a difference after all.
A tremor ran through her as she smoothed the soft moss day gown she’d chosen for her young mistress. The color softened Susan’s features without overpowering her coloring. The coiffure Charlotte created turned out rather delightful, what with all the delicate braids and a few curls.
No matter that she’d had to redo the style three times before getting it right.
Susan had looked lovely when her mother demanded she accompany her downstairs.
Tidying the suddenly quiet chamber, Charlotte scooped up Susan’s night dress and draped the fine material over the back of a chair.
A knock interrupted her musings.
“Miss Drake,” Mr. Tresham peered in. “Her ladyship requests you come downstairs to chaperone Miss Fairchild right away. His Lordship, Lord Mapleton, that is, will be staying for the day.”
How was it possible that her heart took flight and yet plummeted at the exact same time?
“They are in the East Drawing room.” And with a nod he disappeared.
Charlotte caught sight of herself in the mirror. Dark circles etched below her eyes. Taking a moment, she wound her own braid atop her head and then donned the required mop cap all maids wore. She wished she had a prettier dress to wear than the brown muslin, but then scoffed at the thought. Even if she had been able to bring along some of her old wardrobe, she could not have worn them as a companion. Lady Denton had been perfectly clear about that on her first day there.
“You can do this.” She whispered at her reflection. She was to act as chaperone. Very well. A good chaperone remained invisible and provided assistance to her mistress. Charlotte would tiptoe inside and keep her gaze on the floor.
She wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t even peek to see if he looked tired, or relieved, or if he was looking at her.
Charlotte would do her best to ignore the courting couple. She’d keep her mind on other matters.
If only she could bring a book with her.
She’d not dwell on the fact that this was the first Christmas she’d spend without her father. The Denton household, filled with guests for the holidays, required extra work from all the servants. Most of the servants grumbled that Christmas didn’t allow for much celebration by the lower classes, but that they quite looked forward to Boxing Day.
She must do her best to do the same.
The storm swirling outside seemed almost magical though. Christmas was the season of hope. She’d do all she could to summon any measure of Christmas spirit that she could.
It’s what her father would have wanted.
Chapter 7
Shared Interests
Charlotte wiggled uncomfortably in her chair. Since she’d tiptoed in and taken her seat in the formal drawing room, Lord Mapleton and Miss Fairchild had barely spoken ten words to one another. Which, if she was to guess, was more than they’d spoken before Charlotte had taken her unobtrusive seat near the door.
Oh, but this was excruciating.
Susan smoothed her gown. Lord Mapleton shifted in his seat.
The ticking of the clock on the mantle echoed loudly.
“Do you play chess, my lord?” The words sprung from Charlotte’s lips before she could think. He glanced across the room at her with questioning eyes. He had done well to completely ignore her so far.
Which she’d appreciated.
On some levels. Her heart, of course, had not.
“Not with me, my lord,” she clarified. Of course, he’d not think to play chess with her! “With Miss Fairchild. Do you play, Miss Fairchild?”
At this question, Susan scrunched her face up in distaste. “Heaven’s no! Why would I waste my time learning to play a military game?”
“Oh, but chess is so much more––” Charlotte caught herself. She had spent hours across a board with her father on cold winter evenings, but this was not her place.
She dropped her gaze to her lap but felt Lord Mapleton’s curious gaze, nonetheless.
Again, the ticking of the clock took prominence in the room. They all sat through two additional minutes of uncomfortable silence. She could not stand their discomfort. Anything was better than watching the two squirm and fidget. Charlotte wished she could be anywhere but here!
Hush Charlotte. Keep to yourself.
Lord Mapleton spoke. “Do you enjoy poetry, Miss Fairchild?”
“Doesn’t everyone, my lord? Byron is simply all the rage!” Miss Fairchild fluttered a lacy fan below her chin.
Thank heavens!
Charlotte had read most of Lord Byron’s works but by far preferred Keats. In her eyes, there was really no comparison. But at least these two might find something to converse upon.
“I met him once.” The Earl