11. In Which a Public Claim Is Made and Private Lines Are Crossed – The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane and Ashbourne House, L
IN WHICH A PUBLIC CLAIM IS MADE AND PRIVATE LINES ARE CROSSED
CHARLOTTE
THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE AND ASHBOURNE HOUSE, LONDON
Aunt Caroline's idea of an "intimate evening at the theatre" involved three family boxes, strategic seating across multiple levels, and what I was increasingly certain was a coordinated campaign to put me on display.
I sat in the Ashbourne box with Mama, Papa, and Eleanor. Below and to the left sat Aunt Mary and Uncle Matthew in the Thornbury box. Above us, Aunt Caroline and Uncle Alexander in the Waverly box.
And directly across from us, in perfect line of sight: the Penworth box.
With Lord Dunmore.
Waving.
"He's very enthusiastic," Eleanor observed, watching Dunmore gesture animatedly across the theatre.
"He is many things," I said through gritted teeth.
The play was Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, which felt both appropriate and cruel given my current situation. Beatrice and Benedick sparring their way toward love while I sat trapped in a theatre trying not to make eye contact with a man who collected snuffboxes.
Dunmore waved again. I pretended to study my programme with intense fascination.
"Charlotte." Mama's voice was gentle. "You don't have to wave back if you don't want to."
"If I don't wave, everyone will notice."
"Everyone has already noticed." Papa's voice was dry. "The Penworth box has excellent visibility. I suspect that's not accidental."
I looked at him sharply. "You think?—"
"I think Penworth and Caroline may have coordinated." Papa turned a page of his programme. "The question is whether you want to play along."
Did I?
I looked across the theatre. Dunmore was still waving, beaming like I was the most delightful thing he'd ever seen. Behind him, the Duke of Penworth sat with his wife, both looking pleased.
This was strategy. This was display. This was the family—my family—arranging me like a piece on a chessboard.
I'd done the same thing to all of them. Positioned them at balls, engineered encounters, and created perfect conditions for love to bloom.
The difference was: I'd been good at it.
The lights dimmed. The play began.
I tried to focus on Beatrice's wit, on Benedick's reluctant charm, on the comedy of people fighting what everyone else could see.
But I kept glancing across the theatre.
Not at Dunmore.
At the box two levels down, where Edward sat with Grandpapa and Grandmama Marguerite.
He wasn't watching the stage. He was watching me.
Our eyes met across the distance. Even from here, even in the dim light, I could see his expression.
He knew. He knew exactly what this evening was—a performance, a display, a public claiming.
And he looked furious.
The interval arrived like a reprieve.
The theatre erupted into movement—people standing, stretching, moving between boxes to visit friends. The pit below us filled with conversation.
"I'm going to stretch my legs," I said, standing.
"I'll come with you," Eleanor offered immediately.
My eleven-year-old sister, loyal to the end.
We'd just reached the corridor outside our box when Dunmore appeared.
He must have run. He was slightly out of breath, his cravat askew, holding an enormous nosegay of roses and lilies.
"Lady Charlotte!" He thrust the flowers at me with the enthusiasm of a man presenting a military trophy. "I hoped to catch you during the interval. I wanted to tell you—that is, I've been meaning to say?—"
People were watching. The corridor was full of theatregoers, all suddenly very interested in our conversation.
"Lord Dunmore." I took the nosegay because refusing would have been too obvious. "How kind."
"Not at all! Not at all." Dunmore's face was flushed with excitement, exertion, or both. "I am positively enchanted by your company this Season, Lady Charlotte. Absolutely enchanted. Every moment spent in your presence has been—well, I can hardly find words sufficient to?—"
He was doing it. Here. Now. In the theatre corridor, with half of London watching.
He was publicly, visibly claiming me.
My chest tightened. The nosegay was heavy in my arms. I could feel every eye in the corridor on us.
"You're too kind," I managed.
"Not at all! Father was just saying to the Duchess—that is, to your grandfather—that this Season has exceeded all our expectations. And I quite agree. Quite agree! The thought of continuing this acquaintance, of perhaps deepening our connection?—"
Someone cleared their throat behind Dunmore.
Edward.
He stood three feet away, his face carefully blank. But his eyes—his eyes were dark with something I couldn't name.
"Dunmore," Edward said pleasantly. "The Duke of Penworth was asking for you. Something about rejoining the box before the second act."
It was a lie. The Duke of Penworth was visible through the open door of his box, deep in conversation with another gentleman.
