Chapter 7
The house was in mourning—black ribbons on every curtain, mirrors draped, servants whispering as they passed. Even the air seemed heavy, as though the very walls themselves mourned him.
Her mother and younger sisters devoted themselves to grieving with admirable diligence, each dramatically draped across a sofa or chaise in the parlour, surrounded by sympathetic friends and cousins who cooed and murmured like pigeons.
Camelia dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief so vigorously one might think she meant to injure herself. Clara uttered faint moans at regular intervals, as though on cue.
Even Mama—elegant, stately, and quite dry-eyed—contrived a delicate tremor of her lips whenever condolences were offered.
Through it all, Charlotte moved like a quiet apparition, issuing instructions, accepting condolences, ensuring the world did not crumble around them. Her sisters might weep; she would work. Someone must.
She neither fainted nor wept, nor did she relinquish the management of her father’s funeral to well-meaning strangers.
While her family languished in artful grief, Charlotte organised everything—the coffin plate, the clergyman, the carriages, the wreaths of white lilies her father had always loved.
She saw to the bills herself and spoke with the sexton to ensure her father would be buried beneath the great yew, where the morning light fell first.
When all was finally done, Charlotte went through the motions of the funeral like a marionette guided by invisible strings.
Her face remained expressionless, her voice flat, her movements mechanical.
She spoke when spoken to, nodded when expected, and only once—when the earth thudded against the coffin—did her hand tremble.
She remembered the first time she had seen her father dig a spade into the garden himself, insisting a gentleman should understand the weight of soil.
That image returned now as the clergyman’s words droned on and the rain dampened her gloves.
The spade striking earth felt like the world striking her heart.
She wished she could climb into the ground after him.
Her thoughts narrowed to survival: another minute, another hour, another day.
That evening, as the house quietened after the stream of condolences, Charlotte slipped away unnoticed, climbing the stairs on heavy legs until she reached her chamber. There, at last, her composure broke.
She closed the door and pressed her forehead against the cool wood. A sound escaped her—half gasp, half sob—and she sank to her knees. The aching loneliness wrapped itself tight around her ribs, pressing until she could scarcely breathe.
It dawned on her that she would never see that gentle smile again, nor the twinkle that softened his stern brown eyes when she entered the room.
Never again would she hear the fond way he said ‘Char’, stretching the single syllable into a private endearment.
Her heart clenched so sharply she clutched her chest, as though it might crack in two.
The only person who had ever truly understood her was now lying six feet beneath the ground.
A coldness seeped into her bones. She crawled onto the bed, still in her mourning gown, and curled into a tight ball beneath the counterpane.
For one wild, aching moment, she imagined the door opening—her father’s familiar step crossing the carpet, his hand smoothing her hair as he used to when she was a child and had quarrelled with her sisters.
If she kept her eyes closed tightly enough, perhaps she might conjure him back.
Her gaze roamed the room as tears blurred her sight.
His book rested on her writing desk, a pressed flower marking the final page she had read to him.
She reached for it, held it to her chest, and breathed in the faint scent of tobacco and lavender oil—his scent.
The house might as well have lost its heartbeat.
Perhaps she could stay there forever. Perhaps the pain would dull. Perhaps the fear would vanish.
But fear had a will of its own. It coiled around her throat and whispered, What will happen to you now?
It took her hours to fall asleep, and when she did, she dreamt. He was there, comforting her, telling her he would see her again.
As morning broke, a soft knock interrupted her dreams.
Instinctively, she sat up. ‘Papa?’
But the door opened a crack, and Sarah slipped in. Her small, sparrow-like frame hesitated before crossing the room. Charlotte’s chest tightened with another wave of grief.
‘Miss... your mother is calling you downstairs.’
Charlotte’s stomach turned. Already? Even for her mother, this was brisk. The man had been in the ground scarcely a day.
‘Did she say why?’ Charlotte managed, her voice hoarse.
Sarah’s expression wavered between sympathy and fear. ‘No, miss. But she seemed... insistent.’
A pause.
‘And Lord Haverley is with her.’
That explained everything.
Dragging herself from the bed, Charlotte splashed her face with cool water and straightened her black crepe gown. There was no use refusing; her mother would simply come and drag her out herself, propriety be hanged.
Each step down the staircase felt heavier than the last. Morning light filtered dimly through the hall, casting the marble floor in pools of gold. From the morning room came the low murmur of voices—one male, deep and oily.
Her stomach lurched.
She hovered in the shadow of the doorway, listening. She hoped he was only here to pay his respects; even though the man had barely known her father.
‘Of course, my lord,’ came her mother’s silky tone. ‘You’ve no need to fear any longer. My husband is gone and will not meddle in our affairs. And let me assure you, I have always been in favour of the match—as long as we keep to our previous arrangement.’
Unease curled sharply through her.
‘Yes,’ Haverley replied, his voice thick with self-satisfaction. ‘I keep to my word, Mrs Walker. I only want your daughter. You may keep her dowry. I have no need of it.’
Charlotte’s pulse roared in her ears. They were speaking of her—bargaining as though she were a mare to be sold at Tattersall’s.
Through the gap, she glimpsed him clearly now: broad-bodied, thick-necked, his fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. The gold of his ring glinted as he gestured carelessly. Her mother leaned forward, smiling with all the warmth of a predator.
Revulsion rose like bile.
Her father’s voice echoed in her memory, quiet and firm: Stand your ground, Char.
She pushed the door wide open.
The pair turned in unison, startled. Her mother recovered first, forcing a brittle smile. ‘Here she is, my lord. Charlotte, Lord Haverley has asked for your hand in marriage, and I have told him you will accept.’
