Page 19 of A Baron’s Most Inconvenient Marriage (Delightful Lords and Ladies)
Chapter 19
“You must understand, Charlotte, that I cannot in good conscience support a union founded upon such questionable beginnings,” Stephen Fairfax declared, his voice carrying the measured authority that had guided his family and business affairs through decades of prosperity.
Charlotte stood before her father’s imposing mahogany desk, her fingers gripping the back of a leather chair with such force that her knuckles bloomed white against her skin.
“Papa,” Charlotte began, her voice steadier than her racing heart. “Whatever circumstances initiated our courtship, I assure you that Sebastian’s regard has evolved into something genuine and profound. As has mine for him.”
“Evolution is a convenient narrative, my dear,” he replied, rising from his chair to pace with measured steps across the Turkish carpet.
“One might equally suggest that Lord Blackthorn’s feelings have evolved toward your considerable dowry, given the financial difficulties currently plaguing the Whitmore estate.”
Charlotte flinched as though struck. “That is unjust,” she protested, color rising in her cheeks. “Sebastian has never once mentioned financial matters in our conversations.”
“Of course he hasn’t,” William countered, his tone gentling fractionally at the evident distress in his daughter’s expression.
“A gentleman of his breeding would consider such directness vulgar. Nevertheless, the connection between Blackthorn Hall’s fiscal troubles and his pursuit of an heiress exists, whether acknowledged or not.”
Charlotte released her grip on the chair, her hands falling to smooth the folds of her morning dress—a gesture that betrayed her discomposure more eloquently than any words.
The pale blue muslin, which had seemed so cheerful when she’d dressed earlier, now felt incongruously frivolous against the gravity of their discussion.
"I do not question Lord Blackthorn’s character in general terms," William continued, halting his pacing to face her directly. “My concerns are specific to his intentions regarding you.”
Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat, a fluttering sensation like a trapped bird seeking escape. “You cannot possibly expect me to simply... terminate our association based on your suspicions. Sebastian has given me no cause—”
“I will not insist that you break the courtship immediately,” William interrupted, his tone softening as he observed the genuine distress etched into his daughter’s features. “But I must qualify my position on the matter.”
Charlotte remained silent, sensing that her father had reached a decision that would brook no simple opposition.
The heavy pendulum of the longcase clock in the corner marked the seconds with solemn precision, its steady rhythm contrasting sharply with her erratic pulse.
“You may inform Lord Blackthorn,” he continued, turning back to face her, “that while I will not actively oppose your continued association, neither will I provide your dowry should the courtship culminate in marriage.”
The pronouncement hung in the air between them, its implications expanding like ripples across still water. Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her lightheaded and momentarily speechless.
“No dowry?” she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “But, Papa, you know that Sebastian’s estate—”
“Requires significant financial investment to restore its prosperity,” her father completed her thought with crisp efficiency.
“Precisely my point, Charlotte. This arrangement will test whether Lord Blackthorn’s interest lies in you or in the Fairfax fortune.”
Charlotte sank into the chair she had been gripping, her legs suddenly unwilling to support her weight. The leather creaked beneath her—a familiar sound that somehow anchored her amid the disorientation of her father’s declaration.
“You would have me marry without the means to contribute to my husband’s household? To arrive at Blackthorn Hall as a burden rather than an asset?”
William’s expression softened at the genuine distress in his daughter’s voice. He crossed to where she sat, resting a paternal hand upon her shoulder.
“I would have you marry a man whose devotion to you transcends financial considerations,” he corrected gently. “If Lord Blackthorn is that man, then the absence of a dowry will prove no impediment to your happiness.”
Charlotte looked up at her father, recognizing beneath his stern exterior the genuine concern that motivated his actions.
Yet the practical implications of his decision cascaded through her thoughts with merciless clarity—the tenants whose cottages needed repair, the drainage system Sebastian had hoped to modernize, the pressing obligations to tradesmen that his father’s final illness had accumulated.
“May I be excused?” she asked, her voice steadier than her turbulent emotions. “I need time to consider.”
Her father nodded, his hand briefly tightening on her shoulder before releasing her. “Of course, my dear. This is not a decision to be made in haste or without proper reflection.”
Charlotte rose with careful dignity, unwilling to reveal the extent of her distress through hasty movements or ungraceful retreat.
The journey from the study to her bedroom passed in a blur of polished banisters and concerned servants’ faces—peripheral details registering dimly as her mind grappled with the impossible choice her father had presented.
How simple it had all seemed during those golden afternoons at Blackthorn Hall, when Sebastian had consulted her on estate matters as though her opinions carried genuine weight.
How natural their partnership had felt, how seamlessly their different temperaments had complemented one another—her spontaneity softening his rigidity, his methodical approach lending structure to her scattered enthusiasms.
Yet her father’s words had introduced doubt where certainty had flourished.
***
The drawing room at Ravensmere had never seemed so oppressively formal to the Dowager Baroness Blackthorn as it did that afternoon.
