“You haven’t changed a whit since childhood,” Matthew said under his breath, as he took one last look at his brother’s furious face. But the real question was: Had Matthew transformed enough since then? Did he have the strength to defeat his old tormentor?
Chapter Eight
You’re running off to Estbrook House to visit Lady Calliope again?” Charlotte’s mother did not twitch a single facial muscle and her tone remained cool, yet she managed to give the distinct impression of someone raising their eyebrow.
Charlotte tried to summon her most gracious smile. How she longed for the days of her youth when she’d been left alone in the countryside for months on end without a glimpse of either parent. She’d felt so secluded each time Alexander left for school, but Charlotte preferred even that gnawing loneliness to her mother’s current obsession with dictating the minute details of Charlotte’s existence. Since her debut over eight years ago, she’d become nothing but an automaton controlled by her mother’s edicts.
“The Season is almost in full swing, and Lady Calliope and I have been discussing all the events we have already attended,” Charlotte lied. Even Charlotte’s lady’s maid, Alice, who had been hired by Mother, wasn’t wise to Charlotte’s true activities. Calliope’s loyal servants whisked Alice away and kept her occupied below stairs while Charlotte escaped to the Black Sheep. She’d don widow’s garb and take one of the unmarked coaches that Calliope’s family owned.
“Sometimes I worry that Lady Calliope is the one responsible for your unwed status.” The duchess did not frown, as that could increase her chances of developing wrinkles. Down-turned lips,however, were heavily implied by the slight deepening of her tone. “It is true Lady Calliope is both the daughter of a living duke and the maternal half-sister to another one, but there are rumors. I heard that the Duke and Duchess of Estbrook permit their children, even the girls, to attend those scandalous masquerades their half-sibling hosts.”
The Estbrooks had named their four girls after the Greek muses, and each had become legendary artists whether by pen, brush, instrument, or dance. Likewise, Lady Calliope’s two sportsmen brothers easily wore the mantle of their impressive Greek hero appellations. Only Lady Calliope’s older half brother, the Duke of Blackglen, didn’t possess the family’s glittering sheen since he rejected polite society for bacchanalian entertainment.
“Mother, Calliope’s father is highly esteemed and exceedingly powerful in the House of Lords. Her mother is an incomparable hostess. You were so pleased when Calliope and I became fast friends during my introduction to Society. Don’t you always tell me that she is charm personified?” Charlotte might have learned a thing or two about manipulation after all the years of being controlled.
It was a good thing too, especially since she had to convince her mother to let her leave. Yesterday, Calliope had sent a missive to Charlotte that Lady Greenvale, the sister of the late Lady Hawley, had finally made an appearance at the Black Sheep. Unfortunately, Charlotte had been trapped with her mother and her grievances about Matthew’s lecture. Calliope had urged Lady Greenvale to return to the coffeehouse today, and Charlotte desperately needed to be there.
Barely parting her lips, Mother issued a small sigh. “I supposed you are right. If anyone is to blame for your peculiar views on marriage, or life in general, it is Aunt Abigail. I never should have allowed her to visit you so much in the countryside, especially when neither your father nor I were around to supervise.”
Every winter—just when Charlotte thought she’d go mad from missing Alexander—Great-Aunt Abigail had appeared with her trunk full of books and her ever-sharp mind brimming with old, wonderful memories. It wasn’t so much that her parents had permitted Great-Aunt Abigail’s visits. They just hadn’t thought to tell the servants to prevent the eccentric spinster from staying at the far-flung property. Moreover, her mother enjoyed when her aunt was away from London and not popping by the salon to try to wrest back control.
“Great-Aunt Abigail was always careful to remind me of proper etiquette. She did not speak of the days when she was hostess. She knew you didn’t like it,” Charlotte fibbed again. It had been her secret with her great-aunt, those days closeted in the library by a cheerful fire as they read Swift’sGulliver’s TravelsandA Modest Proposaland discussed his cutting satire. Great-Aunt Abigail had never married, valuing her liberty over all else. She had been much happier than Mother. Charlotte’s mother was always trying to prove to her husband that her twin sister’s elopement hadn’t tainted his family’s honor and that the sinful union hadn’t cursed Alexander to be born with a clubfoot.
“Hmm,” the duchess said, as if she didn’t entirely believe Charlotte’s last claim. “Well, if you are to go to Lady Calliope’s again, please stand up and let me see how you look. We cannot have you going to the Duke of Estbrook’s abode looking affright.”
Charlotte hid her frustration behind a charming upturn of her lips. Mother never approved of her choices in attire.
