Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Charlotte
Sweetwater Point
Charlotte refused to move on.
They traveled through the night and reached the settlement by midday. She cried the entire way until her voice left her altogether. Miles, exhausted from his recent transformation, slept in the cart. At some point, she rooted through the rucksack, hoping for something to eat. Instead, she found Draven’s journal, the one he had been so upset to discover her reading. The journal set off a new wave of tears because why would he give her this if he expected to survive? What kind of parting gift was that?
If their party appeared peculiar when they arrived in Sweetwater, no one remarked on it. Bedraggled and exhausted people must have wandered into the town on a daily basis. Their modest convoy was nothing of note.
“Does the gentleman require a doctor?” the landlady asked, watching as Luis helped Miles from the cart. He sagged against Luis. “I won’t have contagion in this house.”
“Anemia. Low blood iron, you know. Nothing a hot meal and good night’s sleep won’t fix,” Luis said, flashing a smile meant to charm.
And charm it did. The landlady softened, all her suspicion vanishing. “Travel is so difficult for those with a delicate constitution.”
“Did you hear that? You’re delicate,” Luis said in a whisper to Miles, followed by a playful jab with his elbow. Color flushed Miles’s face. Before being bitten by a beast, the man had been a blacksmith by trade. No one would have ever described Miles as delicate.
After a bath, Charlotte collapsed onto the iron-framed bed. The idea of sleep seemed insulting when Draven’s fate was unknown. The audacity of her body requiring such mundane necessities as sleep and sustenance when her heart was broken. After a few hours of sleep, she emerged from her room just as the sun set behind the mountains.
Charlotte carried a mug of tea and a sweet roll to the veranda. The landlady kept the boarding house heated to near tropical temperatures. It was far too warm for her.
Miles sat on the front steps. He too had bathed and was dressed in clean clothing. Dark circles hung under his eyes.
“Is the fit acceptable?” he asked when she joined him.
“I take it I have you to thank for these.” After her bath, her ruined garments had been removed, presumably destroyed, and she found a man’s banyan waiting for her. The worn fabric was comforting and the cut generous enough to belt it closed and keep her modesty.
“Luis thought you’d appreciate something clean to wear,” Miles said.
“That was very thoughtful of him. I’ll visit a modiste tomorrow.”
“I sincerely doubt there’s anything of the sort in town.”
“Well, it’s far too cold to go nude, so I’ll make do.” Her words came out harsher than she intended. “Forgive me. I’m not myself.”
They sat in silence, watching the sky darken. The mountains of the horizon drifted from shades of blue to a deep purple, and finally as the last of the light vanished, they blended into the night sky. The boarding house was on the western edge of town and had unobstructed views of the open prairie. The noise of the town seemed distant: horses snuffling in the stables, music and laughter from the saloon, and an argument.
At some point, she started crying again. Everything inside her hurt, ready to break. She leaned against Miles, his arm protectively over her shoulder, until the tears dried.
“Did you really tear apart Draven’s castle searching for me?” Miles eventually asked.
“Of course I did. You’re my friend.” Her voice was rough and her throat raw.
“I’m sorry you had to leave.”
“As am I.” And so much more. She understood Draven’s reasoning. Nothing short of a literal army on the doorstep would have compelled her to leave.
Their comfortable silence returned. He didn’t ask about Draven’s secrets, and she didn’t offer. She was still processing them in her mind, and they weren’t hers to share.
* * *
The next day, there was a thunderous explosion that rang across the prairie, followed by a column of dark smoke rising from the mountain.
Two days after that, news arrived that the army had seized the Aerie. Draven was gone. The army would never have been able to take the fortress while he still lived.
They left the next day, the news following them on the journey, appearing on every broadsheet and discussed in every village. Every time she heard his name, it picked at the wound, keeping it fresh and refusing to allow it to scab over. She was grim company, and she didn’t care.
* * *
Boxon
Vervain Hall
The days grew warmer. Green buds decorated the trees. Flowers emerged. Spring had arrived, and Charlotte decided that she would be a merry widow. She was done with mourning.
Since her return, she presented a reserved demeanor in public. Town gossip claimed she still grieved her first husband. Her trip, the exact nature of her journey forever a source of speculation, had been an unsuccessful distraction. She never corrected them, and she cared very little what people said about her. Merry widows simply did not have the time. They were far too busy spending their late husband’s fortune, having affairs, and causing scandals.
Charlotte was not interested in an affair, she only felt indifferent to causing a scandal, but she was very keen on squandering Lionel’s money. Hours and hours of thought and research went into it. Did she go the spiteful route and spend it on something he would despise? Shamefully, she did not know him well enough to say what causes would have offended him. Charities for orphans? Should she build schools? Feed the poor?
