Charlotte's Control, page 14
As his days in London dwindled, desolation at the loss of those last evenings with his Mistress plagued him most of all.
Time ran out, and he was forced to pack and leave for the estate without having any chance to apologize or make it up to her, or even attempt to negotiate the idea he’d had fermenting—encouraging her to continue her Latin studies with his help from university via correspondence, another idea he’d borrowed from Ovid’s Ars amatoria. He packed the books, gave the chocolates to his sister, and began crafting letters to her in his head during the carriage ride.
Once in the country, he was too busy for much of anything except handling estate business: resolving conflicts, managing the books, and writing correspondence until he left and his mother and cousin had to take over.
A month flew by, his yearning for Charlotte increasing rather than fading. Back at Oxford after Michaelmas, he sat with his books at his elbow on the desk, unable to concentrate on his courses. His longing may have increased, but he feared she might not feel the same.
Despite her mandate of no correspondence, it was worth trying. He grabbed paper and pen. At least through the post, the letter would not be returned. Whether or not she would read it was another matter.
My dearest Mistress,
I have arrived back at Oxford. I have thought of you every day. I beg your forgiveness for my poor choice in ice shops, indeed for the arrogance of my impertinence. My fervent hope is that you realize it stemmed from a desire to spend more time with you. My greatest wish is that I could beg in person, which might prove more successful.
I hate that a shop worker had the power to hurt you. I confess I also had not anticipated that you were vulnerable to that. I see your strength, but I should have recognized that everyone’s armor has a weak point which can be pierced.
Please accept the enclosed memento as a small part of my apology.
Your copy of The Odyssey was translated by Alexander Pope. Whilst that is the most widely available, I thought you might be interested in learning that George Chapman’s earlier translation was so transformational that Keats wrote a sonnet about it.
The short poem was published two years back in the paper. I found a copy and have transcribed it here for you. I was also able to locate a copy of Chapman’s translation in a bookstore here at Oxford that I am sending with this missive.
Your silence is the worst punishment you’ve ever devised. I’d beg you to write to me, but I feel it necessary to do more to earn your response after being irresponsible. However, you have my solemn promise that I will do so only after my studies are complete each week-end.
He reread the note, his pen hovering as he considered whether to expand on the idea of punishment. Deciding against it, he hesitated over his closing salutation. “Your loving servant” was too strong and would tip his hand. He knew his mistress. And for that matter, his mother. Until his majority, he needed to step carefully. Neither would react well to a declaration of his love before then. “Your caring servant” sounded wishy-washy. In the end, he opted for “faithful” and signed it with a flourish.
Your faithful servant,
William
The following weekend, caught up on his reading, he again addressed the desolation that had swirled in his stomach since their outing.
If he could entice her to read his letters through the fall and spring, his schedule would become more flexible after graduation. He could manage estate matters from London more of the year than not. He cast about in his memory for works in Latin that might lure her into a response. Recalling the book of poetry by Catullus, he debated whether skipping from deference to naughty boldness would work. He shrugged. He had several months; he could attempt various sallies and see if any provoked a response. If nothing else, they would keep him forefront in her mind and perhaps even wondering which direction his next letter would take.
Mistress,
How is your Latin progressing? In a further attempt to edge back into your good graces, I thought to offer another poem from Catullus. I’ve included the reference here so you can identify words.
I miss your wit, your intellect, your humor, as well as your touch.
This carmen (#96 in your book) speaks to the depth of my sorrow…
If to the silent dead aught sweet or tender ariseth,
Calvus, of our dim grief's common humanity born;
When to a love long cold some pensive pity recals us,
When for a friend long lost wakes some unhappy regret;
Not so deeply, be sure, Quintilia's early departing
Grieves her, as in thy love dureth a plenary joy.
It was written by Catullus to a friend mourning the loss of a loved one. I would never equate my misery with yours upon the passing of your husband—indeed, no two griefs will ever feel the same, don’t you think? Mine, though, has the added torture of being my own fault.
I read this again and try to imagine how it would feel to lose you forever. I cannot. The pain is too much to bear. Please, you must forgive me. I beg you again.
Your suffering servant,
William
His next letter took one more step toward boldness, including two poems.
