Manor of Secrets (19 page)

Lady Diane looked up and Charlotte could see that she knew. She knew her daughter wrote those pages. And she was waiting for Charlotte to deny it, so it could be blamed on someone else. Or to apologize.

But Charlotte found she could do neither.

“Those are mine,” she said, more forcefully than before. Her mother waited, but Charlotte had nothing else to say. What she had written was the truth. At least now her mother knew how she felt.

“A warped sense of imagination,” Lady Diane said, her voice as quiet as a curse. “We have been too lenient. Allowed you too much freedom. It leads to invention. To scandal. To writing this
trash
.”

Charlotte could taste the charcoal of disgust in Lady Diane’s voice.

“I’m going to burn these.” Lady Diane strode to the fireplace, and Charlotte leapt to meet her, her hand outstretched. But the fire had not been lit, the heat of the summer overwhelming even within the cold stone walls of The Manor. They stopped in front of it, both of them dumbfounded.

“Why?” Charlotte looked up at her mother’s hard face, the angles of the cheekbones and the aquiline nose. Lady Diane gripped the pages more tightly.

“Because I will not allow you to bring scandal upon this family.”

“How is writing scandalous?” Charlotte asked. She felt small and frantic, like a tiny trapped animal.

“We did not raise you to be a writer,” Lady Diane said. “We did not raise you to daydream about the footman. We
raised you to be a daughter of this manor. To make an advantageous marriage. And to live by our rules.”

Lady Diane dropped the sheaf of papers back into the drawer and slid another to the top of her desk. A letter, on The Manor’s embossed paper.

“I will send you to finishing school,” she said, signing it with a flourish.

“I won’t go.” Charlotte squared her shoulders.

“Yes, you will,” Lady Diane said, her voice low and ominous. “You have no choice. Because you cannot survive in the outside world. But first, you will go back out to that party and dance with Andrew Broadhurst. You will act as if nothing has changed — because nothing has. And tomorrow, you will pack your bags.”

Lady Diane strode from the room, leaving Charlotte alone with the spindly tables and the tapestries.

In the past, Charlotte would have cried in grief and frustration. Even a few days ago, she
would
have put on a meek smile and gone in search of Andrew.

Like a good girl.

As she stepped through the doorway, she saw Mr. Foyle, the butler, escort Lady Diane into the center of the hall and spin her regally into the dance. The first footman held a hand out to Lady Beatrice.

Charlotte walked across the marble hall to find Lawrence. And stepped into the circle of his arms.

She wanted to kiss him until her lips were numb. Lose herself in his smell of soap and silver.

But when they moved into the dance, Lawrence held her away from him. One hand clasped around hers, the other with its fingers barely touching her shoulder. It wasn’t like the dance downstairs at all.

She didn’t feel like Nellie Bly, or a character from a book. Not like Rosalind, the most courageous of Shakespeare’s characters. She didn’t even feel like mousy Jane Eyre, ready to profess her love to Rochester.

She felt like Charlotte Edmonds. Good girl. Cocooned in velvet and luxury. Swaddled. Bound in it. Unable to move or think or act for herself.

The music was suddenly too loud. The colors too vibrant. The spinning of the checkered floor made her feel dizzy and disoriented. The dance that she had so looked forward to was nothing like she expected.

“Lady Charlotte, are you all right?” Lawrence looked down at her.

He knew. He understood. He would help her escape.

“I have to leave,” she said. Almost to herself.

Tonight.

She looked up at him. “Come with me,” she whispered.

Lawrence looked surprised for an instant and then grinned, his deep-set eyes glinting. They were a beautiful blue, but there was something almost … dangerous about them.

“The doors are open,” he said, his voice low and rumbling.

Lawrence guided her into the sitting room and through the French doors on the other side. The doors that looked out over the drive, the lawn, out to the gatehouse and the road that dipped down to Saints Hill and beyond.