Every idea sat wrong with her. Giving Lionel’s money away out of spite was still placing Lionel at the center of her life. She was free of him. She wouldn’t let him ruin her merry widow era. Ultimately, Charlotte decided that the best way to feed her grudge would be to ignore Lionel altogether and do as she pleased. She had no doubt what Draven would have done. He’d have poured every cent into crushing his enemies and would have dedicated the next century to making it happen.
That got her thinking, not the crushing of her enemies part. Well, yes, but no. She now knew there was a second colony ship in a mountain valley. Wasting all of Lionel’s money on an expedition solely to vindicate her father had a certain appeal.
She did not have to make a decision right away. First, she worked to remove Lionel’s presence from Vervain. One could not be merry in a haunted house. Regret over her cowardice with Draven haunted her enough. She did not need to contend with Lionel’s ghost as well.
“You can’t. That’s an heirloom!” Lattice Parkell followed Charlotte through the great house, protesting every decision. The current item was a colonial-era pulse rifle. It was useless as a weapon but an interesting piece of history.
“It is not an heirloom. Lionel purchased it…when exactly?” Charlotte asked Solenne, who consulted the ledger.
Solenne made a production of dragging her finger down the page, muttering until she found it. “Here we are. Four years ago. There’s no price listed, so he may have stolen it,” she said, delight in her voice.
Charlotte turned to her former sister-in-law and current thorn in her side. “How interesting. Lionel kept such immaculate records. Shall we contact the previous owners to return the stolen property?”
“Lionel would never!” Lattice huffed.
She was done entertaining this woman. “I think neither of us is in a position to say what Lionel would or would not do. He kept a great many secrets.” Charlotte gestured to the two workers to remove the inoperable rifle and pack it in a crate while she recorded the item and its destination in her notebook. “To the museum.”
“You leave me no other choice but to write to my solicitor. I am most concerned with the management of Lionel’s legacy.”
“I thank you for handling the estate while I was gone. By all accounts, you were an excellent mistress,” Charlotte said in a pseudo-friendly tone. “However, if you contact your solicitor over a matter that is, frankly, not your concern, I will be forced to reconsider your allowance. Your decision.” She smiled, well aware that she showed too many teeth.
Lattice’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came. Giving a frustrated little scream, she stormed out of the room.
“Maybe fortune will favor us and she’ll leave for Founding,” Charlotte said.
Solenne regarded Charlotte with a concerned expression. “You’re different,” she said.
“Nonsense. I am painfully unchanged.”
“Before, you would have gone out of your way to maintain civility. Now you couldn’t even be bothered to pretend.”
“I kept my mouth shut once and I’ve regretted it every day since,” she said with all honesty. “Besides, I’m too tired to pretend.”
Solenne took the notebook and pencil from Charlotte and set them aside. “We’ll finish this another day.”
“Have I changed so much?”
“You’re you. That hasn’t changed.”
“Draven said I was his soulmate,” Charlotte said, nearly choking. It was the first time she spoke his name. “And it didn’t matter. I loved him and he sent me away, and now I’m here and he’s gone. I can’t…I can’t pretend to be the same. I’m not. I love him.”
She finally spoke the words out loud, and it was to the wrong person.
Solenne opened her arms. Charlotte sank into her friend’s embrace. Sobs racked her body. When they finally died down, Solenne said, “I don’t understand, but I want to. When you’re ready to tell me what happened on that mountain, please do so. I need to know who to stab.”
“That’s very kind, but you’ll find it difficult to stab the dead.” Charlotte wiped her face with the back of her hands. Another change. Before she’d have dabbed daintily with a kerchief, the starchy white kind, trimmed with lace.
Much later, the household retired for the evening. Charlotte found herself in the study. The room had been the first to be purged. Now it held her notebooks, pencils, and the equipment she needed to manage the estate. The open window let in the cool night air, the fresh aroma of damp earth and growing plants, and the night song of birds and insects.
Charlotte picked up a quill, sharpened the tip, and dipped it in ink. She’d been recording her memories before they faded and jumbled together. So far, she wrote down the inconsequential details. The pineapple had three pages dedicated to it, complete with her poorly drawn diagram.
She hadn’t written a word about Draven. She couldn’t, no matter how often she sat in this chair with a blank page. In part because his secrets weren’t hers to share but mostly because she couldn’t face it. Not yet. He sent her away with Radcliffe’s journal. That wasn’t a sentimental gesture. He knew she’d share its contents eventually. The discovery would make her name as a historian.
A scratching sounded at the window.
Charlotte set down the quill. Her skin pricked with the uncanny sensation of being watched. Was it one of the estate’s cats? They sometimes came begging for scraps and a chance to sleep by the fire.
A figure stood in the window.
His pale hair was shorn and his clothing rags, but Charlotte knew her soulmate in an instant.