Manor of Secrets (21 page)

“Then who did tell?” Janie spun on him.

Harry shrugged helplessly. “All I know is it wasn’t me, Janie. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

Charlotte could see that clearly. She just hoped Janie could, too. A breeze came in off the lake, stirring the wet hair on her neck, and she shivered again.

“We should go back to The Manor.” Andrew put a hand on her shoulder. “They’ll be getting worried about you.”

Charlotte suppressed her snort of disbelief. Instead, she just nodded and took a step forward. A sharp stone lacerated her instep and she cringed.

“My shoes,” she said. “They’re in the lake.”

Suddenly, Janie laughed. “How did you think you were going to run away with no shoes and wearing a wet and ruined Worth gown?”

“I guess I didn’t plan that far,” Charlotte said, laughing at herself.

“Take mine,” Janie said, bending down to unlace her shoes. “I dare say my feet are tougher than yours.”

“No, Janie,” Charlotte said, stopping her. “I dare say I’m the one who can afford to put her feet up all day after cutting them to ribbons through my own stupidity. You don’t have that luxury.”

Janie started to argue, and Charlotte prepared a rebuttal, but Andrew interrupted.

“Before we prove how selfless you both are, let me offer
an alternative.” He turned to Charlotte and held out a hand. “If you will allow me?”

He put her right arm around his neck, bent, and lifted her up into his arms, the scent of sandalwood and spice surrounding her. She looked up into his dark eyes and wondered how she ever could have thought he was boring.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“It’s my pleasure,” he murmured. “I had hoped to hold you in my arms at some point this evening. And this is better than the hesitation waltz.”

The chill in Charlotte’s chest became a starburst as she felt the flush rise from breastbone to forehead. A flush not of embarrassment, she discovered, but of pleasure. She buried her face in his neck — in his scent — and let the present happen. Without imagining it to be different, or wondering what would happen next.

J
anie slowed and stood on the edge of the drive. She watched as Lord Broadhurst carried Charlotte right to the front steps of The Manor and set her down gently.

As servants, she and Harry weren’t allowed in the front entrance. As an ex-servant, she wasn’t even sure she’d be allowed in the kitchen courtyard. And she didn’t want to face it all anyway — Tess’s jealousy and Sarah’s spite. Mollie’s vacillating loyalties.

“I understand why Charlotte wanted to disappear,” she said.

“You’re talking to me.”

Janie turned to Harry. The light from the windows of The Manor streaked across his face. He wore an expression of wary hope.

“I just don’t understand why you told on me,” she murmured.

“I didn’t, Janie. Can’t you understand that? Yes, I thought the writing was yours, but I never told anyone about it. It was obviously private.”

Janie felt a pang of guilt. She knew it was private and yet she’d read some.

“But someone told about …” Janie could hardly say it. She didn’t even want to admit to it. Not with Harry standing right in front of her. Listening. “About me and Lawrence.”

“That wasn’t me, either.” Sadness came off Harry in waves.

“I didn’t kiss him,” Janie said quickly. “I couldn’t. I knew it could cost me my job.”

“But you wanted to.”

Janie nodded, unable to look at him. “For a moment.”

The truth felt like a sliver of ice in her heart.

“Even if I had seen it,” Harry said, “I would never have said a word. I know this is your home.”

“If there’s one thing I learned tonight, it’s that I had a blinkered vision of home,” she said. “I thought it was the trees and the Weald and the lake. I thought it was the kitchen. But Charlotte belongs here even more than I do, and she never felt at home.”

Janie studied Harry’s face. The splash of freckles across his nose, the curls that never seemed tame. His eyes like something rich and intoxicating. Like champagne.

“I think, maybe, home is being with people who love you,” she finished.

Harry nodded, slowly. He seemed afraid to speak. Afraid of
her
, and her false accusations. A knot of shame rose in the back of her throat.

“I always had people who loved me,” she continued, speaking around it. “My aunt and my cousins did in their own way, I suppose. But they never had time for me. All their time was spent on subsistence. Only when I came here did I know what it was like to be loved. No, to be cherished. To love without need or dependence, but with simple generosity. I never want to lose that.”

“But your mother is leaving.”

Janie took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t talking about my mother.”

Harry stiffened visibly. It was so quiet in the courtyard, she heard him swallow.

Finally, she worked up the courage to reach out to him. To place her hand on his cheek and take one step closer.

“I was talking about you,” she whispered.

Emotions unfurled across Harry’s face. Joy. Fear. Awakening. Disbelief.

Janie pulled him closer. She closed the gap between them, raised her face, and pressed her mouth to his. When his lips parted in surprise, she pressed harder, afraid of losing him. Of scaring him away.

But he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her so close she could feel the racing of his heart against hers.

Janie moved her head, so her lips were at his ear.

“I never want to leave you.”

Harry’s grip relaxed and he stepped away, taking her face in his hands. Silently, he studied her, his eyes searching her face. And then he kissed her, his lips soft and knowing and perfectly matched to hers. In that instant, Janie felt like nothing could separate them.

Until a shout from the front entrance caused them to spring apart, straightening clothes and avoiding eye contact. Janie knew it was a sure sign of guilt, but she couldn’t help it. Without Harry, her hands felt idle.

“How dare you?”

Lady Diane’s voice carried clearly across the drive, ringing in the moonlight.

