Manor of Secrets (15 page)

“Very well,” Lord Edmonds said. “No need to fuss. And the real action begins with the opening of the shooting season, eh, Lord Broadhurst?” Not pausing for a reply, he added, “Hope the weather’s fine.”

David made a joke about the heat. Fran joined in with a desire to go to the seaside, which sparked a table-wide discussion about sea-bathing and spa cures, Brighton versus the more local Tunbridge Wells.

“Forgotten again,” Charlotte murmured to herself as she sat back in her chair, hands curled in her lap. For just a moment,
she had felt as if she was part of the family. Part of the decisions that were made. Part of the discussion.

“Not by all.”

Andrew’s eyes were even darker in the shadows of the candlelit dining room. Lady Diane hated electric lights over her meal. She said it made the vegetables all look overboiled.

For once, Charlotte was glad of her mother’s rules. Andrew looked mysterious. Like he might say something interesting.

“I thought to suggest that you smile,” he said, breaking the spell.

Charlotte seethed. She hated to be reminded to smile. Her mother did it all the time.

“But it makes me so irritable when someone suggests it to me,” Andrew continued. “It seems … false. Forced. And not always welcome.”

Charlotte almost lost her voice in surprise.

“Etiquette dictates that we smile even when we don’t feel like it,” she blurted.

“Society seems to think that no one can ever be sad in public,” he said, his thoughtful expression carving sharp angles along his jaw.

“Society sometimes seems to think that we can’t even be sad in private,” Charlotte quipped, startling herself. Perhaps she was learning something from Janie after all.

Then she remembered to whom she was quipping.

“But no one can be happy all the time. Especially with the way the world is currently,” Andrew said.

“What do you mean by that?” Charlotte was uncomfortable having a real conversation with Andrew Broadhurst. She would rather be bored than think any differently of him.

“Take your footman,” Andrew said, and indicated Lawrence.

Yes. Charlotte could concentrate on Lawrence.

“He wants more in life than to serve another man’s food.” Andrew turned back to Charlotte, and at that instant — as if he somehow knew he was no longer being watched by anyone else — Lawrence looked up at her and winked.

“He’s been acting as my valet since my early arrival, so I’ve had a chance to get to know him. He’s clever, he’s charming, and he reads the papers. And yet, he is not allowed to vote. He’s not given a chance to speak his mind because he owns no land and pays no rent.”

Charlotte dragged her gaze back to Andrew. “Women aren’t allowed to vote, either.”

“Exactly!” Andrew exclaimed, and she sat back at his enthusiasm. “What makes me better than Lawrence over there? Or better than you? Nothing.”

“Nothing except the circumstances of your birth.”

“Which I don’t accept as a good enough reason. The greatest injustice is that I never have to work a day in my life, while someone like Lawrence will one day get sick or break a leg and will be out of a job with no food, no doctor, and nothing but squalor to look forward to until he dies.”

“Why, Lord Broadhurst.” Fran leaned into the conversation from his other side. “You sound like our Chancellor of the Exchequer, trying to guilt us into paying insurance for the working poor. Such talk could get you thrown out of any decent house in the neighborhood.”

“Heaven forbid, Miss Caldwell,” he said with a chivalrous bow to Fran, who simpered charmingly.

Charlotte thought she might retch.

“I’d never jeopardize my welcome at The Manor,” Andrew added. “Which brings me to a question I’ve been meaning to ask your father, Lady Charlotte. Very important business. Do you know when there might be a good time I can catch him alone?”

Charlotte stifled a gasp. What type of question could Andrew Broadhurst possibly want to ask her father? Especially in private.

Fran’s eyebrows looked ready to dance off her face, and Charlotte felt a deep stab in her temple.

“He spends part of every morning in his library,” Charlotte said finally.

“Stellar,” Andrew said, rubbing his hands together. “I shall endeavor to speak with him before I leave.”

When Lady Diane excused the ladies from the table, Charlotte took the opportunity to beg off the obligatory game of bridge.

