Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“So shines a good deed in a weary world.”
Lord Trowbridge walked Clara home the next afternoon, and I watched from the window as they approached our cottage. Half my face was concealed behind the dusty curtains when I sneezed, and I had to duck out of sight. Had they heard me?
I stifled a laugh and peeked above the windowsill, straining my eyes to see their expressions. Heavens, were Clara’s cheeks pink. Lord Trowbridge wore an adoring grin. He reached for her hand and kissed the top of it in farewell.
I gasped, covering my mouth to stop the sudden giggle that bubbled from my chest. It came out anyway—loud and girlish. Well, that was certainly uncalled for.
When Lord Trowbridge walked away, I threw the curtains back over the window and bounded down the creaking, narrow staircase. I met Clara at the front door just as she pulled it open.
She shrieked in surprise.
“What on earth did I just witness?” I planted a hand on my hip with a grin. “Are you courting him?”
The shade of her cheeks made the scarlet shawl she wore look pink. “You were watching us?”
“Of course. And I have seen enough to know that he adores you. He could very well be in love with you.”
She slumped down on the sofa with a skeptical look. She fanned her hands around her face in a dramatic fashion. “‘Love is not real.’ ‘Love is a weakness.’ ‘Men do not love, they only desire.’ What has happened to you, Charlotte?” She gasped and grinned knowingly. “You have fallen in love.”
My hand flew to my chest in dismay. “Me? That is an absurd idea, and you know it.”
She leaned forward. “Do not deny it. I saw the way you looked at Mr. Wortham at Clearfield House.”
I panicked, but refused to admit any feelings I had toward that man.
Acknowledging it would only worsen the problem.
It had been several days since we had played the pianoforte together, and I had been doing well in my attempts to forget it.
I frowned, trying to appear nonchalant. “How exactly did I look at him?”
“Like he was happiness personified.” She waved her hands in the air and laughed. “Like he was an expensive gown. Or a lemon tea cake.”
I gasped, sitting beside her and swatting her arm. “I did not!”
She was still laughing, but caught her breath. “And the way he looked at you…I daresay he adores you as well.”
I shook my head, refusing to believe her. “Nonsense. He despises me.”
She gave me a look of disbelief. “That is not true.”
“I have given him every reason to despise me, Clara. It makes sense. He is just a very kind man who cannot leave a damsel in distress.”
“And what of you? Do you despise him too?” Her smile told me she didn’t think so.
I sighed. “No. I don’t. And I don’t love him either, I assure you.”
“Why?”
I was surprised by her question. “He is—he isn’t titled. He isn’t wealthy, and Mama would never approve.”
“That did not answer my question.” She was studying my face, searching for clues. I felt raw and exposed by it.
“I do not love him because I cannot. That is why. You aren’t required to understand.”
She watched me for a short moment longer, then shrugged.
“Very well. But if you wish for others to believe that you don’t care for him, then I suggest you keep the adoring gazes a bit more discreet.
” I warned her with a look, but she ignored it, changing the subject.
“Mr. Watkins will not be making his usual visit tonight, but tomorrow he will be coming by to remove the stitches.”
Drat. I had forgotten about that. I took a deep, steadying breath. All of my hiding places were being torn away, one at a time. Clara could already see past my lies, and soon enough, everyone else would see what was beneath my bandages.
Including myself.
Mr. Watkins’s spectacles were edged in frost when he walked inside our cottage.
I poked at the fire, trying to coach the orange, flickering light to grow, to make the house warm and to ease my nerves.
I brushed bits of ash from my skirts and moved to the sofa where the surgeon was organizing his supplies on the side table.
I swallowed my fear and let him unwrap the bandages. True to tradition, I fixed my eyes on the ceiling. The pain had been minimal over the last week, and Mr. Watkins had assured me it was healing well. But I was still afraid to look.
“Sit back and relax, Miss Lyons. I will try to work quickly.” The surgeon lowered a tool to my hand, and I saw his arm tense out of the corner of my eye. I bit my lip to keep myself from making any noise as he removed the stitches, although the pain was intense.
And he was not quick.
