Chapter 40
By eleven o’clock, Charlotte Tolliver had packed for ruin.
This was not a particularly extensive undertaking, for ruin required only a dark travelling dress, a warm cloak, a small purse of coins, one pistol, two books, three folded chemises, and a willingness to disappoint everyone who had ever loved her.
Lottie had dressed herself without Millie’s assistance.
This had taken rather longer than expected and had resulted in one badly fastened hook at the back of her gown, but there were moments in a woman’s life when she must not summon her maid, and fleeing the country with an unmarried gentleman after a fatal hunting accident seemed very much among them.
She stood now in the middle of her bedchamber and stared at the little valise upon the counterpane, counting down the minutes until Jasper’s arrival at midnight. Three sheets of paper lay crumpled in the hearth, accusing her.
Dear Mama had been impossible.
Dear Papa worse.
Dear Mari had become wet at the edges before she had written more than two lines.
In the end she had written nothing, which was cowardly, selfish, and perhaps the only course that did not require her to split her heart neatly in two. They would come to understand her choice in time.
Midnight approached, and Jasper would come soon. At the thought, something wild and bright stirred in her chest. America! Or the devil’s own doorstep, with rooms sent ahead. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, not quite smiling.
“No cages,” she whispered.
The words had scarcely left her mouth when the scream came. It was a howl that tore through the house with such force that Lottie’s blood seemed to stop.
For one horrible instant, she thought she was back in the wood. Marchmont falling, and that high, dreadful cry following him down.
But she knew that voice—it was her mother’s. Lottie was moving before thought returned. She flung open her door.
Another cry came from the chamber opposite, followed by a heavy thud, then Lady Tolliver’s voice, cracked beyond all dignity. “Help! Oh God, help me!”
Lottie struck the opposite door with both hands. “Mama! Mama, open the door!”
Other doors began to open with guests peering out in concern. Servants came hurrying from the back stairs, caps askew, coats thrown over nightshirts. Morleigh appeared in the hall with a candle in hand.
“Mama,” Lottie said, and struck the door once more. “Mama!”
At last, there was a fumbling scrape of the key turning, and Lady Tolliver opened the door. Her cap had slipped sideways and her face was bloodless. “He fell,” she wailed. “Your father—he said there was pain, and then he fell.”