Page 59

I

London, England

In the house on Merry Way, there are two kinds of sitting rooms.

The first is put to use—the cushions worn, the hearth soot-stained.

The second is more a staging ground—a place for fine things on display.

Charlotte stands in the second kind of room, every lamp and vase and pillow arranged just so, and holds her breath, certain that the slightest breeze will upset everything.

Her kingdom for a book—she brought a stack, of course, but they were taken straight to her room with the rest of her trunks, and she was sent to the salon.

Charlotte has been waiting here for nearly an hour, hands clasped before her like a prisoner waiting for their sentence, heart rattling with nerves inside her chest. She stares out the window, longing for the rolling grounds of Clement Hall, but all she sees is London proper, stone and brick as far as the eye can see.

Here and there, the briefest glimpse of grass or tree, a bit of nature under siege.

On the street below, carts and carriages clatter by, and women stroll beneath bright parasols, past men with top hats perched like chimneys on their heads.

Charlotte has been to the city several times, though never alone, and it’s always struck her as grand, yet rather bleak.

Oh, there’s plenty of color, in the dresses, the furniture, the rugs, but every ounce of it has been imported, as if to offset the dreary backdrop.

More than once, Charlotte hears the soft bustle of steps beyond the salon door, and turns hopefully from the window—but no one comes.

She sits (on the very edge of a pristine chair).

She rises (careful to smooth the cushion).

She paces, and sits again. Restless, nervous, and uncomfortable.

Six hours over dirt and cobblestone have left her stiff and sore, and desperate to stretch her legs.

Exhausted, and impatient, she slumps down onto the sofa.

Right as the door swings open.

Charlotte lunges back to her feet as her aunt strides in, tugging off her gloves and passing them to a maid, along with a brisk command for tea.

Amelia Hastings, a terrifying breed of high society, at once round and sharp, pale hair pinned up in an elegant bun, and shrewd blue eyes that land squarely on Charlotte.

Eyes that could unpick her, stitch by stitch.

“Aunt Amelia,” she says, trying to sound cheerful as she comes forward to embrace her father’s sister. But there are no open arms, no kind kiss planted on her cheek. Instead, Amelia catches her outstretched hands and draws them apart, studying the girl between.

“My, my,” she says, “how you’ve sprouted up.”

She drops Charlotte’s hands and steps back to continue her inspection.

“Eighteen,” she muses, “though you wouldn’t know it by that dress. And this hair,” she adds, “tell me, has it ever met a brush?”

“Oh, it’s met many,” quips Charlotte. “And bested every one.”

Her mother would have smiled. Her brother would have laughed—at least, he would have back before the garden and the book and Jocelyn. Aunt Amelia does neither, only purses her lips, and says, “Wit is like salt, my dear. Best in very small doses.”

Charlotte feels her cheeks go hot. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions, the way other girls do, not when they seem intent on hovering just beneath the surface of her skin.

And it is her skin that Amelia goes for next.

“How tan you are,” she notes, with a small but telling tut.

“Your mother’s side, no doubt.” Charlotte cannot hide her frown, but she manages to hold her tongue and doesn’t say that it’s hardly her fault the current fashion is for such a sickly shade.

It’s as if every one of them has recently survived a brush with scarlet fever.

Amelia nods to herself and says, “There is a kind of country beauty to you.” Which Charlotte almost takes for a compliment, until her aunt goes on to say, “Don’t worry, that can be refined.”

A tray arrives, bearing a teapot and four cups, the porcelain rattling slightly as the maid sets it down. Amelia’s attention swivels, shooting the maid a stern look, and Charlotte savors the brief reprieve, steels herself as the scrutiny swings back her way.

“My brother has let you run roughshod over the estate, romping and roaming like a second son. And your mother. Good breeding, of course, but well, she’s always been eccentric. ”

Surely, Charlotte thinks, there are worse things one can be, but she doesn’t say it, only bites her tongue and curls her fingers around the tiny bundle of dried flowers hidden in her skirt, recalls her mother’s parting words.

You are the kind of bloom that thrives in any soil.

And as if Amelia can hear the memory, she says, “Wildness is like a weed. If it’s not plucked out, it will take over everything. But don’t worry,” she adds, “you’re here now, and we shall set you right.”

With that she lowers herself into a chair, and gestures for Charlotte to sit, which she does, as gracefully as possible. Her aunt watches, eyes narrowing a little when Charlotte’s back touches the pillow. She quickly straightens.

Her aunt begins to pour the tea, the gestures delicate, precise, doesn’t spill a drop, and Charlotte is just beginning to wonder who the other two cups are for when they arrive.

Edith and Margaret. Amelia Hastings’s current wards.

Edith reminds her of a tulip, tall and thin with a large head, made larger by the arrangement of her auburn hair.

Margaret is softer, rounder, a blushing rose.

They move with a fragile kind of grace, and each performs a perfect curtsy, like a flower wilting in the heat, before drawing themselves up again.

“Charmed,” says Margaret in a breathy tone.

“How nice to meet you,” says Edith, her voice sweet as syrup.

When they sit, they perch delicately on the edge of the seat, arrange their limbs, their hands, their chins, as if sitting for a portrait, their backs never once touching the cushions. How exhausting it must be, thinks Charlotte, even as she tries to hold herself a little straighter.

“As you know, I have something of a reputation,” continues Aunt Amelia, stirring milk into her tea, “for polishing girls into gems. But first”—she sets the spoon aside, lifts the cup, only to pause halfway to her mouth—“I must know the kind of stone I’m working with.”

She takes a sip, then, clearly intending for Charlotte to speak, but there’s a right answer, and she has no idea what it is. When she says nothing, her aunt lets out a small, exasperated sigh, and returns the cup to its saucer.

“My dear,” she says plainly, “what makes you shine?”

It is a clumsy metaphor—after all, according to Amelia, she will do the shining—but Charlotte understands—she is being asked what sets her apart.

My heart, she wants to say, but of course, her heart got her into all this trouble in the first place.

So instead, she replies with a tally of expected talents.

She has been schooled in pianoforte, drawing, and French (though, the last, admittedly, she learned from reading novels).

Her aunt seems unimpressed.

“If I had known,” she says, “I would have hired proper tutors. Alas, your father hardly gave me warning. As it is, we’ll fit in lessons in decorum when we can.

He tells me you are a quick study. Of course, the Season is already underway.

I couldn’t present you this year if I tried.

But that’s for the best,” she adds, “we’ll need the time.

For now, you’ll have Edith and Margaret to look to.

With any luck, their training will rub off. ”

And then her aunt is rising, and so are her wards, the other teacups returned to their tray before Charlotte’s even had a sip. She stands, too, nearly spilling her tea as the woman walks past, slowing only to cast a last, shrewd look over her niece.

“Don’t worry, Charlotte,” she says, the words less like a promise and more like a threat. “We’ll make a proper Hastings of you yet.”