Ensconced upon a damask settee that whispered wealth without proclaiming it—much like the Fairfax family themselves—she maintained her aristocratic poise while inwardly acknowledging the tactical error she had made in underestimating Stephen Fairfax’s influence.
Her exclusion from the dinner party had been a masterful move—a social chess gambit that revealed the true extent of the Fairfax connections. The guest list, which had circulated through society with the inexorable efficiency of all significant gossip, had included two earls, a viscount, and most notably, the future Duke of Westhaven.
That last name had resonated in Lady Blackthorn’s consciousness like a warning bell tolling across a battlefield.
“I confess, Lady Blackthorn, your visit comes as something of a surprise,” Frances Fairfax observed, her slender fingers arranging the silver tea service with practiced elegance.
The delicate porcelain cups, positioned with geometric precision, seemed to reflect the measured cordiality of her tone—present but not welcoming, polite but not warm.
“The most delightful relationships often begin unexpectedly, do they not?” Lady Blackthorn replied, accepting a cup with a smile that never quite reached her gray eyes.
The door opened then, admitting Charlotte with a rustle of pale blue muslin. Her entrance, typically characterized by vibrant energy, now carried a restrained quality that caught Lady Blackthorn’s attention immediately.
The girl moved across the drawing room with careful steps, as though navigating uncertain terrain—a stark contrast to her usual breezy confidence.
“Lady Blackthorn, Diana,” Charlotte greeted them, executing a perfect curtsy, “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Diana rose immediately, crossing to Charlotte with the unaffected eagerness of youth. “Charlotte! I’ve been counting the days since you left Blackthorn Hall. Everything seems so terribly dull without you.”
Charlotte’s reserve melted slightly in the warmth of Diana’s genuine affection. She clasped the younger girl’s hands, her smile reaching her eyes for the first time that day. “I’ve missed you too, Diana."
Lady Blackthorn observed this exchange with calculated attention, noting the genuine attachment between the girls—a connection that could serve her purposes admirably. “Perhaps,” she suggested, "the young ladies might enjoy a turnabout the gardens while we get better acquainted?"
Frances recognized the stratagem for what it was—a diplomatic maneuver to separate the parties for more targeted conversations. With the practiced grace of a hostess accustomed to navigating social complexities, she acquiesced.
Charlotte hesitated momentarily, her gaze flickering between her mother and Lady Blackthorn with barely concealed apprehension.
The afternoon suddenly resembled a complex quadrille where each participant followed predetermined steps toward an uncertain conclusion.
“Come, Charlotte,” Diana urged, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling beneath the placid surface of polite interaction. “You promised to show me your favorite sketching spot the next time I visited.”
With a brief nod to her mother, Charlotte allowed herself to be led toward the French doors that opened onto the meticulously maintained gardens of Ravensmere.
***
“Your home is magnificent,” Diana enthused as they followed the gravel path, "So different from Blackthorn Hall, yet equally impressive.”
Charlotte glanced sideways at her companion, searching for any hint that Diana shared her mother’s apparent opposition to the connection between their families.
Finding only innocent admiration in the girl’s expression, she relaxed fractionally. “Your brother is too generous. Though I must admit, my mother devotes considerable attention to maintaining her horticultural domain. It is her particular passion.”
They strolled in companionable silence for several moments, the gravel crunching pleasantly beneath their half-boots
“Charlotte,” Diana ventured finally, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial level, “may I ask you something rather personal?”
Charlotte steeled herself, anticipating uncomfortable questions about the status of her courtship with Sebastian. “Of course,” she replied, striving for nonchalance. “We are friends, are we not?”
“"Are you and Sebastian engaged? Officially, I mean?”
The question hung in air between them, weighted with implications that Diana could not fully comprehend.
Charlotte guided them toward a stone bench nestled between ancient yew trees, needing the stability of a seated position before attempting a response that would neither misrepresent the truth nor wound Diana’s evident hopes.
“No,” she admitted, smoothing her skirts as they settled upon the cool stone. “Though we have reached an understanding of sorts regarding our mutual affections.”
The words felt simultaneously true and woefully inadequate to describe the complex emotional territory she and Sebastian now navigated.
Diana’s face brightened instantly. “I knew it!”
Charlotte smiled despite the tumult of her emotions, touched by Diana’s perception and evident approval. “Your brother is an exceptional man,” she replied, choosing her words with deliberate care. “His sense of responsibility toward his family and tenants is truly admirable.”
“Then you will marry him?” Diana pressed, youthful impatience overcoming social restraint. “It would be the most wonderful thing!”
Charlotte hesitated, uncomfortably aware that circumstances had shifted dramatically since their dance at the Fairfax dinner party. “I am not so certain, Diana.”
“If you refer to Mother’s previous reservations,” Diana interrupted with surprising boldness, “you needn’t worry. She has undergone the most remarkable transformation in her thinking. Indeed, that’s partly why we’ve come today—to demonstrate her change of heart regarding your connection with Sebastian.”
A flicker of unease passed through Charlotte like a shadow across sunlit water. Lady Blackthorn’s abrupt reversal seemed too convenient, too calculated to inspire genuine confidence.
