“But there might be, someday?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”
“Well, then, Charlotte. You have a choice to make. I am proposing marriage now, today. I am asking you to be my wife and Edmund’s mother.”
She looked at him.
“I suppose that last bit is quite ironic, since you have always been his mother.”
“No. That was Katherine’s privilege, in every way that counts.
To Edmund, in any case.”
“Yes. About that. I’m afraid I would have to ask you to keep the true nature of your relationship with Edmund a secret.”
The statement felt like a blade between her ribs, but of course he was right.
“I am not saying we cannevertell him, but ... out of loyalty to Katherine’s memory and sensitivity to Edmund’s reputation and feelings ...”
“Of course. I understand completely. I won’t pretend it is not a painful mandate, but you know I want whatever is best for Edmund.”
“Yes, I do know that. You have proven that over and over again.
If only Bea could see—”
“Bea?”
“Yes. She, too, has taken quite an interest in Edmund. Though I am not convinced her motives are purely maternal.”
“I take it she would not be pleased to know that you are here.”
“You are quite right. She does not know I am here, but she does know ... about us.”
“She does?”
“Yes. I was quite tired of hearing her disparaging remarks about you, and the slanderous suppositions about the ill-bred scoundrel that must have ruined you. I confessedIwas that man. Scoundrel, perhaps, but ill-bred on no account.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Is that why you are here? Did she refuse you?”
“Bea refuse me? I asked nothing of her. It is you I am asking, Charlotte. You.”
“Did you did tell her ... everything?”
“I did not tell her about Edmund, for obvious reasons. She still believes your child passed on.”
She touched his arm. “When it was your own son who died—yours and Katherine’s—it must have been difficult for you, having to grieve in secret. Alone.”
He nodded. “You know a great deal about that.” He grasped her elbows. “Let us put an end to it, Charlotte. Let us neither one be alone anymore.”
She looked up into the long-held-dear face of Charles Harris.
He was still so very handsome. And he was, finally, offering his name, his protection. Perhaps even his love. She realized he hadn’t mentioned that. But what did she expect? Outpourings of romance and devotion when his wife was not long in her grave?
She knew he cared for her on some level. He always had. And oh! to be near Edmund. Her own son. To be his mother, whether he knew it or not.