Charlotte took a deep breath, glad to be away from the echoing marble. In this corner of the porch, she couldn’t even hear the voices of the dancers.

When she turned, Lawrence put his arms around her and she was lost. In the gentleness of his touch on her face and throat. And in the heat of his mouth on hers.

But the kiss did nothing to quell her confusion. He no longer tasted of raspberries, but of port and cigars.

Charlotte started to pull away, to try to rediscover her emotions.

“Wait,” Lawrence murmured, his lips running up her jaw. “Sarah.”

Charlotte’s heart stopped. Had he called her
Sarah
?

Charlotte turned to look at him, and Lawrence covered her mouth with his before she could speak.

And a voice from the doorway chased all thoughts from her mind.

“Well, here you are!”

Fran Caldwell stood silhouetted in the French doors, one hand on her hip, the other casually on the arm of Andrew Broadhurst. She strode across the paving stones, the beads in her hem glittering darkly.

Charlotte’s heart thudded to a halt. A drenching like rain swept through her body from her toes to the top of her head. Elation. And agony. Courage. And self-recrimination.

Oh my God, what have I done?

She was saved. Andrew Broadhurst would never want her now.

And she was lost.

Charlotte felt her knees buckle. They actually started to crumple beneath her weight. And no one was there to catch her, so she steadied herself on the hard stone wall of The Manor.

Beside Charlotte, Lawrence froze. As if by his being as still as possible, no one would notice or see him. Charlotte thought for a second that maybe he would hold her hand. But maybe it was she who should claim their right to be together. Though when she reached her little finger out to his, Lawrence stepped away.

Distancing himself.

“Really, Charlotte,” Fran drawled with false surprise. “A footman? You’re as bad as the kitchen maid.”

“I —” Charlotte hesitated. She was about to say she loved Lawrence. But did she?

She looked at Andrew, who still stood, unmoving, in the doorway, his face shrouded in shadows thrown by the blazing chandeliers behind him.

Fran leaned forward to whisper into Charlotte’s ear. “What would your mother say?”

Fran drew back with a wicked smile on her lips. Charlotte knew exactly what her mother would say. And finishing school wouldn’t be the worst of her threats.

So Charlotte turned and ran.

Down the stairs and onto the drive, looking for a place to hide. She hoped Lawrence would follow her, but he didn’t.

She may have imagined him calling her name.

I
t was dark in the pantry. Just a crack of light at the bottom of the door. The room smelled of molasses and sugar, of bitter chocolate and cinnamon and flour. Of the sticky residue of strawberry jam. Of her mother. Of home.

Janie sat with her back up against the fifty-pound bag of flour, the floor slightly dusty beneath her fingers. Not dusty, floury. No matter how often she swept the pantry floor, it always seemed the flour got the better of her.

The door swung open a crack, letting in a pencil of light. Janie put her head down and covered it with her arms, elbows up around her ears. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Didn’t want to see anyone.

“I thought you’d be in here.”

The only voice that could make her cry. That could make her feel worse than she already did. Because she wanted more than anything for her mother to be proud of her.

The bag of flour shifted against Janie’s back as Mrs. Seward leaned on it, as well.

“I always came here to cry, too,” she said.

“I’m not crying.” Janie pressed her forehead to her knees.

“Then you’ve got more strength than I ever did,” Mrs. Seward said and sighed. “But then, I think I already knew that.”

Janie didn’t look up, but allowed her body to lean over and come to rest on her mother’s. Comfort. Security. Just for a moment.

“I’ve got nothing, Ma,” she said into her knees.

“Now, don’t you say that, Janie Mae.”

Janie lifted her head, the loose hairs from her braid trailing across her face. “I don’t!” she said. “I don’t have a job. Mrs. Griffiths sacked me with the blessing of Lady Diane herself. I’ve lost my friends.”
Charlotte. Harry
. “And I’m going to lose you, too.”

“You’re never going to lose me, sweeting,” her mother said. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. And you can’t lose your friends, either. Not if they’re really your friends.”

