But the light faded quickly. ‘Mama would never allow it. She thinks my friends encourage my eccentricities.’
‘I’ll speak with her,’ he said quietly.
Hope flickered briefly in Charlotte’s chest. If Anne became her companion, they would be birds of a feather, and every day would be so much more joyful.
‘Mother keeps worrying about our debts, Papa. Is it really so bad?’
‘Don’t worry, Char. Your dowry is untouchable until you marry or reach five-and-twenty. Then it will be yours to control.’
Charlotte huffed a soft laugh. ‘If Mother could wrangle it out of me before then, she would.’
He smiled faintly. ‘You are your father’s daughter. I should like to see her try.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Now... what’s there to eat? I’m famished.’
Charlotte’s heart leapt. A good appetite—surely a sign of recovery.
She hurried to the kitchen, instructing Cook to prepare his favourite meal. He ate with surprising relish, and some colour returned to his cheeks.
That evening, she read to him from his favourite novel—alwaysThe Mysteries of Udolpho. She animated every character with dramatic flourish, earning quiet chuckles and the occasional cough that doubled as applause.
When she finished, he smiled. ‘You read better than any actress in Drury Lane.’
She laughed softly. ‘High praise, Papa.’
The fire dwindled to embers. Candlelight flickered across the room.
Charlotte sank into the armchair beside his bed, exhaustion finally claiming her. Within moments, she drifted into sleep.
When dawn came, Charlotte stirred, stiff and cold. The fire had died. The room was silent—too silent.
She rubbed her eyes and looked towards the bed.
Her father lay very still.
‘Papa?’ she whispered.
He did not stir.
She rose slowly, her legs trembling. The air seemed to thicken around her.
She reached for his hand.
It was cool.
For one long, unbearable moment, she simply stared, unable to comprehend the stillness before her. He looked peaceful—as if he had fallen asleep mid-smile. But the truth settled over her, heavy and irreversible.
‘Papa,’ she said again, barely a whisper.
Her knees gave way, and she sank beside the bed. The tears came quietly at first. Then the sobs followed—sharp, helpless, wracking her whole body.
For so long he had been her anchor—and now he was gone.
The clock on the mantel ticked on, indifferent to her grief. Morning light spilled across the covers, gilding his hand.
Charlotte clasped it in both of hers, pressing it to her forehead.
‘Rest now, Papa,’ she whispered. ‘You needn’t worry. I’ll keep my promise.’
