I am the third child of the household, not in age but in priority. Aunt Judith looks to her own daughters before her niece, and I should not let it hurt.
But it always did when the snubs came.
“Six! Good grief, they will only wear one for the ball, won’t they? Why do they need six and at York prices, too!” Henry exploded.
Charlotte hurried by as Alice came down the stairs.
“Would you rather I went to Mrs. Ashworth of Huntingdon? Or perhaps a seamstress from Kettlewick?” Judith demanded.
Alice had her parents’ dark hair and her mother’s ice-blue eyes. At the words she heard, her face fell.
“Did she just say a seamstress from...” she swallowed, “Kettlewick? A village woman?”
She clutched at Charlotte’s arm, causing her cousin to drop the book she had been trying to read.
“Please tell me that I misheard. Mama!” Alice cried out without waiting for an answer from Charlotte.
Emmeline appeared from a room down the hall. She and Alice were as alike as twins, though Emmeline was eldest by two years. Both were plump with round faces and bold noses. Jean, the third sister, was the odd one out—both in appearance and the time she spent away from her family’s home in favor of her friend, Sally’s.
Emmeline scurried past Charlotte, stepping on her book in the process. Both sisters bustled towards the previously peaceful sitting room, ignoring Charlotte.
She picked up the book, smoothing out a page that had folded over when it had fallen. The conversation continued at full volume down the hallway, with Henry battling his wife and daughters over the cost of twelve dresses—eighteen if Judith included herself in the numbers.
Charlotte hurried past the staircase and around a corner, seeking the small hallway leading her to the kitchen and then out into the stable yard. It was the quickest way out of the house. As she reached the door, her eye was drawn to the portrait of her mother and father. She stopped dead, eyes going to the place beside the front door where they had previously had a pride of place.
“Mr. Bartleby had the picture moved yesterday,” came a coy voice from behind her.
Lucy Robins, Charlotte’s maid, had quietly descended the stairs, her arms full of Charlotte’s laundry. She had fair hair, tied back, and a petite, freckled face with sparkling green eyes. Her mouth,always ready to smile, was pursed in concern as she looked at her mistress.
“Oh, did he give a reason?” Charlotte asked.
“That such a prominent position should not be given to a lord and lady not of this household. His lordship, your father, was brother to Lord Stockton and should be displayed further into the house,” Lucy said, her tone making her own views clear.
Charlotte used her sleeve to wipe dust away from the portrait.
“It is not my house; I cannot expect to make rules. But it is a shame. I always liked seeing them whenever I came in or went out,” Charlotte said sadly.
Lucy leaned in and whispered. “I had planned to come down in the middle of the night and remove it to rehang it in your rooms. It would be a nice surprise for you, my lady, and one in the eye for Mr. Bartleby.”
Charlotte laughed, won over as she always was by Lucy’s irreverent nature.
“I would appreciate that, Lucy. Now, I must escape that frightful caterwauling. I do not wish to be reminded that I will attend the ball in old clothes.”
“But will be twice as beautiful as those two even if you attend in rags, my lady,” Lucy said loyally.
Charlotte opened the door and took a handful of sheets from Lucy’s arms against the maid’s protest. She preceded Lucy along the hallway beyond, stopping before the door of the laundry room. There, she handed them back, knowing that Mrs. Hannon, the housekeeper, would have apoplexy if she saw a lady of the household carrying laundry—even if that lady was Charlotte and barely recognized as such.
“I am going to find a quiet seat in the gardens to read this book you lent me,” Charlotte said.
“Very good, my lady. I will bring you out some tea,” Lucy nodded, “and I recommend page ten. Oh my, it made me blush. The hero is so like my Peter.”
“I shall pay close attention,” Charlotte giggled, “and I have not forgotten what month we are in. I have procured the day off for you in three weeks’ time.”
Lucy blushed and curtsied.
“You did not have to do that, my lady. But it is much appreciated. That day is always... difficult, even two years after the good Lord took him away.”
On impulse, Charlotte hugged Lucy, who blushed even brighter. Charlotte walked into the kitchen, greeting the staff brightly and breezily. Mrs. Hannon, bird-thin and iron-featured, responded with absolute courtesy while looking as though she were looking down her nose at Charlotte. The cook, Mrs. Garret, jolly androly-poly, pressed a hot bread roll into her hands and was reaching for a clay jug of milk when Charlotte held up her hands.
