Chapter 1
The heavy chimes of the clock resounded on the air, lifting up through the bowels of the house like deep tolls of forewarning. Each strike reverberated deep inside Charlotte like something physical. A tangible beat . . . a tolling clang that coincided with the low pulsing discomfort in her belly—the telltale signal that her menses were coming.
Oh, blast.
If she was given to heavier expletives, this would be the time for it. Once a month would be the time for it.
Now would be the time for it.
Always, it came. Like clockwork, Charlotte endured terrible cramps three to five days before her menses began. The misery. The suffering. The crawl-in-her-bed agony was as reliable as the tides.
It didn’t matter when or where. It certainly didn’t wait for convenience. The cramping afflicted her whenever it so chose, and unfortunately that was almost never late in the evening when she could lock herself up in her chamber and relegate herself to the comfort of her bed with a hot-water bottle. No, it always seemed to occur at the most importune times.
Such as now.
Charlotte counted the heavy chimes under her breath until they reached seven. It was time. The supper hour. Time to join everyone downstairs. She released a shuddery breath and flattened her hand against her unsteady stomach.
She could do this.
Her betrothed and his family waited below stairs. Her family waited, too. Well, except for Nora, who stared at her expectantly, one hand propped on her hip, the other hand extending a small cup to her.
“Are you certain this is not something else and not your usual monthly discomfort?” Nora asked with arched eyebrow. “Not some other thing bothering you?”
Charlotte did not like the question one little bit. She knew what thing her sister referred to and she did not care for the implication. Her sister thought her stomach was unsettled at the prospect of dinner with her betrothed and his family.
“It’s not because of that,” she snapped. Indeed, it was not because of them. The suggestion was as insulting as it was absurd.
Charlotte snatched the cup from her sister’s hand, telling herself the cordial would help. Her discomfort was only mild this time. She would get through the evening. She could do this. Tomorrow she could lounge about, shrouded in cozy blankets, sipping tea with hot-water bottles on her belly to help ease the ache.
Now was not the time to let any discomfort get the best of her.
Nora made a face, apparently determined to make her point and not leave it at mere implications. “Are you certain you’re not simply dreading this dinner and looking for a reason to beg off?”
“Of course not.” Indignation flared in Charlotte’s chest. “Why should I dread dinner with Billy and his family? We’ve taken dinner with them many times.”
“Exactly.” Nora rolled her eyes. “You know what lies ahead.”
“Be kind, Nora,” she admonished.
“William is unobjectionable, I suppose. Decent enough. A bit of a dull bird, but . . .” She shrugged as her voice faded away. She looked Charlotte up and down and her thoughts were perfectly transparent.
Nora thought Charlotte was dull, too.
It was a fair assessment. Charlotte didn’t begrudge her for it. She knew she was the uninteresting Langley sister. The boring one.
The mouse.
She lacked the fortitude and grace of her eldest sister, Marian, and all the boldness and wit of Nora. She was unexciting—just like Billy. It was that simple.
They were two dull birds, which made them a good and comfortable match. Nora knew it. Charlotte knew it. Everyone who knew them knew it.
Charlotte had known Billy since they were children. She, like everyone else in Brambledon, had always assumed they would wed.
Nora continued, “But his parents are perfectly wretched, Char. How can you abide them?”
“I’m not marrying his parents,” she countered evenly.
Nora snorted. “Aren’t you?”
Charlotte ignored her and rotated the cup in her hand, looking down at the murky contents. Flecks of herbs spotted the inside walls of the cup, resembling bits of dirt.
She wished her younger sister could be a little more supportive and a little less outspoken. A little more like Marian, who supported Charlotte’s decision to marry Billy. “They’re good people, Nora, and highly respected in the community.”
“Very well. If you insist on doing this, heed my words. I’ll miss you dearly, but move away once you’ve wed—and not around the bloody corner from the Pembrokes—”
“Nora, language, please!”
“Move far from Brambledon,” she continued. “You’ll not want the Pembrokes constantly interfering in your life.”
Charlotte didn’t bother to debate the matter of where she would reside once she and Billy were married. It was already decided. They would remain in Brambledon. Naturally. It was the only home they knew. The only place they wanted to be—the only place Charlotte wanted to be. Diving into the unknown was an intimidating prospect. One Charlotte had never wished for herself. Not when home was such a pleasant and comfortable place.
No, they would not leave. There was no need.
They were born in Brambledon. They grew up here. Of course they would stay here as a married couple.
She would remain where all was familiar, where everything was secure and within her experience. No surprises. Nothing out of the ordinary. No risks. A tidy and contented life. She’d leave the world outside Brambledon for the adventurers.
Shaking her head, she lifted the cup to her lips.
If she wanted to stave off her pains and get through this evening, she needed whatever help she could get. She needed to be in top form for an evening with her future in-laws.
She grimaced as the foul cordial went down her throat in a sluggish slide. She resisted the urge to gag and choked it down. She’d never tasted anything like it before, and she was no stranger to sampling her sister’s many concoctions.
“Blech. Nora.” She licked her lips and worked her mouth, hoping to rid herself of the bitter taste. It did little good. The stuff was awful.
Never had she doubted her sister’s competence as an herbalist. Nora had worked side by side with their physician father for years before he expired over two years ago. Twenty-nine months to be precise, not that Charlotte had been keeping track.
It was only that Charlotte was well aware of the day her father had died. She’d been beside him, holding his hand as the light left his eyes. A person did not forget something like that . . . watching a loved one die. When the light had gone from his eyes, some of the light had gone from her world, too.
Papa had placed a great deal of trust in Nora. Several people in the community of Brambledon still did, coming to Nora for draughts and poultices to ease their aches and ailments. Papa had believed in her. Charlotte had no reason not to trust her remedies.
Except the unfamiliar taste of the cordial combined with the curious way Nora studied her sent the tiny hairs on the back of her neck into prickling alert.
Nora nodded in satisfaction as she took the empty cup from Charlotte. “There now. You’ll feel better in no time.”
Charlotte narrowed her gaze on Nora, wondering if her tone wasn’t just a fraction forced. As though her sister was attempting to persuade herself of that fact, and not just Charlotte.
Nora moved away, her skirts swishing as she set the cup down on one of her worktables. Nora had arranged several tables about the space, all littered with vials and weights and instruments. Herbs were scattered through the room in pots and hanging from twine. One would not even know it to be a bedchamber if not for the bed and large wardrobe on the other side of the room. Other girls her age were interested in routs and their marriage prospects. Not Nora, however.