CHAPTER TWELVE

Following the modiste, Sarah and Charlotte had an engagement at Lady Winterson’s literary salon that afternoon. Once more, Charlotte was thrust into the sharp scrutiny of society and could not help but long for her quiet days in the country again.

Sarah was a steady source of reassurance, and as they entered the drawing room of the elegant townhouse, for the first time, Charlotte received some friendly greetings from her peers. She felt that she was at least being recognized as more than just her mother’s carer now, which was a great relief.

Her father had begged off the event, citing a megrim, which Charlotte was grateful for. Her father’s expectations still rumbled at the back of her mind, but being granted a reprieve from his constant observations was freeing. She was also pleased to see that from the first scan of the room, Lord Kilby was not present.

She and Sarah took their seats, the room filling with the gentle murmur of intellectual conversation. A strange awareness overcame Charlotte as she settled her dress. She turned in her seat to see the duke enter the room with his mother. It only took a very short time for his eyes to find hers, and that gentle warmth came into them as he nodded in her direction. Charlotte inclined her head but turned back to face the front of the room, aware that any time spent lingering on him would only start tongues wagging.

Colin found it difficult to keep his eyes diverted elsewhere from the back of Lady Wentworth’s head. She was sitting with Miss Gilmore and speaking to some of the women in her close vicinity, and Colin longed to move closer to her.

Lady Winterson entered shortly after inviting them all to join her in her salon. The whole party moved into another room where several books and publications had been placed for them to discuss.

“I am feeling rather tired, Colin,” his mother said, although she had seemed quite spritely only minutes before. “I think I shall sit at the back of the room and get involved in the next discussion. I have little interest in poetry.”

Colin ensured she was happily settled and then made for his seat, excited to see that Lady Wentworth had a space beside her, and in an act of true boldness, he came level with her, bowing low.

“May I join you, Lady Wentworth?”

“Of course, your Grace,” she said with a smile, and Colin took his seat.

“Have you seen any of the volumes that we might be discussing today?”

“Not as yet, your Grace. Are you anticipating a particular title?”

Colin glanced at her, wondering whether he should continue their tradition and be truly open with her. He greatly relished that side of their relationship. He felt that his guarded nature did not falter with many people so easily, but with Lady Wentworth, it was not a burden to be himself.

“Last time I came to one of these events, I believe it was last year, Lady Winterson had some rather controversial political pamphlets to discuss. I confess they are not to everyone’s taste, but I enjoy politics and reading about the rights of man. Not to say poetry is, as you know, something I highly value.”

“I believe any man who is not interested in politics is not interested in the world about him,” she said evenly. “I have had rather a sheltered existence, as I have repeatedly been told of late, and I would welcome a chance to hear your views on many subjects, your Grace.”

Although his heart was singing at her, wishing to hear his point of view, Colin frowned as he saw the shadow pass across her face. “Sheltered, Lady Wentworth? You made the ultimate sacrifice to care for a loved one. That is not to be criticized in any quarter.” The bite in his voice was rather harsh as his protectiveness came to the fore, and he cleared his throat hurriedly. When he looked at her again, he was horrified to see that there were tears in her eyes. “I am sorry, I should not have mentioned it.”

“No,” she said firmly. “So few see it that way. It is refreshing, your Grace. I may have missed a great deal of my early life in society, but I would not change it for the world.”

“Nor should you,” he murmured as Lady Winterson came to the front of the room and clapped her hands for silence.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming to our little soiree. There are several volumes for us to discuss on the small tables before you. Each ordered differently so that you will all discuss a different book each time the bell rings.” Lady Winterson was an older, rather portly woman, and Charlotte felt great affection for her because of the excitement in her eyes at her event. “I do hope you enjoy yourselves; may the discussion commence!”

Charlotte chuckled. “She is like a mother goose admiring her goslings,” she said.

“Lady Winterson adores these functions,” Colin said happily. “I have been to a few, and they are always excellent. Shall we dive in?”

“Certainly.”

“I can see you already have your eye on something.”

Charlotte laughed. “You know me, your Grace, I cannot resist a poem.” She picked up The Lady of the Lake by Sir Walter Scott and opened the pages, looking at the cascading verses before her.

Lady Wentworth handed him the book, and their fingers brushed as she did so, and Colin could not suppress a gasp of pleasure. Both of them seemed to freeze in place as their eyes met, and, mindful of those about them, both hastily looked down at the book.

“It is one of my favourites of recent times. It was one of the last books my mother bought for me before she became… it is very dear to me.”

