With the help of the footman, Charlotte descended the shiny black coach, feeling like she was stepping out of an enchanted life and back into reality. She held a small sprig of fragrant flowers Mr. Winters had gathered from somewhere, probably the castle garden or greenhouse, and tied with a ribbon. He’d also promised to visit her at the bakeshop soon. It had seemed to her that during her stay at Ashbury the handsome man had made every effort to seek her out and speak with her as much as possible. Wherever she went, there he would be. He flirted and touched her hand when no one was looking. And once, he’d suggested she meet him late at night in the garden, alone, so he could show her the stars. He’d looked so earnest and sweet, she’d been tempted for a moment, but Alcott’s and Mrs. Darling’s warnings brought her to her senses. The moment she’d declined, saying she couldn’t possibly, he’d backtracked and made the clandestine meeting sound as if she’d misunderstood. Confused, with no experience with men or older women who’d ever taken the time to educate her in the ways of romance, she didn’t know if his overtures were proper or not. At some point, men and women had to get together somehow, didn’t they?
And now, she was home. She hadn’t disliked her job before, because she’d never known anything different. But now she’d miss the camaraderie of friends at Ashbury, laughing and discussing thoughts and problems. She’d never known a meal could be so much more than just consuming nourishment for her body.
With a heavy heart, she turned and gave the coach and footman one last look, then squared her shoulders and entered the bakeshop. Inside, the air was uncomfortably warm with the scent of sage and onion. The display case wasn’t as full as normal. From what Margaret had said, her aunt was none too happy she’d stayed away so long.
Verity squealed when she saw her. “Charlotte, you’re back!” She rounded the display case and vaulted into her arms. “Things around here have been topsy-turvy since you left. When Mother wasn’t browbeating and berating poor Margaret, she was grumbling under her breath.” She stepped out of Charlotte’s arms. “The girl tried her best, but you know how Mother can be.” Her smile disappeared. “I liked Margaret. She was nice.”
Nice? Margaret? I wish Margaret would forgive me. Perhaps we could be friends too.
“I’m sorry I was gone so long,” Charlotte said. She was the cushion, the protection between her younger cousin and Aunt Ethel’s sharp tongue. That was no secret. When Charlotte was here, Aunt Ethel left Verity alone. “I should have come home sooner.”
Verity shook her head. “I don’t begrudge you such a wonderful experience, but my mother does. Please be careful. Even with Margaret’s help, she’s been on edge the whole time, saying you’ll never go back there once you come home.” She took another step away and looked Charlotte up and down. “This dress is new. It’s beautiful. So finely made. And the fabric is gorgeous.” She reached out in wonder and fingered the creamy green cloth. “A gift from the duchess?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Verity! Is that Charlotte I hear out there, now that that impostor has run back to the castle with her tail between her legs? If so, send her in.”
“Hurry, before she gets angrier.”
“Is Thomas home?” Charlotte quickly asked. The dowager’s nasty rumor filtered through her mind.
Verity tipped her head in question. “I’m not sure. He hasn’t gone fishing this whole time or disappeared at all. I believe he’s out in the barn caring for the pigeon.”
The irritation she’d felt at the word fishing dissolved the moment her cousin mentioned Romeo. “The pigeon? Has Mr. Llewellyn been building the coop?” She’d wondered more than a few times what Tristen was doing since he’d left.
“Yes. Finished two days ago and left the bird. That’s another reason Mother has been completely unbearable.”
She kissed Verity’s forehead. “As soon as I change my dress, I’ll be back to help.” She glanced around. “Things look a little bare out here.”
Verity nodded. “Our routine hasn’t been the same without you.”
“There you are, Miss High and Mighty,” Aunt Ethel said from the tall worktable as Charlotte entered the kitchen. Her hands were deep in a bowl of dough.
Perspiration made Aunt Ethel’s face shine, and the lines around her eyes and mouth seemed to have deepened. She did work hard, and that was no lie. Guilt for her time spent at Ashbury pressed around Charlotte’s shoulders.
