Dorothea was planning to depart Clayton House in two days to return to her family at Haverstone. She had asked Charlotte whether she wished to accompany her since their father was doing so well, but Charlotte had steadfastly refused, saying Papa still needed care, and she would oversee it herself.
“Lavinia has little of the nursemaid in her, as we both know,” she had said. “It is best that I stay on a while. Perhaps we all will come to you at Christmastide, as usual.”
If she could have her way, Charlotte would much prefer not to return to Haverstone ever again so she would have no fear of running into Mr. Morton and his new bride. She knew that such a thing was impossible, of course, and she would miss Dorothea too much not to visit. But to have to see and even speak with the lovely new wife of a man she herself had expected to marry? It was too much to bear. She had a clear vision in her mind of the new Mrs. Morton, thanks to a letter from Reginald that confirmed Mrs. Sanders’s initial report of the hasty marriage.
Although he has not had the courage to call upon me at Haverstone since his return from London with his bride—no doubt due to some degree of shame over his reprehensible behavior toward our Charlotte—I did pass them coming back from the village one day in a little phaeton rig, riding far too fast for the narrow lane. The new mistress of Brentwood is very petite and pretty enough, I suppose. Despite the haste of the marriage, it does not seem to have affected the good opinion of the ladies of the county, as there has been a near steady stream of visitors to Brentwood to meet Mrs. Morton. I leave it to you, my dear, as to whether we shall invite Mr. and Mrs. Morton to dinner anytime soon.
A second letter from Mrs. Sanders, who had called upon BrentwoodManor, was more forthcoming with details.
A tiny little thing she is, with a fine complexion, bright-blue eyes, and her teeth are very good, I must say. To my great surprise, when I called, I found her bare headed. She told me she refuses to wear that lace or muslin cap so common among all married women, insisting she is entirely too young to don something that “old-fashioned and frowsy.” Well, I was too polite to give her my opinion of that, but it did allow me to see that she has lovely blonde hair that she enjoys wearing up with a shower of ringlets dangling down on one side.
She certainly can converse politely, though I would say she is more eager to express her own opinion on subjects than to hear what her guests may think. Better manners will come in time, I suppose. She is, perhaps, still too stimulated by her new surroundings. All in all, I think she may well mature into every bit as lovely a mistress of Brentwood as her husband’s dear mother was, although I cannot give you any report of what accomplishments she may possess. To my knowledge, she does not play the pianoforte, nor draw, nor read a great deal. Neither can she speak French. Perhaps she is handy with a needle. One can hope.
“Charlotte,” a soft voice called. Charlotte set down her drawing and hurried over to her father’s bedside.
“Yes, Father? What do you need?”
“Help me sit up, please,” he said. “May I have some water?”
She did as he asked and after Mr. Kendall had drunk from the glass and lain back, breathing as though the simple act was tiring, she took his hand and smiled at him.
“You are so much better every day, Papa. I know you will be back to your usual self very soon.”
“Thanks to your and your sister’s care. Without you, I fear I might well have succumbed to this illness.” Evan smiled. “However, it is as you say—I am improving. Therefore, I am quite happy to relinquish you. After all, you must be eager to return to Haverstone with yoursister and be available once again to your gentleman. You did say you were engaged, did you not? I recall hearing you speak of him one night, but perhaps I was imagining things in my fevered state.”
Charlotte felt her face burn. “I…I did speak of a gentleman, who I thought cared for me, Papa, but I was mistaken. He has married another. I am no closer to marriage than I was when you sent me to Haverstone in May. But, my mind is not on such things just now. My only care is that you return to full health. I shall stay here until I am assured of it.”
“I see. Well, fool he who would not choose you as his wife. Who was this gentleman?”
“Mr. Robert Morton. His estate abuts Haverstone’s.”
“Ah, yes, I know him a bit. I also recall a mention of his name in a letter or two from your sister. But, I do not recall you writing to me of him. Or if you did, I have the name wrong in my mind. I recall a…Frederick?”
Charlotte smiled. “That is the younger Mr. Morton—a curate now at Brentwood Parish. He is a very amiable young man who gave me several drawing lessons while I was at Haverstone. He also enjoys reading as much as I. He came to visit Reginald’s library several times, and we talked of books and poetry. Oh, and he gives an excellent sermon. I think you would enjoy to hear him.”
“Yes, now I recall the younger son. I believe I met him once before. It sounds as though you were fond of this Frederick Morton.”
Charlotte nodded and looked off with a dreamy expression. “It was easy to be in his company, yes. And, he was the salvation to me and little Lucy on one occasion. Did I recall that incident to you? She and I were on an early morning walk, and she ran off into the woods where she slipped on some wet rocks and twisted her ankle. She was unable to walk, and I could not manage her. Mr. Frederick came upon us and carried her all the way home. He was certainly a hero in young Lucy’s eyes.”
Evan considered his daughter a moment. “And yours, too, it seems. It surprises me that you did not form an attachment with the younger brother, with all you have told me. He seems a good match for you.”
“I do—Ididcare for him, but after Mr. Robert Morton made, what I believed, were sincere romantic overtures, well, I foolishly fancied myself in love with the elder brother.” She shrugged. “I believe Mr. Frederick saw me more as a sister, in any case. I do not believe he had any romantic designs upon me.”
“Did this Robert Morton trifle with your affections? Were his attentions to you well known in the county? He did not compromise you in any way, did he?”
Charlotte shook her head fiercely. “No, Papa, we had never danced more than two sets, and I believe most of the county was unaware of any…particular feelings he might have had for me.”
“But, hehadfeelings for you. You sound certain of it.”
Feeling tears welling up in her eyes, Charlotte abruptly rose from the bedside chair and went to the vase of flowers, playing with the blossoms while she considered how to answer. “I cannot say, Papa. He…he paid me many compliments and invited me, Dorothea, and Reginald to his home where he gave us a tour. Words were spoken that might have been interpreted by me to have certain expectations, but that was my own foolishness, not his fault. No. I clearly misunderstood his statements, I see that now.” Charlotte did not know why she was withholding the entire truth from her father. Perhaps to save her own ego. Far better for her to say she may have made more of his overtures than were true than to reveal she had, in fact, been proposed to only to have Robert throw her over for an heiress.
“I see. And the younger man is a curate, you say?”
Charlotte laughed softly. “Yes. Far beneath me, according to Dorothea. More than once she warned me against forming any attachment to someone with such poor prospects.” She turned around and liftedher shoulders in resignation. “It matters not. I am more convinced than ever that a marriage is not in my future and that I shall remain at Clayton House to be governess to Lavinia’s children. I can think of worse things.”
“Well, I should not like to see you give up on marriage entirely, my dear girl. You are just one and twenty.”
“I shall bear your optimism in mind, dear Papa.”
