‘Yes. I was looking for a governess or companion position,’ Anne said, unfazed. She rummaged through her enormous sewing bag and produced a folded newspaper, spreading it across her lap. ‘Look here—an advertisement for a governess and a nursemaid, urgently wanted, for a Mrs Wilberforce in Cheshire. A boy of eight. It says, “references desirable but not essential.”’
Charlotte squinted and, as if reading her friend’s mind, said, ‘You cannot be serious.’
‘Look at the address—it is near Alderley Park. That is Lord Stanley’s estate, is it not? What if Wilberforce and Stanley are connected—neighbours, or perhaps business associates?’
Charlotte’s brow furrowed. ‘You think the Odd Fellows mean to target him next?’
‘Perhaps,’ Anne said. ‘If I applied for the position, I might learn something. And I could recommend my own maid for the nursemaid’s post.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Charlotte said at once. ‘It is far too dangerous.’
‘It is not as though I shall announce myself as a sleuth,’ Anne returned.
Charlotte shook her head in exasperation. ‘What could you possibly do there? And what about your... difficulty?’
Anne’s difficulty was that she could scarcely manage more than a few syllables in conversation with any gentleman, the rest dissolving into a stammer or incoherent fragments.
‘Well, I shall not be required to speak to gentlemen as a governess,’ Anne said. ‘Only to the mistress of the house. I couldobserve... or, at the very least, warn this Mr Wilberforce of the danger he is in—through his wife, of course.’ She hesitated slightly at the end.
Charlotte gaped, astonished by her sudden boldness. ‘Anne, you cannot become a governess merely to snoop. You cannot even speak to your cousins’ children for longer than a minute.’
Anne faltered. ‘True. But I can... write instructions on a chalkboard.’
Charlotte tried not to smile. ‘You would not last a week.’
‘Then they will dismiss me, and I shall have lost nothing,’ Anne said. ‘But if, by chance, they hire me—well, I might uncover something useful. Perhaps even the truth about this Lord W. After all, who would suspect a governess of anything untoward?’
Charlotte regarded her in equal parts admiration and horror. ‘You are quite insane.’
‘Possibly. But I need to get away from... them. I cannot endure it much longer.’
Understanding dawned. She was desperate to escape her father and brothers. Charlotte sighed softly. ‘Very well. Apply. It will keep you occupied and out of mischief in London.’ She smiled, knowing it was highly unlikely Anne would secure the position. ‘But you must be cautious.’
Anne nodded solemnly. ‘Caution is my middle name. Well, technically it is Margaret—but close enough.’
Charlotte shook her head, smiling. ‘Who knew that beneath all that gentleness, you could be so incorrigible?’
Anne rose, tying her bonnet. ‘When the Ice Baron himself comes knocking at your door, begging forgiveness, remember it was my incorrigibility that set him straight.’
Charlotte lifted an eyebrow. ‘When that happens, Anne, I shall name my firstborn after you.’
‘Good heavens—spare the child that curse.’ Anne’s small frame slipped from the room, a determined look upon her face.
When the door shut behind her, Charlotte sat in silence for a long while, watching dust motes dance in the slant of light. Her heart felt lighter. Perhaps, between her anonymous letter and Anne’s unusual bravery, something good might come of it after all.
For now, she would remain what she had always been: invisible, careful, and overlooked. And no, she did not regret not coming forward when he asked for her. It would not do to bring more trouble to her door when she was scarcely surviving within her own family.
Chapter 6
Charlotte was true to her word. After her friend’s departure, she immediately penned a painstakingly precise letter to the Ice Baron.
Her head pounded beneath the weight of the previous night’s secret. The afternoon light filtered faintly through the curtains, and by the time she finished, it was almost evening.
She wrote of everything she had seen and heard—the hedge-side conversation, the older man’s voice cruel and unyielding, the younger’s wavering hesitation, the dreadful encounter in the stables, and the dying boy’s final words. She described her disappointment on discovering that the supposed code letter was blank.
The parchment the dying boy had given her trembled slightly beneath her hand as she folded it. She could not bring herself to part with the original. It felt wrong. It had been the boy’s final act—a dying man’s plea. To give it away would be to sever the last thread of his humanity.
No. This she would keep safe. As evidence, if it came to it, that she had only ever tried to help.
