Chapter 8 - Charlotte
Charlotte
“Straighten your posture, Charlotte.” Aunt Margaret’s fan snapped open with a sharp crack. “You’re slouching like a fishwife.”
“I’m perfectly straight, Aunt.” Charlotte kept her gaze fixed on the passing countryside, watching hedgerows blur into green streaks.
“You’re perfectly distracted.” Her aunt’s impatience rang clearly in every syllable.
“Lord Penrose is showing you his home, his estate, his future. And yours, if you’d stop being so difficult about it.
” The fan fluttered in agitation. “Do you have any idea how many young ladies would trade places with you in an instant?”
Let them. Charlotte bit back the retort and let the silence stretch between them.
The invitation to Penrose Hall had arrived two days ago, elegantly worded and impossible to refuse.
Lady Jersey herself had mentioned how “beneficial” it would be for Charlotte to become familiar with what “could be” in her future.
The phrasing had been deliberate, just ambiguous enough to avoid outright presumption while making the expectation perfectly clear.
“I expect you to be gracious,” Aunt Margaret continued, settling deeper into her seat as though preparing for a lengthy lecture.
“Smile when appropriate, express genuine interest in whatever he shows you: his library, his horses, his collection of medieval armor for all I care.” She paused, her focus sharp on Charlotte’s profile.
“And for heaven’s sake, no disappearing acts like at the Bellamy garden party. ”
Charlotte managed a small nod in response.
“Charlotte!”
She turned at the sharp command.
“Yes, I understand.” Charlotte met her aunt’s eyes, willing her voice to remain steady.
Aunt Margaret studied her face for a long moment, then settled back with a tight nod. “Good. Now straighten your—“
The carriage slowed, wheels crunching over gravel.
Through the window, honey-colored stone rose between ancient oaks, the afternoon sun catching on countless windows.
Charlotte had glimpsed Penrose Hall from a distance before—the Bellamy estate lay close enough that the house was visible across the fields on clear days.
But she’d never imagined the true scale of it.
Three stories of perfect symmetry stretched in both directions from a columned entrance, the facade seeming to go on forever.
Wings extended from the main house like outstretched arms, each one larger than her family’s entire townhouse.
“Oh my,” Aunt Margaret breathed, pressing her gloved hand to her chest. “It’s even more magnificent than I’d thought.”
Charlotte said nothing. The house was impressive, certainly. Grand in the way monuments were grand, designed to inspire awe rather than comfort. But looking at all that cold perfection, those endless corridors and cavernous rooms, she felt something closer to dread.
Their townhouse in Berkeley Square might be modest by comparison, its wallpaper faded and carpets worn, but she knew every creaking floorboard, every sun-warmed window seat.
She knew which rooms still held the smell her mother’s favorite roses, which corner of the library caught the best afternoon light.
This place, with its massive wings and countless windows staring blankly, looked like somewhere a person could disappear entirely and never be found. Somewhere you could call for help and your voice would simply echo away into nothing.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the main entrance, where a small army of servants stood at attention. Lord Penrose himself descended the marble steps, perfectly groomed in elegant gray, not a hair out of place.
He reached for Charlotte’s hand as the footman opened the carriage door, steadying her as she stepped down onto the gravel drive. His grip was firm, and his thumb brushed against her wrist before he finally released her to assist Aunt Margaret.
“Miss Fairmont, Mrs. Claydon.” He executed a perfect bow once they were both standing before him. “Welcome to Penrose Hall. I do hope the journey wasn’t too taxing?”
“Not at all, my lord.” Charlotte managed what she hoped passed for a genuine smile. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine.” He studied her face for a moment, as if confirming she met whatever standard he’d set, before turning his attention to Aunt Margaret.
“Though I’m afraid I must make a rather inconsiderate request. My mother arrived from Bath just this morning and is most eager to make your acquaintance.
She’s taking tea in the east drawing room.
” He let the invitation hang in the air for just a moment, giving Aunt Margaret time to feel flattered before he continued.
