Chapter Nineteen #2
So momentarily lost in her musings was she that Charlotte missed the coach taking an unexpected turn.
They were no longer heading south, but east, with the flow of traffic.
When she realised the mistake, she knocked on the roof of the coach to draw the driver’s attention to their intended direction.
He, however, did not stop the carriage or even look down through the window beneath his seat, and Charlotte felt a moment of unease.
Surely the driver knew where she was going?
She had mentioned nothing when she had come down the front steps in the name of discretion, of course.
Is that not how these things were done? A lady surely could not be expected to shout the direction of her paramour up to the coachman from the walkway of a bustling residential street.
Although Charlotte would not know how these things were done, this being her first and only true liaison.
Already, she was reasonably sure she could never do what she had done with Benjamin last night—and in the garden—with another man.
It would only ever be a game of comparison. A losing game.
But of course, that was the nature of all things—transient.
She squared her shoulders. Life was long.
Who knew what it had in store for Charlotte Aston?
One thing she was sure of was that she would no longer let others hold the reins.
She raised her fist again to knock on the roof—this time harder—she would be let out of this wayward carriage at once and make her own way to Benjamin’s home.
Before she could knock, the door flew open, and a footman unfolded the stairs, silently offering his hand to help her alight.
Stunned by the seeming preternatural power of her own thoughts, Charlotte gawked at him for a moment, fist still aloft.
Realising the relative crush of people gathered behind the footman on the torch-lit steps of the marble building, she quickly composed herself and accepted his assistance out of the carriage.
There were men and women flocked around the entrance in the height of evening finery, waving fans and leaning around others to get a glimpse inside the palatial establishment.
When a woman passing by gave her an assessing side-eye, Charlotte remembered the seasons-old evening gown she had donned before leaving the house.
It was not one of her finest pieces, but it had a high neckline that covered the puckered scar at her shoulder, and she had reasoned—rather smugly to herself—that she did not intend to keep it on very long.
Now, however, she felt acutely aware of the gown’s deficiencies.
The silver satin had worn over the years and faded to a rather dingy grey.
The cloak she wore over it was not much of an improvement either; she, having selected the worsted wool travelling cloak for its concealing hood and protection against the early spring chill, now looked precisely like a chilled traveller rather than a lady on the town.
“Right this way, my lady.”
She started at the footman’s voice. His thick East End accent was punctuated by the telltale crack of boyish adolescence.
Taking a closer look at his face, she realised he could not be older than fourteen.
Still, he comported himself properly as he gently led the way to a side street much less crowded with bustling theatre goers.
Catching a breath at the realisation that she and her lacking wardrobe would not, in fact, be subjected to more scrutiny, Charlotte followed the young footman to a door set in the side of the large, unfamiliar building.
The man at the door waved them in without a second look, and she followed the footman down a vaulted marble hall, the echoes of chatter filtering in from an adjoining hall around the corner.
As she gazed around at the towering Corinthian columns and gilded frescoes, she noted they were in an opera house.
This one must be new, though. She had never visited it before.
Still, how could she not have even heard of it?
Until now, the obscurity of the mire she was caught up in had never felt so substantial.
She knew more about the market schedule in Covent Garden than she did about even the most notable events in Mayfair.
“Here, my lady.” The young footman gestured to a door she had not noticed until he opened it, so well set it was between the elaborate wainscoting.
She looked at the door and then back at him, about to question her destination once again.
Charlotte thought of the resolution she had made just moments ago.
Here she was, being led blindly into the unknown by a man.
She should turn around and march right back out, picking her own direction.
Her curiosity, however, got the better of her.
The young footman gestured again but did not meet her eyes, demonstrating that he could not provide further information.
Sparing him one more sceptical look, she stepped inside, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light of the room after leaving the hall full of brightly lit, glittering chandeliers and crystal sconces.
“Oh, there you are, my lady!” Charlotte drew her head back in surprise. What was Lizzy doing here?
