Chapter 6
Charlotte was true to her word. After her friend’s departure, she immediately penned a painstakingly precise letter to the Ice Baron.
Her head pounded beneath the weight of the previous night’s secret. The afternoon light filtered faintly through the curtains, and by the time she finished, it was almost evening.
She wrote of everything she had seen and heard—the hedge-side conversation, the older man’s voice cruel and unyielding, the younger’s wavering hesitation, the dreadful encounter in the stables, and the dying boy’s final words.
She described her disappointment on discovering that the supposed code letter was blank.
The parchment the dying boy had given her trembled slightly beneath her hand as she folded it. She could not bring herself to part with the original. It felt wrong. It had been the boy’s final act—a dying man’s plea. To give it away would be to sever the last thread of his humanity.
No. This she would keep safe. As evidence, if it came to it, that she had only ever tried to help.
Her maid, Sarah, hovered in the doorway, her dark eyes and sharp, sparrow-like features alight with curiosity.
Charlotte beckoned her in and quickly explained what she needed.
‘Do you understand, Sarah?’ Charlotte said, holding out the sealed letter.
‘This must go to Lord Stanley’s townhouse.
No one else is to see it, and no one—absolutely no one—must know it came from me.
If anyone asks, deny everything. If they press, lie.
And if you are followed, lose them. Take the back lanes. ’
Sarah, though startled, was intrigued. Then came the grin Charlotte had expected.
‘And what will I get in return, Miss Charlotte?’ the shameless girl asked.
Charlotte gave her an incredulous look. ‘How about you keep your position?’
‘Well... if you would like me to keep it out of your mother’s ears... I may require some convincing, miss,’ she replied, wide-eyed and innocent.
Charlotte exhaled sharply. ‘Fine. I shall give you my pin money for this month. But I do not care for this penchant you have developed for extortion.’
Charlotte had known Sarah for several years and knew that, when it came down to it, she was loyal to a fault. They had developed a strong bond—but at times Sarah’s avarice and general laziness would try the patience of a saint.
Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Now go—and take this letter with you, you imp.’
Sarah only grinned wider. ‘I’ll use an alias if need be,’ she said, already looking sprightly.
Charlotte smiled faintly. No doubt she was already planning how best to spend her ill-gotten gains at the local haberdashery.
‘Off with you—and do not dawdle.’
The maid’s chin lifted in solemn determination. ‘Aye, miss. Consider it done.’
Charlotte watched as Sarah tucked the letter beneath her shawl and disappeared down the corridor. The soft click of the door left a hush behind it.
Only then did Charlotte relax.
It’s done, she thought. It’s out of my hands now.
Her conscience felt lighter—and yet a knot of unease lingered beneath her ribs. What if he did not believe her? What if he thought it a ploy—another entrapment scheme from the scandalous girl in the card room?
She rubbed her temples. There was nothing to be done about it now.
Lord Stanley would have to make of it what he would.
And Charlotte had far more pressing matters to attend to.
Her father was ill—and worsening by the hour.
In the days that followed, the Walker household fell slowly into disarray.
Influenza had struck half of London, and now it had breached their door. The atmosphere was thick with dread. Footmen moved through the halls with handkerchiefs pressed over their mouths, and Cook muttered prayers as she boiled vinegar to clean the air.
Mrs Walker, ever pragmatic when self-preservation was at stake, packed her trunks within the hour of the doctor’s diagnosis. Camelia and Clara followed in tearful but relieved solidarity, securing rooms at a fashionable hotel far from contagion.
Charlotte stayed.
She had survived influenza once before, in her youth, and that small immunity gave her courage—or perhaps it was stubbornness, that same wilful streak her mother despised. Whatever it was, Charlotte could not abandon him. Not her father.
A few loyal servants remained—Cook, the butler, and Sarah, who refused to leave despite Charlotte’s insistence. ‘Someone has to keep the fire going,’ she had said. ‘And someone must keep you from collapsing.’
By the fourth day, Charlotte was indeed worn to the bone.
She had scarcely slept. Her dress was permanently wrinkled, her hair had lost all resemblance of style, and her hands were red and cracked from constant washing. The doctor had ordered the sickroom kept quiet, and with so few servants remaining, most duties fell to her. Charlotte did not complain.
She nursed her father through the nights, sponging his forehead and whispering soft reassurances when he thrashed in delirium. His once-steady hands trembled now, reaching for things that were not there—his mother, his youth, the life slipping through his grasp.
Then, one morning, he opened his eyes and looked at her clearly for the first time in days.
‘Char...’ His voice was faint but lucid. ‘I’m feeling better. You need some rest.’
Charlotte smiled, though her eyes were rimmed red. ‘I’m fine, Papa. Are you thirsty?’ She lifted a spoon of water to his lips. He took a sip—and immediately fell into a fit of coughing that shook his frail body.
‘Careful now,’ she murmured, propping him higher. ‘Slowly.’
