The darkness of evening fell around the castle, and Charlotte could not stop fretting over her brother. He didn’t eat much at dinner, which was very unlike him. The strangest bit of all was his silence. But ithadbeen a trying day. Hopefully, in time, he’d return to his usual tendencies.
Adding to her nerves, she agonized over her conversation with Alex. Since she’d apologized at the lake, she’d tried to employ a friendly tone with him, and yet when he’d questioned her, when he’d tried to draw her out, she’d recoiled faster than a covey of birds chased by a hound.
How dare Alex challenge her mannerisms! What did he know of who she was?
She sighed into the dark room. He knew enough to see she wasn’t being who she really wanted to be. She’d started out with a confidence she’d tried to master, but as soon as he’d rejected her offering, she’d retreated back into her shell. Why? When had she stopped being bold? Or at least friendly?
She cared about Alex’s approval, just like she cared about Christopher’s approval, and when she felt she didn’t have it, she shrank as she’d been accustomed to doing every time Christopher yelled at her.
But Alex hadn’t liked her deferential nature. He’d hinted that she was different, and as she felt the weight of the day descend upon her, she knew it was true. She was changed, and it wasn’t for the better.
She groaned as she remembered the shirt she’d given to Lord Ainscough. He’d so willingly accepted it, and while that should have made her pleased, she’d longed much more that Alex would have accepted her offering.
He’d been polite, even inviting, but he’d stood his ground. She liked that about him. He was so different from her, and that drew her to him. He was different from Christopher, too, and Ainscough, for that matter. Different from—and better than—any man she’d ever known.
But how could she think that when they knew so little of each other? As she tucked farther into the uncomfortable window seat in Walter’s room, she imagined what her conversations with Alex could have been. Occasionally her good sense would return and remind her, like so many times before, that she had no reason to see him again and she ought to blot out his memory. But the way his brows had pulled up in a challenge, the way his voice had invited and pressed her while still being kind...
Any interest on his part was all in her mind. He hadn’t accepted her shirt; he hadn’t wanted to share his past with her. Today he’d merely pointed out an observation, and she shouldn’t read into it. Willing her thoughts to stop churning, she curled up and at last found sleep.
The next morning she awoke to stiff limbs and the sound of her brother stirring. “You’re awake,” she breathed, coming next to him on the long couch and patting his blankets.
He rolled over and stared at her.
“How do you feel, Walter?”
He grimaced but said nothing.
“Are you well?” She felt his forehead, confirming he did not have a fever. “Have you lost your voice?”
The little boy responded with a single vehement shake of his head.
Charlotte didn’t know what to ask. He was finally awake, yet he refused to speak. Glancing around the room, Charlotte rose to her feet. “I’ll fetch you some breakfast.”
When she returned with a tray of all his favorite things, she sat quietly and waited for him to eat all he wished to, knowing he was usually more pleasant after a meal. But when he took only three bites of one scone after fifteen minutes, she cleared her throat. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
Another fierce shake of his head.
“Walter, are you upset?”
This time he didn’t even meet her eyes. His small face stared across the room, as still as ice. What was she to do? Her brother had always been so warm and excited about everything, and now he was mute and angry.
“I’ll come back later. I think George and Joseph will wish to hear you are awake.”
As the door closed behind her, her eyes adjusted to the gas lamps in the corridor. George stood in the vestibule, about to turn the corner.
“I was just coming to find you,” she said, hurrying toward him. She explained her morning with Walter.
“That’s odd. He’s not sayinganything?” George furrowed his brow. “Usually I can’t get him to stop talking.”
“Have a go of it yourself.” Charlotte gestured to the door behind her.
George nodded, cracked the knuckles of his big hands, and walked into the corridor. He had a knack for making things better. Plus they were both boys. Things would be worked out in no time.
Charlotte wore several turns into the rug by the time George emerged again.
He stepped into the well-lit vestibule and shook his head. “Nothing, just as you said. He just walked to the window, stood there, and would not answer a single thing I asked.” He glanced at her, and Charlotte knew by the look in his eyes that he was trying to be brave despite his worry. “I’m sure he just needs a little time. Yesterday was traumatic, and he’ll be right as rain soon enough.”
Charlotte pressed her hands together. “I hope so.”