“How is your shoulder faring, my lady? And your health? Are you well?” The girl was not pausing long enough between questions for Charlotte to answer her, and she had to raise her hand just to get Lizzy to take a breath.
“I am very well, thank you, Lizzy. And I thought I asked you to call me Charlotte?” With the direction her life had taken, the honorific felt hypocritical. She was no different from any other working woman.
“Yes, of course, my l—” Lizzy corrected herself, “Charlotte. I am ever so glad you are doing well.”
Before she could get started again—Charlotte had learned that it was best to interrupt Lizzy’s monologues before they began—she looked around the room and asked the obvious question, “Where are we, Lizzy? And why are you here, not that I am not glad to see you,” she added, worried the question could have seemed terribly rude and high in the instep.
“Oh, of course!” Lizzy’s face brightened as if she had wholly forgotten their surroundings. “Follow me, my la-Charlotte.” She turned and pulled aside a curtain that led to yet another concealed door and a flight of stairs.
“Why all the secrecy? This is an opera house, is it not? I do not think it needs quite so many smugglers’ tunnels.”
“I’d say many gentlemen of the ton have a need for much more secrecy than the average smuggler.” Lizzy winked over her shoulder, the candle she held aloft casting shifting shadows on her face that lent the small winding staircase an extra layer of Gothic intrigue.
At the top of the stairs, Lizzy led them into a small chamber filled with racks of clothes. Large hats sat stacked atop the racks, and prop swords and pistols hung along the wall, interspersed with Shepard's crooks and dainty parasols.
“Just here.” Lizzy reached up to a rack on the far side of the room.
“Are you going to dress me in a costume? I do feel much improved, but I fear no amount of improvement would prepare me to take to the stage.” Charlotte was not sure whether she should be amused or alarmed. Forget about the unknowns of the future; what in the world was in store for her tonight?
“No…” Lizzy drew the word out evasively until she turned and saw Charlotte’s raised eyebrows, “Well, not exactly.” With a flourish, she turned, a length of shimmering gold fabric draped over her arms.
“Oh my.” Charlotte touched her fingers to her lips.
“It is not a costume, not technically. This is a gown made for a fine lady, and you really are the finest lady of my acquaintance.”
Charlotte looked up and smirked at Lizzy. “High praise indeed, Miss Lizzy. Thank you.” She reached out and touched the fabric, watching in wonder as it slipped through her fingers like water. “It really is extraordinary.”
“Come now, we can’t spend all night ogling over a bundle of fabric in my arms. It will be extraordinary once we get you in it.”
Charlotte felt the urge to protest. She had worn nothing this nice, not even when her mother and father were alive.
Now, looking at the decadent material, Charlotte could not help but tally all the things she could pay for with the price of this single frock—not least of them being that Lizzy could get her little brother out of the workhouse and sent to school.
Despite Charlotte’s hesitation, Lizzy had already discarded her cloak and unfastened the first row of buttons down the back of her bodice.
She remembered the effort it had taken to button them herself and despaired at the seemingly useless pain she had put herself through, contorting this way and that to fasten them all.
“Step out.” Lizzy passed her another slip of fabric and turned to properly hang Charlotte’s cloak and gown.
When she looked down, what she thought was a gauzy wrap was actually an impossibly thin silk chemise. The fabric was so cool and feather-light on her skin, she almost blushed at its caress, then did blush when she thought of the man who most assuredly purchased it for her.
Tamping down her flush, she pulled her sturdy cotton chemise over her head and quickly donned the new one. A standing mirror peeked from behind a rack of clothes, and Charlotte caught a glimpse of her reflection and tried, for Lizzy’s sake, not to look completely scandalised.
The undergarments left nothing to the imagination.
The silk clung indecently to her curves and was practically translucent.
In one glance, she could see the faint V of hair at the apex of her thighs, only a few shades darker than the hair on her head, as well as the pink shadow of her nipples.
She could not bring herself to look Lizzy in the eye as she helped her step into the gold-shimmering gown itself.