“You’re wanted above stairs.”
“Is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid ... quite upset.”
“I see. I shall be up directly.”
He shut the door and looked back at Charlotte. “I’m wanted elsewhere, Miss Lamb—excuse me, Miss Smith.”
Charlotte lowered herself from the table.
“Gibbs will alert you to our next appointment.”
She nodded.
“Good day,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Good day,” she answered, but he was already gone.
The poor collect milkweed down and with it fill their beds,
especially their children’s, instead of feathers.
—PETERKALM,1772
CHAPTER4
Charlotte read the letter in the garden, which, mess though it was, offered her a bit of privacy—something sorely lacking within the manor itself. Gibbs had handed it to her with a simple, “Letter, miss.” And while Charlotte should have been pleased to receive it, especially because the fine, feminine handwriting was clearly her aunt’s, she trembled as she carefully peeled it open. Somehow she knew it bore ill tidings. What else could she expect at present? Surely her father hadn’t forgiven her, asking through Aunt Tilney for Charlotte to come home. She knew this, and still her hands trembled as she read.
My dear niece,
It is with deep sadness that I write to you today. Your father has asked that I sever all connection with you, something I am loathe to do. You know I hold you in the highest esteem and dearest affection, positions unaffected by recent revelations. I hope you will in time learn to forgive your father. He has always held the good opinion of others too dearly, as you well know, and I fear this has laid him very low.
There is some small hope, I believe, that your sister may secure the affection of a certain gentleman, whom you well know, before news reaches the ears of those who would compel him to withdraw any connection with your family. Your sister, especially, longs to conceal the unhappy truth as long as possible.
It pains me to write so plainly, but there it is. Your father bids me to beseech you to confine yourself away from the public eye, and to conceal your identity until an engagement is secure. It is too much to hope this could extend past a longed-for wedding date, but all put every confidence that the gentleman’s long association with your sister might withstand, nay, even overshadow, other less happy events.
Do not give up hope, my dear. There is goodness in your father, and I will fervently pray that he will soften toward you in time. For now, I have little choice but to abide his edict. Perhaps if your dear uncle stood with me, but alas, he feels it is not our place to come between father and child. You know he would do all he could to assist you were he only allowed to do so.
Still, I cannot rest without at least offering this olive branch. Likely you have been too upset to think too far into the future, but I am plagued with worry over your situation. I offer you this—while not grand nor fashionable, it will at least assure a roof and bed and food to eat once your time in London is at an end.
As you may recall, I have in Crawley an elderly aunt. You can well imagine how old she is if I, your aunt, describe her thusly. Still, she lives in a snug cottage a short distance from the village proper on Crawley’s High Street. I have not seen her these many months, but at Michaelmas she was in good health and spirits. I have every confidence she would welcome you and that the two of you would get on well together. I daresay she would be quite happy for some companionship. Her own grown son lives in Manchester and, as I understand, rarely visits. I shall write her directly and introduce you.
If some impediment to this arrangement arises, I shall find some way to let you know. Otherwise, my dear, this must be my last letter, at least for the foreseeable future. My heart aches to think of it. Rest assured, you shall never be far from my thoughts or prayers.
Your Loving Aunt
Charlotte wiped at the tears with her free hand, then quickly refolded the letter and tucked it into her dress pocket. She strode back inside the manor and into the workroom, determinedly putting on a cheerful face.
“What is that you’re working on, Becky?” she asked, sitting beside the young girl at a fabric-strewn table.
“’Tis a swaddling blanket, mum.”
She eyed the square of coarse cotton. “How nice. Will you have it done in time, do you think?”
“Oh! ’Tisn’t for my own babe. Least I don’t think ’tis.”
“Oh?”