Sure enough, a barrage of dissatisfied tongue clicks filled the room. “This won’t do, Charlotte. This won’t do at all. Your green gown is much too plain, and worse, it makes you look sallow or perhaps even a little tan. You should wear the striped yellow robe à la française that we just brought home from the modiste’s. Are you certain, though, that you are taking the proper precautions to avoid the sun?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Charlotte avoided clenching her fists. If she did, her mother would claim Charlotte was ruining her posture by tensing her muscles. There was nothing Charlotte could do to outwardly staunch her frustration. She just had to shove it deep inside.
“Also, have your maid fix your coiffure. Your curls are not perfectly formed, and I spy frizz. Your hair is determined to be unruly. It is bad enough that you and I must suffer the startling hue, but at least we can cover the garishness with powder. Wear your shepherdess hat today. Its large brim will hide your hair and protect your complexion.” When her mother finished, she gave a slight flick of her wrist, effectively dismissing Charlotte. As an adolescent yanked from the countryside, Charlotte would have dashed from the room and fallen onto her bed in tears. Of course, those crying fits had only prompted more lectures about how one should walk properly at all times and how red, swollen eyes did not compliment one’s face.
Keeping her steps dainty, Charlotte left the parlor. When she reached her quarters, she quietly conveyed her mother’s instructions to Alice. Standing as still as a wooden doll, she allowed Alice to dress her in the prescribed gown with the alternating daffodil and cream vertical bands. But as Charlotte picked up the bundle secretly containing her widow’s weeds, a whisper of freedom swept through her.
The first time Charlotte had donned the black gown, she’d felt a confluence of emotions. The somber attire was meant to convey sorrow and loss. Women wore these clothes when their world had been shrunk by pain, until it became a tight circle bounded by grief. Yet for Charlotte, the darkly dyed skirts and veil meant liberty. Not only did they hide her identity, but they gave her a status that was relatively unfettered for a noblewoman. An unwed miss was governed by her parents, a married woman by her husband, buta widow was her own person. It was a painful irony that only by losing her domestic sphere could a woman gain the greater world.
But Charlotte wondered if there could be another way. If there was, she was determined to find it, even if she had to hew it herself out of unforgiving granite.
“Oh good! Lady Greenvale is back!” Calliope gracefully craned her neck toward the entrance to the back room of the Black Sheep. Unlike Charlotte’s mother’s stiff elegance, Calliope possessed a natural, almost lyrical way of moving that matched her name.
“She is!” Charlotte scrambled to her feet, forgetting all her training in etiquette. She barely stopped herself from barging toward the tall, elegantly dressed woman in the powder-blue sack-back gown. Instead, she waited until the countess had settled into a chair and had been served a piping hot cup of Sophia’s latest concoction.
Taking a deep breath, Charlotte finally headed in Lady Greenvale’s direction. As she weaved through the other patrons lounging on the comfortable chairs she’d had specially made, Charlotte summoned her hostess skills. She couldn’t just plop herself down and subject this woman to a barrage of questions. She needed to delicately massage the conversation, molding it to take the course she wanted. Lady Greenvale had lost her sister a mere six months ago. Charlotte couldn’t begin with a direct quest—
“You must be the woman who is rumored to be Lord Hawley’s next bride.” Lady Greenvale’s voice was as sharp as her assessing brown eyes. “I would warn you away from the viscount, but given the number of my friends who hinted for me to visit you here, I suspect you already have suspicions.”
Charlotte faltered, unsure how to proceed. She’d been so ready to employ finesse that she wasn’t prepared for a straightforward discussion. “I—I hope I did not badger you. That was not my intent.”
Lady Greenvale inclined her chin, indicating for Charlotte to sit. “I should be thanking you. Due to your persistence, I have discovered a wonderful place.”
“I do beg your pardon if my presence is bringing up painful memories,” Charlotte said as she perched on one of the plush chairs.
“Oh, do stop apologizing.” Lady Greenvale reached forward to give Charlotte’s hand a quick pat. “It is Hawley and males of his ilk who should be on their knees begging us for forgiveness, but instead they force contrition upon womenfolk.”
Charlotte’s surprise at Lady Greenvale’s boldness must have registered on her face for Lady Greenvale continued. “My younger sister’s suspicious passing has made me inclined to speak my mind for the first time in my two-and-thirty years. Perhaps, if I had not kept quiet about my worries when she was alive, she would be here today.”
Charlotte straightened, wondering how to phrase her questions. The countess was certainly not shy about expressing her opinion, but that didn’t mean that the topic of conversation wasn’t painful.
