CHAPTER 9
“Goodbye,” murmured Charlotte.
Like the rest of the tiny house, the main room was now bare of belongings. Somehow, it looked smaller, not larger. The emptiness seemed to amplify how little of the place was lodged in her heart.
Memories.
Precious few of them were ones she wished to take with her. She thought hard, trying to recall moments of happiness. Most, however, were less easy to define. They were shaded in subtle hues of regret rather than any brilliant bursts of pure sunshine.
Anthony. Her late husband had been unwell here, both physically and mentally. His ghost still shadowed the place. She turned in a slow circle, watching somber shades of grey dip and dart over the dingy walls. All color had long ago been leached from the space. Even the light had a dullness to it.
Now that she was quitting the house, perhaps he, too, could move on to a better place.
As if in response to her musings, a chill draft—a farewell kiss?—blew in through the damnable crack in the molding that had defied her every effort to fix it. Charlotte gave a wry smile and pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders.
I am leaving an old life to start a new one.
She felt as if she should perform some momentous ritual to mark the occasion. Light a red-tongued bonfire . . . offer a libation to the gods . . . sacrifice a virgin . . .
“M’lady, the carter says the wagon is packed, and he can crack the whip soon as yer ready te be off.” Raven moved to her side, and to her surprise, the boy twined his fingers with hers. He usually held himself aloof from physical contact, far more so than his younger brother.
Perhaps that was why the unexpected warmth of his touch felt so comforting.
They stood silently in the shifting shadows for another few heartbeats before he added, “We’ve saved a spot on the driver’s perch fer ye. Hawk and I will ride atop the boxes.”
She squeezed his hand. “Yes, I’m ready.”
Raven hurried off. Her own steps were slower, but closing the door for the last time didn’t feel as daunting as she had feared.
Respice finem. One should only look back at the end.
Keeping careful hold of the satchel carrying her paints and brushes, Charlotte climbed up to her place on the wagon. A flick of the whip set the dray horses in motion. Mud squelched as the wheels lumbered over the rutted lane. In a few short minutes, the house was well behind her.
She didn’t twist around for a last glance.
The mud turned to cobblestones as they progressed from the fringes of the stews to a more prosperous neighborhood. Behind her, she heard the boys chattering like magpies. Charlotte wished she knew what they truly felt about their new nest.
But in all fairness, her own emotions were not yet sorted out. It would take time. She must be patient, both with them and herself.
Patience. A self-mocking smile touched her lips. It was not one of her virtues. In that she was like the earl.
Thoughts of Wrexford drew her back to their argument over Ashton’s murder.
His high-handed order to stay out of the fray had touched a raw nerve.
Granted, his arguments had made sense. But that didn’t make them any easier to swallow.
Her independence had been won at great cost. It was hard to surrender any of it.
Stubbornness, she conceded, was yet another of her many faults.
With her musings straying in such an uncomfortable direction, Charlotte was happy to hear the driver announce that the next turn would bring them to her new street.
She looked up to see a handsome carriage standing by the curb in front of her new abode, its forest green door bearing a discreet crest painted in dark tones of taupe.
Dear Jeremy. Despite all the upheavals in their lives since the days of filching apples together from the local squire’s orchard, he had never wavered in his loyalty. They had been the best of friends since childhood. Without his support during her darkest days . . .
“Halloo!” Jeremy—Baron Sterling—stepped into the street and gave a welcoming wave. As usual, he was dressed faultlessly, today’s attire being biscuit-colored breeches, polished Hessians, and a coat fashioned from a subtle shade of azure blue merino wool.
If anyone deserved to be a titled aristocrat, it was Jeremy, thought Charlotte with an inward smile. He had always had exquisite taste and an eye for quality. And now he had the blunt to afford to indulge in his passion for the arts and fashion.
He gave an additional hand signal, sending a liveried footman darting forward as the dray rolled to a halt.
“Good heavens,” murmured Charlotte, reluctantly accepting the servant’s offer of a hand down. “You needn’t fuss as if I’m royalty.”
Jeremy enveloped her in a quick hug. “You will always be a princess to me,” he replied gallantly, just loudly enough for her ears.
She let out a wry laugh. “I seem to have misplaced my enchanted tiara on the journey here. So I’ll have to settle on remaining my humble self for now.”