“I’ve said things …” The things she said to Charlotte. They didn’t bear thinking about.

“So you apologize,” Mrs. Seward said.

“And Harry hates me,” Janie whispered.

“Harry Peasgood?” Her mother almost laughed. “Anyone can see that boy loves you more than life itself.”

Janie’s heart squeezed, as if it would stop beating altogether.

“He spread stories about me,” she said, barely able to get the words past the lump in her throat. “Things he knew nothing about. Things that weren’t even true.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Harry I know.”

“I can’t think who else it was.”

“Secrets can’t be kept forever,” her mother said. “The tighter you hold them, the more they struggle out of your grasp.”

“But none of it was a secret, Ma!” Janie moved away. “I never wrote those things. I never encouraged Lawrence.”

“You never sneaked upstairs to play at being a lady’s maid? You never fell in love with Harry Peasgood?”

Janie opened her mouth to say no. But found that she couldn’t.

“No one knows the truth until it’s told, Janie.”

Janie’s frustration built up again. “Like you’ve told it?” she asked. “You’re leaving. Going to work for Lady Beatrice. I can understand you not wanting to tell Lady Diane, but why didn’t you tell me?”

“Some truths are not ours to tell,” Mrs. Seward said, her back straightening against the canvas flour sack. “And I’m not going to work for Lady Beatrice.”

“So you’re going to stay here?”
Without me?
Janie felt all of her optimism leave her. Her mother had given up a good position to stay at The Manor with her. And Janie had ruined that.

“Is that you, Miss Seward?”

The storeroom door cracked open, revealing a pair of black, shiny shoes and sharply creased trousers.

Mrs. Seward leapt up and started brushing the flour from her skirts.

“Lord Broadhurst,” she said. “How can we help you?”

Janie stood more slowly, feeling disoriented. Guests never came downstairs. Certainly not earls-to-be.

“I’m afraid it’s
Miss
Seward I’m looking for,” Lord Broadhurst said with a little bow.

“I’m Janie,” she corrected him. No one had called her anything else in her entire life. Unless you counted Charlotte and Miss Caldwell calling her
Jenny
.

Lord Broadhurst hesitated. “It’s my understanding that Lady Charlotte was training you to be a lady’s maid, so I thought Miss Seward was appropriate.”

“I’m training to be a cook, Lord Broadhurst,” Janie said with a glance at her mother. “So just Janie is fine for now.”

“I’m afraid I need your help, Janie,” Lord Broadhurst said in a rush. “You see, Lady Charlotte has gone missing.”

Janie’s head snapped up. “Missing?”

“Good,” Lord Broadhurst said, “I wasn’t wrong to come to you.”

“What does her mother say?” Mrs. Seward asked.

“I thought it best not to involve her mother at present,” Lord Broadhurst said with a cough. “Miss Caldwell and I may have seen Lady Charlotte in a rather … interesting predicament. Something she probably doesn’t want her mother to know about.”

Then Miss Caldwell has probably told Lady Diane already,
Janie thought.

“Miss Caldwell recommended that I find you,” Lord Broadhurst added.

Janie felt as if the very foundation of her world had slipped.

“What happened?” she asked.

Lord Broadhurst took a deep breath and then steadied his gaze on her. His dark eyes were penetrating.

“She was outside the ball, on the porch.” He cleared his throat. “With a footman.”

Oh, no.

“Is she still with him?” Janie asked, her mind racing. Would they really run away together? Like in one of Charlotte’s stories. So very romantic, but so very wrong.

“No.”

Janie wasn’t sure if she should be surprised or vexed on Charlotte’s behalf. But looking into Lord Broadhurst’s concerned face, she felt relief more than anything.

“Where do you think she went?”

“She ran. Along the drive and toward the kitchen courtyard. I thought she might have come in through the servants’ entrance. The hall boy was kind enough to bring me through.”

Harry.