The elder, then. Hattie, if she recalled correctly. And a rather accomplished little spy for a child so young. Probably it was not the first time she’d crept out of the nursery to sneak about the house and secretly surveil its occupants.
“Hello, Hattie,” she said, and the little girl gasped, startled to have been noticed. “Do come in. It’s quite rude to linger outside of doors.”
By the vibrant flush that spread over the child’s cheeks as she slowly pushed open the door and crept inside, Charity guessed that her estimation had been correct. Little Hattie had indeedspent an inordinate amount of timepeeking through doors and eavesdropping on conversations held within.
She was a pretty child, with cherubic cheeks and a wealth of long dark hair that had been meticulously wrangled into a plait. Dressed head to toe in oppressive black, she shuffled into the room with all the enthusiasm of one expecting a stern lecture.
What was one meant to say to a child? Charity couldn’t recall the last time she’d been in the company of one. Possibly not since she had been a child herself. She wracked her brain fiercely, calling to mind Phoebe’s many and varied stories of conversations with her veritable army of nieces and nephews. “Have you come to fetch a book?” she asked.
A swift shake of her head, which sent the end of that plait flying. “I’m not good at reading,” Hattie said as she dug the toe of one shoe into the rug beneath her feet and shrugged her thin shoulders. “You’re s’posed to be wearing black. For my papa.”
“Oh.” Charity supposed a child so young—whose world was largely composed of those within her own household—could not be expected to understand the finer points of mourning, and to whom it extended. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything black within my wardrobe,” she said. “But I will ask your uncle if he has perhaps got an armband he might lend to me to wear.” A small concession to the weight of the child’s grief.
“My uncle’s dead, too,” Hattie said as her dark eyes welled with tears. “And my grandpapa.”
Poor little mite, to have lost so many people in her life in one fell swoop. How lonely it must be, how confusing to have her happy home so suddenly swathed in shades of grief and despair. “I know,” Charity said. “And I am so very sorry for it. But you have got another uncle, you know, sweetheart, and I think he would like to know you. Perhaps he could tell you stories about your papa. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Another rapid shake of her head. “He’s scary,” she said in a whisper.
“Is he?” Charity inquired. “Why?”
“He wears that thing on his face. I don’t like it.”
“His eyepatch,” Charity said. “It’s an accessory, like a ribbon or a sash. But it also protects his face.”
“He’s got lots of scars,” Hattie said in a mumble, directing her gaze to the floor.
“Yes, he has. Do you know why?” Hattie gave another shake of her head, and Charity swept into a seat on the sofa and patted the seat beside her, beckoning the child closer. After a brief moment of hesitation, the childskittered across the floor and climbed onto the sofa beside her, her feet dangling above the floor. “It’s because a very long time ago—well before you were born—he went off to war in the service of his country. And in that war, he was wounded.”
Hattie’s heels thumped against the sofa. “Very badly?”
“Very badly,” Charity confided. “He very nearly died, and he lost an eye in the process. Still, such losses and scars tend to make people uncomfortable. Most people,” she confided, “are not as brave as your uncle has had to be. Or perhaps they imagine that you can only be beautiful inside if you are beautiful outside.” As if she were confessing a secret, she leaned in closer. “I think having a beautiful character is ever so much more important than having a beautiful face. Alas, too many would condemn your poor uncle without ever having known him, just on account of his face. I don’t think I would much like it if people thought me too frightening even to bother speaking to. If my very own family were frightened of me for something so silly as a few scars. Would you?”
“I s’pose not,” Hattie said. Her small fingers drew the edge of her plait over her shoulder, worrying the curling end of it between them.
“Perhaps you could try to be brave like your uncle—even when it is difficult?” Charity suggested.
But there was no time for the child to respond. Outside the door, the sound of footsteps resounded, growing louder as they approached. Hattie’s shoulders tightened, her dark eyes widening in escalating fear. Her back went ramrod straight, heels braced upon the sofa in preparation for a sudden flight.
Too late. The door flew open, and Captain Sharp appeared in the doorway. “Terribly sorry. I had some business—”
He froze there in the doorway as he caught sight of Hattie sitting there beside her, her little face frozen in dread. For a moment he seemed torn, uncertain of what he was meant to do. He had to know that his niece wasn’t meant to be here, with her, at such an hour. He had to know, also, that to make any statement to that effect ran the distinct risk of terrifying the child further.
His hand released its grip on the door handle, and just as abruptly as he had appeared, he turned to leave.
“Wait!” Charity flung out one hand to stay him, though he could hardly see it with his back turned. “Have you got an armband?”
“An—” He hesitated, his shoulders firming. “An armband?”
“I have not got anything black to wear,” Charity said. “And we are inmourning, aren’t we, Hattie?”
A tiny nudge to the child’s shoulder yielded a squeaked, “Yes.”
“So I have got to have an armband at least,” Charity said. “Would you be good enough to lend one to me? To pay the proper respect to your brothers and your father?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice carefully flat. “I have got an armband.”
“The one you’re wearing will suffice for the moment, if you don’t mind,” Charity said cannily. “He’s got on enough black, Hattie, has he not?”