Mistress,
I count the days until my graduation. Much as I should do so in thanks for my mother’s resourcefulness in ensuring I got this far, and for the freedom and autonomy formal adulthood—my ‘majority’—brings, those are not my reasons. As you know, I much prefer the bindings, cuffs, or ribbons you offer to any freedom.
You can likely tell from the bent of this opening how much I miss you and in how many ways…
How is your autumn faring? Do you miss me as I miss you? I thought to challenge you, thus I am not including the poem number for this translation. Can you find it?
After flipping through the book of poetry once more, he added another reference below the first translated poem.
I hope this next one makes you laugh. You shan’t find this particular carmen translated anywhere in a bookstore…
O ridiculous thing, Cato, and absurd,
Worthy of your hearing, and of your sneering.
Laugh, Cato, as you love Catullus;
The thing is ridiculous, nay, too absurd.
I just came upon a lad who on a girl
Was thrusting and, if it pleases the mother of Venus,
I pierced him with the stiffest staff of mine.
Your beribboned servant,
William
* * * *
Staring around the dim pub, packed with drunken Oxford students, William swore again. He and South shared one class, but he had not seen his friend in over a week. Even when he had, it had not been in the classroom.
Wading his way through the crowd, he headed for the back corner South preferred, watching for a swinging tankard. Finding a mutual acquaintance, he leaned in to shout, “Where’s South?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Today?”
“For a few days.” The student shrugged and turned back to the conversation at the table.
William swore again and turned to stomp out.
A barmaid tugged his sleeve. “Milord?”
“Pardon me, I need to—” he edged away.
“Your friend was in most days last week but was gone by the time the other upperclassmen arrived. He came in today to give me a bit of coin in thanks and said he was returning to London.”
“London?” He was aghast. “’Tis the middle of the semester.”
She shrugged. “I was just trying to help you.”
“Thank you, miss. I do appreciate it. I did not mean to yell at you.”
He rushed to South’s rooms.
His friend was packing books in crates, his clothing already in trunks.
“What’re you doing?” William hovered in the doorway, hands on the doorframe.
“I’m heading back to London. Oxford and I don’t mix.”
William noted the flask on the empty desk.
South followed his gaze, and grimaced. “No lectures, please. At some point I’ll have to face my father, and I may never hear the end of it then.”
“But I can help you—”
“You’ve been helping me. Last year, getting me home a few times this summer from various spots when I wasn’t fit to walk. I still manage to fail—classes, bets, life.”
“South, no. Please don’t throw this opportunity away. I’ll do more, help more. ’Tis only a few more months.” William wasn’t sure how, but he could not bear to see his friend leave. More, he worried what South would do alone in London with no one to carry him home. He was ready to not sleep for the rest of university if it meant stopping his friend from becoming like his father.
South stopped packing and stared at him. “Will, I appreciate the kind offer. I know it is well meant. So please do not take this the wrong way.” He sucked in a breath. “I don’t want you to.”
William’s shoulders dropped. He nodded, stepping in to hug South and pat him on the back. “I’ll write, and be down to see you as soon as I can. Please don’t be a stranger to Folly.”
South returned the hug without responding.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte’s autumn had been troughs of wallowing in misery, occasionally interrupted by posts from William.
She paced the library. She was beyond being calmed by the warm floral tones and fluffy throw pillows. “Dratted puppy!”
Belle lounged sideways in her chair at the tea table in the corner, one arm slung carelessly over the back of the intricately carved chairback, legs crossed and the top one swinging. She watched like the soliloquy was Shakespearean theatre, a half-smirk betraying her amusement.
“What am I to do with this?” Charlotte shook the latest letter full of cramped handwriting and the two poems at her friend. The book lay where she had tossed it on the table.
“Frame it?”
“Belle. I’m serious.”
“You’re also being silly. You needn’t do anything with that. Respond if you like, ignore it if not. You ignored his last letter.”
“But, but…”
“Exactly. You cannot, because he knows you, perhaps better than anyone.”
Charlotte flashed her a look, uncertain if Belle was comparing the rakelet to her husband. Belle’s face was expressionless, eyes following her as she roamed the room.
Belle continued, “I told you, he is a great match for you in spirit, intelligence, and in bed. I understand why you think you need to, but I maintain that you should stop fighting this and enjoy finding such a partner. This proves my point yet again. He knew just how to engage you, even if you don’t respond.”