“And what do you like so much about it?”

“I used to read it to her late into the evening. She adored Scotland you see, and I felt that perhaps it might settle her dreams if she could think of the wild highlands.

The noble stag was pausing now

Upon the mountain's southern brow,

Where broad extended, far beneath,

The varied realms of fair Menteith.

Colin watched her lips form the words, noting the awe in her voice as she recited without a need to refer to the text.

“There are many passages like that,” she said, “showing the grandeur of the Scottish hillsides. It is my dearest wish to go someday. I have heard it is beautiful.”

“It is indeed. There are many wonderful places to walk where you can see stags wandering in the woods and hillsides.”

“Have you been, your Grace?”

“Many times, I love Scotland. It is a wild country filled with history and folklore. I have often wished I possessed an estate up there. Lord Edward Hayesworth, a very close friend, has a home in Perthshire. It is not the easiest journey, but utterly beautiful.” He riffled through the pages. “And is there anything else about the poem that you admire?”

Lady Wentworth’s cheeks coloured beautifully, and Colin was delighted to see it. He found himself amused again, deeply happy that he could witness such a reaction, and his smile came easily, casting off the shroud of his papers and ledgers for a little time.

“I can see that there is something. Now you must tell me, I have hit upon it.”

Charlotte shook her head ruefully. “I confess, Sir James Fitz-James is very admirable. I rather think chivalrous men are the most impressive.”

The duke eyed her with a knowing glint in his eye. “I shall make a note,” he said softly, and a gentle quiet settled between them.

Charlotte did not know what he had meant by that, but she could only imagine it was a comment intended for her somehow.

Behind them, Malcolm watched his cousin blush and hid a smile as he continued his own discussion with Elizabeth. For Malcolm’s part, he hardly knew what to do with himself.

Elizabeth was the loveliest creature he had ever had the privilege of speaking to. Every time she spoke, he found himself unable to concentrate on anything else. She was eminently sensible and not at all like the silly chits he had been forced to socialize with for so many years. Elizabeth was fiercely intelligent. He could not help imagining a far-off future where they might have children together and how clever and sensible they might be.

He had spent much time in society and had heard several friends speak of how they had felt when they had met the woman they knew they would marry. He had cast off such romantic commentary, but now his heart was beating so loudly at her proximity that he worried she might be able to hear it. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Elizabeth was who he wanted above anyone else in the world.

“I am not as well versed in poems as Lady Wentworth,” Malcolm confessed. “I was much better at history and science at school.”

“You are most self-deprecating, my Lord,” Elizabeth chided him gently, for the man had a propensity to criticize himself that she did not care for. Lord Preston appeared to believe that all other men were superior to him in intellect and had been most embarrassed at his performance at cards. “You have made many pertinent points,” she protested.

“About the words, not the meaning,” he said again, and she held herself back from laying a hand on his arm as she might a female friend to reassure him.

“I would like to ask you to do something for me, my Lord,” she said carefully.

He raised his eyebrows at her and, for a moment, his expression deepened to something quite different. “Anything.”

“I would like you to speak kindly of yourself when you are conversing with me.”

Lord Preston frowned as though her words were a surprise to him, but then he gave a crooked smile and bowed his head. “Very well, Lady Ludlow. I had not realised I was speaking ill of myself, but I shall endeavour to desist.”

“Good,” she said with a happy smile, and they continued to discuss the poem for several minutes more until the bell rang. Elizabeth could not help noticing that by the end of the discussion, Lady Wentworth and her cousin were leaning into one another far more than they had been at the start.

After a couple of hours of intense discussion and a mixing of the groups that had moved Colin away from Lady Wentworth, he found himself lingering at the back of the room as he waited for his mother to finish refreshing.

Lady Wentworth was speaking animatedly with Elizabeth. The two women clearly got along very well, which warmed Colin’s heart to see. Anyone Elizabeth liked was always worth liking.

As though by design, Elizabeth drew Lady Wentworth toward him through the room, and Colin’s body tensed as she approached. She was such a lovely-looking woman, and having come to know her personality, he believed her to be one of the most beautiful women of his acquaintance. Beauty was not just skin deep, and Lavinia Norwell was a testament to that fact. She might be extremely pretty, but her smiles were false, and she had a sharp, vicious tongue that he had heard on several occasions.

Charlotte was all soft lines with a kind and settled temperament. He had not spent such an enjoyable evening with anyone for many years, and that she could drag his mind away from his ledgers was proof enough to her conversation.