Janie looked at Harry guiltily, and then up at the house.
She could see Lady Diane in the French doorway of the sitting room. But she wasn’t facing the drive. She wasn’t berating Janie and Harry. She was talking to someone inside.

“Who do you think you are?”

“Charlotte,” Janie said, and started toward the house.

“We can’t go in that way.” Harry grabbed her hand, but she shook him off.

“I have to get to her. I have to let her know she’s not alone.”

“And if we walk right up into the sitting room, we’ll never work again.”

Janie hesitated and then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It
does
matter,” Harry said, and physically blocked her way. “I won’t let you. But I know every inch of every passageway. I’ll get you there.”

B
efore Charlotte reentered The Manor, she glanced back to see Janie and Harry hesitating at the edge of the lawn. She wanted to grab Janie’s hand and bring her up the stone stairs and through the marble hall.

But she needed to do this on her own.

Or perhaps with Andrew Broadhurst behind her. It turned out it was good to have someone dependable at your back.

As she climbed the great stairs to The Manor’s main entrance, her gown left a damp trail behind her. The stone felt cold and slick beneath her bare feet, and her hair clung wetly to her neck and temples.

“I must look a fright,” she murmured. She imagined appearing in the doorway like a half-drowned cat, swept away by the full flood of her mother’s wrath.

Her hands fluttered at her sides, and Andrew stepped forward and grabbed one. His hand felt so warm. So real.

When she stepped into the great marble hall, everything stopped. The guests were buttoned up in coats and had their hats on. The musicians were packing. Her mother was nowhere to be seen.

“Is it over?” Charlotte asked. A ball — even a servants’ ball — could go on into the wee hours. She couldn’t have been gone that long.

For a moment, no one said a word. Then Fran appeared at the top of the grand staircase and ran down it, calling, “She’s not in her room, and I’ve checked all the others.”

She stopped when she caught sight of Charlotte in the doorway and then ran at her.

“Charlotte!” she cried, throwing her arms around her. “You’re back!”

“I’m wet,” Charlotte said, confused. She tried to extract herself from Fran’s grip, regretting having to let go of Andrew’s hand in the process.

“I don’t care,” Fran sobbed, clinging more tightly. “I’m sorry!”

The rest of the guests suddenly came to life, murmuring and nodding and hustling to the door or up the stairs to their
rooms like rats from a sinking ship. Charlotte couldn’t believe she’d caused this much concern.

“Where’s Mother?” she asked.

Fran stiffened and then pulled away. “Lady Diane is in the sitting room,” she said.

Charlotte took a deep breath and walked to the sitting room’s door. Her mother stood by the French entrance, but didn’t look out. Her eyes were on her sister by the fireplace.

“Mother?” Charlotte said and both women turned to her. Relief flooded Aunt Beatrice’s face, but Lady Diane went pale with anger.

Charlotte could feel Andrew behind her. He wasn’t close enough to touch, but he was there. Uncowed by her mother’s fury. By the white knuckles of her hand on the edge of the table. By the eyes staring daggers at him, obviously waiting for him to excuse himself graciously.

But Andrew Broadhurst didn’t move. When Charlotte glanced back, he had schooled his face into a mask of unaffected placidity and was standing his ground.

“Where is he?” Lady Diane asked, her voice a low growl.

Charlotte froze. Fran had shown more concern than this. The guests in their top hats and summer coats had been more relieved to see her safe.

“Who?”

Lady Diane became very still. “The
footman
.”

“I don’t know.”

Lady Diane narrowed her eyes. “You weren’t running off with him?”

Charlotte had imagined just that scenario. The first time Lawrence kissed her. When she wrote the story of the Italian count. When she stumbled into the darkness of the forest. She could still picture it — the two of them overlooking the Côte d’Azur. But the picture was fading.

“No, Mother.”

“You were going
alone
?” Lady Diane made this sound worse than running off with a footman. “Where on earth did you think you were going?”

Charlotte lifted her chin.

But her mother didn’t wait for a reply.

“You have
ruined
that gown.” Lady Diane shook her head. “And your shoes …”

Charlotte wiggled her toes, realizing she hadn’t gone barefoot in the house since she was very young.

It felt … liberating.

Lady Diane obviously saw the action as subversive.

“I will not speak with you,” she said. “Get out. Now.”

Any self-respecting daughter of The Manor should have lowered her eyes and trudged upstairs without another word. But Charlotte had more to say.

“No.” With that one word, all the strength went out of Charlotte’s limbs and she felt as if her very skin was lifting away. She had never defied her mother.

“How dare you?” Lady Diane cried, her fury surpassing her desire to maintain her flawless façade.

“I need you to see me,” Charlotte said, controlling her voice more than she could control the icy wash that ran from her head to her toes and back again. “I am a person, Mother. Not just a burden.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lady Diane hissed.

“Let her speak,” Aunt Beatrice said, and in her aunt’s eyes, Charlotte could see acceptance. Encouragement.

“Who do you think you are?” Lady Diane turned on her sister.

“This isn’t about Aunt Beatrice,” Charlotte said firmly. “This is about me. About the way you treat me. Like I have no self. Like I have no voice.”

“I’ve given you everything,” Lady Diane said.

“You’ve given me dresses and nurses and governesses. You’ve given me servants to feed me and clothe me. You’ve
given me books. And for all those things, I thank you. But you haven’t given me love.”