And in that sacred silence, Charlotte Walker knew that nothing in her life would ever be the same again.
Chapter 7
The house was in mourning—black ribbons on every curtain, mirrors draped, servants whispering as they passed. Even the air seemed heavy, as though the very walls themselves mourned him.
Her mother and younger sisters devoted themselves to grieving with admirable diligence, each dramatically draped across a sofa or chaise in the parlour, surrounded by sympathetic friends and cousins who cooed and murmured like pigeons.
Camelia dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief so vigorously one might think she meant to injure herself. Clara uttered faint moans at regular intervals, as though on cue.
Even Mama—elegant, stately, and quite dry-eyed—contrived a delicate tremor of her lips whenever condolences were offered.
Through it all, Charlotte moved like a quiet apparition, issuing instructions, accepting condolences, ensuring the world did not crumble around them. Her sisters might weep; she would work. Someone must.
She neither fainted nor wept, nor did she relinquish the management of her father’s funeral to well-meaning strangers.While her family languished in artful grief, Charlotte organised everything—the coffin plate, the clergyman, the carriages, the wreaths of white lilies her father had always loved. She saw to the bills herself and spoke with the sexton to ensure her father would be buried beneath the great yew, where the morning light fell first.
When all was finally done, Charlotte went through the motions of the funeral like a marionette guided by invisible strings. Her face remained expressionless, her voice flat, her movements mechanical. She spoke when spoken to, nodded when expected, and only once—when the earth thudded against the coffin—did her hand tremble.
She remembered the first time she had seen her father dig a spade into the garden himself, insisting a gentleman should understand the weight of soil. That image returned now as the clergyman’s words droned on and the rain dampened her gloves. The spade striking earth felt like the world striking her heart. She wished she could climb into the ground after him.
Her thoughts narrowed to survival: another minute, another hour, another day.
That evening, as the house quietened after the stream of condolences, Charlotte slipped away unnoticed, climbing the stairs on heavy legs until she reached her chamber. There, at last, her composure broke.
She closed the door and pressed her forehead against the cool wood. A sound escaped her—half gasp, half sob—and she sank to her knees. The aching loneliness wrapped itself tight around her ribs, pressing until she could scarcely breathe.
It dawned on her that she would never see that gentle smile again, nor the twinkle that softened his stern brown eyes when she entered the room. Never again would she hear the fond way he said ‘Char’, stretching the single syllable into a privateendearment. Her heart clenched so sharply she clutched her chest, as though it might crack in two.
The only person who had ever truly understood her was now lying six feet beneath the ground.
A coldness seeped into her bones. She crawled onto the bed, still in her mourning gown, and curled into a tight ball beneath the counterpane. For one wild, aching moment, she imagined the door opening—her father’s familiar step crossing the carpet, his hand smoothing her hair as he used to when she was a child and had quarrelled with her sisters. If she kept her eyes closed tightly enough, perhaps she might conjure him back.
Her gaze roamed the room as tears blurred her sight. His book rested on her writing desk, a pressed flower marking the final page she had read to him. She reached for it, held it to her chest, and breathed in the faint scent of tobacco and lavender oil—his scent. The house might as well have lost its heartbeat.
Perhaps she could stay there forever. Perhaps the pain would dull. Perhaps the fear would vanish.
But fear had a will of its own. It coiled around her throat and whispered,What will happen to you now?
It took her hours to fall asleep, and when she did, she dreamt. He was there, comforting her, telling her he would see her again.
As morning broke, a soft knock interrupted her dreams.
Instinctively, she sat up. ‘Papa?’
But the door opened a crack, and Sarah slipped in. Her small, sparrow-like frame hesitated before crossing the room. Charlotte’s chest tightened with another wave of grief.
‘Miss... your mother is calling you downstairs.’
Charlotte’s stomach turned. Already? Even for her mother, this was brisk. The man had been in the ground scarcely a day.
‘Did she say why?’ Charlotte managed, her voice hoarse.
Sarah’s expression wavered between sympathy and fear. ‘No, miss. But she seemed... insistent.’
A pause.
‘And Lord Haverley is with her.’
That explained everything.