“I think the heat has given me a headache, Mother,” she said quietly as they moved to the sitting room.

Lady Diane’s lips turned white — the only indication of her true feelings. The rest of her face was impassive. Possibly — to some — she might appear concerned.

“You don’t think you can make up our fourth?” she asked.

Charlotte looked helplessly at the rest of the ladies. Aunt Beatrice. Fran.

Fran smirked.

“We can ask one of the men when they join us,” Aunt Beatrice interjected. She smiled at Charlotte. Actually smiled, and her eyes held true concern. “It’s probably best that Charlotte feel entirely herself for the shooting party. A good night’s sleep will do her no harm.”

“What do you know about raising children?” Lady Diane snapped, startling them all.

“Nothing.” Aunt Beatrice’s face fell into the same unreadable expression as her sister’s. “Obviously. I just know that sleep often cures me.”

“And responsibility? Social mores? They count for nothing, do they?” Lady Diane asked, her voice a hiss in the quiet sitting room. Fran stood with her back to them, a book in front of her. But Charlotte knew she heard every word they spoke.

“Sometimes, one has to decide what is best for everyone,” Aunt Beatrice said quietly.

Lady Diane suddenly seemed to realize that Charlotte still stood at her elbow. She waved an apathetic hand.

“Go, then. Ring Sarah if you need anything.”

A servant. Not a mother. Not even a friend. No one really to care for her.

Except for Janie.

Charlotte immediately asked for Janie when Sarah answered the bell, but the housemaid just shook her head and said Janie couldn’t come upstairs.

“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked. Now she really was getting a headache.

“She’s needed in the kitchen, Lady Charlotte.” Sarah dipped a curtsey.

Was she imagining it, or did Sarah smirk?

Sarah efficiently helped her out of her evening dress, unlaced her corset, handed her a dressing gown. Then sat her down in front of a mirror to undo her hair.

Charlotte studied the housemaid’s face in the mirror. It was a pure blank, as if she were purposefully holding something back.

Or telling a fib.

Charlotte pressed her fingers to her temples.

“I did so want to talk to her.”

Sarah harrumphed. “About what? How to roast a leg of mutton?”

“I do think that’s unfair, Sarah.”

The housemaid’s mouth straightened out into a firm line and she tugged perhaps a little too harshly on Charlotte’s hair.

“Stop.” Charlotte reached up and took the brush out of Sarah’s hand. “Just stop. I have a headache. Please send Janie up with something hot.”

“I will bring it to you, Lady Charlotte.”

“No.” Charlotte used a tone that was firmer than any of the servants were used to. Sarah looked a little shocked, but
hid it quickly. Charlotte found she didn’t care. “I want a warm cloth. I want tea. And I want Janie.”

Sarah appeared about to say something but Charlotte silenced her with a look. Such an immediate response made Charlotte feel powerful.

Charlotte wasn’t sure she liked it, this feeling of dominance. It felt … wrong. But at least it worked. Sarah left without another word, and Charlotte arranged herself on her bed. Trying to look as if her head really hurt. She imagined her mother worrying about her. Coming upstairs to see what was wrong. Only to find Charlotte slipping away into a faint, never to recover.

Charlotte put the back of her hand to her forehead and assumed a tragic expression.

There was a swift, purposeful knock at the door and she waited a moment.

“Come in,” she said weakly.

“You don’t sound like you have a headache.” Janie entered with a warm compress and a pot of tea.

Charlotte sat up and flung the counterpane to the floor.

“I just couldn’t stand another minute in that room with those people.”

“They’re your people.”

Charlotte nodded, and patted the edge of her bed. Janie perched, twisting her hands in her lap.

“I need your help,” Charlotte whispered.

“I don’t think I can help you anymore,” Janie said. Charlotte could clearly see the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

“It’s important.”

A crease appeared between Janie’s eyebrows. Charlotte almost laughed. She had one exactly like it when she was writing or thinking. Lady Diane always reprimanded her for it.

