Chapter 23 - Charlotte
Charlotte
Charlotte eased her bedroom door open, holding her breath as she peered into the corridor.
Empty darkness stretched in both directions, no glow of candlelight seeping from beneath any of the closed doors lining the hallway.
Her aunt’s chamber sat a few doors down with its door firmly closed, no sound or movement suggesting Margaret might still be awake.
She’d retired hours earlier complaining of a headache, and Charlotte had never been more grateful for her aunt’s occasional ailments.
She stepped into the corridor and eased her door shut, the click of the latch unnaturally loud in the silence.
The servants’ stairwell opened before her, narrow and steep. Charlotte gripped the rough plaster and started down, the darkness thickening around her until she was moving blind. Her hand traced the wall, her feet found each step by feel—the path familiar enough now that she didn’t need to see it.
Her heart beat frantically as she reached the bottom step, anticipation and nervousness tangling together in her chest because soon she would see him again.
Light flooded the kitchen in a brilliant burst that made Charlotte freeze.
Her aunt sat at the scarred wooden table with a single candle burning before her, still fully dressed in the same dark gown she’d worn to dinner. Waiting.
Damn it.
“Going somewhere, Charlotte?”
Charlotte’s throat tightened. She forced a deep breath and met her aunt’s gaze. “I needed some air.”
“Air.” The chair scraped against the floor as Margaret stood.
“How often you’ve needed air lately. Disappearing at balls, slipping away during gatherings.
The maids have mentioned it too, you know.
How they find your dresses ruined in the morning.
Mud on the hems, grass stains that take hours to scrub out. ”
Heat crept up Charlotte’s neck. She hadn’t thought about the maids, about the evidence she’d been leaving behind.
“It’s not what you think—“
“Isn’t it?” Her aunt’s voice turned cold. “You’ve been compromised, haven’t you? That’s why you’re so desperate to avoid Lord Penrose. Because you’ve already given yourself to someone else.”
“No!” Charlotte’s hands shook. “I haven’t—it’s not—it’s about Lord Penrose. He’s blackmailing Papa.”
The kitchen went quiet except for the soft hiss of the candle flame, and Charlotte watched her aunt’s face for any sign that the words had landed, searching for some flicker of understanding.
Margaret went perfectly still, her face unreadable, the stillness stretching long enough that Charlotte began to think perhaps she’d actually broken through.
Then her aunt laughed, the sound completely without humor.
“Blackmail,” she said, as though the word tasted ridiculous on her tongue. “Lord Penrose.”
The small spark of hope that had flared in Charlotte’s chest died instantly.
“Yes,” Charlotte said, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “He has documents that could destroy us. I heard him speak about them and I’ve been trying to get them back before he can use them against Papa, before he can—“
“Stop.” A hand lifted between them. “Just stop, Charlotte. Do you hear yourself?”
“I’m telling you the truth—“
“You’re telling me a fantasy.” She slowly shook her head, something like pity crossing her face.
“Lord Penrose is a respected gentleman, charming and considerate and impeccably connected. He’s shown nothing but patience with this family despite your father’s failures, despite our financial disasters that would have sent any other suitor running.
And you expect me to believe he’s engaged in blackmail? ”
“Because he is!” Tears burned at Charlotte’s throat. “Why would I make this up?”
“Because you’re desperate.” Margaret moved closer, the candlelight throwing harsh shadows across her face.
“You’ve always had your mother’s imagination, always had your head filled with those novels she indulged you in.
All those dramatic conspiracies and tragic heroines.
But this?” She gestured at Charlotte. “Inventing elaborate schemes about the one man who could save us, all to justify avoiding your duty to this family? It’s beneath you. ”
“I’m not inventing anything!”
“Then prove it.” The words came out quiet, dangerous. “Show me these supposed documents. Tell me where they are, how you know about them, why you’re the only one who’s discovered this terrible secret.”
“I overheard him,” Charlotte said desperately. “At the Bellamy garden party, I heard Lord Penrose speaking with Viscount Blackwood about documents he’s holding over Papa. I heard every word.”
“You were eavesdropping on a private conversation.”
