2. Always perform better than the previous lady.
3. Always let him choose the conversation and always act interested.
4. Always dress in the latest fashion.
5. Always compliment him.
6. Always smile and lean close when speaking.
7. Always laugh at his wit.
8. Always steal his heart.
My mouth curled into a grin as my confidence returned.
What had I been so worried about? I had been taught what I needed to know, and my beauty was unrivaled in the entire county at least. My heart beat quickly.
If Mr. Weatherby didn’t send me flowers by tomorrow, then he was not worth my attention anyway.
With these firm thoughts in mind, I took a deep breath and finally finished my letter to Alice.