Aunt Ethel’s eyes narrowed when she took in Charlotte’s new dress.
“Yes, I’m back, Aunt Ethel.” She kept her tone cheerful, though her insides felt like a gunnysack filled with snakes. Even with all the problems at the castle, these last few days had been the best in her life. “And I’ll get busy as soon as I change into my work dress and apron. I’m sure you’re ready for a break.” Heading for the stairs, she was about to ascend when Ethel caught her shoulder with a dough-covered hand. Charlotte shrank away, offended her aunt would think so little of her new garment. Surely, she’d noticed.
“No need to change. I need your help right now. For the weekend baking. The case is bare out front. How do you expect us to make any profit if we don’t have anything to sell?” She stuck an apron in Charlotte’s face. “Put this on and get to work.”
Hatred glittered in Aunt Ethel’s eyes. The attention from the duchess had been too much. Verity’s warning rang in Charlotte’s head. All these years, knowing she was an outsider, she had strived to be a good niece and a help whenever she could. She worked without complaint, tried to be respectful even under the harshest unfair treatment, and put her work before any personal happiness.
Something dark rose up within. “After I change—”
“I won’t tell ya again, girl! Get to work! You’ve been gallivanting around in rich splendor for the last five days while your family, the one who’s put a roof over your head and food in your mouth for years, worked their fingers to the bone with that good-for-nothing replacement the duchess sent. First the pigeon and then you. Who does she think she is, anyway?”
Painfully gripping Charlotte’s arm, Aunt Ethel attempted to drag Charlotte to the workstation, but something inside snapped. I won’t be treated with such disrespect any longer. I’m a person, not her beast of burden. She yanked her arm away, causing Aunt Ethel’s eyes to narrow.
“Who does she think she is?” Charlotte repeated. “The Duchess of Brightshire! She’s wonderfully kind and noble. The exact opposite of you!”
Her aunt jerked back as if slapped. “Don’t you dare use that tone with me, you ungrateful wretch!”
“I will when you treat me like I have no feelings.”
Aunt Ethel swung at Charlotte’s face with an open palm, intending to strike her, but Charlotte jumped back, almost stumbling over a stool. Thoughts of Verity listening to the confrontation from the front room gave Charlotte more courage than she actually possessed.
“I’ll tell you again,” she said, panting with horror. “I’ll not do a lick of work until I go upstairs and change out of my new dress. And that’s final!” She straightened her shoulders as she struggled to hold back many years of tears and hurts.
Aunt Ethel’s lips trembled with rage. Perhaps she’d pushed the woman too far, but she didn’t care. She’d no longer tolerate her aunt’s abusive treatment. Later today, after things had calmed down, she’d inform Aunt Ethel she expected a wage from now on, as well as one day off a week. Her thoughts flew to Tristen, of all people, and she imagined walking with him on a warm Sunday afternoon around the forest lake.
Movement at the back door drew both their attention.
Mathilda Tugwer stuck her head inside, her omniscient eyes taking in the scene.
Guiltily, Aunt Ethel reached for a mixing spoon even though she had no batter to mix.
“May I come in for a glass of water?” Mathilda asked, leaning in through the back threshold.
“What’s wrong with the well?” her aunt snapped with a curled lip. She and the old midwife had no love lost between them, though C
harlotte was never sure what had been the cause. “Did it dry up? Or there’s always the bucket at the stream for peasants like you. Go there and leave us alone.”
“Uncharitable woman,” Mathilda grumbled as she came inside. Her gaze searched the kitchen like a wary animal stepping out into an unprotected glen. “And from such an old friend. I’d expect more from you, Ethel Smith.” Nothing seemed to frighten Mathilda—certainly not Aunt Ethel.
Keeping her wits about her so as not to get struck by her angry aunt, Charlotte scooted past, then went to the sink and worked the pump, filling a James Keiller & Sons white ceramic marmalade jar they used for a glass. “Nice and cold,” she said, handing it to Mathilda.