“He said he had leverage! That he could force the marriage by threatening to—“
“Enough!” Her aunt’s voice rang out sharply across the kitchen. “I don’t know what you think you heard, but whatever it was, you’ve twisted it beyond all recognition. Men discuss business constantly. Documents, leverage, negotiations. These are normal words in normal conversations.”
“But the way he said it, the context was clear.”
“The way you interpreted it, you mean.” Disgust flickered across Margaret’s face. “But this supposed conversation you overheard happened weeks ago. So what have you been doing since then? All these midnight wanderings, all these ruined dresses? Where were you going tonight?”
Charlotte’s mouth opened, then closed. Anything she said now would only damn her further.
“Your silence is answer enough.” Margaret straightened, her voice going cold and final. “Whatever man you’ve been meeting, he’s gotten what he wanted and he’ll abandon you the moment this becomes public. Go to your room, Charlotte. Now.”
“No. Please—“
“Now.” The command in her voice left no room for argument. “And you will stay there until you’ve come to your senses about what’s truly at stake here.”
Charlotte’s legs felt like lead as she climbed the stairs, her aunt following close behind with the candle. Each step took her higher, away from the kitchen, away from any possibility of escape tonight.
When they reached her room, Charlotte stepped inside without being told, turning to try once more. “Please—“
The door swung shut and metal scraped against metal as the lock turned with terrible finality.
Charlotte grabbed the handle and twisted hard, but it didn’t budge. “This is ridiculous!” She pounded her fist against the wood. “You can’t just lock me in my room!”
The footsteps continued down the corridor without pause, ignoring her.
“What if I need the bathroom? What if there’s a fire?” Her voice rose despite herself, desperation creeping into the words. “This is absurd!”
The footsteps stopped, but not at her door—another door opened down the hall instead, the sound of it carrying clearly through the quiet house.
Charlotte pressed her ear against the wood, holding her breath.
“Annie, I need you to keep watch on Charlotte.” The words were calm, matter-of-fact, as though discussing tomorrow’s dinner. “She’s not to leave the house, not to go anywhere without your accompaniment. Not tomorrow, not next week, not until she’s safely married to Lord Penrose. Do you understand?”
Silence stretched for a moment before Annie’s voice came through the door, confused but obedient. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I’ll unlock her door in the morning.”
“You can’t do this!” Charlotte slammed her palm against the wood again, harder this time, the impact sending pain shooting up her arm. “Let me out!”
More footsteps echoed away, doors clicked shut in the distance, and quiet descended over the house until Charlotte could hear nothing but her own ragged breathing.
She stood with her forehead pressed against the wood, her breath coming in quick shallow gasps while panic threatened to overwhelm her completely. Trapped—she was truly trapped—with no way to reach Mr. Fletcher and explain her absence, no way to stop Lord Penrose from destroying everything.
No. She forced herself to breathe more slowly, to push past the fear clouding her thoughts. There had to be a way out. There was always a way out if she could just think clearly.
The window. Charlotte crossed the room quickly and leaned out into the cold night air, her hands gripping the sill while she stared down at the drop below.
Three stories to the cobblestones, the distance far too great to risk even if she knotted her sheets together like some desperate heroine in a novel.
What if she could pick the lock? She’d watched Mr. Fletcher do it at Penrose Hall, had seen him work with nothing but two hair pins and steady hands, making it look almost effortless. Perhaps with enough patience and concentration, she could replicate what he’d done.
Charlotte pulled the pins from her hair, letting the whole mass tumble down around her shoulders in a dark cascade as she moved back to the door and dropped to her knees beside it.
The pin slid into the keyhole and she tried to reproduce the angle she’d observed, the way his wrists had turned, but when she twisted carefully there was…
nothing. No click, no give, just unyielding resistance.
She applied more pressure, causing the metal to bend.
“Please,” she breathed at the lock.
The pin snapped cleanly in half.
Charlotte grabbed another and inserted it more carefully, trying to feel for the mechanism inside, but her fingers cramped from the awkward angle and sweat dampened her forehead despite the cold.
This pin bent uselessly. The next slipped from her grip and skittered across the floorboards into darkness.
Growing desperate, she shoved another pin into the lock with force instead of finesse, twisting hard as though strength might succeed where patience had failed. It scraped against metal without catching, without accomplishing anything except proving how useless her attempts were.