Charlotte threw herself down across from Belle and poured more tea. “You were the one who suggested it as a fling, a-a- practice!”
“That would have worked, too, had you not fallen for the puppy. When you did, I adjusted my advice accordingly.”
“Convenient.” Charlotte pressed her lips together, irritated more at herself than Belle for allowing William to continue to affect her this much. “Belle, I cannot. That girl meant no harm, but we must have an end date given my barrenness. And I was devastated. I have no desire to go through another loss—worse, one of my own doing.”
Belle arched a brow, recognizing what Charlotte knew. Her reaction at the end of summer said she already had.
“I understand your concern, dearest,” Belle said, patting her hand. “But you’ve said yourself, you wish to wed again, you want to find someone to spend your life with and enjoy intellectual pursuits with. Why not him? The rakelet has made you cry and laugh just through letters. There aren’t many aristocrats out there who would spend that amount of time or effort.”
Charlotte recalled his letter with the poem on grief. She'd been sniffling by the end of it, silent tears streaming down her cheeks as she reread his words about losing her forever. A small, mean part of her was a tiny bit glad he was as miserable as she was. But more, the maturity to read that and empathize with her loss impressed her. He was so often lighthearted and playful but then surprised her with his thoughtfulness and perception.
Then the more recent letter with overt references to a threesome. He was outrageous and funny and caring and…kept giving her cause to fall further in love with him even from a distance. Dratted, beloved puppy.
* * * *
Charlotte spent Christmas in Peterborough at the family estate, with her brother-in-law Edward and his lovely wife, Sophia, but kept her trip short.
While the house held no painful holiday memories for her, as she and Charles had spent most of the year in London for the sake of salons and museums, the couple were still newlyweds and she suspected they valued their remoteness from society, including her.
Sophia was about William’s age, while Edward was a year or two behind Charlotte. Despite the similar age gap, she did her best not to think about William, knowing that society viewed their age difference quite differently and his need for heirs was a bigger issue.
Back in London, Belle dragged her to a demi-monde party celebrating the New Year, but she warned her coachman to stay close and managed to escape after the midnight toast, returning to her quiet home as she preferred. Pretending not to wonder if William was back in Town on Christmas break was exhausting.
Strolling into the library for the decanters on the sideboard, she spied the books he’d given her on the corner of her desk. She poured herself a port to take upstairs but then plopped down at her desk to snick open her drawer, pull his letters out, and read them for the umpteenth time, admitting to a teeny bit of surprise at not having heard from him again.
Melancholy welled in her at this time of year, just as it had the year prior. The holidays were particularly lonely. She and Charles had had such an active social life that included many holiday fêtes, then they’d hole up in this house for the days after Christmas to spend private time together. They gave half their servants Christmas and the first half of the week off, and then the rest the second half and New Year’s. They’d often lock the library door, build a fire, and partake in fireside intimacies at her direction.
She’d redone this room a few months ago. She’d spent several months after his passing to alternate between wallowing and basking in memories of their time there. Then she’d taken herself in hand and repainted their bedroom, replacing the chairs by the window and the bedding. Then the dining room. Then just the two armchairs in the parlor as the one had been her “throne” of sorts and they were a matched pair. Finally, she’d felt ready to make the library into her own sanctuary, rather than the remains of theirs. The room was now her favorite room in the house, and its floral tones of yellows and oranges with spots of green almost always soothed her.
Looking at the colorful printed pillows, she imagined reclining on them with William. The reds and golds of the flames in the fireplace reflected the tints of his hair. What gift would he have given her for Christmas? His gift-giving skills were masterful. And she might have gotten him something from Folly’s and the Orfords’s latest catalogue of leather restraints. Or a Christmas-colored ribbon.
Shaking her head, she returned her gaze to the poems he’d challenged her to identify. The holiday was the reason for her weakness. This would not do. She was too strong a woman to indulge in this over a mere boy. Grabbing her port, she went to bed.
* * * *
Still set on ignoring him and his tempting correspondence, she put them away and continued her efforts at Latin, but she struggled with the number of ways many words were used. It was contextual, which meant learning a list of words was not as helpful as say…reading poems.
