2. In which a favour is called in and a wake is held #2
But that morning had been the funeral.
She wasn’t sure how she had endured it. Any of it.
The leaving of the house, the carriage ride to the church, everyone staring at her.
The worst part had been seeing his portrait on the cover of the Order of Service.
She thought she had acknowledged his passing.
Thought that part, at least, was over. But seeing his smiling face, a face that now only existed on paper…
She thumbed the edge of that paper still, though she was back in the sitting room, hemmed in by her mother, father and the Montagues. At least Marjorie was by her side. She dug her fingers into her soft fur.
Guests for the wake were filling the house. Ladies in black dresses perched on the green settees, and sunlight shone through the large windows overlooking the street and the front lawns. The brightness jarred with the dark clothing, with her dark countenance. Surely it should have been raining.
“Just dreadful,” her mother said, voice raised, already on her second glass of wine. Charlotte blew a sharp breath through her nose. She was in no mood for her mother’s brand of sympathy.
“I thought he had years left, poor chap,” Lord Montague said, swirling whiskey around his glass, the ice clinking.
“It must be an awful shock, dear Charlotte. Whatever will you do without him?” Lady Montague simpered, her grey hair tied back in a smooth bun, her mourning dress spotless.
She laid her hand on her husband’s arm, in an unsympathetic move.
Yes, she still had her husband, still had an arm to cling to.
“It really is—” Charlotte began.
“I heard it was his heart. Was it his heart, dear?” Lady Montague asked.
Even now, they wouldn’t let her finish her sentences. She exchanged a glance with her father, who gave her a sad, understanding smile. With her mother around, he never got a word in either. She tried again, “The doctor—"
“Such a shame, such a pity, our deepest condolences,” Lord Montague said.
There was a roaring in her ears, but Charlotte shrank, fiddling with the lace at the edge of her black dress, heat rising to her cheeks. It was best to let it go. What did it matter, really?
“Charlotte will come and stay with us, won’t you, dear?” Charlotte’s mother crooned. “You can’t be in this big house all alone.”
Charlotte stared at her mother. What was she talking about? “No,” she whispered, before she could stop the word spilling from her mouth.
Charlotte’s father said, “Florence, really, she just wants—”
“Nonsense, you’ll come and stay with us.
I’ll arrange for your things to be sent over.
Where is your housekeeper? I’ll see to everything.
” Her mother bustled off to find Alma before Charlotte could prevent it.
Colour rose to her cheeks and she cursed inwardly.
She had no intention of moving to her parents’ house.
She was twenty-five, not some child who needed coddling.
Charlotte excused herself and stepped through the crowds.
Where had her mother got to? The room was abuzz with noise, and too many eyes lingered on her.
The men from the expeditions were arriving now, more simply dressed than the lords and ladies, their faces carrying more sadness.
Men who had known Ernest so very well. Charlotte met their eyes, while avoiding those of the aristocracy.
There was a tapping at her shoulder, and she turned to find Alma, grey-haired and rosy-cheeked, with hands on her ample hips. “Your mother says you’re to move back to Highfield House. Tell me she’s mistaken, mistress?”
“Oh, Alma. Don’t let her—I wish to stay here.”
“Right you are, mistress. Leave it with me.” Alma rolled up her sleeves.
Charlotte sighed, her shoulders dropping. Thank goodness Alma was strong-willed enough for both of them.
Alma studied Charlotte’s face. “Forgive me, mistress, but you don’t look well. Would you like to take some air?”
Charlotte could have hugged her. “I would like that very much.”
She followed her housekeeper out of the stifling sitting room and into the drawing room over the hall.
Alma threw open the double doors that led out onto the patio and the gardens.
The air was mild, and Charlotte breathed it in, the smell of the cut grass a balm to her fraying nerves.
She lowered herself onto the bench that perched before the manicured grass, Marjorie settling by her side.
Alma set her hands on the back of the bench and shook her head.
“I’ve worked for this family for forty-six years.
Ernest would have hated such a dismal party, hated for you to feel as sorry as this.
He had a good life, full of adventure—a life to be proud of.
There were two instances when he’d talk and there’d be a spark in his eyes—when he spoke of the South Pole, and when he spoke of you.
He was ever so fond of you, mistress. Take heart in that. ”
“I did love hearing his tales of the South,” Charlotte said.
She had spent many an hour curled up in the armchair by the fire listening to stories of Ernie’s expeditions, hardly daring to breathe at some parts of the tales.
Since his passing, she had spent hours reading through his journals.
And while lost in his words, and in her memories, Charlotte had begun to dream of a different life.
A life where she could escape the rigid confines of society and travel where the winds took her.
“If only I could see it for myself. The way he described it, I almost thought I could see it.”
“He had a canny knack for that, indeed. May I be so forward as to mention something, mistress?”
Charlotte’s stomach clenched. She knew what Alma would say. “Of course.”
“You cannot let your anxieties get the better of you. He’s not here to protect you now, or to speak your needs to the likes of your mother. You need to be bolder.”
She tried not to let her face crumple. It was an easy thing for Alma to say. Not so easily done, however. That night, the one that haunted her, reared its ugly head once more, and Charlotte shrank into herself. “I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about being bold.”
“Now, mistress,” Alma said, patting her shoulder. “I remember Ernest when he was just a young man, about the same age you are now. He wasn’t so confident back then, but he learnt it alright—he came back from that first expedition a changed man.”
Charlotte stared out at the white stone fountain, the idea of voyaging herself suddenly seeming foolish. It had been different for Ernie. The world was different for men, who could go off adventuring whenever they pleased. It was not so for women. Not so for her.
“I’ll surely never be as bold as he,” she said, voice breaking, hands twisting in her lap.