Page 6 of Valour

“Fine.” Mei rolled her eyes. “Choose something from the book and I’ll be right with you.”

“What I want isn’t in the book.” Hester’s face cracked into a smirk. She couldn’t wait to see their faces.

Mei motioned for the sailor to pay, and he dropped a handful of silver coins into her waiting hand and left the shop. “Not in the book? Then what?”

Hester grabbed a pen from the small desk in the corner and scribbled onto a sheet of paper. “I want you to write this.” She handed the paper to Mei, who raised her eyebrows.

“Septimus, kiss me here,” Mei read. “Good God, woman. And where, pray tell, do you want this written?”

Hester grinned wider than ever and pointed to her backside with a flourish.

“Oh, Lord,” Fliss whispered, hiding her face in her hands.

The fear had still not released its deathly grip. Charlotte had not left the house until that morning. Couldn’t bring herself to cross the threshold and go out into the world, like she was truly leaving him behind. Like she was truly alone.

But that morning had been the funeral.

She wasn’t sure how she had endured it. Any of it. The leaving of the house, the carriage ride to the church, everyone staring at her. The worst part had been seeing his portrait on the cover of the Order of Service. She thought she had acknowledged his passing. Thought that part, at least, was over. But seeing his smiling face, a face that now only existed on paper…

She thumbed the edge of that paper still, though she was back in the sitting room, hemmed in by her mother, father and the Montagues. At least Marjorie was by her side. She dug her fingers into her soft fur.

Guests for the wake were filling the house. Ladies in black dresses perched on the green settees, and sunlight shone through the large windows overlooking the street and the front lawns. The brightness jarred with the dark clothing, with her dark countenance. Surely it should have been raining.

“Just dreadful,” her mother said, voice raised, already on her second glass of wine. Charlotte blew a sharp breath through her nose. She was in no mood for her mother’s brand of sympathy.

“I thought he had years left, poor chap,” Lord Montague said, swirling whiskey around his glass, the ice clinking.

“It must be an awful shock, dear Charlotte. Whatever will you do without him?” Lady Montague simpered, her grey hair tied back in a smooth bun, her mourning dress spotless. She laid her hand on her husband’s arm, in an unsympathetic move. Yes, she still had her husband, still had an arm to cling to.

“It really is—” Charlotte began.

“I heard it was his heart. Was it his heart, dear?” Lady Montague asked.

Even now, they wouldn’t let her finish her sentences. She exchanged a glance with her father, who gave her a sad, understanding smile. With her mother around, he never got a word in either. She tried again, “The doctor⁠—"

“Such a shame, such a pity, our deepest condolences,” Lord Montague said.

There was a roaring in her ears, but Charlotte shrank, fiddling with the lace at the edge of her black dress, heat rising to her cheeks. It was best to let it go. What did it matter, really?

“Charlotte will come and stay with us, won’t you, dear?” Charlotte’s mother crooned. “You can’t be in this big house all alone.”

Charlotte stared at her mother. What was she talking about? “No,” she whispered, before she could stop the word spilling from her mouth.

Charlotte’s father said, “Florence, really, she just wants⁠—”

“Nonsense, you’ll come and stay with us. I’ll arrange for your things to be sent over. Where is your housekeeper? I’ll see to everything.” Her mother bustled off to find Alma before Charlotte could prevent it. Colour rose to her cheeks and she cursed inwardly. She had no intention of moving to her parents’ house. She was twenty-five, not some child who needed coddling.

Charlotte excused herself and stepped through the crowds. Where had her mother got to? The room was abuzz with noise, and too many eyes lingered on her. The men from the expeditions were arriving now, more simply dressed than the lords and ladies, their faces carrying more sadness. Men who had known Ernest so very well. Charlotte met their eyes, while avoiding those of the aristocracy.

There was a tapping at her shoulder, and she turned to find Alma, grey-haired and rosy-cheeked, with hands on her ample hips. “Your mother says you’re to move back to Highfield House. Tell me she’s mistaken, mistress?”

“Oh, Alma. Don’t let her—I wish to stay here.”

“Right you are, mistress. Leave it with me.” Alma rolled up her sleeves.

Charlotte sighed, her shoulders dropping. Thank goodness Alma was strong-willed enough for both of them.

Alma studied Charlotte’s face. “Forgive me, mistress, but you don’t look well. Would you like to take some air?”