After what felt like several minutes, he sat back, wiping his tools with a towel, then moved on to clean my hand.
The water soothed my raw skin, and I released a shaky breath.
My heart pounded in anticipation. I had to look at my hand.
It had been healing for several weeks, so surely it couldn’t be so very bad.
I slid my eyes slowly down my shoulder, across my elbow, over my wrist and…
A heavy stone of dread settled in my stomach. I squinted. A sudden lightness swam in my head.
There it was.
The skin on my hand was bunched and misshapen, hanging on by dark pink scars. Nothing but a small stub of my fifth finger remained, and the index was gone just below the fingernail. My middle finger was missing above the second knuckle. I swallowed, feeling suddenly ill.
It was even uglier than I had imagined.
Whatever hope I had held that James might have cared for me was quickly whisked away. He had seen this. Perhaps that was why he had fled so many times from my presence. He could never love me. I told myself not to care, but something sank inside me all the same.
“I will keep it wrapped for another week or two, then you may begin to use it again,” Mr. Watkins interrupted my thoughts as he replaced the bandages.
“The skin will be healed enough at that point in time to bend the joints without tearing. The full recovery should come over the course of two months.”
I numbly offered my thanks and showed him to the door. Once he was gone, I bit back my tears and leaned against the doorframe, the disgrace and shame all catching up to me.
My hand was a true monstrosity. It was hideous. Why had I allowed myself to think of love for even one moment? As much as I hated to admit it, I had wondered what it would have been like if I could fall in love. If someone could love me.
But it was clear to me now that such a dream was impossible.
Thankfully, I didn’t see James for the rest of the week.
I taught my mind to forget the little things I had come to enjoy about him.
I even taught myself to only think of him twice a day rather than twice a minute.
Instead of sitting around our little cottage, dreaming about all the things I could never have, I set to work cleaning, moving slowly and favoring my left hand.
Now that Clara had grown accustomed to being Sophia’s governess, we had thought it best that I remain at home and she remain employed.
Besides, it allowed her far more time to spend with Lord Trowbridge.
When we had first moved here to Craster, Miss Bentford and Clara had spent a few hours making the cottage a little less dreadful.
They had removed the most obvious cobwebs and dusted the tops of shelves and the corners of the rooms. But there was still much work to be done, and I found that if I was busy, I didn’t think so much about all the things that hurt.
As I worked, I hummed the song Cook used to sing early in the mornings.
I felt guilty for how I had acted toward so many people.
I had hurt so much. I had cared only for myself and my own happiness.
So shrouded in all my pretty things—a grand house and admired family—I had failed to care about anything else.
So flattered by Mama, I had not seen how low I truly was.
I was vile, manipulating, and careless. I spit the words out as I tried to squeeze the water from a towel using one hand.
Slapping it against the wall, I wiped away dirt.
I remembered the young woman at Kellaway Manor the year before, the one Dr. Owen Kellaway had chosen over me.
The whole ordeal played out in my mind as if it were a painting, covered in a sheet that only now was lifted.
Of course he had loved her more. She was kind, selfless, and good-hearted.
So was my friend Alice, and I had even tried to steal her true love from her in Brighton.
I had been nothing in comparison to those women.
I had been nothing but a golden shell, pretty and valued without, but hopelessly empty and dull within.
The revelation stabbed at me with shame, and I scrubbed harder.
I did not want to be that woman anymore.
But still, I missed the old life I had enjoyed.
The elegance, refinement, and parties. I missed my home, bright sunshine, and Mama’s approval.
I missed it all so much my heart and soul ached for it.
But I did not miss the wicked person I had once been.
Looking at the wall I had just washed, I took a deep breath and ran my hand over the surface, smooth and clean.
Smooth and clean. Kind and selfless. Honest and thoughtful. Trustworthy and caring. Happy.
Day after day, I watched Clara and Lord Trowbridge as he brought her home.
Although he lived just down the road, he always walked with her.
Surely he would have sent her on the short journey in a carriage if she had let him.
Clara and I always conversed for hours about her day when she returned, and how he had looked at her as he bid her farewell, and the compliments he had offered.
It would be only a short time before he proposed. I was sure of it.