Her mother’s eyes shot her a warning—Don’t you dare defy me.
Charlotte met her gaze. Her voice, though soft, carried like steel.
‘No.’
Silence fell. The ticking of the mantel clock became thunderous.
Her mother’s painted smile curdled. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said no.’
For a long heartbeat no one moved. Then Lord Haverley let out a short, incredulous laugh. ‘Mrs Walker, what is the meaning of this insult? You assured me she would accept.’
He adjusted his cuffs, puffing himself up like a rooster. His face—ruddy, coarse, and glistening with sweat—was a picture of outraged vanity.
‘My dear girl,’ he said, turning towards Charlotte with a leer, ‘you’ll find worse men than I in this world. Many would marry you for a dowry; I, at least, am generous enough to waive it. You ought to be thanking your mother for her good sense.’
Charlotte stiffened, but he went on, lowering his voice. ‘Come now, don’t be shy. You’ll find marriage to me far more... diverting than spinsterhood.’
Charlotte noted with grim satisfaction that now, she felt no fear. Only disgust
Her mother, however, paled. For the first time, a flicker of panic crossed her features. ‘My lord, she is distraught from her father’s death,’ she said quickly. ‘Her mind is... unsettled.’
‘I am of sound mind, Mother,’ Charlotte said calmly. ‘My lord, though I am flattered by your interest, I cannot accept your proposal.’
Lord Haverley’s mouth fell open. ‘Cannot—? Mrs Walker, this is intolerable! I have already informed my friends of the engagement!’
Mrs Walker clutched his arm. ‘Please, my lord, give her time. She will come around—she must. Grief has made her irrational.’
‘I will not,’ Charlotte said again, her voice rising just enough to slice through theirs.
‘Silence!’ her mother shrieked. Then, softening her tone as swiftly as a stage actress, she cooed, ‘Please, my lord, give me a little time. She will change her mind.’
Lord Haverley’s expression twisted into a smirk.
‘A month, then. When I return, you’ll see sense—or regret it.
’ He straightened, tapping his cane against his boot.
‘I do not take kindly to being made a fool of, Miss Walker,’ he added, his eyes sliding over her with insolent leisure.
‘And I always collect what’s owed. When I return, I shall expect a different answer. ’
He gave a curt bow and stomped from the room, leaving a trail of cigar smoke and wounded pride.
The moment the door slammed, Mrs Walker rounded on her daughter like a hawk. ‘Obstinate, wilful, evil child! How dare you humiliate me in my own house!’
Charlotte remained still, her hands clasped before her. ‘It has been a single day since Papa’s funeral, and already you are selling me off. I heard you—“our previous arrangement,” you said. Were you planning this while he was still breathing?’
Her mother’s eyes flashed. ‘Watch your tongue. Everything I do, I do for this family.’
‘For yourself,’ Charlotte corrected softly. ‘You never cared what he wanted, or what I wanted. Only how it looked to others.’
Mrs Walker’s face purpled. ‘Oh, you foolish girl! Lord Haverley is rich! You would be set for life. So what if he is not handsome or charming? You need only endure him for a few years. Men tire of their wives soon enough.’
‘Charming sentiment,’ Charlotte said drily.
Her mother continued pacing the carpet in agitated circles. ‘He offered to return your dowry outright. Do you not see what that means? We could pay your father’s debts—secure my...our fortune. You would be doing your duty.’
Charlotte drew a slow breath. ‘With all due respect, Mother, I cannot marry that man. My sisters are married and their futures secure, and you will have your widow’s allowance besides—if only you would learn to live within it. And my dowry belongs to me, not you.’
That struck home. Mrs Walker’s complexion darkened to a most alarming shade of crimson. ‘How dare you speak to me of money! Insolent creature! I will disown you. Until you agree to marry him, you are dead to me—do you hear? Dead!’
Charlotte’s lips curved faintly. ‘You have said that before.’
But as the words left her mouth, the familiar ache of loss tugged at her again. Her father was gone; there would be no gentle mediator this time. Perhaps her mother truly meant it now.
Mrs Walker, seeing the flicker of doubt, pounced. ‘That is correct, Miss Charlotte Jane Walker. You shall never call me Mother again—not until you obey.’
Charlotte looked at her—truly looked—and saw, for the first time, the full measure of the woman’s vanity and fear: the tightness around the mouth, the desperate gleam in her eyes. The love was gone; perhaps it had never been there.
Something inside Charlotte hardened—and, paradoxically, lightened. She straightened her spine. ‘You may disown me if you wish, Mother,’ she said quietly. ‘I shall not relent. But know this—I will always be your daughter, and I love you. Even if you cast me off, I shall never cast you away.’
For a heartbeat, Mrs Walker faltered. Her mouth quivered, though whether from rage or something perilously close to shame, Charlotte could not tell.
Then the shutters closed.
‘Go to your room,’ she said harshly. ‘I do not wish to look at your face.’
Charlotte bowed her head—not in submission, but in farewell—and turned to go.
At the doorway she paused, taking in the parlour: the drawn curtains, the fading scent of lilies, the empty chair where her father used to sit with his newspaper and quiet smile.
The room seemed smaller now, as if her father’s presence had been the very thing holding it together.
Her sisters hovered in the hall like eager spectators at a play. Charlotte gave them a calm, level look that made them both shrink back.
Something fundamental shifted within her, like a key turning in a long-stuck lock.
She climbed the staircase slowly, step by step, her head held high though her heart ached.
She had lost her father that week.
And now she had lost her mother too.