She did not belong here.
“I—I must go,” she managed.
The woman reached for her hand, hesitated, then let it fall. “Of course. Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you.”
Charlotte murmured something—an apology, perhaps, or thanks—and fled.
She did not stop until she reached her room.
There, finally alone, she shut the door and sank to the floor, grief crashing over her in waves too heavy to withstand. The tears came hot and unrelenting, wrung from a place she had tried to keep sealed.
She cried for her parents. For the home she had lost. For the name she could no longer claim.
And for the terrible, foolish happiness she had dared to feel—if only for a moment—standing beside Edward Thornton and his son.
That happiness felt like betrayal now.
As exhaustion claimed her at last, one thought echoed with merciless clarity:
They would never forgive her.
Not if they knew the truth. Not if they knew who she really was.
Chapter 18
Edward knew something was wrong the moment Charlotte did not appear for breakfast.
It was not her absence alone—governesses were not required at the morning table—but the quiet certainty that settled in his chest the longer the seat beside Julian remained empty.
He told himself it was a coincidence. That she was attending to preparations, or taking her meal privately, or simply keeping to her duties elsewhere.
Still, when Julian glanced toward the doorway for the third time, his small brow creasing with disappointment, Edward felt the first stirrings of unease.
“She is unwell, Your Grace.”
The words came from a maid who paused discreetly at his elbow as he rose from the table. Her voice was confidential, considered. “Miss Fenton sent word she will remain in her room today.”
Unwell.
Edward nodded once, offering thanks, then dismissed her. The exchange should have ended there.
It did not.
He lingered in the hall a moment longer than necessary, the echo of last night pressing in with unwelcome clarity—the garden, the lantern light, the way Charlotte’s breath had caught when he stepped away.
He had told himself he was doing the right thing. That restraint was a kindness.
And yet.
“We’ll check on her tomorrow,” Edward said to Julian, though it was less reassurance than instruction. “We will go down now. Lady Pennington will expect us.”
Julian nodded, but not before Edward saw the brief flicker of disappointment he tried to hide. It should not have mattered, but it did.
Pennington Hall greeted them with polished warmth—bright voices, low laughter, the controlled hush of servants glidingbetween doors. It was the sort of house that knew how to host, how to make even a winter morning feel deliberate and civilized.
Edward listened while Lady Pennington spoke of frost and roses forced in hothouses, of the pleasure of a full table again. He responded as etiquette required, but his attention pulled again and again toward the staircase.
Unwell.