Chapter 12 - Charlotte #3
God, how she missed her mother. The off-key humming that had accompanied every reading session. The fierce intelligence she’d never tried to hide. That phrase she’d used whenever Charlotte was frightened or sad: Come now, darling. The world is still turning.
But the world had stopped turning the day she died. Or at least, Charlotte’s world had.
She clutched the book against her chest as the tears finally broke free, fierce and uncontrolled. She cried for everything lost and everything that would never be—the wedding her mother would never attend, the grandchildren she’d never spoil, all the years they’d been robbed of together.
And beneath it all, there was anger. At her father for becoming a shadow of himself. At Penrose for forcing her to break her promise. At her mother, God help her, for leaving her in the first place.
Charlotte didn’t know how long she sat there, the book clutched against her chest while tears fell into her lap.
The room grew dimmer around her as afternoon slipped toward evening, shadows pooling in corners while Charlotte remained motionless on the floor.
When the tears finally subsided, leaving her hollowed out and exhausted, she found herself thinking of William Fletcher.
If he were here, would he hold her hand the way he had in that closet? Would he draw those slow, patient circles on her palm that had somehow made breathing possible? The memory felt so vivid she could almost convince herself he was here.
Four more days. In four more days she would see him again, and perhaps for a few hours she would feel a little less alone.
When Charlotte finally looked up, she found the room transformed by approaching night, dusky shadows having claimed most of the space.
The rain outside had softened to intermittent drops sliding down the glass in lazy patterns, and Charlotte could hear the household below settling into its nightly rhythms—footsteps growing quieter and more infrequent, doors closing gently, the house withdrawing into the hushed stillness.
Her whole body ached from remaining motionless for so long, her neck stiff and her dress hopelessly crushed, but for the first time since waking this morning she felt something that might have been peace, or at least exhaustion deep enough to pass for it.
She placed the book back in the box, her fingers lingering on the worn cover for a long moment before she closed the lid.
But she didn’t return the box to its shelf, couldn’t bring herself to hide it away again.
What difference would it make anyway? No one entered this room anymore except servants who came weekly to keep dust from settling too thickly and, now, Charlotte.
She pushed herself to her feet slowly, her legs protesting, and left the room without looking back. The corridor was empty and dark save for the light coming from beneath her aunt’s bedroom door, telling Charlotte that Margaret had retired for the night already.
Charlotte moved to the servants’ stairs and descended them as quietly as she could manage, wincing each time a step creaked under her weight.
The narrow passage was dark, lit only by a single guttering candle, and she had to feel her way along the wall to keep from stumbling.
When she reached the kitchen, she made straight for the garden door where her cloak hung on its usual peg.
“Do take care, miss.” Mills’s voice came from somewhere to her left, making her jump. She turned to find him standing near the scullery with a dish towel in his hands, his expression unsurprised. “The streets can be treacherous after such rain.”
Her heart was still racing, but when she met his eyes she saw only quiet understanding. “Thank you, Mills.”
He nodded once and turned back to his work. He’d been discretely overlooking these evening withdrawals since her mother’s passing, knowing some burdens were best carried alone.
The garden was dark and wet, rain having left everything glistening in what little moonlight filtered through the clouds.
Charlotte breathed in the cool night air, let it steady her, and then moved toward the rose bushes.
The blooms were easy to find even in darkness, their pale petals almost luminous against the shadows, and she gathered them quickly, the thorns catching at her cloak as she carefully selected the finest stems. Then she pulled her hood up and stepped into the sleeping streets of London.
The city transformed after dark in ways that respectable society never saw, gas lamps casting amber pools of light across rain-slicked cobblestones while shadows gathered thick between them.
Charlotte moved through this altered landscape like a ghost, keeping to the quieter lanes where grand houses stood shuttered and silent, their residents safe behind heavy doors, unaware of the girl passing beneath their windows.
The night air carried scents of coal smoke and damp earth that mingled with the roses’ fading sweetness, and she breathed it all in as she walked.
The churchyard gates stood open when Charlotte reached them, wrought iron twisted into delicate patterns that welcomed both the faithful and the grieving.
She slipped through into the deeper darkness where ancient trees blocked the moonlight, moving between weathered headstones that tilted at odd angles, her feet finding the path they’d walked so many times before to the far corner where her mother lay.
She knelt before the simple stone, heedless of how the damp ground soaked immediately through her already ruined dress, and arranged the roses with careful hands.
For a long moment she simply stayed there, one palm pressed against the cold marble, and tried to find words for everything churning inside her.
“I brought your favorites, Mama,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“They’re blooming early this year.” Her fingers traced the carved letters of her mother’s name, feeling the slight roughness where weather had begun to wear at the stone.
“You always said love should be like these roses.
Wild and free, growing where it chooses rather than where someone plants it.
And I want that, Mama. I want what you had with Papa, but—“
Her voice broke, the words dissolving into something that was half sob, half hope, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to keep the sound from escaping into the darkness around her.
A sharp crack echoed through the churchyard—a branch breaking under weight, unmistakable and close.
Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat, every muscle in her body going rigid.
She wasn’t alone.