20. In Which a Gentleman Makes His Own Plan – Ashford House, London
IN WHICH A GENTLEMAN MAKES HIS OWN PLAN
EDWARD
ASHFORD HOUSE, LONDON
Ispent three days after speaking with Juliet trying to figure out how to prove something I couldn't name.
That I loved Charlotte. Not because I needed to rescue her. But because she was Charlotte.
How did you prove that? How did you show someone—show everyone—that love was more than need?
I didn't have an answer.
So I did what I always did when I was lost.
I went to Father.
I found him in the library at Ashford House. He looked up when I entered. Took one look at my face and set his book down.
"Sit," he said.
I sat.
"Lucas wants me to prove it's not just about rescue," I said without preamble. "That I love Charlotte for who she is, not what she does for me. And I don't know how."
Father was quiet for a moment. "What have you tried?"
"Thinking. Cataloguing. Listing every reason I love her that has nothing to do with rescue." I ran my hands through my hair. "But that's just words, Father. Lucas doesn't want words. He wants proof. Evidence. And I don't know what that looks like."
"Then show him."
"How?"
"By doing what you just said. Show Lucas—and Charlotte—all the reasons you love her that have nothing to do with rescue. Not by telling them. By showing them."
I stared at Father. "That's not helpful."
"Isn't it?" Father leaned back in his chair. "Edward, you've been rescuing Charlotte for three months. Every event. Every interaction. You've shown her—and everyone else—that you're someone who saves her from difficult situations. Now you need to show her something different."
"What?"
"That you see her. Really see her. Not as someone who needs saving but as Charlotte. Complicated, brilliant, stubborn Charlotte who has interests and passions and a whole life beyond Dunmore and the Season."
I thought about that. About Charlotte.
What did I know about her beyond the Season? Beyond the matchmaking and the notebook and the rescues?
She read. I knew that. We'd talked about books in the library at Ashford Hall.
She loved her family. Fiercely. Even when they drove her mad.
She had opinions about everything. Strong opinions. About politics and art and whether tea should be served with milk first or last.
She was funny. Not intentionally—she didn't try to be amusing. But she had a dry wit that caught people off guard.
She collected things. Small things. Shells from the seaside. Pressed flowers. Bits of ribbon.
She hated embroidery. Found it tedious. Preferred reading to needlework.
She played pianoforte. Not well—she was the first to admit it. But she played anyway because the music made her happy.
I knew these things. Had learned them in stolen conversations and quiet moments.
But had I ever shown Charlotte that I knew them? That I saw these parts of her?
"No," I admitted. "I've been so focused on rescuing her that I haven't—I haven't shown her I see anything else."
"Then start now."
"How?"
Father smiled. "Edward, you've spent three months learning Charlotte. Learning what makes her laugh. What frustrates her. What she cares about. Now use that knowledge. Show her you've been paying attention to who she is, not just what she needs."
I sat with that. Turned it over in my mind.
Show Charlotte, I saw her. Show Lucas, I loved her for who she was.
Not by rescuing. By seeing. By knowing. By proving I'd been paying attention all along.
"I need to make a plan," I said.
"You do. And Edward—" Father's voice was serious. "Don't make this about grand gestures. Make it about small truths. The things only someone who really knows Charlotte would know. That's what will prove it's real."
I nodded. Stood. "Thank you."
"Edward," Father called as I reached the door. "One more thing."
"What?"
"Ask yourself why you love her. Not what she does for you. Not how she makes you feel. But who she is. What makes her Charlotte? And when you can answer that—really answer it—you'll know how to prove it."
I went to my room.
Sat at my desk with paper and pen.
And started writing.
What do I love about Charlotte?
Not what she does for me. Not the rescue. Who she is.
I wrote:
I love that she's relentlessly honest. She doesn't perform. Doesn't pretend. When she thinks something is ridiculous, she says so. When she's frustrated, she shows it.
I love that she sees patterns no one else sees. She can look at a room full of people and know immediately who's interested in whom, who's pretending, who's hiding something.
I love that she's been matchmaking for five years and still gets surprised when people fall in love. Like she's orchestrated a dozen matches but can't quite believe it works.
I love that she collects small things. Shells and flowers and bits of ribbon. Things that matter to her for reasons she can't always explain.
I love that she hates embroidery. Stabs the fabric like it personally offended her. But does it anyway because her mother asked.
