Chapter 3 #2
I never knew time could pass so slowly. A day felt like a week and a week felt like a month. We stopped at a different inn every night, and each was stuffy, old, and full of weary, sweating travelers.
After a few days, I accepted that I was one of them.
Clara and I hardly spoke. Miss Bentford spoke too much.
By the ninth day, the coachman informed us that we would arrive in Craster that afternoon.
Northern England was like a stranger to me, and what I might find there was a constant, maddening weight on my mind.
What would our new home be like? How was I to find a husband who was able and willing to save us from ruin?
The scenery out my window was desolate, the colors dull.
The air was thicker, as if it were wearing a cloak of mist. We traveled close to the coast, and I saw the sea in the distance.
I had always known the sea to be blue, but today it was grey.
Prickly, dying plants dotted the scene like ugly sores.
I almost cried. Although I had been asleep longer than I had been awake for so many days, I leaned back and drifted off again, dreaming of the life I could no longer have.
“Charlotte!” I awoke to Clara’s raspy voice. “We’ve arrived.”
I sat up, suddenly desperate to stretch my legs.
Rain blew on the windows of the carriage, making it difficult to see outside.
Shaking my legs to stop their tingling, I stood, unlatching the door and climbing out of the carriage without waiting for assistance.
My first impression of the town was not what I had expected. It was worse.
My eyes widened at the wild scene before me.
Cold, wet winds hit my face, stole my breath, and tossed my skirts.
I tightened the carriage blanket around me and gaped at the house ahead.
It was so small. A cottage would be an appropriate name for the structure.
Wet, gnarled vines formed a net over the grey stone facade.
There were only four windows, two on the lower level and two on the upper.
A dismayed whimper formed in my throat, but I didn’t let it escape.
I could see the coast from here, where bright roofed houses stood side by side, as if huddling together to stay warm.
In a brief moment of optimism, I thanked fate for not finding me in a house like that.
The ruins of a castle stood on a remote headland in the distance, blurred by the rain.
I squinted through the raindrops at another lumbering structure not far beyond our cottage.
Its beige stone towered up and up, and it had at least five times the windows of our cottage.
Did the estate belong to Lord Trowbridge?
Were we his tenants?
I eyed the proximity of the tiny cottage to the large house in the distance, and my suspicions grew. How on earth did Mama expect me to obtain a marriage proposal from our landowner?
“On you go, miss. You’ll catch a cold.” It was the coachman, hefting my trunk over his shoulder.
I scowled at him. But I was freezing, so I trudged toward the cottage behind Clara and Miss Bentford, who was unsuccessfully using her hand to shield her hair from the rain.
She knocked twice on the door before a young man opened it, providing Miss Bentford with a few instructions and a key.
I ignored the conversation, distracted by the low ceilings and musty air inside the cottage.
I grimaced. Despite it being early afternoon, everything was dim.
Clara set herself to finding a source of light, and I walked around the corner, still feeling like a ghost, unable to absorb so much change.
The ceiling hung low in the entryway, raised by bare white walls.
The wooden floor creaked beneath my boots as I rounded the corner at the right.
Here was a sitting room of sorts, with a single settee, wooden chair, and stone fireplace.
My heart sank when I didn’t see a pianoforte.
As I continued my tour, I found a tiny kitchen along with a wooden tub and washboard.
I shuddered. Would we be washing our own clothing?
There must have been a way I could force Clara to do it.
After all, I had the duty of securing a husband.
There was no time to focus on anything else.
Strangely, a narrow staircase was situated near the kitchen, giving way to a second floor where I assumed the bedrooms were located.
I walked carefully up the stairs, running my hands along the walls to keep from tripping in the darkness, and cursed whoever constructed this home for its lack of windows.
It was far too dark, and with winter coming, it would only become darker.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I found a short corridor and only three rooms. All three were furnished with beds, desks, and to my relief, mirrors.
When I looked at my reflection, I cringed. My hair was still in the simple knot Clara had styled it in. It was the only way she knew. My face was dull and my dress was wrinkled.
I stood there for several minutes, studying my reflection and the unfamiliar space, but my daze was broken when I saw Clara’s reflection walk into the room behind me. I watched as she set two candles on the writing desk, filling the room with a little more light and warmth.