“Is … is someone in trouble?” Janie asked.

Charlotte wondered if she could trust Janie enough to tell her about the kiss with Lawrence. About how it seemed to go on forever and be over in an instant.

“Is it one of the staff?” Janie asked. She looked truly worried. “Have you heard something that could get someone dismissed?”

Charlotte put a cool hand to her cheek. Lawrence could be dismissed.

“No,” she said carefully. “It’s Andrew Broadhurst.”

Charlotte paused, and Janie stayed silent, waiting for her to continue. It was refreshing. Fran was always waiting to jump into the conversation, just like Charlotte’s father and
brothers. It was like they weren’t really listening to her words but for an opportunity to speak their own. Janie actually heard what Charlotte wanted to say.

“I need to know what he’s planning to ask my father.”

“Oh.” Janie’s eyes widened in understanding.

“You see my problem,” Charlotte said quickly, clambering out of bed. She went to stand by the window, the darkness outside almost impenetrable. She thought of the lightheartedness of Andrew’s expression. The secret mirth that she found she wanted to share. She shook the thought away.

“Do you think he’s going to ask for your hand?” Janie stood behind her. “Soon?”

Charlotte nodded. The ghost of her reflection nodded in the wavy glass.

“Does he even know you?” Janie asked. “Or is he just doing what’s expected? What
his
mother tells him to?”

There was an edge to Janie’s voice. An edge that Charlotte didn’t like. Almost as if Janie were talking not about Andrew Broadhurst, but about someone else. Someone who always did what was expected. Who never went against her mother’s wishes.

Suddenly, Charlotte wanted to prove that she wasn’t that person. She was someone who would try a hot chili pepper. Someone who could be adventurous.

“I kissed him, Janie.”

“Lord Broadhurst?” Janie sounded appropriately shocked, and Charlotte considered going along with the lie. But she wanted someone to know the truth.

“Lawrence.”

Janie looked like she had swallowed an Indian chili whole.

“No, you didn’t.” She shook her head. “You’ve been with Miss Caldwell the whole time.”

Charlotte turned around to face her. “I kissed him before tea. I left Fran on the patio, and said I was going to order chocolate cakes. But I found him in the footman’s closet and I kissed him.”

“Please don’t tell me that,” Janie said. She sounded like she had that chili stuck in her throat. Like it had burned her.

“Who else am I going to tell?” Charlotte said. “Fran?
Mother?
You’re the only friend I have who might understand, Janie!”

“I don’t think I do understand. I don’t think you do, either.”

“I think I’m in love with him,” Charlotte said with more conviction than she felt. “And that’s all that matters.”

“You’re not —” Janie stopped.

“Not what, Janie?” Charlotte glared at her. “Not in love with him? Not
worthy
of him?”

“I don’t think he loves you.”

“Why?”

“Because he tried to kiss me, too.”

All the air left Charlotte’s lungs and roared around her ears. She could taste spite like venom on her tongue. “I think you’re jealous. Not because I live in the big house and sleep in a big bed and have silks and furs and all the rest. You’re not like that.”

Janie didn’t reply.

“You think you’re so much better because you have a career,” Charlotte continued, her own bitterness turning her stomach sour. “You have a goal. Something to work for. Something to
do
, and all I accomplish is sitting around and writing letters and paying calls and waiting to get married.”

Janie shook her head.

“You can have everything!” Charlotte sobbed, realizing it was true. That Janie wasn’t the one who was jealous at all. “Freedom, a job, a purpose, a
mother
. And you wanted the only thing that could be mine.

“You already had love,” Charlotte finished, “and you wanted his, too.”

“You can’t live on love.”

“Spoken like a true cynic.” Charlotte felt the bitterness rise up again.

“No,” Janie said. “Spoken like a realist. As soon as your mother finds out, he’ll be sacked. With no pay and no reference. And then what will you do?”

“He’ll work somewhere else.”