Chapter 23

Charlotte stared ahead at nothing, her face a blank while her mind hummed with the incessant chatter of competing thoughts. Across from her, Mama sat in a chair, sewing the new ribbon they had just bought to Tabitha’s bonnet. The curls framing her face had all but disappeared, a result of the downpour they had encountered on their way home.

On the sofa, Lillian repaired a hole in a stocking while Tabitha embroidered the hem of a sleeve to wear to Almack’s that evening.

A lump settled in Charlotte’s throat as she looked at the three of them. How she loved them!

Ever since receiving Digby’s letter, her stomach had been an ocean of nausea. No matter what she did, she could not bear the consequences. To buy Mr. Digby’s silence was an affront to her pride, to the very justice she had been seeking—however twisted had been the means. She sensed, too, that this would only be his first demand. In a few months, he would raise another threat, and then, he would have every reason to expect her to comply, for she would no longer have her association with the Yorkes to protect her. It went against everything in her to submit to intimidation, though.

But to not buy his silence ... well, that option held all its own dangers. It would put a number of reputations at risk—her own, her family’s, Anthony’s.

But how long could Charlotte keep this secret? How long could she lie, even if her intentions were good? She had ached watching Anthony carry the burden of his secrets, declining to relieve some of the weight onto the capable shoulders of his family. Why, then, was she so insistent on doing precisely the same thing as him? Her excuse had been her great love for her family. But they also loved her greatly.

“Anthony and I are not getting married.” The confession spilled from her lips in a cascade of words she was sure Mama and her sisters would not understand. All three of them looked up from their work to stare at her.

Charlotte swallowed. There was a measure of relief in the blurted confession, but the difficult parts of the conversation remained.

“My dear,” Mama said, “whatever do you mean?”

“I mean,” Charlotte said more slowly, “that Anthony and I shall not be getting married.” To her chagrin, tears burned her eyes.

Mama set the bonnet aside and rushed over to kneel before her. She took both of Charlotte’s hands and looked up at her with her characteristic warmth and sympathy. “Did something happen? A lover’s quarrel, perhaps?”

Charlotte’s smile trembled, and she dropped her gaze, unable to meet Mama’s. “A hundred quarrels, but never one that could be called a lover’s quarrel.” Why, oh why, did she wish that were not the case?

“Charlotte,” Tabitha said, her embroidery forgotten, “what are you talking about?”

Charlotte shut her eyes and took in a slow breath. Lifting her chin, she met her family’s gazes, one by one. “If I am to explain, I must begin some months ago. Mama, you had better take a seat again.”

Mama nodded, watching Charlotte with uncertainty and a degree of fear that made Charlotte’s heart ache.

She told them of her first caricature, of Mr. Digby and his increasing demands upon her, of the journal and of meeting Anthony. She told them of their subsequent encounters and the night of the engagement, all the way until Mr. Digby’s most recent letter.

The only thing she did not tell them was about Silas, for that was not her secret to divulge. She kept Anthony’s reasons for wanting the diary vague, trusting her family would be too concerned with all the other information to press her about that part.

When she quieted at the end, the silence was deafening, and Charlotte hung her head, not bothering to wipe her wet cheeks.

It was Mama who finally spoke. “What of Mrs. Ashby? Does she know?”

Charlotte shook her head.

“Shall you tell her?” Tabitha asked.

“It is not my place. That is for Anthony to decide.”

Silence fell amongst them again.

“She will be devastated,” Lillian said softly.

“Or furious,” Tabitha said with a significant look. She placed a hand over Charlotte’s. “At Anthony, of course, not at you.”

Charlotte swallowed. That hardly made her feel better. She hated to think how betrayed Mrs. Ashby would feel. Would she blame it all upon Anthony? It was not his fault, much as Charlotte had tried to convince herself of that in the beginning.

“I have made the most terrible bungle of it all,” she said, shaking her head. “I have betrayed your trust and put our family’s name in peril. And whatever money I managed to save must now be used to buy Mr. Digby’s silence, for I am certain he will threaten me again when it serves him to do so.”

“No, Charlotte,” Tabitha said firmly. “You cannot surrender to that snake. Let him do his worst! We will survive it. Together.”

Charlotte’s chin trembled as she met her sister’s obstinate gaze, which turned wondering after a moment.

“I can hardly credit that it has been you making the caricatures all this time,” Tabitha said. “How did you keep it from us so long?”

“With little enough pleasure, I assure you.”

Mama’s eyes regarded Charlotte with a bit of wonder. “You are the reason we have been receiving more money from the trustees than expected. And that is why you offered to be the one to handle correspondence with them.”