She held out for another week, although his letters re-emerged from the drawer and the paper grew soft and worn from handling.
Then, one night as she lingered over a second glass of wine, she wandered in to stare at his signature. Unable to resist any longer, she sat and pulled her Latin primer and the Catullus book toward her on the desk, to study them.
Damned rakelet.
She was more drawn to the first poem than the second, despite the earthiness of the threesome depicted.
She needed a diversion. At the bookstore, Charlotte perused the books of Latin phrases. Her preferred bookseller did not have these in stock, and rather than make her wait for him to get one in, he had kindly directed her here. The new store’s owner had been eyeing her suspiciously since she walked in, his lips pursed at her position in front of the boys’ education shelf.
Deciding on one that seemed to be for beginners, she made her way to his counter. As she did, the shop door snicked open behind her and skirts rustled.
She handed the book over. The man’s eyebrows lowered, and he stared at her. “Madame, would you like this wrapped? I presume ’tis a gift?”
Old misogynistic goat. I should dearly love to tell him that I shall be using it, but with my luck he’ll not sell it to me. Shouldn’t a shop owner be happy for any sales? She sighed. ’Twould be easier to go along and get the book then never return. “Pick your battles, Charlotte,” her husband always used to say.
“No thank you. ’Tis for my son.”
A gasp sounded behind her, and she whirled, a hand to her chest.
“Oh, Sophia, Lady Pe—er—’tis lovely to see you, of course. Ah…” Charlotte trailed off and gaped at her sister-in-law, who knew very well she did not have a son. If she had, Edward would never have become the Earl of Peterborough.
Charlotte turned back to the shopkeeper, with her most imperious look—one William had never caused her to use, even at his boldest. “Please hold that for me. I shall return within the hour.” She nodded at him, and turned to Sophia. “Lady Peterborough, I did not realize you were here in Town. Would you be so kind as to walk with me for a spell?”
Sophia smiled and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Of course. We are in for the opening of Parliament. ’Tis lovely to see you, too. And remember, we are family. ’Tis Sophia, always, please.”
The two Countesses of Peterborough, past and present, linked arms and set off to meander along the London street, busy as Spring reigned and the Season neared.
Time ran out, and he was forced to pack and leave for the estate without having any chance to apologize or make it up to her, or even attempt to negotiate the idea he’d had fermenting—encouraging her to continue her Latin studies with his help from university via correspondence, another idea he’d borrowed from Ovid’s Ars amatoria. He packed the books, gave the chocolates to his sister, and began crafting letters to her in his head during the carriage ride.
Once in the country, he was too busy for much of anything except handling estate business: resolving conflicts, managing the books, and writing correspondence until he left and his mother and cousin had to take over.
A month flew by, his yearning for Charlotte increasing rather than fading. Back at Oxford after Michaelmas, he sat with his books at his elbow on the desk, unable to concentrate on his courses. His longing may have increased, but he feared she might not feel the same.
Despite her mandate of no correspondence, it was worth trying. He grabbed paper and pen. At least through the post, the letter would not be returned. Whether or not she would read it was another matter.
My dearest Mistress,
I have arrived back at Oxford. I have thought of you every day. I beg your forgiveness for my poor choice in ice shops, indeed for the arrogance of my impertinence. My fervent hope is that you realize it stemmed from a desire to spend more time with you. My greatest wish is that I could beg in person, which might prove more successful.
I hate that a shop worker had the power to hurt you. I confess I also had not anticipated that you were vulnerable to that. I see your strength, but I should have recognized that everyone’s armor has a weak point which can be pierced.
Please accept the enclosed memento as a small part of my apology.
Your copy of The Odyssey was translated by Alexander Pope. Whilst that is the most widely available, I thought you might be interested in learning that George Chapman’s earlier translation was so transformational that Keats wrote a sonnet about it.
The short poem was published two years back in the paper. I found a copy and have transcribed it here for you. I was also able to locate a copy of Chapman’s translation in a bookstore here at Oxford that I am sending with this missive.
Your silence is the worst punishment you’ve ever devised. I’d beg you to write to me, but I feel it necessary to do more to earn your response after being irresponsible. However, you have my solemn promise that I will do so only after my studies are complete each week-end.
