Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Love cannot be found where is doesn’t exist,
nor can it be hidden where it truly does.”
To my surprise, we received another letter from Mama the next morning. It must have been sent just days after the previous one. Clara and I stood with our shoulders pressed together, heads bent close over the paper.
It shook in her hand.
My daughters,
I have received word that your father fell ill on his journey to France and has since died.
Although it came as a shock, I feel unaltered by the news, if not more free.
I hope you will feel the same. I hope you will not find me depraved for saying so, but I quite enjoy being a widow.
Please do not bother with mourning; black has never been Charlotte’s color.
Yours, etc.
Mama
The silence that followed was strange; the surge of grief I expected to come refused to do anything but rustle over my skin like leaves. I had hardly known the man. Clara held still beside me, reading the words over and over, as if begging herself to feel something more than indifference.
I touched her arm, calling her gaze to my face. Her eyes were empty.
“How could Mama say such things?” Clara asked. “He was her husband.”
“But nothing more,” I said, watching the floor now. Is that what he had been to me? Just a father, nothing more? Not a friend, not a caregiver, not a guardian.
Clara was quiet. “Do you remember when we were little, and Papa carried us on his back? Or when he brought us dolls from the London shops?”
My eyes shifted to her face. The memories were there, but they were faint, overshadowed by the countless memories from when I had grown older and had been ignored, censured, and forgotten.
Papa had rarely been home; he had spent most of his days in travel, and, as we now knew, gambling.
And when he was home, he seemed to avoid us.
Almost as long as I could remember, he had been a stranger.
But still, I smiled at the thought of those dolls.
I wrapped my arms around Clara, and she held me tight. We stayed that way for several seconds before she said, “May he rest in peace.”
My mind traveled back to the last moment I had seen him, that day we had started our journey here from Hampshire. He had spoken one word to me, nothing more.
“Goodbye,” I whispered back.
There was only one day left before Christmas Eve, and I had been keeping busy helping the Abbots arrange the greenery for decoration.
Lucy, Rachel, and I spent hours cutting the gold silk and paper that would be used to decorate the ballroom the next day.
My stomach fluttered with excitement as I worked, eager to be finished and see the result of all our preparation.
But I still worried over Clara, going to work each day and returning home more upset and troubled each time.
How could Lord Trowbridge have missed her letter?
I couldn’t understand how his prejudice could be so strong against Clara to still snub her after he knew for certain how she felt.
Perhaps the letter wasn’t enough—perhaps she needed to tell him her feelings aloud.
As I puzzled over this, I sorted the greenery into piles of rosemary, bay, laurel, holly, and mistletoe.
The yule log sat in the corner with all the boxes of candles.
As far as I had been told, the Christmas Eve party would consist of charity toward the poor, wassail, games, and plenty of food.
The Twelfth Night party nearly two weeks later would be something of a masquerade, with dancing and another feast. That was all I knew.
I decided I would save my red and silver gown for that night.
I smiled to myself, forgetting the anxiety of seeing James there. It would be a wonderful party.
Mr. Abbot made his return to Clearfield House that evening.
He was a rather short man, with pale hair and spectacles.
I was sitting at the table when he arrived, watching silently as Mrs. Abbot rushed to the door to greet him.
Her happiness at his arrival was genuine, written in every feature of her face.
When he stepped toward her, he dropped his trunk and wrapped his arms around her, proclaiming how much he had missed her.
He kissed her—and not only once.
I blushed on her behalf. I had never seen such a public display of love before. Rachel and Lucy each kissed his cheeks and hugged him in greeting, and it made me think of Papa for a fleeting moment. He would have never greeted me with such warmth.
Mrs. Abbot held her husband’s hand, and he looked at her as if he had been away for years rather than months—as if she were the only thing he lived and breathed for.
It confused me. Papa had never looked at Mama like that.
Mama had never missed Papa when he was away.
She didn’t even miss him now that he was truly gone.
The ache of his loss hit me a little harder this time.
