Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“God has given you one face and you make yourself another.”
Icounted the flakes of snow on my windowsill every morning, until there were finally too many to count. So instead of counting the ones already there, I counted them as they fell. Twenty five. Twenty six. Twenty seven. Twenty eight—
“Charlotte!” Clara’s voice cut through my silent exercise from the corridor.
I jumped. I could hear her bounding up the stairs.
I had taken to rising early in the morning, and my sister hadn’t left for Brackenridge Hall yet.
She appeared in my doorway, breathing heavily, and held up a paper with a wax seal. “A letter from Mama.”
My heart sank. “Miss Bentford didn’t write to her, did she?”
“Not about your hand.” Clara’s eyes flickered to the bandages. “She vowed to keep silent on that matter for now.”
Nervousness fluttered in my stomach. Clara sat down beside me on the edge of my bed, tearing the seal. I tipped my head over the paper, reading quickly.
My dear daughters,
I hope you have been well these weeks. I imagine the weather has been colder than you are accustomed to, and it is my dearest wish that you are warm and comfortable.
Unfortunately, I come with dreadful news.
The freezing weather has not been well for my cousin’s wife, and she has fallen ill.
We fear she may die soon. But among happier things, their home is quite grand and beautiful, and my cousin, Mr. Bentford is even more amiable than I remember.
He does not treat me with the same disdain the rest of the county has adopted.
Charlotte—why have I not heard from you?
I must insist that you write me the details of your courtship with Lord Trowbridge.
I am eager to know how you are succeeding.
I hope you are not boring him with dull conversation.
Has Clara learned a proper way to arrange your hair?
With the lack of sunlight I presume your complexion has not been damaged.
I hope you are keeping yourself fed to maintain your figure.
Please write me soon, if only to put my nerves at ease.
You owe your success to me and our family name.
I expect your response in the mail no later than today.
Yours etc.,
Mama
I looked down at the bandages covering my hand. It had been a week since the injury, and I still hadn’t looked at the damage. Mama could not know about it.
“What should we say?” Clara asked in a quiet voice. “Shall I tell her about my position at Brackenridge Hall?”
“No.” Hope rose within me. Mama did still care about us, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint her.
The abandonment I had been feeling was washed away by my sudden determination.
Perhaps I still had a chance at a suitable match in the future if I kept my hand hidden.
If Mama didn’t know about my injury, she could rest assured that I was still making progress. I needed only to lie a little bit.
I hurried over to my writing desk. I needed to reassure her that all was well. I still had time; perhaps Lord Trowbridge would still have me. Perhaps—
I looked down at the desk and the sheet of paper I had placed in front of me. The ink and pen were on my right as they always were.
But my right had was completely incapable of writing.
I stared at the pen as tears burned behind my eyes. My penmanship had been so admired. I had spent years perfecting it, penning letters to friends almost daily. Here was yet another thing I had lost.
Tightening my good hand into a fist on the desk, I built a dam inside me against the torrent of emotions threatening my composure.
How was I ever to reclaim my place in society if I couldn’t even write a simple letter?
Never mind the ugliness or the shame of how my fingers must have looked.
Little by little my hand was robbing me of everything I ever held dear.
I took a deep, shaking breath. “Clara?” I didn’t turn around. I swallowed. “Will you write a letter to Mama for me? Please.”
Her skirts rustled behind me, and then she appeared beside my chair. “Of course.” She hesitated. “What do you wish to say?”
Turning my gaze to her, I gave her a look of gratitude. Her eyes were wide and clear, nothing like the hard, defensive look I usually saw when I demanded her assistance with things. The difference was astounding, and I saw in her face a willingness to help me. And all I had done was ask nicely.
I stood and gave her my chair. “My note will be brief.”
Clara dipped the quill in ink, holding it poised above the paper. “How shall I begin? ‘Dearest Mama’?”
I thought about the endearment and hesitated. I stopped myself. Of course. Yes. I nodded. “Dearest Mama. You endeavor to know how I am succeeding with Lord Trowbridge. I have captured his attention, to be sure.”
Clara’s eyebrow rose but she started writing.
