Perhaps, that way, if their paths crossed again in the far away future, when he had a family of his own, he might regard her with the same affection as he once had before.
When Charity reached the servant’s exit door, for it would be a lot quieter and wouldn’t be locked, she pushed it open and crept down the stone steps. A light misty rain had started to fall but she didn’t care. She simply pulled her gloves sharply up her wrists and tucked her portmanteau under her arms with conviction.
She had set a course to walk to the nearest village, a route etched in her memory from the couple of times she visited its residents with Isobel. She planned to trace her path by the constant, reassuring presence of the fence bordering the road. Upon arriving, her intention was to seek assistance at the coaching inn, securing passage on a stagecoach that would carry her back to what was once considered home.
Suddenly, the snort of a horse reached her ears.
Charity paused, pivoting slightly in its vague direction. Why was there a horse on the drive at such an ungodly hour?
Then, cutting through the stillness, came the unmistakable sound of a carriage door swinging open.
“Come, let me help you,” offered a familiar voice, slicing through the tension.
From somewhere behind her came the growl of a hound.
CHAPTER 23
“Charity?” Seth called into the breakfast room. Stepping inside, he scanned the area, finding no sign of her presence. She was not sitting at her customary spot at the table. He inched toward it and found her cup barren and her plate pristine. She plainly hadn’t been down for breakfast yet.
With a grunt, he exited the room, then traversed the corridor, his steps leading him towards the staircase. It was there he spotted Isobel, the maid, gracefully maneuvering past with a bundle of linens in her arms.
“Isobel?” he called out.
She halted, turning to face him with a light curtsy.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Has Charity risen yet?” he inquired, a hint of concern threading through his words.
“I believe not, Your Grace. Lady Charity has not summoned me at all this morning.”
“Ah, thank you.” He walked on and moved down the corridor, determined to visit Charity in her chamber. The remnants of the previous night weighed heavily on him, the sharpness of his exchange with Luke still fresh. He hadn't afforded Charity the gentleness or understanding she deserved, and he was resolved to make amends for that. But beyond the apology that hung between them, there were deeper sentiments he yearned to express, truths that her morning absence made all the more urgent to convey.
Don’t pity me for the past, Charity. That is something I could not bear.
Through the years, Seth had grown weary of the staff regarding him with plaintive glances due to his…troubledpast, that the prospect of Charity looking upon him with similar pity was unbearable. He did not desire any pity from her—in fact, he would sooner leave his past behind if it might allow them a new beginning.
He had been listless for so long, drifting through the days like a phantom. But ever since Charity had come into his life, every morning gave him something to look forward to, something to do, someone to share in the day’s smallest moments. Whether it be enjoying breakfast together or simply basking in each other's company. And it did not do any harm that he cared for her and found her beautiful.
The very notion that she might consider herself a source of anything but joy to him now was deeply troubling.
“Charity?” he called and rapped lightly on the door. But silence greeted him. He recalled how she would always mention the struggles she faced while sleeping alone, so perhaps she was still in a very deep slumber after facing troubles the night before?
Gripping the doorknob, he found it unlocked and pushed open the heavy door. Stepping inside, his gaze darted immediately to the bed, only for his steps to falter.
It was empty. The covers were smooth and undisturbed, as if it had remained untouched the entire night.
Heart pounding, Seth strode into the room and circled the bed. There was no sign of Charity. The settee, the divan, even the floor—none bore any evidence of Charity's presence—it was as if she had never returned last night. His eyes then fell upon her vanity table, the noticeable absence of her toilette box sending a chill through him. He was on the verge of leaving the chamber and seeking out Bates for any clue of her whereabouts, when a glint of paper on the writing bureau caught his attention.
He hastened toward the bureau and snatched up the letter before seating himself before it. On the envelope was his name, the handwriting unsteady and written at a slant. He tore it open, scarcely spending any time in marveling at how Charity had managed to write a letter to him when she was blind. Inside, some of the lines and words had blurred together and overlapped, but he could make sense of the message.
My dearest Seth,
Please, do not loathe me for leaving. I understand now the weight of sorrow that burdens your heart, and I cannot bear to add to it. Every time you look upon me, I fear you see my father's sins, the pain they inflicted upon those you hold dear. How could I stay and be the cause of that misery? I care for you too deeply to subject you to such torment.
There is something I must confess. No matter your reasons for taking me from my home that night—whether it was at my pleading or for the sake of seeking justice for my father—I bear no grudges. I am grateful for the time we've shared, for knowing you as intimately as I do now. And for the freedom you offered me that no one else in my life had. I am only sorry that I cannot stay.
I pray that one day, Seth, you find peace from the ghosts of the past that haunt you. It only pains me to know that I cannot be the woman in the end who could help free you from them.
