Page 37 of When She Was a Governess
“Why are you so sure?”
Charlotte looked toward the fire. “It is hard to explain, other than to say, I have an instinct for these things. I would not have suggested it had I not thought it would all work out in the end.”
“But you don’t know me. What would make you think Henry could ever fall in love with me?”
Her expression turned slightly evasive. “Again, I have an instinct for these matters. When he came to call the other day,to tell me of your resignation, I could see something in his eyes. A glimmer I haven’t seen since Eleanor. Mark my words. Soon you’ll be a happy family of three. Perhaps another baby on the way.”
That was unlikely since Henry had already been quite clear that there would be no shared intimacies.
“I am relieved for Amelia’s sake,” Charlotte said. “My cousin is a good man but losing his sister Rebecca devastated him. Her death caused him to turn further inward—to a place of utter bleakness. You must give him a chance. He’ll open up to you in time.”
“He came to the nursery. To visit with Amelia.” Sophia smiled, thinking of the large man drinking pretend tea from the tiny cup. “Amelia served him pretend tea. And yesterday he came for real tea. You should have seen him in that small chair.”
“How adorable.” A wistfulness came to Charlotte’s eyes. “She’s a lovely child. She looks just like Rebecca.”
“Henry said it made it difficult for him to make room in his heart for the child.”
Charlotte nodded. “Yes, seeing her has pained him. But now that he’ll have you to guide him, I predict a thaw in our Henry’s heart.”
Sophia swallowed. “I hope you’re correct.”
“May I ask? Truthfully, do you care for Henry?”
Heat rose to Sophia’s cheeks. “We have not known each other very long. Not in this way. But I—yes. I care for him. More than I thought possible. There is a quality about him…” She searched for the right words. “That makes my stomach flutter. And my chest ache. In a good way.” Saying it out loud made her know how true it was. Perhaps it was unwise to share her intimate thoughts with Charlotte, but it was too late now. Henry’s cousin was easy to talk to. A woman who knew exactly how to drag aconfession out of a person. “We had a talk the other night at dinner, which explained a great deal to me about his character.”
Charlotte’s smile softened. “Excellent. The rest can come with time.”
Could it? Sophia wondered. Or would she always care more for him than he did for her?
Charlotte set her cup down with decisive cheer. “Now, let’s talk about the wedding arrangements. Flowers? Music? Guests? I shall help with anything you need.”
For the next half hour, Charlotte swept Sophia along in a whirl of suggestions, assurances, and bright enthusiasm.
When she finally rose to leave, Charlotte pulled Sophia into a warm embrace.
“You’re going to bring this house back to life,” Charlotte said. “And the man who lives in it too. You will see. I am always right about these things.”
Sophia laughed softly. “Thank you for your kind words. Truly.”
“That’s what family does,” Charlotte said, eyes shining. “And you are ours now.”
After she was gone, Sophia stood in the quiet drawing room, staring at the tea things. Why hadn’t Henry told her that the idea for their marriage had been Charlotte’s? Should it matter whose idea it was? It should not. Not really. But for some reason, it did.
*
Sophia had barelyreturned to her room to change for dinner when a knock sounded. “Miss Ashford?” Grimshaw’s voice carried through the wood. “A package has arrived for you. From London.”
The book! She’d nearly forgotten about it in all the chaos of the past few days. She opened the door to find Grimshawholding a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
“It arrived on the afternoon post, miss. Shall I bring it to the drawing room?”
“No, thank you. I’ll take it now.” Sophia accepted the package, feeling its satisfying weight in her hands. The bookseller’s mark, Hatchard’s of Piccadilly, was stamped on the paper.
After Grimshaw withdrew, Sophia carefully untied the string and peeled back the paper. Inside lay a small volume bound in pale blue paper covers, no larger than her hand. The title was printed in elegant script across the front:Cinderella or the Little Glass Slipper. Published by S. & J. Fuller, Temple of Fancy, Rathbone Place, London, 1819.
It had arrived today. On the very day Henry had returned with the marriage license. Was it an omen? A sign, perhaps, that her story could have a happy ending too?
Sophia opened the cover carefully. Inside were hand-colored illustrations—delicate paper vignettes showing Cinderella in various scenes. The illustrations were exquisite. Cinderella with fair hair and a sweet face, her fairy godmother with a kind expression, the golden coach drawn by mice-turned-horses, and finally, the wedding scene with Cinderella in a magnificent gown.