He reread the note, his pen hovering as he considered whether to expand on the idea of punishment. Deciding against it, he hesitated over his closing salutation. “Your loving servant” was too strong and would tip his hand. He knew his mistress. And for that matter, his mother. Until his majority, he needed to step carefully. Neither would react well to a declaration of his love before then. “Your caring servant” sounded wishy-washy. In the end, he opted for “faithful” and signed it with a flourish.
Your faithful servant,
William
The following weekend, caught up on his reading, he again addressed the desolation that had swirled in his stomach since their outing.
If he could entice her to read his letters through the fall and spring, his schedule would become more flexible after graduation. He could manage estate matters from London more of the year than not. He cast about in his memory for works in Latin that might lure her into a response. Recalling the book of poetry by Catullus, he debated whether skipping from deference to naughty boldness would work. He shrugged. He had several months; he could attempt various sallies and see if any provoked a response. If nothing else, they would keep him forefront in her mind and perhaps even wondering which direction his next letter would take.
Mistress,
How is your Latin progressing? In a further attempt to edge back into your good graces, I thought to offer another poem from Catullus. I’ve included the reference here so you can identify words.
I miss your wit, your intellect, your humor, as well as your touch.
This carmen (#96 in your book) speaks to the depth of my sorrow…
If to the silent dead aught sweet or tender ariseth,
Calvus, of our dim grief's common humanity born;
When to a love long cold some pensive pity recals us,
When for a friend long lost wakes some unhappy regret;
Not so deeply, be sure, Quintilia's early departing
Grieves her, as in thy love dureth a plenary joy.
It was written by Catullus to a friend mourning the loss of a loved one. I would never equate my misery with yours upon the passing of your husband—indeed, no two griefs will ever feel the same, don’t you think? Mine, though, has the added torture of being my own fault.
I read this again and try to imagine how it would feel to lose you forever. I cannot. The pain is too much to bear. Please, you must forgive me. I beg you again.
Your suffering servant,
William
His next letter took one more step toward boldness, including two poems.
Mistress,
I count the days until my graduation. Much as I should do so in thanks for my mother’s resourcefulness in ensuring I got this far, and for the freedom and autonomy formal adulthood—my ‘majority’—brings, those are not my reasons. As you know, I much prefer the bindings, cuffs, or ribbons you offer to any freedom.
You can likely tell from the bent of this opening how much I miss you and in how many ways…
How is your autumn faring? Do you miss me as I miss you? I thought to challenge you, thus I am not including the poem number for this translation. Can you find it?
After flipping through the book of poetry once more, he added another reference below the first translated poem.
I hope this next one makes you laugh. You shan’t find this particular carmen translated anywhere in a bookstore…
O ridiculous thing, Cato, and absurd,
Worthy of your hearing, and of your sneering.
Laugh, Cato, as you love Catullus;
The thing is ridiculous, nay, too absurd.
I just came upon a lad who on a girl
Was thrusting and, if it pleases the mother of Venus,
I pierced him with the stiffest staff of mine.
Your beribboned servant,
William
* * * *
Staring around the dim pub, packed with drunken Oxford students, William swore again. He and South shared one class, but he had not seen his friend in over a week. Even when he had, it had not been in the classroom.
Wading his way through the crowd, he headed for the back corner South preferred, watching for a swinging tankard. Finding a mutual acquaintance, he leaned in to shout, “Where’s South?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Today?”
“For a few days.” The student shrugged and turned back to the conversation at the table.
William swore again and turned to stomp out.
A barmaid tugged his sleeve. “Milord?”
“Pardon me, I need to—” he edged away.
“Your friend was in most days last week but was gone by the time the other upperclassmen arrived. He came in today to give me a bit of coin in thanks and said he was returning to London.”
“London?” He was aghast. “’Tis the middle of the semester.”
She shrugged. “I was just trying to help you.”
“Thank you, miss. I do appreciate it. I did not mean to yell at you.”
He rushed to South’s rooms.
His friend was packing books in crates, his clothing already in trunks.
“What’re you doing?” William hovered in the doorway, hands on the doorframe.
“I’m heading back to London. Oxford and I don’t mix.”
William noted the flask on the empty desk.
