Chapter 31 - Charlotte
Charlotte
She stood alone in Berkeley Square, the morning sun too bright against the ivory silk of her wedding gown.
The fabric gleamed with a perfection that made her skin prickle, each delicate bead catching the light in silent accusation.
Her family had already departed for the church—tradition demanded the bride arrive last, after all. Tradition demanded so many things.
The silence pressed in from all sides, broken only by the distant rumble of London waking. Somewhere, church bells were beginning their steady toll, each deep note striking through her ribs like a hammer, counting down the minutes she had left as simply Charlotte.
Mills stood beside the waiting carriage, his elderly hands steady on the polished door handle. He met her eyes briefly, and she saw the crease between his brows deepen, his gaze holding a quiet sorrow that made her throat tighten. Sympathy, perhaps. Or pity. She couldn’t tell which was worse.
Just a moment more.
She took a breath that didn’t fill her lungs properly.
The morning air tugged at her veil with gentle persistence, as if even the wind knew she was heading in the wrong direction.
Inside the church, London’s finest would already be assembled in their rows, whispering eagerly.
Her father would be checking his watch. Aunt Margaret would be orchestrating last-minute adjustments with military precision.
And Lord Penrose would be waiting at the altar, already victorious.
Everything was exactly as it should be. Everything was perfectly, terribly wrong.
“Miss?” Mills’s voice was gentle.
Charlotte nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The butler’s hand was warm through her glove as he helped her up the narrow steps, and she settled onto the seat, arranging her heavy skirts. A moment later Annie climbed in after her, settling across from her with hands folded in her lap.
The door closed behind them with a sound that made her flinch. Through the window, she watched her childhood home begin to recede as the carriage pulled away. Each hoofbeat carrying her closer to a new future.
Gone would be her precious hours in the library. Gone would be any freedom to speak her mind. Penrose had made it clear what he expected—the perfect society wife, beautiful and silent and obedient.
Her future stretched before her like an endless series of gilded cages, glittering ballrooms where she would smile and nod, lavish dining rooms where she would become exactly what he wanted her to be.
The carriage came to an unexpected stop.
Charlotte and Annie exchanged confused glances, but before either of them could lean forward to ask the reason for the delay, a folded paper appeared through the window.
“For you, miss,” the driver said quietly. “Found it mixed with the directions to the church this morning.”
Charlotte’s hands moved unsteadily as she took the letter.
Part of her registered Annie’s presence, the way she sat quietly across from her, but Charlotte found she didn’t mind. The silent witness felt almost like support.
Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the paper.
My dearest Charlotte,
I find myself unable to simply disappear without a word, though perhaps that would be kinder to us both. But I am, as you once observed, selfish in my desires where you are concerned.
By the time you read this, I will have left London. Lord Rutland dismissed me from his service, but even had he allowed me to stay, I would have chosen to leave. Every street corner holds a memory of you now, and I find I cannot remain where you are everywhere and nowhere all at once.
I wanted you to know that our conversations mattered more than I can properly express. You made me feel less alone in the world, and that is a gift I will carry with me always, wherever I go.
I wish I could offer you something more than words. But words are all I have, and even those feel insufficient.
Thank you for seeing me when the world taught you not to.
Yours, in this life and whatever comes after,
Stephen
P.S.: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”
You’ll play the part required of you, I know. Just don’t forget who you are when the curtain falls.
Charlotte looked up and found Annie watching her—not with the usual anxiety, but with something more direct. More honest. As if the distance between lady and maid had momentarily disappeared, leaving just two people in a carriage.
“Have you ever…” Charlotte stopped, started again. “Have you ever wanted something so badly that the thought of not having it felt impossible to bear?”
Annie’s eyes widened slightly, the question clearly unexpected, crossing boundaries that normally existed between them. For a moment Charlotte thought she wouldn’t answer, that the gulf between them was too wide to bridge. But then Annie nodded, her voice soft. “Yes, miss.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t have a choice, miss. My circumstances…” She trailed off, but her gaze flicked to the letter in Charlotte’s hands. “But you do. Don’t you?”
