Page 94 of The Hollow of Fear

For someone who had led a rather scandalous life, Charlotte reflected, Mrs. Watson was rather easily scandalized. At least by Charlotte.

“It’s hardly unheard of for girls to be married at sixteen. And he had already lost his virginity, so it wasn’t as if I threatened him with imminent deflowering.”

Mrs. Watson giggled. “And he said no to this non-threat.”

“After I wooed him with a beautifully wrapped French letter, no less.”

Mrs. Watson covered her mouth with both hands, scandalized anew. “Where did you even find such a thing?”

“I believe I have told you that my sister and I snooped in our father’s study whenever the opportunity presented itself?”

Mrs. Watson nodded.

Sir Henry and Lady Holmes had never told their children anything of true importance, such as the family’s near bankruptcy. Their two youngest daughters, who had always been each other’s greatest allies, had formed the habit of finding out everything on their own.

“I always read my father’s diary. Once he recorded the name and address of a store where he had been sold a condom. I wrote to the shop and asked whether they conducted any business by post. They were happy to assist. So I sent in a postal order and picked up my purchase at our local post office.”

“You did this when you were all of sixteen?”

“No, the year before. I was fifteen.”

“I’m surprised—and relieved—that you didn’t proposition his lordshipthen.”

“I thought about it. But decided I wasn’t yet curious enough.”

“Even though you’d already purchased a condom?”

“A condom, a sponge, and a syringe for flushing out any semen that hasn’t been blocked by the condom and the sponge—if you want the itemized list. For my expenditure, the shop sent me a copy ofFanny Hill, gratis.”

Mrs. Watson gasped. “And what did you do withthat?”

“I read it. Then I sold it to Roger Shrewsbury, for twice what it would have cost him to buy.”

Mrs. Watson’s lips moved, but no words emerged.

“I know,” said Charlotte, shaking her head. “Mr. Shrewsbury was never the most enterprising of fellows.”

“Did Lord Ingram know that?” Mrs. Watson sounded slightly choked.

“He brokered the deal—and took a cut of the profit.” Charlotte smiled. “He wasn’t always as stuffy as he later became.”

She wasn’t sentimental about some mythical past version of him—he might have been more adventurous, but he’d also been naïve and arrogant. Adversity didn’t improve everyone—or the world would be filled with men and women of flawless character and sublime insight. Lord Ingram, however, had endured his misfortunes with grace and forbearance and had chosen to become a better man.

When Charlotte commented on his stuffiness, it was never about returning him to his former self—she liked him as he was—but from a deep-seated wish that he would let himself be happy.

Or at least less burdened.

And she had no idea if that would ever be the case.

“Does it really not make any difference that he loves you?” came Mrs. Watson’s soft yet fervent question.

Charlotte sighed. “It isn’t that love makes no difference; it’s that what he and I want out of life are diametrically opposite. It’s far easier for people who want the same things to fall in love than for people who want different things toremainin love.”

Mrs. Watson’s breath caught. “Are you—are you saying, Miss Holmes, that youarein love with him?”

Charlotte made no reply.

She’d already given answer enough.