South followed his gaze, and grimaced. “No lectures, please. At some point I’ll have to face my father, and I may never hear the end of it then.”
“But I can help you—”
“You’ve been helping me. Last year, getting me home a few times this summer from various spots when I wasn’t fit to walk. I still manage to fail—classes, bets, life.”
“South, no. Please don’t throw this opportunity away. I’ll do more, help more. ’Tis only a few more months.” William wasn’t sure how, but he could not bear to see his friend leave. More, he worried what South would do alone in London with no one to carry him home. He was ready to not sleep for the rest of university if it meant stopping his friend from becoming like his father.
South stopped packing and stared at him. “Will, I appreciate the kind offer. I know it is well meant. So please do not take this the wrong way.” He sucked in a breath. “I don’t want you to.”
William’s shoulders dropped. He nodded, stepping in to hug South and pat him on the back. “I’ll write, and be down to see you as soon as I can. Please don’t be a stranger to Folly.”
South returned the hug without responding.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte’s autumn had been troughs of wallowing in misery, occasionally interrupted by posts from William.
She paced the library. She was beyond being calmed by the warm floral tones and fluffy throw pillows. “Dratted puppy!”
Belle lounged sideways in her chair at the tea table in the corner, one arm slung carelessly over the back of the intricately carved chairback, legs crossed and the top one swinging. She watched like the soliloquy was Shakespearean theatre, a half-smirk betraying her amusement.
“What am I to do with this?” Charlotte shook the latest letter full of cramped handwriting and the two poems at her friend. The book lay where she had tossed it on the table.
“Frame it?”
“Belle. I’m serious.”
“You’re also being silly. You needn’t do anything with that. Respond if you like, ignore it if not. You ignored his last letter.”
“But, but…”
“Exactly. You cannot, because he knows you, perhaps better than anyone.”
Charlotte flashed her a look, uncertain if Belle was comparing the rakelet to her husband. Belle’s face was expressionless, eyes following her as she roamed the room.
Belle continued, “I told you, he is a great match for you in spirit, intelligence, and in bed. I understand why you think you need to, but I maintain that you should stop fighting this and enjoy finding such a partner. This proves my point yet again. He knew just how to engage you, even if you don’t respond.”
Charlotte threw herself down across from Belle and poured more tea. “You were the one who suggested it as a fling, a-a- practice!”
“That would have worked, too, had you not fallen for the puppy. When you did, I adjusted my advice accordingly.”
“Convenient.” Charlotte pressed her lips together, irritated more at herself than Belle for allowing William to continue to affect her this much. “Belle, I cannot. That girl meant no harm, but we must have an end date given my barrenness. And I was devastated. I have no desire to go through another loss—worse, one of my own doing.”
Belle arched a brow, recognizing what Charlotte knew. Her reaction at the end of summer said she already had.
“I understand your concern, dearest,” Belle said, patting her hand. “But you’ve said yourself, you wish to wed again, you want to find someone to spend your life with and enjoy intellectual pursuits with. Why not him? The rakelet has made you cry and laugh just through letters. There aren’t many aristocrats out there who would spend that amount of time or effort.”
Charlotte recalled his letter with the poem on grief. She'd been sniffling by the end of it, silent tears streaming down her cheeks as she reread his words about losing her forever. A small, mean part of her was a tiny bit glad he was as miserable as she was. But more, the maturity to read that and empathize with her loss impressed her. He was so often lighthearted and playful but then surprised her with his thoughtfulness and perception.
Then the more recent letter with overt references to a threesome. He was outrageous and funny and caring and…kept giving her cause to fall further in love with him even from a distance. Dratted, beloved puppy.
* * * *
Charlotte spent Christmas in Peterborough at the family estate, with her brother-in-law Edward and his lovely wife, Sophia, but kept her trip short.
While the house held no painful holiday memories for her, as she and Charles had spent most of the year in London for the sake of salons and museums, the couple were still newlyweds and she suspected they valued their remoteness from society, including her.
Sophia was about William’s age, while Edward was a year or two behind Charlotte. Despite the similar age gap, she did her best not to think about William, knowing that society viewed their age difference quite differently and his need for heirs was a bigger issue.
