Chapter Seventeen
Dawn crept reluctantly over Alverton Grange, its weak November light casting long shadows across Charlotte’s bedchamber. She had been awake for hours, watching the gradual brightening of the sky through her window, each moment heavy with the weight of secrets and fears she could no longer contain.
Caldwell’s deadline had come and gone, and she had done nothing – for what could she have done?
But for every day since, she had dreaded the moment when she would discover what action the man might have taken, as a result of her inaction.
She was trapped – whatever choice she had made would have been the wrong one.
She should, somehow, find a way to present William with Mr Harrison’s analysis of the handwriting on those documents, and that letter from his father, but…
to do so would mean revealing what she had done, would risk everything between them.
And she was trapped by that dreadful prospect, unsure what best to do.
And so, all sleep eluded her, on most nights now.
The tick of the mantel clock seemed unnaturally loud in the morning quiet.
Charlotte counted the sounds - three thousand, six hundred and forty-two since she had given up pretending to sleep.
Each tick brought her closer to another breakfast spent watching William retreat further behind his masks, another day of measured words and painful silences.
“Your Grace?” Sarah’s soft tap accompanied her entrance. “Shall I help you dress?”
Charlotte turned from the window, noting her lady’s maid’s slightly uncertain expression. Even the servants had begun to notice the growing distance between their master and mistress - she saw it in their cautious movements, heard it in their too-careful responses.
“The blue morning dress, I think,” she said, though she knew it hardly mattered.
William barely seemed to see her these days, let alone notice what she wore. Perhaps giving him the documents wouldn’t damage things between them any further than the damage that was already done.
As Sarah helped her dress, Charlotte caught glimpses of herself in the pier glass - a pale face she hardly recognised, dark shadows beneath eyes that had once sparkled with hope for her marriage.
When had that hope begun to fade? Perhaps at the moment that Caldwell had planted his poisonous doubts on that rain-swept road.
“His Grace is already in his study,” Sarah ventured as she arranged Charlotte’s hair. “Peters mentioned that he was there before dawn. Again.”
The gentle emphasis on the last word spoke volumes.
Charlotte’s hands tightened in her lap as she remembered happier mornings, when William would seek her company over breakfast, when his grey eyes would warm at her entrance to a room rather than shifting away as they did now.
“Thank you, Sarah.” Charlotte stood, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled slightly. “That will be all.”
The walk to the breakfast parlour seemed longer each morning, each step heavy with the knowledge of what awaited.
The corridor that had once felt like home now stretched before her like a gauntlet to be run, its familiar paintings and furnishings offering no comfort.
Would William join her this morning? Or would Phillips appear with another carefully worded excuse about pressing business that required His Grace’s immediate attention?
The breakfast parlour held its usual quiet elegance - silver gleaming on the sideboard, morning light catching on the crystal decanters, everything arranged with the perfect precision that marked all of Alverton.
Yet to Charlotte it felt more like a stage set for some exquisite form of torture, where she and William would perform their carefully scripted roles of Duke and Duchess while reality crumbled beneath the surface.
She had just taken her seat when William entered.
Her heart caught at the sight of him - even exhausted and troubled, he carried himself with that unconscious grace that had first drawn her eye.
His cravat showed his valet’s usual attention to detail, his coat fitting his broad shoulders perfectly, yet Charlotte could see the strain beneath his polished appearance.
“Good morning,” she ventured, hating how tentative her voice sounded in the quiet room.
“Good morning.” William seated himself with precise movements, though he did not quite meet her eyes. “I trust that you slept well?”
The polite fiction made Charlotte’s throat tighten. They both knew that sleep had become a precious commodity in the Grange these past weeks - his footsteps in the corridor outside her chamber in the early hours told their own story, as did the shadows beneath his eyes.
“Quite well, thank you.” She watched as Peters served the kedgeree, noting how William’s plate remained untouched as he focused on his correspondence. “The weather seems to be turning colder.”
