Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Jacob was angry. It was one thing to be held accountable for one's actions, but quite another to be accused of something one had not done. Jacob was clear. There had been nothing improper about his relationship with Charlotte. Their friendship had grown, and feelings between them were blossoming, unexpectedly so. But as for anything improper.

Nothing. Nothing at all, Jacob repeated to himself, as he hurried up the steps of Thrushcross Grange and knocked loudly.

It was opened by the butler, and Jacob demanded admittance, telling the servant he was there to see his master. The butler blocked his way, telling him Mr. Davidson wasn't at home to visitors.

"Then I want to see Miss Davidson," Jacob said, pushing past the butler and entering the house uninvited.

But in the middle of the commotion, as the butler tried to prevent Jacob from going any further, the door of the study opened, and Thomas Davidson himself appeared, looking angry.

"You won't find her here; she's gone. And I suggest you do the same, my Lord. I trusted you with my daughter. But you've betrayed that trust. How could you?" he exclaimed, pointing angrily at Jacob, who did not understand the nature of the allegations.

"Mr. Davidson, I may be many things, but I'm not what you claim me to be when it comes to women. I haven't acted improperly towards your daughter. I… I care a great deal about her," he said, but the merchant shook his head.

"You took advantage of her. If word gets out, she'll be ruined," he exclaimed.

"But if we're to be married…" Jacob replied. Surely there was no scandal in the accusation if the two of them were to wed.

"Oh, yes, that's what men like you think, isn't it? That you can have what you want and be damned to the consequences. Do you know how difficult it's been for Charlotte's mother and I? Constantly judged by the likes of you and your rank and class.

Well, no more. It's you who's in the wrong. Don't worry, I'll still settle your debts, and you can tell everyone there was a parting of ways on amicable terms. Good day to you, my Lord," Thomas said, and turning on his heels, he marched back into his study and slammed the door behind him.

Jacob was left standing in the hallway in disbelief at what had just happened. There had been no opportunity to defend himself or tell the truth. He did not even entirely know what he was being accused of. It was the most extraordinary turn of events. But if it had proved anything to Jacob, it was the fact his feeling were growing for Charlotte.

They were feelings he could not easily rid himself of. He was determined to act on them, so he left Thrushcross Grange with the intent of finding Charlotte and discovering the truth.

***

The only consolation about the house was its view of the sea. There was a sweeping view down to a wide, sandy beach, bordered on each side by high cliffs where birds circled above the swell of the ocean below. Charlotte was looking out of the window, watching the scene, and thinking of Jacob. She had thought about him a great deal since arriving at Burntop Heights. The house was south of Liverpool, where her mother had brought her in the hope of distancing her from the impeding scandal of the letter.

"Why do you keep staring out of the window, Charlotte?" her mother asked, and Charlotte looked up to find her mother looking at her from across the drawing room where she was sitting by the hearth with her embroidery.

"I like to watch the sea. I find it inspirational," Charlotte replied, for she was still working on her novel, the pages of which were spread out in front of her on a desk by the window.

She was working on the chapter where Isabella finally realized her true feelings for Hamish, admitting them to herself, and her closest friend, Isla.

"I wish you wouldn't. All this reading and writing isn't good for you, Charlotte. You can't go on like this. You were too na?ve. That's why the earl took advantage of you," her mother said, tutting and shaking her head.

On the long journey north, Charlotte had tried to persuade her mother as to the falsity of the rumors. But her mother had not wanted to listen. She had told her the matter was closed, and that they would remain in the north until the rumors were forgotten, and they could return with their heads held high.

Nothing Charlotte could say would dissuade her mother from such thoughts. Hiring a local woman, Wilma, as her maid, made it seem that Charlotte would have no choice but to do as she was told. Wilma was as opposite from Sara as possible, but she too tutted, expressing her disdain for Charlotte's writing.

"It's not ladylike, Miss Davidson. I don't understand why any young lady would want to spend her time writing books," she said, tutting and shaking her head.

She was a good deal older than Charlotte, with graying hair and a sallow face. She was not fun to be with, and was reserved and cold. Charlotte had begged her father not to dismiss Sara, but her father's mind had been made up, and he had accused Charlotte's former maid of conspiracy in the scandal.

"She was meant to be chaperoning you," he had said, and Charlotte's protests had been silenced.

"Because I like writing. It gives me freedom," Charlotte replied, looking down at the pages of Isabella's story and longing to be a part of it herself.

But Isabella's world was far removed from her own. Isabella would not have allowed herself to be treated like this, and tears now welled up in Charlotte's eyes.

"Writing. When did writing ever find any young lady a husband?" Wilma persisted.

Charlotte turned and glared at her.

"I'd found one," she replied, and Wilma tutted again.

"And from what your poor mother has told me, he was just as bad. The way he behaved, and the way you behaved, too. It's all this reading and writing. It puts funny ideas into your head, and…" she began, but Charlotte had heard enough, and now she rose to feet and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and pulling a shawl around her shoulders, Charlotte hurried outside. She ran across the garden and through a small gate in the hedge where a path led down to the beach below. There was a strong wind, and Charlotte could taste the salt of the sea like the salt of her bitter tears. On the clifftop, she paused, looking out at the swell of the ocean below, the waters rising and falling as the waves crashed on the rocks.

How easy it would have been to throw herself off in a fit of passion. It was the sort of thing the heroine of one of the novels she read might do after being spurned on by her anger at the injustice of what had happened. But this was not one of the novels she read, and as Charlotte looked out across the brooding waters, she wondered if she would ever see Jacob again.

Pulled apart, just as I was beginning to feel… something more, she thought to herself, realizing just how much she missed him, and how angry she was at the injustice of the false accusations that had pulled them apart.