Back in London, Belle dragged her to a demi-monde party celebrating the New Year, but she warned her coachman to stay close and managed to escape after the midnight toast, returning to her quiet home as she preferred. Pretending not to wonder if William was back in Town on Christmas break was exhausting.
Strolling into the library for the decanters on the sideboard, she spied the books he’d given her on the corner of her desk. She poured herself a port to take upstairs but then plopped down at her desk to snick open her drawer, pull his letters out, and read them for the umpteenth time, admitting to a teeny bit of surprise at not having heard from him again.
Melancholy welled in her at this time of year, just as it had the year prior. The holidays were particularly lonely. She and Charles had had such an active social life that included many holiday fêtes, then they’d hole up in this house for the days after Christmas to spend private time together. They gave half their servants Christmas and the first half of the week off, and then the rest the second half and New Year’s. They’d often lock the library door, build a fire, and partake in fireside intimacies at her direction.
She’d redone this room a few months ago. She’d spent several months after his passing to alternate between wallowing and basking in memories of their time there. Then she’d taken herself in hand and repainted their bedroom, replacing the chairs by the window and the bedding. Then the dining room. Then just the two armchairs in the parlor as the one had been her “throne” of sorts and they were a matched pair. Finally, she’d felt ready to make the library into her own sanctuary, rather than the remains of theirs. The room was now her favorite room in the house, and its floral tones of yellows and oranges with spots of green almost always soothed her.
Looking at the colorful printed pillows, she imagined reclining on them with William. The reds and golds of the flames in the fireplace reflected the tints of his hair. What gift would he have given her for Christmas? His gift-giving skills were masterful. And she might have gotten him something from Folly’s and the Orfords’s latest catalogue of leather restraints. Or a Christmas-colored ribbon.
Shaking her head, she returned her gaze to the poems he’d challenged her to identify. The holiday was the reason for her weakness. This would not do. She was too strong a woman to indulge in this over a mere boy. Grabbing her port, she went to bed.
* * * *
Still set on ignoring him and his tempting correspondence, she put them away and continued her efforts at Latin, but she struggled with the number of ways many words were used. It was contextual, which meant learning a list of words was not as helpful as say…reading poems.
She held out for another week, although his letters re-emerged from the drawer and the paper grew soft and worn from handling.
Then, one night as she lingered over a second glass of wine, she wandered in to stare at his signature. Unable to resist any longer, she sat and pulled her Latin primer and the Catullus book toward her on the desk, to study them.
Damned rakelet.
She was more drawn to the first poem than the second, despite the earthiness of the threesome depicted.
She needed a diversion. At the bookstore, Charlotte perused the books of Latin phrases. Her preferred bookseller did not have these in stock, and rather than make her wait for him to get one in, he had kindly directed her here. The new store’s owner had been eyeing her suspiciously since she walked in, his lips pursed at her position in front of the boys’ education shelf.
Deciding on one that seemed to be for beginners, she made her way to his counter. As she did, the shop door snicked open behind her and skirts rustled.
She handed the book over. The man’s eyebrows lowered, and he stared at her. “Madame, would you like this wrapped? I presume ’tis a gift?”
Old misogynistic goat. I should dearly love to tell him that I shall be using it, but with my luck he’ll not sell it to me. Shouldn’t a shop owner be happy for any sales? She sighed. ’Twould be easier to go along and get the book then never return. “Pick your battles, Charlotte,” her husband always used to say.
“No thank you. ’Tis for my son.”
A gasp sounded behind her, and she whirled, a hand to her chest.
“Oh, Sophia, Lady Pe—er—’tis lovely to see you, of course. Ah…” Charlotte trailed off and gaped at her sister-in-law, who knew very well she did not have a son. If she had, Edward would never have become the Earl of Peterborough.
Charlotte turned back to the shopkeeper, with her most imperious look—one William had never caused her to use, even at his boldest. “Please hold that for me. I shall return within the hour.” She nodded at him, and turned to Sophia. “Lady Peterborough, I did not realize you were here in Town. Would you be so kind as to walk with me for a spell?”
Sophia smiled and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Of course. We are in for the opening of Parliament. ’Tis lovely to see you, too. And remember, we are family. ’Tis Sophia, always, please.”
The two Countesses of Peterborough, past and present, linked arms and set off to meander along the London street, busy as Spring reigned and the Season neared.
