Edward’s chest tightened.
They set out shortly thereafter, the Penningtons leading the way, Victoria and the boys close behind. Edward found himself lingering near Charlotte despite his best intentions, drawn by concern he could neither voice nor dismiss.
She walked more slowly than usual. Her breath seemed shallow.
“You should have remained in bed,” he said quietly once they were far enough from the others to speak without being overheard.
“I am well enough,” she replied, eyes forward. “It would have been improper to absent myself entirely.”
The word struck him—improper—so carefully chosen.
He nodded once, though unease gnawed at him.
Lady Pennington’s voice drifted back to them as she spoke animatedly of the evening before. “Such a strange thing, really. Lady Wetherby swears she saw a ghost.”
Edward glanced up.
“She claims it was the Westbrook girl,” Lady Pennington went on, laughing lightly. “The one whose parents were killed in that dreadful accident not long ago. Terrible business. They were not noble, of course, but quite respectable. And the daughter—oh, she was said to be a beauty. Fair-haired. Like a little fairy, really.”
Edward felt the world tilt.
Westbrook.
The name echoed with uncomfortable familiarity, stirring memories he had tried to dismiss. The letter. The rumors. The sense of coincidence that no longer felt coincidental at all.
He turned toward Charlotte.
She had stopped walking.
Her hand had flown to her side, fingers curling into the fabric of her gown as though bracing against pain—or something far worse.
“Charlotte—” he began.
She did not hear him.
Her knees buckled without warning, her body folding in on itself with alarming suddenness. Edward lunged forward, catching her before she could strike the ground.
“Papa!” Julian cried, panic sharp in his voice.
Edward dropped to his knees, cradling Charlotte as her head lolled briefly against his shoulder. She was cold. Too cold.
“Someone fetch water,” he ordered sharply. “Now.”
The world narrowed to the sound of her breathing—ragged, uneven—and the frantic pounding of his own heart.
He had a single, terrifying thought as he held her there:
What have I done?
And beneath it, more insidious still—
What if I lose her?
Chapter 19
Charlotte woke as though surfacing from deep water—slowly, unwillingly, her body heavy with the effort of returning.
For a long moment, she did not know where she was. The ceiling above her swam in and out of focus, unfamiliar, and the air felt too still, too thick. She tried to move and found she could not—not because she was bound, but because something warm anchored her in place.
