Charlotte reminded herself that she had long ago stopped hoping for nice things. Good things went to other people. Or if a good thing did fall her way, it wasn’t hers for long. It was snatched away, or it somehow turned out not to be a good thing after all. It certainly put her faith in God to the test, didn’t it? She could well believe He was the stern Father of many a sermon she’d sat through. Harder to believe He was the giver of good gifts, especially if you were never on the receiving end of any of them.
Hmph. Much too theological and philosophical for before-dinner thoughts. But something to mull over later perhaps, when she was tucked up into bed for the night.
She turned from the small mirror over the bowl and pitcher. Her boudoir boasted nothing as grand as a dressing table. Her father believed such things only increased a woman’s vanity. Her room would make a Spartan proud. Her father had spent some money on the areas of the house a guest might see, but the rest was as plain as a pencil.
It was as if the house wore a mask, hiding its secrets.
Picking up her shawl, she drew it around her shoulders. The house was cold. It was always cold unless they were entertaining. Coal was expensive, as they were often reminded. Wear a shawl, add an extra blanket to the bed, but do not put more coal on the fires than was absolutely necessary.
The clock chimed in the hallway, and she hurried downstairs, not wanting to add tardiness to her shortcomings. Her father wanted dinner on the table at precisely eight o’clock, and not one second later. Almost jogging down the stairs, Charlotte arrived slightly out of breath as the butler pulled out her mother’s chair and her father snapped open his napkin.
“Good evening.” Charlotte slipped into her chair.
“Good evening.” Father looked stern, glancing at the clock. His mouth pursed, but he said nothing about her abrupt appearance.
Mother gave her a quick nod. It had always saddened Charlotte that on her own, Mother could be good fun and a good conversationalist, but in Father’s presence, she shrank into herself. She only talked when spoken to, and she never ventured her own opinion.
If that wasn’t an advertisement against getting married, Charlotte didn’t know what was. At least if she had to go live with Aunt Philomena, she would speak her mind and air her opinions freely. After all, it couldn’t possibly make Philomena more cross-grained.
The butler took their plates from the tray held by the cook and set them before Charlotte and her parents.
Boiled potatoes, beans, and a sliver of beef.
Father leaned back as his wineglass was filled, but Charlotte and her mother had water, which Charlotte much preferred anyway.
They ate in silence, but as the meal progressed, Charlotte’s frustration mounted. Here they sat, dining properly, tended by servants, acting as if they had nothing of which to be ashamed.
And all of it a sham. A pretense.
“What are your plans for this week?” Father asked.
Mother cleared her throat. “We’ve that dinner party tomorrow night at the Washburns’. And the next day there’s the ball for the Pembertons’ eldest. It’s her coming-out celebration. I’ve not accepted any invitations on Saturday, but there’s church on Sunday.”
Father nodded. “The rector asked me to deliver the homily again this week.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, fighting the indignation that sprang to life in her breast. That her father would have the gall to deliver a pious homily when he had betrayed his marriage vows, cast out women who were dependent upon him—
She could be silent no longer.
“So, Father, did Mother tell you anything about our day at the Frost Festival?”
That she had spoken at all had her father scowling, but Charlotte ignored his glare and forged on. “We met the Boswells, of course. But we also met a woman named Amelia Cashel. I believe you know her?”
Mother’s fork clattered to her plate, and her mouth opened.
Father’s head jerked up, his eyes like cobblers’ awls boring into her. “Enough.”
“I quite agree,” Charlotte shot back. “Perhaps your homily this week at church should be on fidelity and the bonds of matrimony.”
Red started up Father’s thin throat, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Young lady—”
She cut him off. “How could you? A mistress? But that isn’t the worst of it. You not only kept another woman and had a child by her, you then threw her out on the street when you got tired of her. That’s despicable.” She pushed her plate back, her appetite gone. “And all that time you pretended to be righteous, speaking in church, holding your nose in the air, keeping Mother and I on such tight leashes we’ve nearly choked.” Trembles radiated down her limbs, and her stomach lurched at her temerity, but she held fast to her outrage to keep her courage.
“Keep your mouth shut, girl. It doesn’t concern you.” He pointed his knife at her, the red surging from his neck to his face, leaving it mottled.
She’d never defied him quite so openly before, but she might as well be hung for a sheep as hung for a lamb. She would say what she thought, because she might never get another chance.
“Doesn’t concern me? I think the fact that I have a half sibling definitely concerns me. I think the fact that my father is a philanderer concerns me. I think the fact that this woman is begging in the street and that her daughter, your daughter, is now making her living in a brothel concerns me.” Her hands fisted on the edge of the table, and a thrill of fear went through her. At last it was out in the open.
His eyes slitted, and his knuckles whitened on his cutlery. “I said keep your mouth shut.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to pretend none of this happened. And for us to pretend to not know what you’ve been doing for so long, all the while portraying yourself as a model of rectitude.” She couldn’t keep the scorn out of her tone. And she didn’t want to. This went well beyond being disappointed in him. What little respect she might have had for her father had been shredded on the ice at the Frost Festival.
For a moment, the room went silent. Her father shook, his eyes ablaze. Mother’s face was ashen, her lips pressed hard together. An odd tremor went through Charlotte. Fear? Exhilaration at her daring? A sense of all her bridges burning?
In a strangled voice, he said, “Go to your room. If you ever bring up this subject again, I shall thrash you as you deserve.” He glared hard at Mother. “This is what happens when you indulge a child. I shall soon put that right.”
Child? She was twenty-one years old.
The butler removed her plate, his face showing no sympathy. Not that she blamed him. If he crossed her father, he’d be out on his ear just like the Cashels.
Charlotte gathered her dignity around her with her shawl and rose. Keeping her chin high, she marched out of the room. She refused to let him hurt her anymore. Not by threats and not by actions. She would no longer be party to—even though it had been unwitting on her part—his hypocrisy.
Mother followed her up the stairs, but when they passed the master suite, Mother continued down the hall behind Charlotte instead of turning into her own rooms.
“Get in there.” Mother spoke through her teeth, her lips firm. She pushed Charlotte into her bedroom.
Before she could even turn around, Mother grabbed her shoulder. “What were you thinking? No, don’t.” She held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it, because plainly, you weren’t thinking. Haven’t I been humiliated enough?”