Chapter Eighteen #2
Charlotte returned to her seat, drawn by the pain in Margaret’s voice. The fire cast dancing shadows across the walls, lending an almost theatrical quality to the scene - two women separated by a sofa’s width, united by love for a man who seemed determined to stand alone against the world.
“Elizabeth had been a friend since childhood,” Margaret continued, her fingers tracing the delicate pattern on her teacup.
“She knew William before he became Duke, before he had to assume that carefully controlled facade that he shows the world. When Papa died, when the true extent of our difficulties became clear, she promised to stand by him through whatever came.”
“But she didn’t.”
Charlotte’s heart ached, imagining William at nineteen - suddenly thrust into responsibilities that would have broken a lesser man.
“No.” Margaret’s fingers stilled on her cup.
“She waited until William had begun to resolve the worst of the financial tangle, until society’s whispers had started to die down.
Then she fled with Lord Rutherford’s second son - a man with no responsibilities, no estate to rescue, no.
..” She stopped, swallowing hard. “No broken trust to rebuild.”
“She was a fool,” Charlotte said fiercely, surprising herself with the vehemence in her voice.
“Was she? She was barely eighteen, faced with a betrothed who had transformed almost overnight from a carefree young man into someone driven by duty and responsibility. William was...” Margaret paused, gazing into the fire as though seeing those difficult days reflected in its flames.
“He became so focused on protecting everyone, on living down Papa’s mistakes, that he forgot how to let anyone close enough to help shoulder the burden. ”
“As he has still forgotten now,” Charlotte whispered, remembering William’s rigid stance in the garden, the careful way that he’d held himself apart, even as pain radiated from every line of his body.
“As he still does now,” Margaret agreed, her voice softening. “Though perhaps with one crucial difference.”
“Oh?”
Charlotte forced the word past the tightness in her throat.
“He never looked at Elizabeth the way that he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching.” Margaret set her cup down with careful precision.
“I have been here for most of the time since your marriage, you know. I’ve seen him in the library - how his eyes follow your every movement, how his hands clench at his sides as though he is physically restraining himself from reaching for you.
Even now, when he believes himself betrayed. ..”
She trailed off as Charlotte rose abruptly, moving back to the window.
The rain had intensified, turning the formal gardens into a watercolour painting of muted greys and greens.
Somewhere out there, William rode alone through this deluge, choosing physical discomfort over the possibility of encountering his wife.
“That was before,” Charlotte said softly, pressing one hand against the cold glass. “Before my ill-judged visit to Mr Harrison, before Caldwell’s latest threats. You cannot know how he looked at me in the garden three days ago, Margaret. Such disappointment, such carefully controlled pain...”
“And why do you think that pain needs such careful control?” Margaret’s reflection appeared beside Charlotte’s in the window glass.
“William has faced worse scandals, worse threats to Alverton’s stability.
Yet I’ve never seen him so affected, so.
.. undone… by anything as he is by this breach between you. ”
“Because I proved myself untrustworthy?”
Charlotte’s voice caught on the word.
“Because you proved yourself willing to fight for him, even at the cost of his good opinion.” Margaret laid one hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.
“When was the last time that anyone, apart from me, cared enough about William to defy his wishes for his own good? To risk his anger out of love rather than self-interest?”
The question hung in the rain-chilled air between them.
Charlotte stared at their reflected faces in the window glass - two women who loved William in different ways, both seeking to penetrate the walls he had built around his heart.
“I’ve watched him these past months,” Margaret continued softly.
“I’ve seen how he changes when you enter a room - how his voice softens when he speaks your name, how his careful control slips just slightly when you’re near.
Even his laugh... Charlotte, do you know how long it had been since I heard William truly laugh before you came to Alverton? ”
Charlotte turned from the window, meeting Margaret’s concerned gaze directly.
“Yet he pushes me away. Each time we draw closer, each time I think that perhaps we might build something real between us, he retreats behind those careful walls.”
“He pushes you away precisely because you’ve made him feel too much.
” Margaret moved back to the sofa, her skirts rustling softly against the carpet.
“Think, Charlotte. When had William ever failed to master any situation, any emotion, that threatened his carefully maintained order? He hadn’t. Until you.”
The observation struck with devastating accuracy.
Charlotte sank into her chair, remembering a hundred small moments - the way that William’s hand had trembled when he helped her from the carriage, how his voice changed when they were alone, the vulnerability in his grey eyes that morning beneath the oak tree when he’d spoken of partnerships and trust.
“I believe,” Margaret continued carefully, “that you terrify him far more than Caldwell ever could. Sir Geoffrey threatens Alverton’s reputation, yes. But you... you threaten the walls William has spent years building around his heart.”
“I never meant to...” Charlotte began.
“Of course you didn’t. Love rarely announces its intentions before laying siege to our careful defences.”
Margaret’s smile held gentle understanding.
“Oh…”
“But Charlotte, consider - why does my brother react so strongly to your attempts to protect him? Not because you went behind his back, though that pains him. But because you proved yourself willing to risk everything - his good opinion, his trust, even his love - to shield him from harm.”
“As he would do for those he...”
Charlotte stopped, the word sticking in her throat.
“For those he loves?” Margaret finished softly.
“Yes. And that terrifies him more than any scandal or financial ruin ever could. Because love, real love, cannot be controlled, or managed, or kept safely distant. It demands vulnerability, demands trust, demands that we open ourselves to possible pain.”