“Indeed.” He glanced through another letter, his expression impossible to read. “Peters, has Mr Harrison sent word about when I might see him?”
“No, Your Grace. Mr Phillips has heard nothing from him.” The footman’s carefully neutral tone suggested that he understood the tension crackling beneath the surface of such a mundane inquiry. “Though the roads are still difficult after the recent rains. Perhaps that explains the delay.”
Charlotte’s hands trembled slightly as she set down her teacup. Each day without word from the solicitor’s office increased her anxiety.
Had Caldwell somehow intervened? Had his clerk Simmons managed to intercept her careful plans?
“The home farm reports frost damage to the late plantings,” William said, his voice holding a neutrality that broke Charlotte’s heart.
Once, he would have shared such concerns freely, seeking her thoughts on possible solutions.
Now each word seemed measured, weighed for safety before being released.
“We may need to adjust the winter stores accordingly.”
“Of course.” Charlotte forced herself to meet his eyes across the table, searching for some hint of the warmth that they had begun to share before everything shattered. “Shall I review the household accounts? Perhaps some economies-”
“That won’t be necessary.” He cut her off with gentle finality that somehow hurt worse than anger would have done. “I shall manage it.”
The measured dismissal hung in the air between them.
Charlotte stared at her plate, the kedgeree now completely unappetising, despite Mrs Walden’s concerned comments about her declining appetite.
She could feel William’s presence across the table like a physical weight, every movement a reminder of the intimacy they had begun to build before Caldwell’s interference.
A knock at the door provided momentary relief from the suffocating tension. Mr Harrison’s familiar figure appeared, his lined face holding a gravity that made Charlotte’s heart stutter in her chest.
“Your Grace.” He bowed to William, then acknowledged Charlotte with great formality. “I apologise for arriving at such an hour, but certain matters have arisen that require immediate attention.”
William rose with that fluid grace that caught at Charlotte’s breath, even now.
“Of course. We’ll speak in my study.” He did not look at Charlotte as he added, “Peters, please inform Her Grace that I shall be occupied with business matters this morning. She need not wait luncheon.”
The dismissal, though courteously worded, struck like a physical blow.
Charlotte watched them leave, noting how William’s shoulders held rigid tension beneath his perfectly tailored coat. Even his stride had changed - no longer the confident progress of a man secure in his domain, but something more cautious, as though he feared what might await around each corner.
“More tea, Your Grace?”
Peters’ quiet inquiry held carefully concealed sympathy.
“No, thank you.” Charlotte rose, unable to maintain the pretence of eating any longer. “I believe that I shall take some air in the gardens.”
“Your Grace might wish a heavier pelisse,” the footman ventured. “The wind holds a bitter edge this morning.”
The concern in his voice nearly undid her carefully maintained composure. How obvious was their estrangement becoming, that even the servants felt compelled to offer such gentle support?
In her chambers, Sarah helped her change into her walking dress with swift efficiency. The deep green wool that had once drawn William’s quiet praise now seemed to mock her with memories of happier days. Yet as she turned to leave, her lady’s maid spoke with uncharacteristic directness.
“Your Grace... that is, we in the household, we see how His Grace suffers too. Perhaps...”
“Thank you, Sarah.” Charlotte cut her off gently, unable to bear well-meant comfort that only highlighted her own helplessness. “That will be all.”
As Charlotte descended the main staircase, fragments of conversation drifted from William’s study. The heavy oak door muffled most words, but certain phrases carried with devastating clarity.
“...must be dealt with immediately, Your Grace. The implications...”
“I am well aware of the implications.” William’s voice held that careful control that always masked his deepest distress. “The question is how this information reached certain parties.”
Charlotte’s steps faltered. She gripped the banister, its polished wood cool beneath her gloved fingers. Had Caldwell already informed William of her visit to Mr Harrison’s office? Her mind raced through possibilities, each more devastating than the last.
“If Your Grace would consider...” Mr Harrison began, but William cut him off.
“Consider what? How best to explain why my wife...”