* * *
Anthony allowed his gaze to linger on Charlotte longer than he should have. Her thick chestnut hair was gathered in a plait down her back, and she wore a white linen apron over a high-necked, long-sleeved gown. Shadows balanced beneath her red-rimmed topaz eyes, but alertness brightened her expression.
She’d failed to answer his question.
What was more, he did not recall her being so difficult to read.
He refused to let the topic drop. “It does matter what you want. This is your home.”
“The agreement has been made, Mr. Welbourne. We can only hope that this ordeal will be behind us very soon and each of us can go on about our lives.”
Her words were austere, her tone inscrutable.
He suddenly felt foolish for inquiring.
Perhaps the memory of what they had shared weighed heavier on him than on her. Perhaps his recollections of their relationship were far more intense than hers.
In this moment the morning light lingered on the soft angles of her narrow face. How explicitly he recalled each one. There had been a time when the caress of his hand would have been welcome there, when he’d kissed that smooth cheek. Her soft golden eyes, as sharp and vibrant as ever, were fixed on him, but her tightened expression lacked the warmth he remembered. He might still regard her with fondness and even affection, but she clearly did not return the sentiment. Could he blame her? She’d married another, and any nostalgic attitude would not be welcome. What was more, it would be inappropriate.
Her sharp words returned them to conversation. “Perhaps I should pose the option to you. If you’re uncomfortable here, given the unique relationship between our families, then I will think nothing of it if you ask to be reassigned.”
“This is my profession, Mrs. Prior. Personal circumstances will never affect my judgment.”
An awkward quietude hovered in the tall room, as if it were an active participant, daring someone to speak next.
Then Charlotte pressed her lips together. It was a sign he recognized—an expression she used to make when she was uncertain or uncomfortable.
She tilted her head to the side. “I must ask, have you informed Mr. Walstead of our prior acquaintance?”
Then he understood her hesitation. Such a revelation could have far-reaching impact—for them both. “No. Of course not.”
She nodded, then her shoulders straightened and her chin lifted. “Is there more we need to discuss?”
Yes, there was more.
Much more.
So much more that it ached in the deepest corners of his soul. But now was not the time. He cleared his throat. “If you wish to leave the property, send word and one of us will escort you. Additionally, if you are expecting guests, please inform us. Timmons will be going to the village to post a letter later today, so he’ll take one on your behalf, should you like to send one.”
She only nodded, and if one did not know better, one might think her indifferent.
The Charlotte Grey, nay Charlotte Prior, he knew was anything but indifferent.
He cleared his throat again. “The servants Mr. Walstead engaged will arrive today. I was told to expect a housekeeper, a manservant, and a nursemaid who will also serve as a maid. We will notify you upon their arrival.”
Anthony gave her a few more instructions, and when their conversation concluded and she left him alone in the great hall, he could only stare at the empty space where she had just been standing.
She seemed to take his very breath with her.
It was a ridiculous sentiment, and sentiment had no business in his line of work. He needed to follow her lead. Her behavior had been perfectly clear. She was a grieving widow, and any affection she might have had for Anthony was dead and buried.
If he were to find peace with this assignment, he would have to accept the fact that her heart had been given to another man. Then he could toss that ridiculous fantasy of reviving their past behind him.
Chapter 13
After leaving Anthony alone in the great hall, Charlotte’s face flamed as she made her way up the uneven wooden staircase and crossed the minstrels’ gallery on the floor above.
She was frustrated, but not with Anthony. Nay, she was frustrated with herself and her reaction to this situation.
No one had ever asked her opinion on anything. Not Roland. Not Silas Prior. Not even her father. Yet Anthony had just asked her about whether she was comfortable with his presence at Hollythorne House.
Anthony Welbourne’s question was in line with the considerate character of the man she knew. But even so, the warmth she remembered in his tone was gone, as if he was inquiring out of obligation and nothing more.
She should not be feeling conflicted. He should have no effect on her. It had been years since they saw each other, and she was, after all, a widow. But with each encounter, additional memories flared. Happy memories. Safe memories. Memories of a time when she’d felt alive and free.
In all her longing to return to Hollythorne House, she never thought she’d be returning to him. She’d walled off that part of her heart, for she’d not been able to even think about the sharp contrasts between Anthony and Roland without pangs of regret. She and Anthony had not parted in anger or the result of a quarrel. He’d done nothing wrong and neither had she. Circumstances had intervened and propelled them down different paths. Now that she knew he was a member of Walstead’s Watchmen, a formidable and dangerous picture of him was forming.
But he’d already begun to prove that he was not that man. He’d helped with Henry. He’d offered to leave if she was uncomfortable with his presence. And it was only the first full day of the arrangement.
Her footfalls echoed loudly on the bare wooden steps, giving voice to the anxieties swirling within her, as she turned into the smaller corridor that led to her chamber. Once inside, she found Sutcliffe standing next to the window, intently looking out to the west bank of windows toward Blight Moor. Henry was asleep in his cradle, and all was quiet and still.
Charlotte stepped next to Sutcliffe, expecting to look out to the moorland, but instead she found her lady’s maid observing Mr. Timmons as he rode along the drystone wall at the property’s edge.
Upon being discovered, Sutcliffe jerked. A flush colored her cheeks, and she whirled away from the window.
Charlotte glanced down at Mr. Timmons, whose stocky, barrel-chested frame was dressed in a heavy greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat, very similar to the one Anthony wore. She supposed most women would scold their lady’s maid for such obvious gawking, and she probably should.
But how could she dare say a word to the one person who had remained faithful to her?
Sutcliffe wanted the same things every woman wanted—security in a world where tomorrow was never certain. Family to ensure she never would be alone. A home of her own. Freedom.
“M-My apologies, Mrs. Prior,” Sutcliffe stuttered, returning to the bed, where gowns were scattered about. “I was unpacking, and—”
Charlotte held up her hand to quiet her. Sutcliffe was her servant, but she was also her friend. And Charlotte didn’t have the inclination—or the energy—to reprimand the young woman, especially as Anthony’s sudden appearance had just reminded her of her own escapades. “The scenery is enchanting here, is it not? So different from Leeds.”
Sutcliffe sighed, folded her willowy arms over her chest, and stood for several moments. “I’ve never been on the moors like this before. It’s certainly unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”