“One never knows what the future holds.”
“It’s only in fairie stories that a common wench is magically transformed into royalty.”
He stepped back, his brow crinkling in concern.
Pretending not to notice, she turned to the carter. “Mr. Holson, if you carry everything into the corridor, I shall then direct you as to where it all goes.”
Not that it would take much thought.
“My footman will help,” called Jeremy. Turning back to Charlotte, he said, “But first, come inside. You look tired.” His pause was barely perceptible, as was the tightening around the corner of his mouth. “Let us have some tea.”
His jovial tone sounded a little forced. Charlotte knew her friend well enough to sense he had left something unspoken.
“I’m sorry but my kettle is packed somewhere among the boxes,” she replied. “So I’m afraid we’ll have to forego refreshments.”
“As to that. . . .” Jeremy cleared his throat with a cough. “I took the liberty of bringing my housekeeper to fix some sustenance. The boys will be hungry, and I didn’t wish for them to starve.” A smile. “There are apple tarts from Gunther’s. And a custard-filled meringue.”
“A low blow,” she muttered. He knew how adamant she was about refusing any monetary aid, no matter how trifling. But in this case it was hard to be angry with him.
Raven and Hawk tumbled down from the pile of baggage, an expectant look on their grimy faces. They occasionally delivered notes to his house, where she suspected the servants plied them with sweets.
“They were spotless when we left,” said Charlotte with a harried sigh. “How is it that boys are a magnet for dirt?”
Jeremy answered with a chuckle. “It is one of those immutable truths of the universe. I imagine Sir Isaac Newton has written something about it in his laws of motion.”
“Quite likely.” She would have to ask Wrexford.
“Oiy!” Raven looked offended. He held up his hands, which for him were relatively respectable. “Look, they be clean as a whistle.”
“They are,” she corrected, even though she knew the mistake was deliberate. “Now, make your bows to Lord Sterling, and then, if your fingers pass muster when we get inside, you may have some apple tart.”
“Huzzah!” They scampered away, pulling their shirttails loose in order to scrub their hands.
“They’re good lads,” murmured Jeremy.
“They’re heathens,” she said wryly, hoping her underlying fears did not edge her voice.
“Being clever and curious makes them different. However, that’s not a bad thing.”
Charlotte hoped that was true. But given her own checkered experience, she wasn’t convinced of it. There was something to be said for a staidly conventional life.
Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts, for her friend added, “Living within the tight strictures of society may be safe, but it is challenges that bring out the best in us.”
“An admirable philosophy,” replied Charlotte. Assuming one was strong enough to survive.
Jeremy offered his arm. “Shall we go inside?”
She looked up. It was naught but a modest century-old stucco and wood building standing in an orderly row of similar structures that stretched the full length of the block. Two floors. A tiny attic tucked under the pitched slate roof. But compared to her previous residence it looked like a mansion.
A tiny sigh escaped as she thought of the bare rooms, and her meager furnishings. The stark emptiness of the rooms would not be an edifying sight, but she couldn’t very well take the coward’s way out and retreat. There was no other place to go.
Numquam rediit retrorsum et deinceps semper. Always go forward and never turn back.
Strangely, it was Jeremy who hesitated. “I must give you fair warning, Charley. . . .”
She stiffened, which made his expression turn more baleful.
“I brought something a bit more substantial than tarts,” he went on.
Damn him. Charlotte let her hand slip away from his sleeve. “I take it you aren’t referring to a joint of roast beef?”
“No.” Her sarcasm brought a slight flush to his cheeks, and yet rather than flinch, he took firm hold of her wrist. “A house needs more than food in the larder. Please do me the courtesy of observing what I’ve done and hearing my explanation before ringing a peal over my head.”
God knows he deserves that much. And so much more.
It didn’t mean she had to like it.
“Very well,” said Charlotte, swallowing the bitter taste of bile that had risen to the back of her throat. “Lead on.”
Set on the far left side of the house, the front door opened into a shallow entrance foyer holding a simple boot box and a Turkey carpet in muted tones of indigo and burgundy red.
From there, a corridor, half-filled with a set of narrow stairs leading to the second floor, ran back to the rear of the house.
The first door on the right opened to a main parlor with a wide-planked wood floor and well-proportioned mullioned windows.
Charlotte gingerly stepped inside.