“I have spent a great deal of time with him, and think his attachment to me is growing deeper by the day. I believe I shall marry him yet.” Clara’s shoulders stiffened and the pen stopped.
I ignored it. “I am doing all that I can to secure his affections, but he seems to be tentative and rather slow. Have patience and I will win his heart.” My words sounded plain and dull to my own ears.
I finished with, “Your beloved daughter, Charlotte.”
Clara scowled as she finished writing.
“There. That should afford us a little time.” I tried to sound happy, but found the effort exhausting.
Lord Trowbridge’s affections were miles away from me, and I knew it.
I doubted it would even be possible to win him now.
We would live in the North forever, and Mama would remain in the South enjoying the spoils of her cousin.
Perhaps she would return for us eventually, or take us to live in a new place where I could find another man to pursue.
My shoulders slumped and I moved to sit on the ground, leaning my head against the wall.
I had never sat on the floor before, but found it to be strangely comfortable.
I tucked Mama’s disapproving gaze out of my mind and brought my knees to my chest. “What are we to do, Clara?” My voice had changed to a desperate tone.
I looked up at her. “Lord Trowbridge will never love me now.” I held up my hand and dropped it to my lap.
“Mama will write again, and I cannot lie to her forever. She will discover his indifference to me and she will despise me for it.”
Clara crossed her arms and leaned over. “Well, you are still beautiful. And if you are correct, that beauty is all a man cares for, then that should be enough.” Her voice was weak.
I thought I heard a hint of sadness in it.
I looked up, but she smiled in an effort to contradict her voice. “Do not give up.”
I puzzled over the look on her face. The smile was forced. She played with a strand of her hair, obviously uncomfortable with my study.
“Perhaps you could marry him,” I said.
Her eyes flew open wide. “What? No.” Her cheeks flushed pink.
“You have a much better chance than me. You see him every day, and you find him agreeable.” I smiled as her cheeks turned even darker. “You have grown attached to him, haven’t you?” I exclaimed.
She crossed her arms in defense. “I have not!”
Laughing, I sat forward and crossed my legs. “It is quite obvious.”
I studied her face as it melted into a confession.
She moved over to my bed and sat down, slumping her shoulders in defeat.
She sighed and fell back on the blankets, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“I don’t know what to do, Charlotte! He is much too old for me, surely.
Why would an established, widowed earl such as he consider marrying a silly girl like me? It simply isn’t logical.”
I scowled, feeling a strange reversal of roles. “I thought you believed in love? If there is anything in the world that isn’t logical it’s love.” I rolled my eyes and looked at her again.
Her eyes were cast down now, and she lay there, twisting a loose thread on the waistband of her dress.
She looked so distressed and afraid, and I felt a sudden surge of protectiveness toward her.
I had always tried to make her feel inferior to me, remind her of her lack of talents and beauty, but seeing her now, I was overcome with hatred for myself.
I had been so unkind. So selfish. So belittling.
The realization stabbed at me with pain stronger than the ache throbbing in my mangled fingers.
Clara bit her lip and I saw a tear streak down her temple. Had I done this to her? Had I changed the way she viewed love? How she viewed herself? What had once been a giggling, romantic girl was now cold and sad and afraid. My heart quaked within me. What had I done?
She took a deep breath, breaking me from my thoughts. “I still believe in love. But I—I am not worthy of him. Lord Trowbridge is too wealthy and he bears a title, and—I don’t know. Perhaps love is a silly idea after all.”
I cut her off, shaking my head. “Why are you speaking like this? It’s as if you were me.”
“But I am not you, Charlotte! That is precisely right. I am not pretty, and I am not flirtatious, and I am simply not talented. He will never have me.” She sat up, blinking back tears.
I stared at her, surprised. I never knew how much it affected her, being compared to me all the time.
Her hair was crinkled from laying down, and her round cheeks were splotched with tears, and her clear blue eyes were wet.
Looking at her now, I noticed what I hadn’t before—she was beautiful.
She was adorable, really. Besides that, she was kind and forgiving and humble. She was not like me.
My heart beat fast, and I found myself wishing to be more like her. How had I been so unkind to her all these years? What benefit did it bring me to treat her so poorly? Guilt crept into my soul with an inky blackness I couldn’t ignore.