Dunmore didn't notice. "Oh! Of course. Must return. But Lady Charlotte—I do hope we might continue this conversation at a more opportune moment?"
"Of course," I said automatically.
Dunmore beamed, bowed, and hurried back toward his box.
Leaving me in the corridor holding an enormous nosegay, with Edward standing three feet away and every gossip in London watching.
"You're holding flowers," Edward observed.
"He brought them. During the interval."
"I saw."
"Everyone saw."
"Yes."
We stood there. The corridor was still full of people pretending not to stare while absolutely staring. Eleanor had diplomatically disappeared—probably back to our box.
"The second act starts in three minutes," Edward said.
"I know."
"You should return to your box."
"I know."
Neither of us moved.
Edward's jaw was tight. His hands were clenched at his sides. He looked like he wanted to say something—or hit something—or possibly both.
"Edward—"
"Not here." His voice was low. "Not with everyone watching."
He turned and walked away.
I returned to the Ashbourne box with my enormous nosegay and my churning stomach.
Mama took one look at my face and said nothing. Papa's expression was carefully neutral. Eleanor whispered, "Are you all right?" and I nodded because what else could I do?
The second act began.
I didn't see any of it.
All I could think about was Dunmore's public declaration. The weight of expectation. The way Edward had looked at me in the corridor—like he was watching something slip away and couldn't stop it.
The way I'd felt when Dunmore had called me "enchanting”, and all I could think was: wrong. Wrong person. Wrong words. Wrong everything.
By the time the play ended, I was ready to climb out of my own skin.
The carriage ride home was silent. Eleanor had fallen asleep against Mama's shoulder. Papa was reading correspondence by the lamplight.
Mama watched me with concerned eyes but said nothing.
We arrived at Ashbourne House just past eleven. Papa carried Eleanor upstairs. Mama started to follow, then paused.
"Charlotte. Are you?—"
"I'm fine, Mama. Just tired. It was a long evening."
Mama looked like she wanted to say more. Instead, she kissed my forehead and went upstairs.
Leaving me alone in the entrance hall with my ridiculous nosegay and my impossible thoughts.
I should go to bed. Should sleep. Should stop thinking about Edward's expression in the theatre corridor.
Instead, I went to the garden.
The Ashbourne House garden was smaller than the country estate’s, but carefully maintained—roses and lavender, a small fountain, gravel paths that wound between the plantings. It was dark except for the light from the house and a half-moon overhead.
I didn't expect anyone to be there.
But Edward stood by the fountain, his back to the house, staring at nothing.
He must have come directly from the theatre. He was still in evening dress, his coat dark against the moonlight.
He turned when he heard my footsteps on the gravel.
We stood there, ten feet apart, in the dark garden of my parents' house.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," Edward said.
"Neither should you."
"I'm not alone anymore."
“Neither am I.” I walked closer. Stopped just out of reach. "Why are you here?"
"I don't know."
"Edward—"
"You were holding flowers." His voice was rough. "Dunmore gave you flowers in front of half of London and declared himself enchanted, and you just stood there."
"What was I supposed to do?"
"Refuse him. Tell him no. Throw the damned flowers at his head."
"In the middle of the theatre corridor? With everyone watching?"
"Yes."
I laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. Do you want him?"
"No."
"Then tell him so."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because!" The word came out louder than I'd intended.
"Because Penworth is Grandpapa's close friend.
Because the families have been planning this for weeks.
Because if I refuse Dunmore now, after he's been so publicly attentive, I humiliate him and insult Penworth and disappoint everyone who's been working so hard to make this match. "
"What about what you want?"
"It doesn't matter what I want!"
"It's the only thing that matters!"
We were both breathing hard now. I'd moved closer without realising it. We were maybe five feet apart, close enough that I could see Edward's expression in the moonlight.
He looked wrecked.
"Charlotte." His voice was quieter now. "You don't owe anyone a marriage you don't want. Not Dunmore. Not Penworth. Not your family. You don't owe them your entire future because refusing would be awkward."
"It's not just awkward. It's—" I stopped. "I don't know how to stop this. The Season has momentum now. Everyone expects it. Every event, every conversation, every nosegay is another step toward an engagement I don't want but don't know how to refuse."
"So stop going."
"Stop going to events?"
"All of them. Tell your family you're done. Go to Ashbourne Park for the rest of the Season. Let Dunmore court someone else who actually wants to hear about snuffbox hinges."
I wanted to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to flee London, the Season, and Dunmore’s earnest declarations, and the weight of everyone's expectations.
But I couldn't.