CHAPTER ONE

Charlotte Wentworth sat on a stone bench among the roses. The tree above her head cast a small shadow, protecting her from the day's heat, and bathing the grass about her feet in dappled sunlight.

She often came into the garden to write. It was pleasant to listen to the chirp of the birds in the trees and the rustle of wind about the branches while she scribbled in her journal. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, the ink staining their tips. The sight of it had been a constant companion over the past few years.

Rotating her wrist, she briefly paused in her writing, having filled almost five pages of her journal with her thoughts for the day. As usual, her musings led to poetry, and she read through the few lines she had created with a critical eye. She was rather proud of the little sonnet, finishing the final stanza with a flourish.

Charlotte was grateful for the moment of stillness amongst the flowers; it was one of the few times of late that she had felt any semblance of peace. As she watched a swallow flit in a darting line above her head, the quiet calm was fractured by the approaching sound of footsteps on gravel.

Charlotte swiftly secreted her journal in the folds of her dress as the familiar form of Sarah Gilmore, her governess-turned-companion, walked toward her. Charlotte’s heart sank when she saw the expression on Sarah’s face.

“What is it?” she asked mournfully, already knowing the answer.

“Your father has requested your presence at dinner,” Sarah said solemnly, her expression carefully blank. She stood primly in the gardens, her dark dress contrasting against the bobbing heads of the pale flowers.

“How is his mood today?” Charlotte asked, watching the familiar look of furtive worry cross her friend’s face as Sarah glanced back toward the house. “He is not so bad,” she said carefully. “He was rather anxious as to your whereabouts.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “And where should I be but, in the house, and grounds?”

“You know he worries about you.”

“He does not worry; he likes to be obeyed .”

Sarah stepped forward, her head on one side, giving her a look of admonishment. “He has had a difficult year. We all have.”

Charlotte sighed, rising from the cool bench and walking out into the sunshine to join her friend. Sarah was right; of course, they had all had a terrible year.

Her eyes strayed to the far walls of the house, where the ivy cascaded over the bricks and mortar beneath her mother’s window. Sarah had grown intimately familiar with that view over the past three and a half years. The curtains covering the pane were a painful reminder that no candle would be visible inside the room that night, or any night, now that her mother had left them.

She hooked her arm in Sarah’s, sighing heavily. “I am only saying that Papa does not worry about me. He worries for the sake of the estate. If I should vanish into the winds, who would he have to ensure an advantageous marriage?”

“Charlotte, you are being unfair.”

“I am being realistic.”

Sarah squeezed her arm. “Your father loves you in his way. Have you not considered that perhaps his mind is elsewhere these last few months?”

“I know he misses Mama. We all do.”

Sarah remained quiet for a long time as they walked toward the house through the grasses. The lawn had been left to grow, and the stems brushed their feet as they made their way inside.

“I know how difficult it has been for you. But provoking your father will lead to nothing but pain.”

Charlotte felt the weight of those words more keenly than ever as she glanced at Sarah. Their long friendship had been forged over the years, both with Sarah as her tutor and guide and her closest confidante. Charlotte often needed Sarah’s steady sensibilities when her own hot-headedness ruled her, and now was no exception. It occurred to Charlotte that placating her father was in both of their best interests.

“I have heard you,” she said softly. “I shall behave. I know he means well.”

Sarah laughed. “That has never been in question; I hope you know that. You are the easiest pupil who ever lived.”

“Such praise!” Charlotte said with a wry smile. “I wish I could list the benefits in my character; I could hand a card out to suitors to recommend me when I eventually return to society.”

“Did I say easy? You are quite impossible,” Sarah said good-naturedly as they reached the door to the house. It was opened by a footman, and Charlotte nodded to him gratefully as she went to prepare for another interminable meal with her father.

***

Lord Richard Wentworth, the Marquess of Wensingdale, was an imposing figure. His greying, slightly curling hair was swept away from his face, making his bushy eyebrows all the more pronounced. Since her mother’s death, his mouth had been set in a perpetually stern line, his cheeks hollowed out and sunken from lack of sleep.

Charlotte took a seat opposite him, her fingers trembling slightly in his presence. Although she had been eating meals with him all her life, his demeanour and general temper had changed a great deal since her mother’s death. His stern exterior was even more pronounced, and he rarely acknowledged any comments his daughter might make when he asked for her opinion.

Charlotte increasingly felt like a ghost in her own home. Sarah was the only person who truly listened to her, so Charlotte always wrote her thoughts down in her journal. At least on paper, no one could deny that she had said or thought something.

She cleared her throat as the starter of chicken soup was served. Her father’s eyes were fixed on his bowl, the dark circles around them heavy in the dim lighting of the room. The long-case clock in the corner was the only accompanying sound, save for the crackle of the fire, the atmosphere thick with tension.

She longed to share her poetry with her father, to see the warmth and pride in his eyes that he used to have in her earlier years. But those times were long gone. If she ever mentioned any whiff of creativity now, she could see his eyes glaze over. That had been her mother’s love, too, and he was neither ready nor willing to discuss such things.