The quiet understanding in Annie’s voice made Charlotte realize how little she knew about the woman sitting across from her. What Annie had wanted. What she’d given up. She wished she’d asked before now, before this moment when everything was about to change.
“If I did this,” Charlotte said slowly, “if I made this choice… everyone would say I was ruined. That I’d destroyed my family’s name. That I was selfish and foolish and—“
“Would you regret it more than marrying Lord Penrose?” Annie interrupted, then seemed to realize what she’d done. “Forgive me, miss, I shouldn’t have—“
“No.” Charlotte shook her head. “You’re right to ask.” She looked down at Stephen’s letter again, at the words reminding her she was playing a part. That somewhere beneath Lady Penrose, Charlotte Fairmont still existed. “I would regret marrying Penrose every day for the rest of my life.”
“Then maybe,” Annie said quietly, “that’s your answer, miss.”
Through the window, she could see the reason for their stop—an overturned cart blocking the narrow passage, its contents scattered across the cobblestones. The driver had climbed down to investigate, and every moment she sat here was another moment lost.
“The man who wrote this,” Charlotte said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He might already be gone.”
“He might be.” Annie’s said, gently. “But if there’s a chance he’s not, don’t you want to know?”
Charlotte looked down at the letter, then back at Annie. The answer was simple, really. Yes. She wanted to know. Needed to know.
She gathered the heavy folds of her gown and met Annie’s eyes with a small, determined smile. “Thank you, Annie.”
Annie smiled back, tears shining in her eyes. “Go, miss. Don’t waste another second.”
Charlotte pushed open the carriage door and ran.
The cobblestones were uneven beneath her wedding slippers. Her veil snagged almost immediately, catching on her shoes and nearly sending her sprawling. She yanked it from her hair without breaking stride, let it fall to the street as she ran, her curls tumbling free around her shoulders.
London’s streets blurred around her—elegant townhouses giving way to smaller buildings, then stretches of open road as the city began to thin into countryside.
Her lungs burned with each gasping breath, the ivory silk dragging at her legs and making every step twice the effort it should be.
The cool morning air did nothing to stop sweat from dampening her temples, strands of hair coming loose to stick to her face.
She didn’t know how far she’d run, had no sense of distance anymore.
Past startled pedestrians who stopped to stare.
Past carriages whose drivers called out in concern.
She ignored them all, her vision narrowing to the road ahead, her entire world reduced to the desperate need to reach him before it was too late.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. A stitch burned in her side, sharp and insistent. But there—finally—rising before her like salvation, the Rutland estate.
Charlotte’s legs nearly gave out with relief. She forced herself forward, stumbling slightly as she caught sight of a maid exiting through the servants’ entrance. The woman disappeared down the path, and the door began its slow swing shut.
She gathered what remained of her strength and ran faster, her slippers sliding on loose gravel as the door continued its inevitable arc. Four feet away. Two. Her fingers caught the rough wooden edge just before it could latch, and she wrenched it back open.
The servants’ quarters were eerily quiet, everyone either at their duties or away.
Charlotte’s feet made hardly a sound on the narrow stairs as she climbed, her heart pounding with each step.
She’d thrown away everything to be here, but standing here, dress rumpled and stained from the streets, she didn’t regret it. Couldn’t regret it.
The attic corridor stretched before her, lined with identical doors. Charlotte hesitated, suddenly realizing she had no idea which room might be his.
She had just reached for the first handle when a voice stopped her.
“Miss Fairmont.”
Charlotte spun, nearly losing her balance in the voluminous skirts. Her heart lurched into her throat.
The Rutland butler stood at the top of the stairs.
She recognized him immediately from the ball, his stern features and dignified bearing unmistakable even in this dim corridor.
His gaze swept over her wedding gown, her disheveled hair, her flushed face.
She waited for the condemnation, for the demand to explain herself.
But his expression remained unreadable.
“Third door on the right, miss,” he said softly.
Then he turned and disappeared back down the stairs before she could respond, his footsteps fading into silence.
Charlotte stood frozen, her mind struggling to make sense of what had just happened. He was helping her. Why would he—