Dear Charlotte,
I think you would love Southcliff Manor, though I wonder if it would be grand enough for your tastes. The furnishings are rather old, but the house and surrounding towns possess a charm unlike anything I could have imagined.
I lifted my quill, an ache spreading through my chest. Daylight faded out my window, so I lit a candle to help me see the letter in front of me. It had been three days since I had proposed my idea for a ball to Jonathan, and I had already made many of the arrangements with Mrs. Linton. Earlier that day, Margaret had allowed me to take her measurements, which I had brought with me to the local modiste. Eliza had accompanied me to the village as I ordered several new dresses for Margaret, including a deep red ballgown to match her favorite jam. The dresses she currently had were old and far too short in the hem. She was quite particular about what she wore, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t have a variety of fine dresses to choose from.
Besides the shopping and planning of the menu, decorations, and music, I had sent all the invitations to Hampshire.
All except one.
I looked down at my letter to Charlotte again and was struck with a sudden pang of sadness. I missed her. I felt her absence more keenly knowing how we had fought before parting ways. There was so much that we had left unresolved—so many hurt feelings left untreated. We had once shared a dream of managing our own households and hosting our own balls. Wehad giggled over these dreams together. I had never imagined hosting my first ball at my own estate without her being there, looking beautiful as ever, and complimenting—or criticizing—my choice of decorations.
Despite how cruel she had been to me in Brighton, I couldn’t help but mourn our friendship.
I couldn’t help but want to forgive her.
In a different way than Margaret, Charlotte was also not easily understood. I had been the only person in her life to ever come close. I didn’t truly know what she endured behind the closed doors of her home, but I had an idea of the level of pressure her mother placed her under. An absence of love, given or received, could turn any heart bitter. It could make a person do very desperate things. I had been so angry with her in Brighton, but now that some time had passed, that anger had transformed to pity.
I turned my attention back to the letter, dipping my quill in fresh ink.
At first, I wasn’t certain if Icould be happy here, but I have adjusted rather quickly. I take rides each morning on a black horse named Betsy. I enjoy walks by the sea, but I have yet to take another swim. I daresay that is for the best. My husband is tolerating me more with each passing day.
I was afraid to use a word besidestolerateto describe what Jonathan felt toward me. He was spending more time with me…and we rarely argued, but that didn’t mean he had any feelings for me. My heart pounded, as if to refute what I was telling myself. I couldn’t mistake the way he had looked at me, nor the way he had kissed me. He hadn’t simply tolerated that kiss.He hadn’t simply tolerated our dance in the south wing with Margaret. He did seem to enjoy our rides each morning.
But I didn’t trust Charlotte with any information like that. I wasn’t even certainIcould properly navigate it. The idea that my husband could possibly care for me was too good to be true. I still felt a need to prove myself to him—to show him that I wasn’t a fortune hunter who had married him for the wrong reasons. I was desperate to make this ball perfect, if only to show him that I could be trusted.
I kept my letter short, writing out the brief details of ball. I didn’t ask Charlotte to come, but I told her she was welcome to attend if she wished. I would leave the choice up to her. It was a risk to invite her at all. I wasn’t certain about how she would behave toward Margaret—or even how she would behave toward me. I had informed Mama of Margaret’s situation in a letter, so I could only hope that she would prepare Charlotte properly before their arrival.
Before I could change my mind, I signed my name at the bottom of the page.
Your friend,
Alice
Chapter Twenty-Three
JONATHAN
Iwas not unrealistic enough to assume that my painting of Alice was a proper depiction of her beauty, but I had tried my best. The portrait was complete, and though it was no match for the professional portraits that hung in the gallery, it would suffice until I procured another portrait of her to hang beside my own. The ball was in two days, and though Alice had been busy making preparations, she had still made time to sit with me while I finished the painting.
She held tightly to my arm, stepping directly onto my foot. “Sorry!” she exclaimed.
“Would you please watch where you’re going?” I glanced down at her blindfolded face. Perhaps the blindfold had been unnecessary, but she seemed the sort who would have peeked prematurely out of curiosity.
I could only imagine the scowl that must have existed behind the fabric. “I am never allowing you to blindfold me again,” she mumbled.
“I didn’t lead you into any walls.”
“Not yet.”
I debated leaving the blindfold on a moment longer, if only to keep her clinging to my arm as she was. In most instances, she retracted her touch or shied away from mine. But at the moment, her fingers dug between my muscle and bone, and I wasn’t certain if she meant it to hurt or not.
I chuckled, taking her by the shoulders and positioning her in front of the wall. My hands lingered on her upper arms for a moment before I untied the blindfold from behind her head.
I lowered it from her face, and she gasped.
“Jonathan!” She had only looked at the painting for less than two seconds before she whirled to face me. “It’s lovely!”
I smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”
