The following afternoon, Charlotte found herself restless again—not with nerves this time, but with energy that refused to settle.
Julian’s toys lay scattered across the garden where the snow had begun to melt into damp patches of earth, wooden soldiers tipped on their sides, hoops abandoned near the hedges.
It seemed a small enough task, and one she welcomed—something ordinary, practical, and grounding.
“Clara,” she said gently, finding the maid folding linens with her usual care, “would you mind helping me gather some of Julian’s things from the garden?”
Clara brightened at once. “Of course, miss.”
They collected baskets and headed toward the stairs, Charlotte leading the way, her thoughts mercifully occupied with lists, plans, and the quiet satisfaction of usefulness.
They had just reached the turn of the stairwell when voices drifted up from below.
Edward’s voice—low, controlled.
Another beside it, lighter. Unfamiliar.
Charlotte’s steps faltered.
Christopher Barrow appeared first, ascending two steps at a time, his expression animated as he spoke. Edward followed a pace behind, listening with that intent stillness Charlotte was beginning to recognize.
Clara froze.
Not metaphorically.
Entirely.
Her foot caught on the edge of the step as she stared, wide-eyed, breathless—and for one terrible second, Charlotte was certain she was about to tumble headlong down the stairs.
“Careful,” Christopher said quickly.
His hand shot out, steady and sure, catching Clara by the arm and drawing her back upright before she could so much as gasp.
Clara flushed scarlet.
“Oh—I—thank you, My Lord,” she stammered.
Christopher smiled—a warm, unapologetic thing that seemed practiced and effortless all at once. “You’re quite welcome. Falling down staircases is rarely advisable.”
Charlotte felt heat creep into her cheeks, a strange mix of embarrassment and something sharper she couldn’t immediately name.
Edward had stopped. His gaze lifted—and found hers. The moment stretched.
It was not the charged intensity of the library, nor the measured coolness of the nursery. It was something more awkward, more human. Caught-off-guard awareness. An unspoken acknowledgment of too many unfinished thoughts.
Charlotte dropped her eyes first.
“I—pardon us,” she said quickly, stepping aside. “We were just—”
“Of course,” Edward replied, his voice clipped, almost too formal.
Christopher released Clara’s arm, though not without a final, teasing glance. “Do take care, Miss Bennet.”
Clara nodded mutely, incapable of speech.
Edward inclined his head to Charlotte. “Miss Fenton.”
“Your Grace,” she replied, equally stiff.