I turned around swiftly, making my way to the bed to sit down. Clara joined me in silence.
“What are we to do?” I choked. “Look at me? How can I win Lord Trowbridge looking like this?”
She tucked her legs underneath her. “I will practice making your hair look better. Perhaps Miss Bentford can help.”
I cast her a skeptical look.
Clara paused, as if deciding whether she should say something else. “But Charlotte…you cannot try too hard. I don’t care what Mama says. Any sensible man of wealth can sort out the fortune hunters.”
I shrugged. “Then we shall hope Lord Trowbridge lacks sense.” I hated the fact that my pursuit of a husband was no longer directly related to me. Now Clara was involved and Mama cared more than ever. How could I please them all? And why should I?
Clara didn’t smile at my comment. Instead she looked sad. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Consent to marry a senseless man so long as he is wealthy or titled. Do you even care if he is agreeable? If he is kind?”
I rolled my eyes. “Once we are married I will avoid his company as often as possible.”
“Do you care if he is handsome?” she asked.
“How he looks is of little concern to me. People will not question my attachment to him. They will know that I was wise in my decision, no matter how unsightly he may be. Besides, I would prefer that he not outshine me in his appearance.”
I thought she would be finished with the questions, but she pressed on. “Well then…what other characteristics do you find attractive?”
Leaning back on my hands, I temporarily forgot our situation. My smile grew. “A large house, preferably with a memorable name. I do adore French style furnishings. Also his circle of acquaintances must be large, and—”
“No,” she interrupted, “that is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?” I asked through gritted teeth.
She leaned toward me, a distant look in her blue eyes.
“He must be kind, brave, and true. He must have a knowledge of literature and poetry and care for it. He’ll have a tender heart, and care for others more than himself.
But above all, he’ll care for me.” Her smile grew to a ridiculous size. “He’ll love me.”
I pushed myself off the bed and gave her a disparaging look.
“You are far too romantic. Do you think men sit around their port speaking of such things? No. They don’t love.
They only desire. They care for nothing more than how we look, so we must care for nothing more than what they possess.
Who they know. Where they live. It is the only fair way.
The heart must remain uninvited, or it will only become an obstacle. ”
Clara’s lips turned downward in a pout and her brow furrowed.
I had won the conversation it seemed. She stood and stretched her back.
“We are each entitled to our opinion, I suppose. At least the task ahead of you will be easier because of yours.” She walked across the room to her traveling trunk and opened it, beginning to unpack her things.
“I am finally seeing the benefits of being the plainer daughter,” she mumbled.
I hurried over to where she was unpacking and planted my hands on my hips. “You plan to use this room? I was here first. I am older, so the larger room belongs to me.”
She looked up to where I stood, towering over her. Her eyes were weary, succumbing to my hard ones. “Why must you always have your way?” She shook her head. “Why must you only care for yourself?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Clara just hugged her trunk in front of her and walked to the next room down the corridor.
I was surprised by her reaction. Something inside of me wished for an argument.
The past several days had been so dull, I needed a reason to raise my voice and claim the upper hand.
I shut the door behind her and grimaced at the layer of dust on the wall behind it.
My composure hung by a thread, but I clung to it still.
Things could not possibly become worse than they already were.
My fortune would turn. Despite what was written in my stars, I was going to force the hand of fate.
I was going to find a husband in this misty town—one that could save the future I had planned long ago.
Too anxious to sleep, I picked away at my mess of hair. I needed to learn to style it on my own. It had always been a crowning feature of mine, and it was imperative that I learn to showcase it properly.
After nearly an hour, I threw the brush at the wall in frustration.
Several spiders emerged from a crack near where my brush hit, skittering across the floor toward me.
Shrieking, I climbed on top of my bed. I brought my knees to my chest and buried my face in my skirts.
Then I cried because there was nothing I could do to stop what was coming.
There was no way to stop the spiders. And there was no way I could achieve what Mama expected of me.
Securing a fortuitous match had always been a dream of mine, but now it was an obligation.
And there was no such thing as an obligatory dream.