Chapter 5

“Will you fetch the post, my dear?” Mama asked from the small escritoire in the sitting room.

Charlotte hesitated. It was the first time since Papa’s death that she was tempted to ask the maid to go instead. She suspected Mr. Yorke was still at The Crown and Castle, and she did not wish to see him just now. Upon reflection, the caricature she had done of him had perhaps not been the wisest of decisions.

“Of course,” Charlotte answered, not wishing to provide the explanation for her sudden reticence to do the very thing she had insisted upon doing for so long.

She fetched her bonnet, pelisse, and gloves, then made the walk into the village, trying to determine a strategy which would allow her to avoid Mr. Yorke. It was not that she regretted the caricature. He deserved to be put in his place. But now, there would be no doubt in his mind that she was the artist. Not to mention, when she had returned home after seeing him yesterday, Tabitha had informed her that she had a pencil smudge on her cheek. No wonder Mr. Yorke’s gaze had fixed there.

She slowed her pace as she approached the inn, her gaze watchful. But she saw no sign of him anywhere outside.

There were a few people standing in front of the inn window, staring at the caricature.

“It is not Silas, I assure you,” said a man definitively. “It is Anthony, my dear. Only look at the thick brows.”

Charlotte stopped on the pretense of retying the lace of her half-boot, listening with keen ears.

“Ah,” said the woman beside the man, as though she finally understood. “Right you are. The eldest.”

“No, no, my dear. You are confused. William is the eldest. You remember him, surely. Strait-laced fellow. Thinks mighty highly of himself.”

“You would, too, if you were in line for a dukedom.”

The man snorted. “The Duke of Rockwood and his two sons are in perfect health, and they want nothing to do with the Yorkes. Not to mention, he has started paying his attentions to Harrison’s widow. I would not be surprised if he had two or three more sons just to put more distance between the Yorkes and the title.”

“That may be, but the Yorkes seem not to suffer for it. They are accepted everywhere.”

One could only tie one’s shoelaces so many times before attracting attention, and Charlotte rose reluctantly and continued to the door of the inn. She pushed it open slowly, holding her breath as the entry came into view. There was no sign of Anthony Yorke, however, and she closed the door behind her.

No one attended at the desk where Mr. Digby kept the post, and Charlotte hesitated, then peeked her head around the doorway that led to the taproom.

She retreated instantly at the sight of Anthony’s head, her heart hammering. Why could he not simply leave the village and let her be? No doubt, he was plotting his revenge for the caricature.

Turning her head so her bonnet obscured her face from view of the taproom, she slipped past the open doorway and stood in front of the desk, tapping her finger upon it impatiently and looking over her shoulder every few seconds.

“Mary,” she hissed when the maid finally appeared, a tray in hand.

“Miss Mandeville,” Mary said in surprise.

“Is there any post?” Charlotte asked in a whisper.

Mary nodded and set the tray down on the desk. She stepped behind it and crouched until she was hid from Charlotte’s view. “How long does Mr. Yorke intend to remain?” Charlotte asked in hushed tones.

Mary stood. “One more night at least, according to Mr. Digby. Here.” She handed Charlotte a sole letter.

Charlotte’s gaze took in the script and the fact that it was addressed to Mama. Her stomach dropped. It was from the executor. She was certain of it.

All thought of Mr. Yorke fled her mind as she tried to grasp the implications of the letter she now held. They must have finally found the heir, which meant the Mandevilles’ days at Bellevue were numbered.

“Thank you, Mary,” she said faintly, handing the maid a fistful of coins.

“This is far too much,” Mary protested.

“You deserve it,” Charlotte said, smiling feebly. “For all the ways you have helped me. I must go now.” She hurried back to the door, shooting a quick glance at Anthony in the taproom just as he looked at her.

He rose from his seat, but Charlotte raced outside, charging down the street at a pace no genteel woman would take, then slipping between the baker’s and the mill. Breath coming quickly, she hid behind the baker’s, staring at the letter until she felt confident Anthony would have given up looking for her.

She adopted a rushed pace between a walk and a run for the rest of the way, slowing only when she came within thirty feet of home. Trying to slow her rapid breathing, she walked the last bit slowly. The letter would cause chaos and confusion, and Charlotte had promised herself to always be a force for hope in her family.

With feigned confidence, Charlotte entered her home and then the sitting room. Mama, Tabitha, and Lillian all looked up, seated on the sofa, precisely as they had been when she had left. Mama’s eyes darted to Charlotte’s hand, then back to her face.

Charlotte tried for a smile, but it was more like a grimace.

Mama took in a breath and nodded. “Bring it here, my dear.”

Charlotte obeyed, then worked on removing her bonnet and gloves, trying to ignore how thick the air in the room was as Mama broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

“Dear Mrs. Mandeville,” she read in a voice trying desperately not to shake, “I write to inform you of the status of our attempts to locate the heir to your late husband’s estate.”

Tabitha’s hand reached for Charlotte’s, grasping it tightly. No one valued Bellevue more highly than Tabitha.

“Unfortunately, the man believed to be the heir—the son of your late husband’s cousin—was discovered to have died in Jamaica some months ago. As he was unmarried, the search continues. I will inform you, as promised, of any further developments. Your servant, John Marshall.”

Mama’s hand shot to her chest, and a trembling breath of relief passed her lips.

“He is dead,” Tabitha cried out. “Thank heaven!”

“Tab,” Lillian censured her, but there was little force behind it.

For her part, Charlotte felt weak with the sensation of deliverance. While the inheritance was still unsettled, the terms of the will allowed them to remain at Bellevue and receive a portion of the income. But there was no telling when they would be ousted from their beloved home.

She retired to her bedchamber, unable to fully put aside the utter helplessness she had felt upon being given the letter. How would they face what lay ahead when the dreaded letter arrived? The money she had saved from the caricatures was helpful, of course, and she was grateful for it. The diary had plenty of fodder for future caricatures, as well.

She pulled the diary from its place in the drawer, opening to the page she had left off, nearly halfway through. She had read until well past midnight, certain there was something about Anthony Yorke in those pages, as well—something he was desperate to keep secret. He claimed to wish for the diary on someone else’s account, but that was precisely what a guilty person would say.

If only she could find his secret, perhaps she could persuade him to pay handsomely for it. The thought was distasteful, but sacrifices had to be made in these situations—even sacrifices of conscience.

But how much money would suffice when the future was so uncertain? How much would it require to support four women for an indefinite amount of time?

What they truly needed more than money were connections—smart matches for Lillian and Tabitha, both of whom were fine young women deserving of love and support from equally fine young gentlemen. Charlotte was certain they would make a good account of themselves and capture plenty of interest if given the chance.

It was the opportunity to interact with eligible young men that they currently lacked.

Charlotte shut the diary, her intent gaze fixed ahead of her.

Perhaps this diary could change that.