“I was rather hoping you might join her while I show Miss Fairmont the estate? Naturally, we’ll have proper attendance to ensure everything remains entirely appropriate.
” He gestured to a young footman standing nearby, who stepped forward with a small bow.
“Well…” Aunt Margaret’s gaze darted between them, the invitation to meet Lady Penrose clearly tempting her. “If you’re comfortable, my dear?”
This was Charlotte’s chance. Without Aunt Margaret scrutinizing her every expression, she could focus on what mattered: memorizing the layout, identifying where the documents might be kept. She couldn’t let the opportunity slip away
“Perfectly comfortable,” she said finally, her throat tight.
“Excellent.” Penrose’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “Mrs. Claydon, Davies here will escort you to my mother.”
An elderly butler materialized from the assembled servants. Aunt Margaret cast one last meaningful look at Charlotte, a silent reminder to mind her manners, before allowing herself to be led toward a side entrance.
Charlotte watched her aunt disappear through the doorway, the last thread of familiar support severing as the door closed behind her.
“Shall we?” Penrose offered his arm.
She took a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and accepted. His hand settled over hers with deliberate pressure, warm even through the layers of gloves, as he guided her toward the massive oak doors. The footman fell into step several paces behind them.
The entrance hall opened before her in all its imposing grandeur.
The space soared three stories overhead, sunlight streaming through an enormous cupola onto marble floors polished to a mirror shine.
Grecian columns supported arched doorways leading to shadowed corridors, while a grand staircase curved upward in elegant sweeps.
Oil paintings in gilt frames covered every wall—stern ancestors, pastoral landscapes, classical scenes frozen in paint.
Every surface gleamed. Every corner was immaculate.
“The house has been in my family for six generations,” Penrose said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
“My great-great-grandfather purchased it from the Duke of Norfolk in 1652. Each generation has added improvements, of course.” He gestured broadly, encompassing the space around them.
“The east wing was completed by my grandfather, the conservatory by my father.”
Charlotte tilted her head back, taking in the painted ceiling— classical scenes, cherubs and clouds rendered in soft colors that seemed to glow in the filtered sunlight. “It’s very impressive.”
The words came without thought, and she realized with some surprise that they were true.
Her gaze fell from the ceiling to find his expression had softened into something almost genuine. Pride, she realized. Real pride in this place, in his family’s history. It was the most human she’d ever seen him look.
“The ballroom can accommodate two hundred guests comfortably. The library contains over five thousand volumes, many of them quite rare. And the gardens…” He paused, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. “Well, you’ll see those shortly. My mother has made them her life’s work.”
He began walking, and Charlotte had no choice but to follow, her footsteps echoing against the marble.
They moved through a succession of rooms, each grander than the one before.
An enormous harp dominated the music room, standing near windows that overlooked the grounds, while a pianoforte stood nearby, its keys undisturbed beneath a fine coat of dust. The dining hall came next, its table stretching the length of the room, enough space for thirty guests, perhaps more.
Penrose narrated their progress, occasionally pausing to point out some particularly valuable painting or piece of furniture.
“The chandelier above is French, pre-Revolution. Each crystal was hand-cut in Paris. My father acquired it at auction for…” He named a sum that made Charlotte’s stomach clench.
She made appropriate sounds of admiration while her mind worked frantically, cataloging everything she saw.
The corridors branched off in multiple directions from each room.
Servants moved through the spaces, appearing and disappearing through doors she barely noticed.
The house was a maze, vast and complex, and she was already losing track of how they’d gotten here from the entrance hall.
“And here,” Penrose said, stopping before a set of double doors, “is the library I mentioned.”
He pushed them open with a flourish, and despite everything—despite her fear and her desperate scheming— Charlotte’s breath caught.
The library stretched up three full stories, a cathedral dedicated to the written word.
Spiraling staircases of dark polished wood twisted like ribbons, connecting floor after floor of books that stretched toward the ceiling.
Gilt balconies wrapped around each level, their railings carved with such intricate detail they looked like frozen lace.
The scent of leather and paper and beeswax wrapped around her, familiar and comforting in a way nothing else in this house had been.