Mr. Abbot smiled when introduced to me, and the genuine nature of his expression caught me off guard. “Miss Lyons! A pleasure to meet you. I must thank you for being such a dear friend to my wife and daughters in my absence. They have written about you in several of their letters.”
Mrs. Abbot hurried to his side, clinging to his arm. Then she smiled at me and reached for my hand. “Charlotte is a very dear friend, indeed.”
The following evening, I stood behind Clara in front of the small mirror in my room. I had been trying to reassure her.
“You look lovely! He will come to his senses tonight.”
She tipped her head down and took a deep breath. It broke my heart to see her this way. How could she be dreading this party? A carriage was being sent to convey us to Clearfield House, and it would be arriving any minute now.
I put my hand on her shoulder and sighed, trying to sort through my words before I said them. “I will speak to James about the subject again if you wish. Perhaps he can help somehow. He may know something about his brother that we don’t.” That did seem to be a common trend with him.
She shook her head. “Just let it be, Charlotte. I’m tired of trying.”
I watched her carefully a moment longer, then nodded.
But even though she was done trying, I certainly wasn’t.
I glanced out the window and saw the carriage arriving in front of our cottage.
Before leaving the room, I swiped my gloves off my bed, slipping them over both hands to make them look as natural as possible.
The pieces of fabric I had torn and stuffed inside to disguise my missing fingers looked strange upon close inspection, but they would have to suffice.
Miss Bentford joined us at the top of the stairs. She looked lovely in her gold gown. Her hair was arranged in its usual style, but she seemed to have been pinching her cheeks. They were flushed bright red, her eyes gleaming with either excitement or tears from the pain.
The three of us hurried down the stairs and through the front door, wrapping our shawls quickly over our shoulders.
The coachman helped us into the carriage and soon we were moving forward, rumbling over the narrow, uneven road.
As we approached Clearfield House, I could already hear music and boisterous laughter.
The house was lit brightly, and through the windows I could see smiling faces and long tables of food.
When the carriage stopped, we were let down from the step. Clara and I walked arm in arm to the front door. I had spent the early part of the day decorating, but could never have imagined how beautiful the house would look at night, lit by candles and the yule log in the fire.
As we entered the ballroom, Mrs. Abbot rushed forward with a smile. She wore a deep green gown with white satin trim. Her eyes shone with excitement. “You all look so beautiful.”
She took our shawls and guided us around the corner where tables were lined with a variety of food.
Crowded around the tables were dozens of people I had never seen before, talking, laughing, and eating.
Many of them were dressed in old, ragged dresses, mended together with neat seams and scrubbed clean of dirt.
Mrs. Abbot was watching my face, waiting to see my reaction to it all. My smile grew and I turned to her. “This is perfect.”
She sighed contentedly. “The preparation is always taxing, but the result is worth every moment.” She watched the crowd a moment longer, then turned her attention back to me. “After the feast, we will see a performance from the wassailers and any other volunteers.”
I scanned the crowd again and saw Lord Trowbridge standing with Sophia against one wall of the ballroom. I followed his eyes.
They were set on Clara.
The longing in his gaze was unmistakeable.
I looked at her face—she hadn’t noticed him yet. I nudged her arm and nodded my head discreetly in his direction. She glanced at him, then turned her head away in one swift motion. “Charlotte!”
I gave her an innocent look. “What is the matter? He deserved to be caught if he was going to stare so unabashedly at you.” I winked.
A crease set between her brows as she scanned the crowd. Her gaze focused on something across the room. Her forehead softened, and her mouth quirked upward. “Oh? Then we must put a stop to that immediately.”
I followed her eyes to where James stood, watching us—watching me. I looked away quicker than Clara had, and tried to decipher what I had seen—briefly—in his eyes. Was it resentment? Admiration? I couldn’t tell, so I allowed myself to look at him again.
He was wearing a formal jacket and white cravat.
His hair was neat, black as the sky, the contrast of his eyes as stark as the candles shining from the windows.
His jaw was set, his eyes fixed on me. I tried to draw a breath.
Slowly, a smile formed on his face, and my heart skipped.
Perhaps it hadn’t been resentment I had seen.