Charlotte grimaced. “I did not know how else to make the money available to us while keeping its source hidden. I am sorry for being dishonest, Mama. And for putting the Mandeville name at risk.”

Mama grimaced, but there was sympathy in her eyes. “It is not what I would have wished for you, Charlotte, but I understand why you have been doing it—for us. And, if I am being entirely honest, I am quite proud of your talent.”

“While I rue the day I ever put pencil to paper,” Charlotte said.

Tabitha looked at Lillian through narrowed eyes. “Did you not once disparage the caricatures?”

“It was Charlotte who did so,” Lillian countered swiftly.

“And you agreed with her.”

Lillian’s lips flattened with displeasure. “I was merely disapproving of the furor they produced amongst the village and those passing through.”

“If you say so,” Tabitha said mischievously.

Mama reached over and squeezed her hand. “As you have assured us so many times: all will be well. We shall come about.”

Charlotte gave a trembling smile. How she loved her family! If only she had told them sooner, she might have spared herself a great deal of anguish. She would not pay Mr. Digby. She wished she could abandon him entirely. But they would need the money more than ever once the engagement with Anthony came to an end.

As Mama said, though, they would survive it together. She needed to tell Anthony, though, for his name would be associated with whatever scandal might result. She needed to inform him, too, that she had told her family the truth. He could decide whether to do the same with his brothers and aunt. She hoped he would be forthcoming with them. For his own sake.

She waited, perched on the edge of her bed until she finally heard the sounds of movement in his bedchamber. She shot up, both nervous and eager to see him. She had seen the flash of anger in his eyes when she had told him of Digby’s first threat; what would he do now that those threats had intensified?

Heart beating erratically, she walked over to the door that separated their rooms. Her fist hung in the air for a moment before she knocked softly.

“Come in,” said Anthony.

She turned the knob and urged the door open.

Anthony was seated on his bed with his boots, generously caked in mud, sitting on the floor nearby. Charlotte had assumed his business was in Town, but the state of the boots and of the greatcoat that hung over the chairback said differently.

“Good heavens,” she said.

He looked up at her, and her eyes widened.

She rushed over and crouched in front of him, looking up at the crimson gash near his brow. “Anthony, what happened?”

He shook his head. “It is only paint. A mere accident.” He attempted a smile.

“There is nothing mere about it. Wait a moment, and I shall tend to it.” Without pausing for a reply, she strode to the water basin and dipped a towel in it.

“Really, Charlotte,” he said, “there is no need.”

She took a seat beside him on the bed. “Stop being stubborn and turn your head this way so I may clean the wound.”

With a sigh, he obeyed, and she touched the wet end of the towel to the gash softly.

He winced almost imperceptibly.

“Forgive me,” she said, tending to it more gently. “How will you frown properly with such an injury? You will be unrecognizable.”

The corner of his mouth turned up at the edge, though the amusement did not extend to his eyes.

“Do you truly mean not to tell me what happened?”

The smile faded. He took a moment before responding. “I paid a visit to Digby.”

Charlotte’s hand went still, and she met his gaze. Their eyes held for a moment.

“You have nothing to worry about from him anymore,” he said, “and no need to continue the caricatures.”

Charlotte’s mouth hung open, but no words would come.

Anthony searched her face, his frown still intact. “I saw the letter he wrote you, Charlotte. The threats he made.” The muscle in his jaw jumped.

She lowered her hand, staring at him. “You ... you read my personal correspondence?”

“When I found you in the garden and realized you had been crying, I was almost certain Digby was the reason. I assure you I would not have read the letter had I not suspected his hurting you. But I didn’t realize the depths of his villainy until I read it myself.” He shook his head, his brows furrowing even more deeply as he stared forward.

Charlotte couldn’t explain the emotion filling her chest—some strange mixture of relief and betrayal and anger. “And, having gone behind my back in that, you thought you might as well pay him a visit without my knowledge?”

Anthony’s head whipped toward her. “Yes, Charlotte. You are welcome.”

“Welcome? You violate my privacy and meddle in my affairs, then expect my thanks? Did you think me incapable of handling things on my own?” She held his gaze, and when he said nothing, she stood and began pacing. He had ended the arrangement without even speaking to her. What would she do now to support her family?

“I thought,” Anthony said clearly, “that it was time I made good on the threats you made to him in my name.” He stood. “Do you think you can bandy about my name and make threats on my behalf and I shall stand by while my betrothed is threatened? I am well-aware you think little of me, but good heavens, Charlotte.”

