Charlotte’s fingers tightened briefly before she stilled them. She had expected as much. Expectations were safer than hope.
“Thank you.”
The housekeeper opened a door and stepped aside.
Inside was a modest chamber—clean, orderly, and plainly furnished. Two narrow beds stood against opposite walls, their quilts folded with almost military precision.
A small washstand stood beneath the window, which overlooked the rear gardens. Frost clung stubbornly to the bare earth below, the remnants of last night’s snow lingering in shaded corners where sunlight had not yet reached.
The room was spare, but not unkind.
Charlotte’s trunk stood neatly at the foot of the nearer bed. Her cloak had been hung carefully on a peg. Her shoes aligned beneath the bed as though someone had taken pains not merely to place them, but to make the space ready.
A young woman stood near the far bed, smoothing a linen sheet with deliberate attention. She looked up at once, startled, and set it aside as though caught at something she feared she had done incorrectly.
“This is Clara Bennet,” Mrs. Channing said. “She assists with several of the inner rooms.”
Clara dipped into a quick, nervous curtsy. “Miss Fenton.”
“You will be sharing,” Mrs. Channing added.
Charlotte turned fully toward her and offered a gentle smile. “I am glad of the company.”
Clara’s eyes widened slightly, as though the sentiment surprised her.
“If you require anything,” Mrs. Channing said, her gaze sharp and appraising, “you may ask Miss Bennet.”
“Yes, Mrs. Channing.”
The housekeeper lingered a moment longer, her attention flicking between the two women as though committing the arrangement—and Charlotte herself—to memory. Satisfied, she inclined her head once and left, closing the door behind her with a firm, final click.
The sound echoed.
Clara let out a breath she had clearly been holding. “She can be … particular,” she said quietly.
“I gathered as much,” Charlotte replied, a hint of humor softening her tone.
Clara relaxed at once, her shoulders lowering. “If you need anything, truly—anything—you may ask me.”
Charlotte hesitated, then nodded. “I would like to write a letter, if possible. To assure my cousin that I arrived safely. Might there be paper and ink to spare?”
“Of course,” Clara said immediately. “I’ll fetch them.”
Left alone, Charlotte crossed to the window and rested her fingertips against the cold glass. The light had shifted as the afternoon slipped into early dusk. The gardens lay hushed and dormant, their edges blurred by frost and shadow.
Behind her reflection in the glass, the house loomed—tall, somber, watchful.
Edward Thornton intruded upon her thoughts again, unbidden.
It was not merely his severity that unsettled her, she realized, but the restraint beneath it. She had known men who wore their authority loudly, who filled rooms with their presence through noise and command.
Edward did not.
His power lay in stillness—in the way he held himself as though every movement were deliberate, every word weighed before release. It was a kind of control she did not entirely trust.
When Clara returned with the writing materials, Charlotte thanked her and set to work at once.
Dearest Beatrice,
