“I must.”
Charlotte straightened slowly, though her limbs felt unsteady. Beneath the ache, resolve began to form.
If she remained, the story would grow teeth. It would sharpen itself around Edward’s position and Julian’s future. It would not stop at her.
If she left, it might shrink. It might become what society preferred—a foolish governess dismissed quietly from a noble household.
“She will be forgotten in a month,” they would say. “Merely an overreaching girl who misjudged her place.”
But if she stayed, it would become a feud. A spectacle. A question of whether a duke had compromised himself for a woman beneath his rank.
She could not allow that.
“I will return to Beatrice,” Charlotte said, her voice steadier now. “From there, I can look into William’s dealings without dragging Ashford further into this.”
“And Edward?” Clara asked quietly.
Charlotte closed her eyes briefly.
“He deserves peace.”
“And you?”
A faint, broken smile touched her lips. “I no longer expect it.”
Clara stepped to the wardrobe without another word. “Then I will help you pack,” she said, fierce even in her sorrow. “Though I despise this.”
Charlotte rose on trembling legs.
They worked quickly. There was little to gather. A handful of dresses. Her books. The small personal items she had carried from place to place since her parents’ death.
When she reached for the drawing Edward had given her—herself and Julian at the pianoforte—she paused. Her fingers traced the faint lines of charcoal before she folded it carefully and placed it inside her case.
When the trunk was nearly closed, Clara turned to her again. “Tell him,” she urged. “At least give him the choice.”
“If he asks me to stay,” Charlotte said softly, “I will not have the strength to refuse.”
That was the truth she dared not test.
She crossed to the small writing desk and began her letters.
To Julian first.
My dearest boy,
You once told me you would stay beside me in case I vanished. I am sorry to prove your fear correct. Know that leaving you is the hardest choice I have ever made…
She told him he was brave. That he must continue playing the pianoforte. That his mother would be proud of the kindness heshowed others. That he must trust his father, who loved him beyond measure.
Tears fell freely now, staining the paper.
Then she began Edward’s letter.
She hesitated over the first line.
Your Grace—
The words felt too distant.
