“It was not Mrs. Frames who was concerned but His Grace. He has been pacing the halls below for hours, awaiting your return. Well — I say ‘hours’ — at times he would retreat into the study, remain for a few minutes, then emerge again to pace. He was genuinely fretting over you.”
Charity scoffed. “That is difficult to believe. I daresay His Grace cares for no one but himself…and perhaps his family.”
“Are you not family?” Jean asked.
“Perhaps by law. But that is all. He and I are naught but two persons bound together in marriage — as are so many in our society.”
“I should think there is more to it than that,” Jean said, as she laid out Charity’s nightgown. “He does care for you. I know he does. The other servants are saying so, and they have known him a long while.”
Charity’s head pounded, and she rubbed at her temples.
“Jean, I wish to speak of this no more. Furthermore, what is between His Grace and me shall remain between us. There are things you do not know — things you ought not to trouble yourself over — and I would ask you not to discuss my private affairs with the other staff.”
Jean’s lips parted, and she looked genuinely wounded. At once, Charity felt a pang of guilt. She had not meant to be cruel — Jean had been with her since childhood.
But she was weary. Weary of all that had transpired in recent weeks. Everything that had unfolded had worn her down, and this latest quarrel with Eammon had simply proved the final straw.
“Jean…I beg your pardon. I was unkind. I did not mean to be. Please — go to bed. I shall change on my own.”
“Your Grace, I never meant to upset you,” Jean said, and Charity realised the woman was perhaps now concerned for her.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Jean. It was I who was in the wrong. I spoke harshly and you did not deserve it. Please — if you wish to do me a kindness, take yourself off to your chamber. Morning will be better for us both.”
Jean offered a weak smile — one that seemed marked by worry as much as by weariness — but she complied and left Charity to her solitude.
Once she had changed into her nightgown, Charity carried her candle to the nightstand, extinguished the other tapers scattered about the chamber, and sat down on her bed.
She raised her head and looked toward the connecting door — the one between her chamber and his. Long ago, she had pushed the armoire across it. She had ceased to fear he would enter. Even now, after their argument, there was no sound. No — she was not afraid of him. Only…resolved.
Through the narrow space beneath the door, she saw a flickering light, rapid and unsteady — as though he were pacing with a candle in hand.
If only she could walk to the door, knock, and ask him plainly what troubled him so deeply — and perhaps hear from him an answer that might unravel this unhappy state between them. But she could not. Not now. She had no wish to.
As she sat, she glanced at her bedside table. On entering, she had placed two books there:Pride and Prejudice, andLittle Goody Two-Shoes. She took the latter, opened it, and retrieved the letter hidden within its pages.
Charity ran a hand over the envelope, feeling the inked letters beneath her fingers. She imagined her father writing those words — and touching them felt almost like touchinghimonce more.
She took a steadying breath and broke the seal, unfolding the letter. It had been written in her father’s fine, neat hand. At once her eyes brimmed with tears. He would never again write her a letter. She would never again look into his face or hear his voice. Already — only seven and a half months since his passing — she could no longer recall his voice with perfect clarity.
Time was cruel. It robbed one of memory, of the little things once taken for granted.
She propped her pillow higher behind her and sat upright. Then she drew the candle nearer.
My beloved Charity,
I understand that by the time you read these words, I shall have died. I may have been gone some time — months, I hope not years. I have debated long whether I ought to deliver this letter sooner. I considered saying all I am now committing to paper aloud — but I was not convinced that would serve.
Thus, it is my determination to write it all down, in the hope that this letter reaches you.
First, I hope you are wed now. My greatest wish is to see you matched with a suitable husband. There is one I have already in mind, who I believe would suit admirably. But as yet, you remain unwed, and I can only pray the good Lord grants me time to see you safely settled with a husband who will protect and cherish you. I must hasten on this quest — for I do not grow younger.
I had entrusted a gentleman friend with the duty of seeing to your welfare, should I pass before your future be secured. But alas, that dear friend has only just passed away himself?—
Charity stopped, staring. A trusted friend who had just passed away? She looked at the date atop the letter — and gasped. Her father had written it shortly after the death of the Duke of Leith. Had he meanthim? Had he entrusted her to that man, and now the charge had passed to his son? Was the man he thought would suit her admirably, Eammon?
But why?
She read on, her curiosity piqued.
