Clara absorbed this quietly. “That is no small thing.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed. “It isn’t.”
She stared at the darkened window, watching her reflection blur against the glass. “It felt strange,” she admitted. “To be understood without explanation. To know I was not the only one carrying something heavy.”
Clara considered her for a moment. “His grace is a good man,” she said at last. “For all his reserve.”
“You knew his wife?” Charlotte asked.
“Only just,” Clara replied. “I came to the house not long before she fell ill. But everyone spoke of her. She was beautiful, they said. Gentle. Very devoted to Julian.”
“And the duke?” Charlotte prompted.
“He changed,” Clara said simply. “Closed himself off. Became very still. As though feeling anything might cost him more than he could afford.”
Charlotte’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the garden. To the sketchbook. To the softness she had glimpsed when he believed himself alone. To the unsettling possibility that she had witnessed something no one else had.
“I’ve noticed him outside more often lately,” Clara went on. “Drawing. Sitting where he might be seen if one were looking.”
Charlotte’s heart gave a traitorous little lift.
Had she done that? Had her presence—her interference—loosened something long held in check?
She tamped the thought down at once.
“That means nothing,” she said firmly. “He is entitled to his habits.”
Clara smiled faintly but did not argue.
Charlotte pressed on, as though she might outrun the thought if she spoke quickly enough. “I know it was improper. Being alone like that. At night.”
“And yet,” Clara said gently.
“And yet,” Charlotte echoed, quieter now, “I did not regret it.”
The admission lingered between them.
“I do not imagine anything foolish,” Charlotte added at once. “I am not given to such illusions. But I think—perhaps—we may understand one another better now. And that can only benefit Julian.”
Clara’s mouth curved. “You sound very convincing.”
Charlotte huffed softly. “I must be.”
Clara shifted, suddenly animated. “Speaking of understanding—there is something I should tell you.”
Charlotte looked up. “What is it?”
Clara hesitated, then smiled in a way that was equal parts pleased and uncertain. “The other day when I was outside cleaning the steps … I was singing.”
Charlotte’s expression softened. “You always do.”
“Well,” Clara said, cheeks warming, “one of the gentlemen stopped to listen.”
Charlotte frowned slightly. “Which gentleman?”
“Lord Christopher.”
Charlotte’s breath caught.