She paced the long rug that ran the length of the bedchamber, from the head of Anthony’s bed to the wall opposite. Why was she so angry? There was nothing but relief in knowing she would not be obliged to defy Mr. Digby, in knowing she was no longer under his power. There was gratitude—tenderness, even—in knowing Anthony had gone to such lengths to protect her.

She stopped mid-stride. That was it. She was coming to rely upon Anthony more and more ... and it terrified her. He had stopped her only means of providing for her family, and—as horrid as the employment and employer were—her family desperately needed that money. By taking that away, Charlotte needed Anthony more than ever.

Yet, he would not stay. He would not be there to pick up the pieces that would inevitably shatter when their engagement ended. He would not be there to face the future and decide what to do next.

She shut her eyes, for the thought made her sick, and not only out of fear. How would she bear to lose him?

“I can take care of myself.” She said it as much to convince herself as she did for his benefit.

“I don’t doubt it,” he replied.

She turned toward him. “Then why? Why would you do such a thing? Why not simply ask me about the letter if you assumed it was from Mr. Digby?”

“I did, Charlotte.” He rose to his feet and approached her. “I asked you, and you said it had contained nothing of import. But I knew that was not true. I had hoped, fool that I was, that you would confide in me of your own volition, just as I confided in you about Silas. We are engaged, Charlotte.”

“We are not!” she cried out. “Can you not see that your insistence on trying to get me out of scrapes is precisely the reason we find ourselves in this unbearable situation in the first place?”

The room went silent, and they stared at one another from inches apart.

Anthony swallowed and dropped his gaze. “True enough,” he said softly.

Charlotte’s chest rose and fell, and she fought the aggravating desire to cry. Her gaze went to the wound on his brow, and her throat thickened. “Did he strike you?”

Anthony shook his head and returned to sit on the bed. He took the damp towel in his hand and pressed it to the gash. “I slipped in the mud when I struck him. Hit my head on the fence.”

Charlotte cringed at the image his words conjured. The only reason he had this injury was because of her. She had brought nothing but trouble to him since their first meeting, and she hated knowing that.

She hated how her heart throbbed looking at him nursing the injury, hated how much she wanted to hate him as she had once done. But she did not hate him. She loved him. Fiercely.

Guilt pricked her conscience, and she let out a sigh, joining him on the bed. She reached for the towel in his hand, but he resisted. She waited, meeting his gaze, her fingers firm around his until he finally released the cloth, and their hands broke apart.

“So, you struck Mr. Digby,” she repeated.

“Something I have wished to do since the first time I met him.”

“And you have me to thank for giving you the opportunity.” Charlotte stole a furtive glance at him, hoping he would take the olive branch she was extending.

His gaze met hers, a subtle twinkle in his eye. “You were merely my excuse.”

“You are insufferable,” she said, using her free hand to move the hair that had fallen near the wound.

“And you unbearable.”

They smiled slightly at one another, and Charlotte felt that increasingly familiar nudge that teased with questions of what it would be like to kiss Anthony. Would it be so very bad to try?

She cleared her throat and pulled her hand away. Yes, it would be so very bad. As she had just said, they were not truly engaged or in love at all. She could not allow herself to fall any further.

“There. That is better. Perhaps your aunt’s cook can make up a poultice in the morning.” Standing, she took the towel back and placed it beside the porcelain basin. “I told my family the truth, Anthony.”

He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

“Not about Silas,” she clarified. “But about ... us. And the caricatures.”

“And what did they have to say?”

“They were crushingly kind and understanding,” she said ruefully. “Far better to me than I deserve.”

“Hardly. They simply recognize the sacrifices you have made on their behalf, and they love you all the better for it. How could they not?”

Charlotte’s eyes flicked to his. His expression was impassible, however, giving her no clue as to whether he loved her all the better for what he saw in her. After his standing up to Digby, she couldn’t doubt that he cared for her, at least as a friend. But did he feel the love she felt?

“I was thinking,” she said, “that perhaps it would be wise to take the diary you already have to Barrington.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed, only to relax again as comprehension dawned in his eyes. “To replace the one there with. Yes. A capital idea.”

She walked to the door that led to her room, then stopped with her hand on the knob and shot him a smile. “I am not so incompetent as you think me.”

“I think you a number of things, but incompetent is certainly not one.”

Charlotte’s breath stuttered, and she forced a wavering smile. She desperately wished to know what he thought of her, but she dared not ask.

Instead, she wished him goodnight and returned to her bed, no nearer to sleep than she had been two hours ago.