Mr. Halcombe did not pretend to misunderstand.
“No,” he said, too quickly. “There has been no letter. Nor any reply to correspondence made on your behalf.”
William had once filled her days with letters—clever notes folded just so, promises written in a confident hand. He had spoken of their future with ease, as though it were already assured. He had taken her on walks, introduced her proudly, and assured her parents of his intentions.
He had not written once since the accident.
Not a word of condolence. Not a single inquiry.
Her throat burned.
“I see,” she said, though the room felt suddenly very far away.
The solicitor gathered his papers, the scrape of parchment against wood jarringly loud. “I will return tomorrow to oversee arrangements,” he said, rising. “If you have questions, Miss Westbrook, you may direct them to my office.”
He bowed, polite and distant, and took his leave.
The door closed with a soft, final click.
The silence left behind was immense.
Charlotte remained where she was, staring at the empty chair across the desk.
The familiar objects around her—the brass inkwell, the framed miniature of her parents on their wedding day—no longer felt like anchors. They were already relics. Already belonging to someone else.
Her chest ached as though something vital had been removed.
Beatrice moved closer, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Oh, Lottie,” she murmured. “I am so sorry.”
Charlotte swallowed. “It seems I am ruined,” she said, the words sounding strange in her mouth. As though they belonged to someone else.
Beatrice shook her head fiercely. “No. No, you are not. This is not the end.”
Charlotte almost laughed. She had lost her parents, her home, her future—all within a single week. If this was not an ending, she did not know what was.
That night, long after the house had fallen quiet, they sat together by candlelight in Charlotte’s bedchamber. The trunksstood open at the foot of the bed, half-filled with dresses she no longer knew where to take.
“There is something,” Beatrice said cautiously, as though testing the weight of the words before setting them down. “A position.” Beatrice had always been the one to speak first when the world tilted—when Charlotte hesitated, when her courage wavered.
Charlotte looked up from the book she had been pretending to read. “A position?”
“My husband heard of it through one of his acquaintances,” Beatrice continued. “Ashford Manor. In the country. The housekeeper is seeking a governess.”
Charlotte frowned. “A governess? But I have never—”
“I know,” Beatrice said gently. “But you are educated. You are capable. And the family is … particular. They require discretion.”
It had been Beatrice who insisted Charlotte continue her studies long after such diligence was deemed unnecessary. Who had lent her books and declared—with unshakable certainty—that a woman’s mind was never wasted.
Charlotte closed the book. “Who?”
“The Duke of Averleigh,” Beatrice said.
The name carried weight. Distance. Cold respectability.
“He is a widower,” Beatrice went on. “Reclusive. His son is said to be difficult. They have dismissed several governesses already.”
Charlotte’s stomach twisted. “You make it sound most inviting.”