“Bless you, my child,” she replied and then drank until the jar was empty.
“You’ve had your drink, old woman, now be on your way,” Aunt Ethel spat. “We have work to do and can’t begin with you snuffling around and peering into each corner. What are you always looking for, anyway?”
Mathilda only smiled.
Verity appeared in the threshold. “Are you hungry, Miss Tugwer? I have a meat pie that broke apart not three minutes ago when I tried to put it into a bag for Mrs. Jones.”
The midwife had stayed long enough to defuse the situation. Had she heard the angry voices from the alley? Mathilda always seemed to appear at the most opportune times. Aunt Ethel was again kneading, the angry lines easing away to a more relaxed expression.
Charlotte was waiting for her aunt to object to Verity’s offer. It was their practice to bag broken meat pies and pastries into small paper sacks to sell for a halfpenny. Fragmented items were a good portion of their income. Doing so had been Charlotte’s idea—it allowed even the very poor to treat themselves, but didn’t wound their pride with handouts.
“That sounds lovely,” Mathilda said. “A nice meat pie . . .”
“Costs half a penny, as you good and well know,” Aunt Ethel blurted. “We don’t work for nothing.”
Emboldened by Mathilda’s presence, Charlotte said, “I’ll pay for the broken meat pie from this week’s earnings.”
Ethel jerked to a stop. “What earnings? Did you get a job somewhere?”
Mathilda’s gaze touched hers.
Verity seemed to be holding her breath.
“Yes, I did. Here. I’ve worked in this bakeshop my entire life without receiving a cent for my efforts. You don’t consider me family, so I must be a worker. Either pay me or I’ll find employment elsewhere.” Charlotte pushed back her jittery nerves, thinking of the duchess and how brave she’d looked as she confronted the dowager. If Emma Brinkman Northcott could speak up for herself, then so could Charlotte. “I can go back to the castle today if you’d rather.”
Even the walls seemed to tremble as everyone waited for the explosion to come.
“We’ll discuss this later, Charlotte,” Aunt Ethel said, trying to pull her lips into a smile.
Her aunt was at a disadvantage with Mathilda present. And that was exactly why Charlotte had chosen this moment to make her stand. “No. I’d like to get the details settled now, if that’s all right. I’m nineteen and need to think about my future. Twelve pounds a year plus room and board sounds fair for what I do.”
Aunt Ethel gasped and stopped kneading. “I always knew you were touched in the head. I’ll pay eight pounds, but I won’t like doing it.”
“Eleven and a half pounds,” Charlotte countered, knowing without the room and board she’d barely be able to scrape by on such a low wage, but she wanted to make sure her salary would never impact her adoptive family’s welfare. That was the most important thing. All the hours she spent baking would more than pay for the small amount she was asking several times over.
Aunt Ethel bit her lip so hard a drop of blood appeared. “God knows, I should’a turned you away when I had the chance,” she muttered, picking some dry crust from under her fingernails, “but I didn’t want to hurt my sister. She never knew you weren’t her real babe, bless her heart. I’ll pay ya ten pounds a year, if I must, and not a shilling more.”
Aching stabbed Charlotte like a lance. She could have been a member of the family if her aunt had only allowed her to be. And she’d believed she was Ruby’s true daughter until she was five years old. The memory of that horrible day was imprinted on her soul.
Rain had begun to fall and the crackling fire was the only sound besides the pitter-patters on the roof. Aunt Ethel had been baking. Charlotte and Amelia sat in chairs by the fire, darning socks, with three-year-old Verity fast asleep by their feet. Thomas, then six, sat on a stool in the corner, being punished for some infraction.
Aunt Ethel reached for the butter container, but after mixing the butter into the batter, she recognized that the contents had been fouled by greasy clumps of lard. Livid, she’d had to throw the entire batch out, after which she’d taken to Charlotte with a switch.
“Can’t you do anything right, you stupid little mongrel?” she screeched. “You’ve cost me a whole day of profit.”
