Charlotte gasped, more in surprise than pain, blinking as water dripped from her lashes. The boy’s laughter rang out again, bright and reckless, before he bolted down the corridor and disappeared around the corner.
Charlotte stood frozen, damp and breathless.
Mrs. Channing sighed, long-suffering. “Julian,” she said flatly. “The duke’s son.”
Charlotte wiped her cheek with the edge of her sleeve, heart still racing. Slowly, she began to smile—not because the moment was amusing, but because something in it felt achingly familiar.
Grief rarely behaved itself.
“I see,” she murmured.
Mrs. Channing studied her closely now, as though waiting for outrage, for offense, for resignation. Charlotte offered none of it.
“The duke,” Mrs. Channing continued after a moment, “keeps to his study. He dines alone. He does not entertain. The household is expected to maintain quiet and order at all times.”
Her gaze sharpened. “His grace does not care for disruption.”
Charlotte straightened, damp skirts clinging uncomfortably. “Neither do I,” she repeated gently. “But children are not quiet creatures.”
That earned her a look—cool, calculating.
“The duke’s wishes,” Mrs. Channing said, “are not open to debate.”
They resumed walking.
As they climbed the stairs, Charlotte felt the weight of the house pressing down around her—the unspoken rules, the silences, the grief that seemed to hum in the walls. She understood now why the governesses had not stayed.
This was not simply a difficult child. It was a wounded household.
They stopped before a small door near the upper landing.
“This room has been prepared for you for the night,” Mrs. Channing said. “Your permanent arrangements will be made tomorrow.”
Charlotte nodded. “Thank you.”
“You will dine here this evening,” Mrs. Channing added. “And remain within the house.”
“Yes, Mrs. Channing.”
As the housekeeper turned away, she paused. “You would do well to remember, Miss Fenton,” she said, “that this house runs around his grace’s silences.”
Charlotte watched her go, the words settling heavily in her chest.
Left alone, she stepped into the small, neat room. The bed was narrow but clean. A single chair stood beside a modest table. The window overlooked the gardens—bare now, sleeping beneath frost.
Charlotte set her bag down and crossed to the glass.
Outside, the fog thickened, curling around the grounds as if the world itself were holding its breath.
She did the same.
Whatever awaited her here—whatever man she had glimpsed watching from above—she would face it.
There was nothing left to lose.
***
Sleep refused her.