When the coughing eased, he caught her hand weakly. ‘You’ve always been a kind girl, even when you thought no one noticed,’ he said, his lips curving faintly. ‘But I fear for your sweet nature, child.’
Charlotte drew herself up. ‘I can take care of myself,’ she said, though the words sounded painfully like a child’s protest.
His smile deepened, weary but knowing. ‘Your mother... is a force to be reckoned with. Don’t give in to her demands. Not if it isn’t what you truly want.’
Charlotte exhaled, half exasperated, half amused. ‘You’re referring to Lord Haverley again, aren’t you?’
He managed a ghost of a chuckle. ‘She’s relentless.’
‘She’ll find someone else to torment soon enough,’ Charlotte said lightly. ‘You will talk her out of it. You always do.’
But his next words chilled her.
‘That’s my fear, darling girl. I may not be around much longer.’
‘Don’t speak that way,’ she whispered. ‘Dr Walton said you were improving.’
‘Dr Walton knows nothing,’ he said, half laughing, half coughing.
Charlotte forced a small smile. ‘He’s a respectable doctor.’
‘He’s a pompous fool,’ her father muttered. Then, more softly, ‘Remember, oppression is evil, but surrendering yourself to it is worse. Promise me, Char. Promise me you’ll stand your ground. Respectfully—but firmly. Promise me you won’t let her push you into anything you despise.’
Charlotte swallowed hard. ‘I promise.’
Another cough seized him. When it passed, he closed his eyes, the effort draining what little strength remained.
To distract herself, Charlotte began to speak softly.
‘I had a letter from Grace. She’s well. They stopped in the Ottoman Empire before sailing for India. Imagine that—the Ottoman Empire! Can you picture Mrs M on a ship? She must be clinging to the mast, poor woman.’
Her father chuckled faintly. ‘The lure of home can make even the most delicate woman endure.’
‘I miss her terribly,’ Charlotte said. ‘Her letters are so full of adventure that our London life seems dreadfully small.’
‘You’ll have adventures of your own someday,’ he murmured. ‘Someone worthy of you will find you.’
Charlotte smiled sadly. ‘I rather think I shall have to find myself first.’
His eyes twinkled faintly. ‘Ah, my philosopher. You still have Anne.’
After a moment, she added, ‘Anne is thinking of going into service. Her father has gambled away nearly everything.’
Her father sighed heavily.
‘Patrick was always a fool.’ After a brief pause, he added thoughtfully, ‘Perhaps Anne might become a companion to you?’
Charlotte brightened. ‘That would be wonderful.’
But the light faded quickly. ‘Mama would never allow it. She thinks my friends encourage my eccentricities.’
‘I’ll speak with her,’ he said quietly.
Hope flickered briefly in Charlotte’s chest. If Anne became her companion, they would be birds of a feather, and every day would be so much more joyful.
‘Mother keeps worrying about our debts, Papa. Is it really so bad?’
‘Don’t worry, Char. Your dowry is untouchable until you marry or reach five-and-twenty. Then it will be yours to control.’
Charlotte huffed a soft laugh. ‘If Mother could wrangle it out of me before then, she would.’
He smiled faintly. ‘You are your father’s daughter. I should like to see her try.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Now... what’s there to eat? I’m famished.’
Charlotte’s heart leapt. A good appetite—surely a sign of recovery.
She hurried to the kitchen, instructing Cook to prepare his favourite meal. He ate with surprising relish, and some colour returned to his cheeks.
That evening, she read to him from his favourite novel—always The Mysteries of Udolpho. She animated every character with dramatic flourish, earning quiet chuckles and the occasional cough that doubled as applause.
When she finished, he smiled. ‘You read better than any actress in Drury Lane.’
She laughed softly. ‘High praise, Papa.’
The fire dwindled to embers. Candlelight flickered across the room.
Charlotte sank into the armchair beside his bed, exhaustion finally claiming her. Within moments, she drifted into sleep.
When dawn came, Charlotte stirred, stiff and cold. The fire had died. The room was silent—too silent.
She rubbed her eyes and looked towards the bed.
Her father lay very still.
‘Papa?’ she whispered.
He did not stir.
She rose slowly, her legs trembling. The air seemed to thicken around her.
She reached for his hand.
It was cool.
For one long, unbearable moment, she simply stared, unable to comprehend the stillness before her. He looked peaceful—as if he had fallen asleep mid-smile. But the truth settled over her, heavy and irreversible.
‘Papa,’ she said again, barely a whisper.
Her knees gave way, and she sank beside the bed. The tears came quietly at first. Then the sobs followed—sharp, helpless, wracking her whole body.
For so long he had been her anchor—and now he was gone.
The clock on the mantel ticked on, indifferent to her grief. Morning light spilled across the covers, gilding his hand.
Charlotte clasped it in both of hers, pressing it to her forehead.
‘Rest now, Papa,’ she whispered. ‘You needn’t worry. I’ll keep my promise.’
And in that sacred silence, Charlotte Walker knew that nothing in her life would ever be the same again.