Her maid, Sarah, hovered in the doorway, her dark eyes and sharp, sparrow-like features alight with curiosity.
Charlotte beckoned her in and quickly explained what she needed.
‘Do you understand, Sarah?’ Charlotte said, holding out the sealed letter. ‘This must go to Lord Stanley’s townhouse. No one else is to see it, and no one—absolutely no one—must know it came from me. If anyone asks, deny everything. If they press, lie. And if you are followed, lose them. Take the back lanes.’
Sarah, though startled, was intrigued. Then came the grin Charlotte had expected.
‘And what will I get in return, Miss Charlotte?’ the shameless girl asked.
Charlotte gave her an incredulous look. ‘How about you keep your position?’
‘Well... if you would like me to keep it out of your mother’s ears... I may require some convincing, miss,’ she replied, wide-eyed and innocent.
Charlotte exhaled sharply. ‘Fine. I shall give you my pin money for this month. But I do not care for this penchant you have developed for extortion.’
Charlotte had known Sarah for several years and knew that, when it came down to it, she was loyal to a fault. They had developed a strong bond—but at times Sarah’s avarice and general laziness would try the patience of a saint.
Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Now go—and take this letter with you, you imp.’
Sarah only grinned wider. ‘I’ll use an alias if need be,’ she said, already looking sprightly.
Charlotte smiled faintly. No doubt she was already planning how best to spend her ill-gotten gains at the local haberdashery.
‘Off with you—and do not dawdle.’
The maid’s chin lifted in solemn determination. ‘Aye, miss. Consider it done.’
Charlotte watched as Sarah tucked the letter beneath her shawl and disappeared down the corridor. The soft click of the door left a hush behind it.
Only then did Charlotte relax.
It’s done, she thought. It’s out of my hands now.
Her conscience felt lighter—and yet a knot of unease lingered beneath her ribs. What if he did not believe her? What if he thought it a ploy—another entrapment scheme from the scandalous girl in the card room?
She rubbed her temples. There was nothing to be done about it now.
Lord Stanley would have to make of it what he would.
And Charlotte had far more pressing matters to attend to.
Her father was ill—and worsening by the hour.
In the days that followed, the Walker household fell slowly into disarray.
Influenza had struck half of London, and now it had breached their door. The atmosphere was thick with dread. Footmen moved through the halls with handkerchiefs pressed over their mouths, and Cook muttered prayers as she boiled vinegar to clean the air.
Mrs Walker, ever pragmatic when self-preservation was at stake, packed her trunks within the hour of the doctor’s diagnosis. Camelia and Clara followed in tearful but relievedsolidarity, securing rooms at a fashionable hotel far from contagion.
Charlotte stayed.
She had survived influenza once before, in her youth, and that small immunity gave her courage—or perhaps it was stubbornness, that same wilful streak her mother despised. Whatever it was, Charlotte could not abandon him. Not her father.
A few loyal servants remained—Cook, the butler, and Sarah, who refused to leave despite Charlotte’s insistence. ‘Someone has to keep the fire going,’ she had said. ‘And someone must keep you from collapsing.’
By the fourth day, Charlotte was indeed worn to the bone.
She had scarcely slept. Her dress was permanently wrinkled, her hair had lost all resemblance of style, and her hands were red and cracked from constant washing. The doctor had ordered the sickroom kept quiet, and with so few servants remaining, most duties fell to her. Charlotte did not complain.