Before she could formulate a diplomatic response, however, the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention.
Lady Blackthorn herself moved along the garden path with elegant purpose, her navy walking dress a stark contrast to the autumnal palette surrounding her.
“Diana, my dear,” she called, her voice carrying the perfect blend of maternal authority and social grace, “Mrs. Fairfax has kindly offered to show you her collection of botanical illustrations. I believe they may provide inspiration for your needlework.”
Diana rose obediently, though her gaze lingered on Charlotte with unspoken questions. “Will you join us?”
“In a moment,” Charlotte replied, recognizing the orchestrated nature of this separation. “I believe your mother wishes to speak with me privately first.”
With evident reluctance, Diana departed toward the house, leaving Charlotte alone with the formidable Lady Blackthorn.
The older woman settled beside her on the stone bench, arranging her skirts with precise movements that betrayed no hint of her inner calculations.
“Miss Fairfax,” she began without preamble, “I shall dispense with pretense, as I believe you possess the intelligence to appreciate directness. I have observed your interactions with my son and have come to a realization that prompts me to revise my previous position.”
Charlotte’s spine stiffened imperceptibly, her natural openness tempered by newly acquired caution. “Indeed, my lady?”
“I shall be direct,” the dowager baroness continued, her voice dropping to ensure privacy despite the absence of obvious listeners.
“If you were to end your courtship with Sebastian, I would be prepared to offer you a position as my companion for an extended tour of the Continent. Italy, France, the Alpine regions—all the magnificent landscapes your artist’s eye undoubtedly craves to capture.”
The proposal landed between them like a stone dropped in still water, its implications rippling outward with disorienting force. Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat, her mind struggling to process the audacity of Lady Blackthorn’s suggestion.
“You would have me abandon Sebastian in exchange for travel?” she managed finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I would have you pursue your evident passion… while allowing my son to make a match better suited to his position and responsibilities,” Lady Blackthorn corrected smoothly.
"Consider, Miss Fairfax, that your spirited nature would inevitably clash with the constraints of a baroness’s duties, causing mutual disappointment and eventual resentment.”
Charlotte’s fingers gripped the edge of the stone bench, seeking physical stability as her emotional foundations trembled. “You cannot know that with certainty.”
“No?” Lady Blackthorn countered gently. “Already your presence at Blackthorn Hall has disrupted established patterns. Already Sebastian diverts attention from essential matters to accommodate your unconventional perspectives.”
“This arrangement offers advantages to you both—you gain freedom to pursue your artistic ambitions, while Sebastian remains free to seek a wife whose temperament and training better complement his responsibilities.”
The cruelly persuasive logic of Lady Blackthorn’s argument infiltrated Charlotte’s consciousness like frost penetrating soil—incremental yet inexorable.
Her father’s revelation about withholding her dowry had combined with Lady Blackthorn’s assessment to form a compelling case against the very relationship Charlotte had come to treasure.
“Naturally, this conversation must remain between us,” Lady Blackthorn added, her tone suggesting conspiracy rather than coercion.
Charlotte stared unseeing at the geometric perfection of her mother’s autumn garden, her mind filled with conflicting thoughts.
“You require time to consider,” the dowager baroness observed, correctly interpreting Charlotte’s silence. “I shall not press for an immediate answer.”
The statement, delivered with surprising sincerity, completed the devastation of Charlotte’s emotional defenses.
For if Lady Blackthorn genuinely believed that separation would benefit both Charlotte and Sebastian, might there not be wisdom in her assessment?
Might Charlotte’s love for Sebastian not be better expressed through sacrifice than through stubborn persistence in a union that could ultimately diminish them both?
Charlotte contemplated this for a moment. Did she truly want to travel with the Baroness? No, she did not. But the heartache from putting distance between Sebastian and herself was unbearable.
That, paired with her father’s declaration of withholding her dowry, left little to salvage. She was in a mess. A mess of her own making.
And suddenly, Charlotte felt like sticking her head in the sand like an Ostrich—hoping all her problems would have simply vanished by the time she reemerged.
She knew she should discuss the matter with Sebastian first, but the pain and humiliation of facing him was too much to bear. Before she could stop herself, the impulsive words tumbled from her lips.
“I accept your offer,” Charlotte whispered, the words emerging with such sudden clarity that they surprised even her. “I believe... I believe it may indeed be best for Sebastian’s future.”
Lady Blackthorn concealed her triumph behind an expression of dignified appreciation. “A selfless decision, Miss Fairfax. One that demonstrates genuine care for my son’s welfare—a quality I frankly had not anticipated finding in such measure.”
Charlotte rose from the bench with careful dignity, unwilling to reveal through physical distress the emotional devastation her decision had wrought. “When would we depart?”
“Within the fortnight,” Lady Blackthorn replied, standing with fluid grace. “Diana will accompany us, of course—her education would benefit tremendously from continental exposure.”
A small comfort, Charlotte thought—Diana’s continued companionship amid the wreckage of her romantic hopes. She nodded, unable to trust her voice for further response.