As she came level with him, he bowed.

“Thank you for your insight into the books and poems this evening, Lady Wentworth. I believe I shall speak to Hayesworth about visiting his Scottish estate as soon as I am able to.” Her face fell just a fraction, and Colin felt a judder of hope run through him. “Not until the end of the season; however, I have much to do here in the meantime.”

Lady Wentworth smiled. “Good evening, your Grace, I hope you have managed to steal some of the political pamphlets to read on your journey home.”

Colin chuckled. “You know me too well, Lady Wentworth.”

At that, his mother returned to him, and he escorted her out. He felt lighter on his feet, his mind clear for the first time in weeks, and he had only Lady Wentworth to thank.

***

That night, Charlotte went to bed feeling a mixture of excitement, uncertainty, and dread. The shadow of her father’s expectations still hung over her, and she could not understand why he was so certain of Kilby’s suitability.

As she made her way to the side of the bed, a floorboard creaked loudly beneath her foot and shifted slightly. She looked down at it in surprise to find that a large gap had formed beside it, as though the floorboard itself could be removed.

Glancing up to ensure she was alone, and no servants had entered the room without her knowledge, Charlotte knelt on the ground and pulled the floorboard up and out of the groove where it sat.

Beneath it, she found a dark red journal, its pages yellowed with years beneath the floor. She drew it out, her heart thudding with excitement.

Moving to the fireplace she settled into a chair as the flames crackled beside her and tucked her feet beneath her as she opened it to the first page. The entry was dated twenty-five years before and was written in her mother’s familiar hand.

"April 15, 1790-Tonight, I met him again at Lady Brookfield's ball. Auric Ludlow, the most captivating gentleman I've ever encountered. His eyes seem to see right through me, and when we danced, it felt as though we were the only two people in the room. Father would never approve, of course. The Ludlows, while respected, lack the ancient lineage he so prizes. But oh, how my heart soars when Auric is near!"

Charlotte's breath caught in her throat. Auric Ludlow – the duke’s father. She read on, her fingers tracing her mother’s handwriting as she absorbed the words within the journal. It told a story of a passionate romance, of which, until this moment, Charlotte had known nothing.

"May 3, 1790-Auric and I stole a moment alone in Lady Brookfield’s Garden. He spoke of his dreams, his ambitions in Parliament. The way he talks about making a difference, about using his position for the good of others-it makes me love him all the more. He asked me to meet him tomorrow, away from prying eyes. I know I shouldn't, but how can I refuse?"

"June 12, 1790-Auric asked me to marry him today. My heart wants to shout 'yes' from the rooftops, but fear holds me back. Father's disapproval looms like a storm cloud. Auric says we'll find a way, that love conquers all. I desperately want to believe him."

The entries that followed spoke of secret meetings, of plans made and unmade, of a love that seemed to defy the constraints of society. It was a soaring romance for the ages, and Charlotte could hardly believe that the flowery prose and deep sentiments belonged to her own mother.

But then, the tone changed:

"July 20, 1790-It's over. Father found out about Auric and me. His rage was terrible to behold. He's forbidden me from ever seeing Auric again, threatening to ruin the Ludlows if I disobey. Auric tried to reason with him, but Father wouldn't hear of it. He says I'm to marry Lord Richard Wentworth instead. My heart is shattered. How can I go on?"

The final entry, dated a month later, was tear-stained and barely legible:

"August 25, 1790-I am to be married tomorrow. Not to Auric, my love, but to Richard Wentworth. Father says it's for the best, that I'll learn to be content. Auric's last letter arrived today. He writes of duty, of the pressures from his own family. It seems we were both too weak to fight for our love. I'll lock away these memories, these dreams of what might have been.

Charlotte closed the journal, her heart aching. She did not know how to feel, wondering if the duke knew of the history between their families. Her own feelings for him were so new, so tentative, but they were real, nonetheless.

Are we doomed to walk the same path? She wondered. Is that the future that lies ahead of me?

Feeling the weight of history pressing down upon her shoulders, Charlotte reopened the journal and poured over the entries again. She found new insight into her mother in the words she read—her creativity, her hopes and dreams laid out in prose for her to read like a precious gift.

As dawn’s early light began to stain the far horizon, Charlotte was still awake beside the dying embers of the fire. She did not feel the despair she had felt when she first read the journal now. There was a spark of defiance in her breast that would not be extinguished.

I will not let my own story end the same way. Somehow, I will find a way to choose my own path.