The coals settled in the fireplace, sending sparks dancing upward. Charlotte watched them fade, each golden point of light dying like her hopes of reaching William through his careful barriers.
“What am I to do?” she asked finally. “He won’t speak to me, won’t even remain in the same room long enough for me to explain...”
“Then perhaps it’s time to stop trying to explain.” Margaret leaned forward, her expression intent. “Actions speak louder than words, especially with William. You’ve proven you’ll fight for him - now prove that you’ll fight for your marriage, even against his own stubborn nature.”
“How?” Charlotte twisted her handkerchief between her fingers. “How does one fight against such carefully constructed defences?”
“By refusing to let him retreat into solitude. By showing him that love isn’t a weakness to be guarded against, but a strength to be embraced.
” Margaret’s voice held quiet conviction.
“My brother has spent years building walls to protect himself from pain. But you, my dear sister, have already breached those defences in ways that he never expected.”
Before Charlotte could respond, voices in the corridor drew their attention. It seemed that William had returned earlier than planned.
His deep tones carried clearly through the heavy oak door, though his words were muffled.
The answering voice, sharp with barely contained frustration, could only belong to Sir Geoffrey Caldwell.
Two calls in three days – this could not bode well, and she still did not know what he had said to William on the earlier occasion…
Charlotte rose instinctively, but Margaret caught her hand.
“Wait,” she said softly. “Listen first.”
“I believe that we have nothing further to discuss, Sir Geoffrey.” William’s voice held that intense control which always masked his deepest emotions. “My answer remains unchanged.”
“Does it?” Caldwell’s laugh cut like broken glass. “Even knowing what your Duchess has been doing? The investigations that she’s pursued behind your back? Tell me, has she shared with you what she discovered in Harrison’s office?”
Through the window, Charlotte saw how the rain had intensified, turning the morning nearly as dark as twilight. The drumming on the glass almost - but not quite - masked the terrible silence that followed Caldwell’s words.
“My wife’s actions are not your concern.” William’s voice emerged in deadly quiet tones, yet Charlotte heard the strain beneath his composure. “Nor will they influence my decisions regarding your supposed claims.”
“No?” Caldwell’s tone dripped false sympathy.
“How fascinating. Tell me, Your Grace - does she know about the other set of books? The ones that your father kept hidden in that clever compartment behind his desk? The ones that might explain how Alverton survived those difficult years after his death?”
Charlotte felt Margaret stiffen beside her.
“What is he talking about? I can’t believe that such a thing is true!”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte whispered, her heart thundering against her ribs. “But William...”
The silence from the corridor stretched unbearably. Even the rain seemed to pause, holding its breath for William’s response. When it came, his voice held such studied neutrality that Charlotte felt ill at the sound of it.
“If you have actual evidence to present, Sir Geoffrey, I suggest that you do so through the proper channels. Otherwise, I believe that we are finished here.”
“Oh, we’re far from finished, Alverton.” Caldwell’s voice carried clearly as he moved towards the front door, each word falling like a hammer blow in the hushed house.
“Ask your Duchess about what she discovered in Harrison’s office.
About the documents that disappeared with young Simmons.
About the real reason she’s been investigating your father’s affairs. ”
The sound of the front door closing echoed through Alverton’s halls with dreadful finality.
Charlotte stood frozen, her fingers white-knuckled where they gripped Margaret’s supporting hand.
Every nerve in her body strained to hear William’s movements in the corridor.
Instead of his usual swift retreat to his study, she heard his footsteps approaching the morning room with measured precision.
Each step seemed to match the thundering of her heart.
“Charlotte.” Margaret’s voice dropped to barely a whisper.
“Caldwell seeks to drive the two of you apart, for if you do not trust each other, you will each more easily believe his lies. Remember what I said. William pushes hardest against those who matter most. Some battles are worth fighting, no matter the cost.”
“And if I lose?” Charlotte’s voice emerged rough with suppressed emotion. “If by trying to protect him, I’ve destroyed any chance of...”
“Of what?” Margaret’s grip tightened briefly. “Of a marriage built on careful distance? Of watching him retreat further into solitude with each passing year? Or do you fear losing the chance of something real between you - something worth fighting for?”
Before Charlotte could respond, the morning room door opened.
William stood framed in the doorway, his riding clothes still damp from the rain, his dark hair slightly dishevelled.
Sir Geoffrey must have arrived at almost the same instance that William had returned home. Something about William’s disarray, so unlike his usual precise appearance, made Charlotte’s heart ache anew.
His grey eyes moved from Charlotte to his sister, then back again. The neutral expression that he wore did nothing to mask the turbulent emotions that Charlotte had learned to read in the slight tension around his mouth, the way that his hands flexed briefly at his sides.
“Margaret.” His voice held careful courtesy. “I was not aware that you had planned to return home today.”
“Clearly not.” Margaret rose with fluid grace, gathering her pelisse. “Though perhaps my presence is providential. You and Charlotte appear to have matters requiring discussion.”
William’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Margaret...”
“No, William.” His sister’s voice held a quiet authority that reminded Charlotte forcefully of their mother’s portrait in the gallery. “You’ve had three days to hide in your study and brood. Enough.”
She moved to the door, pausing briefly beside her brother. Whatever she whispered to him made his rigid composure crack slightly. Then she was gone, leaving husband and wife alone with the rain drumming against the windows and years of carefully constructed walls trembling between them.