Having decided she might mention the beauty of the garden to try and coax him out of his dark mood, Charlotte opened her mouth to speak. However, before she could utter a syllable, Lord Wentworth cleared his throat and laid his cutlery down in a deliberate movement that made fear spike through her heart.

She knew that expression, it always preceded an important announcement of some kind. Charlotte knew this would not bode well for her quiet existence of solitude and calm.

“I fear we have been in the country too long.” Her father's rumbling voice moved through the space like thundering hooves. “It is time that we returned to society. It has been many years since you should have had your debut, and you must take your place among the ton.”

Charlotte tried to keep the horror from her face as she slowly lowered her spoon into her bowl.

“Did you have a particular event in mind, Papa?”

He looked up at her, his brow furrowed. “Event? We will be returning to London. There will be a plethora of events and balls as there always are at this time of year.”

Charlotte’s blood ran cold at his words. Although she had known she would have to return to society eventually, she had anticipated a gradual increase in her engagements over time. They were already halfway through the season, and it seemed preposterous that he was contemplating quitting the country altogether.

“Papa, I am still in mourning.”

He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “You are only in mourning for another month at most. Our decision to end it early will be understood. If we wait any longer, the season will be all but over.”

Charlotte swallowed nervously, wishing Sarah was with her to argue on her behalf. Sarah was always polite and reverent with her father but could get her point across without triggering his ire.

“I am very content here, Papa,” she attempted, her voice rising in agitation. She felt close to panic. “I am able to write here, to go about my days gently. It has been a tumultuous year and difficult for everyone. I had not expected that we would return to London so quickly.”

Her father looked up at her, and his eyes narrowed, making Charlotte’s nerves bubble to the surface again. He had little time for excuses or notions of comfort. She knew that well. He had lost the only thing in his life that had ever brought him any comfort, and he did not expect anyone else to indulge in it now.

“My decision is final, my girl, and you will thank me for it. You are already nineteen and have missed many educational years of how one must move amongst the ton. Without some exposure to the season, I can never hope that you will make a good match.”

A dark flicker of something passed across his face, and Charlotte’s unease grew. The conversation felt weighted, as though there was far more to his desire to return than he was telling her.

“Could we not—”

“I have told you what we shall do. That is the end of it.”

Lord Wentworth never raised his voice but could win any argument with his steely gaze alone. It was at times like this that she missed her mother the most. Lady Wentworth had known exactly when and how to push her husband in the right direction, and her actions were always in Charlotte’s best interests. Her father saw her as a problem he needed to fix rather than a woman in her own right. Her marriage would only take place with her father’s approval; she had no doubt of that, and with the whirlwind of society before her, she felt nothing but misery at the prospect of who he would see as acceptable.

“Very well, Papa,” she bit back, placing her spoon against the side of her bowl as her father gestured for the plates to be removed. She had barely touched her food; her appetite entirely gone.

Her father said nothing else throughout the main course, barking at the assembled servants that he was in no mood for dessert before he left the room entirely.

Charlotte remained in the room alone, with nothing but silence and the weight of his expectations for her company.

Later, when she was finally alone in her bedchamber, Charlotte allowed herself a moment of intense grief that she had been holding off all evening. She sat on her bed, curled in on herself with her journal clutched against her chest, allowing the tears to fall in earnest.

London was somewhere that she had longed for when she was younger. At the age of sixteen, with a bright future ahead, she yearned to see the brightness of the city, spend time amongst the elite of society, and meet her peers on an even playing field.

Her mother’s illness had been a creeping and protracted affair, something that none of them recognized as serious when it first began.

Occasionally, over a period of months, her mother might say she felt too exhausted to get out of bed, and her father would call for a physician, believing it to be some malady of the mind. But after a while, those disparate days became more frequent, and in the latter months of her life, her mother had barely left her room, Charlotte acting as her principal carer and nursemaid.

She stared at the walls around her. They were covered in bright paper which seemed to laugh at her as her melancholy set in.

The pale greens and bright gold of the willow branches etched into the surface created a picture of the natural world that she so loved. The only solace she had had over the past year was her walks in the gardens and the surrounding areas. She had walked for miles with Sarah by her side as her mother’s illness had truly taken hold. The vast vistas of the English countryside and the endless rolling hills had reminded her of beauty when all her mind could feel was despair.

Now, she could not prevent the same feeling from overwhelming her. The thought of socializing amongst the ton, a world she was unfamiliar with and had been so absent from, was terrifying. She would be paraded before the bachelors of high society for them to judge if she was worthy.

Charlotte knew she was already considered beyond her prime, having missed her true debut at seventeen and now almost twenty. It was a dreadful thought. She could practically see the condescending expressions on the faces of those about the ball as she walked through the room—judged by so many who did not know her.

The fact that she had tirelessly chosen to care for her mother for three long years, giving up her chances at marriage and happiness, would not matter to the gossip-mongers. She would be judged for who she was now, not who she could have been.

Charlotte closed her eyes rising from her prone position and walking to her desk. In times of strife, she always turned to her journal. The act of writing by hand and allowing her mind to spill her innermost thoughts and feelings onto the page had always calmed her busy head. At least she could truly be herself, allowing her honest thoughts to manifest without fear of judgment and derision.