I love that she plays pianoforte badly and doesn't care. That she'd rather play imperfectly than not play at all.
I love that she's funny without meaning to be. She makes observations that catch people off guard and then looks surprised when they laugh.
I love that she has opinions about everything. Tea, politics, art, and whether roses should be arranged by colour or height.
I love that she's been managing our family for twelve years and still gets flustered when they thank her.
I love that she keeps a notebook. That she writes everything down. That she trusts paper more than memory.
I love that she's stubborn. Impossibly stubborn. Once she decides something, she doesn't waver.
I love that she rode forty miles in her brother’s clothing to tell me she loved me. Not because she needed rescue. Because she wanted me to know.
I stopped writing. Looked at the list.
None of it was about rescue. None of it was about what Charlotte did for me.
It was about who she was.
And I'd been so focused on saving her that I'd forgotten to show her I saw all of this.
I turned to a fresh page.
Wrote: Plan to Prove It's Real
Then stopped. Thought. Remembered Father's words about small truths.
What could I do that would prove I knew Charlotte? That would show her—and Lucas—that I'd been paying attention to who she was, not just what she needed?
The answer came slowly.
I could give her something. Not a gift—gifts were easy, impersonal. Something that proved I'd been listening. That I knew what mattered to her.
I could take her somewhere. Not to rescue her from an event. Somewhere she wanted to go. Somewhere that had nothing to do with the Season or Dunmore or obligation.
I could tell her what I saw. Not what she did for me. Who she was. All the things I loved that had nothing to do with rescue.
I could let her rescue me. Stop being the one who saved and let her save something. Give her the chance to be needed the way she'd made me feel needed.
I started writing a plan. Specific. Detailed. The way Charlotte would plan.
Step One: Find something Charlotte wants. Not something I think she should want. Something she actually wants. And give it to her without her asking.
I thought about our conversations. About the library at Ashford Hall. About the books we'd discussed.
Charlotte had mentioned a collection of essays. Political essays. Written by a woman under a male pseudonym. She'd been trying to find a copy for months, but they were rare and expensive.
I could find it. Could track down a copy and give it to her.
Not because she needed it. Because she wanted it. Because I'd remembered.
Step Two: Take her somewhere that matters to her. Not to me. To her.
Charlotte had mentioned once—casually, in passing—that she'd never been to the British Museum. That she wanted to see the Elgin Marbles, but the Season had been too busy.
I could take her there. Not as a rescue from an event. As a deliberate choice. To show her I'd remembered something small she'd said weeks ago.
Step Three: Tell her who she is. All the things I love that have nothing to do with rescue.
This was the hardest one. The most vulnerable. But also the most important.
I needed to tell Charlotte what I saw. Needed to say aloud all the things I'd written on that list. Needed to prove I knew her. Really knew her.
Step Four: Let her rescue me from something.
This was the one that terrified me. Because letting Charlotte rescue me meant being vulnerable. Meant admitting I needed help. Meant trusting her to see me at my worst and not decide I was a burden.
But it was also the most important. Because if I couldn't let her rescue me—if I could only ever be the rescuer—then Juliet was right. This was about need. About me needing to be needed.
So I had to let Charlotte save me from something. Had to give her the chance to be the strong one.
But what? What could Charlotte rescue me from?
I thought about it. About my weaknesses. My fears.
The guilt about my mother. But Charlotte had already helped with that.
The belief that I was a burden. But that was too big. Too tangled with everything else.
Then I remembered. Something small. Specific.
I'd mentioned once that I hated social calls. The tedium of them. The performance. The way everyone expected me to be charming, and I never knew what to say.
And Charlotte had laughed. Had said she'd teach me how to manage them. How to deflect, redirect, and escape without being rude.
I'd never taken her up on it. Had just endured social calls the way I always had.
But what if I did? What if I asked Charlotte to teach me? To rescue me from my own social incompetence?
It was small. Almost silly. But it would prove something important.
That I trusted her to help me. That I saw her competence as valuable. That I could be vulnerable with her.
I wrote it down.
Step Four: Ask Charlotte to teach me how to manage social calls. Let her rescue me from my own awkwardness.
I looked at the plan. It was specific. Concrete. The kind of thing I could actually do.
But was it enough? Would this prove to Lucas—and to Charlotte—that I loved her for who she was?
I didn't know.