At the first surprising sting, Charlotte dropped her mending and darted to the other side of the kitchen, putting the square worktable between them. Shocked and hurt, she didn’t understand her aunt’s bitter anger. No matter how fast Aunt Ethel moved, Charlotte was faster. Still, the switches she’d received before she’d realized what her aunt was about to do stung like fire. What had her aunt meant, calling her a mongrel?
“I’m sorry,” she’d cried. “I’ll be more careful, Auntie, I promise.”
Since Charlotte was strong for her age, meeting the man who brought milk, lard, and other necessities each morning was her responsibility. She held the cans while he refilled them, scooping gobs of fresh butter, lard, or cheese into their corresponding containers. Distracted by a group of passing children, young Charlotte had mixed the containers up.
The faster Charlotte darted away, the angrier Aunt Ethel became. “I should have put you out on the street when poor Ruby died, you stupid little peasant.”
Now awake, Verity began to sob with fright.
“Time you knew the truth!” Aunt Ethel went on in a fit of anger. “You were an orphan! Found by an old crone! My sister’s babe died at birth. You needed a mother, and Ruby, who’d just lost her poor husband, needed the daughter she’d lost. Look how I’ve been repaid by trying to do a good deed.”
Charlotte recalled the look on Thomas’s face as he stood in stunned silence next to the punishment stool. To this day he’d never said a word about the revelation. And Amelia and Verity were so young, surely they didn’t remember.
“You don’t even look like the rest of us!”
The memory of that moment could still bring Charlotte to tears, if she let it. It was as if in the recalling of the horrible events that night fourteen years ago, every ounce of love Aunt Ethel had ever held inside had disappeared.
As Charlotte had gotten older, she’d suspected that it was Mathilda Tugwer who’d found her and brought her to Aunt Ethel. Mathilda had as much confirmed it when she described a woman she’d known who resembled Charlotte. But every time Charlotte contemplated asking Mathilda about her, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was a part of her that feared the disappointment of learning the reason why her real mother had given her up.
“Did ya hear?” Aunt Ethel asked. “I said I’d pay ya! How come you ain’t smiling?”
Mercifully jolted back to the present, Charlotte squared her shoulders. “Ten pounds it is, then. And thank you very much. I won’t give you reason to regret your generosity.”
“I already do.”
Aunt Ethel went back to work immediately, ignoring Mathilda and everyone else.
Verity, eyes large, retreated from the doorway back into the front room.
Feeling beaten and bruised, Charlotte pumped herself a jar of cold water and gulped it down, staying the tears that threatened to spill. She hadn’t asked to be foisted onto the Smith and Aldridge families. She hadn’t gone looking to be a part of the Smith Bakeshop in
Brightshire, to cut into their profits. She hadn’t caused Ruby Aldridge’s baby girl to die. She’d been a baby herself. Who needed care. That was all. But one wouldn’t know that by the way her aunt browbeat her at every opportunity.
Mathilda shuffled forward, her all-knowing eyes looking right through Charlotte as she handed back the marmalade jar. “You were saying about the bag of baked goods?”
“Yes, I was, before all this unpleasantness erupted.” She thought of the last few days in the castle, the beautiful dress and sumptuous dinners, and her close friendship with the duchess and duke. But most of all, the thought of Tristen, and how he sometimes made her smile when he was really taking her to task, lifted her spirits. But why him? It was Mr. Winters who showed interest and had captured her attention from that very first day. She knew they had no future, but still she liked to dream.
“Verity will help you out front, Mathilda.”
And I’ll find some paper and start my own tab. What a feeling! She’d have money of her own for the first time in her life. She chanced a glance at her aunt to see how her words were received, but Aunt Ethel’s head was down as she kneaded the bread dough, keeping her feelings concealed, as well as any love she might have hidden in her heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I don’t know what you want me to say,” Thomas whispered that night in the barn loft. The lamplight made her brother’s features waver in the darkness. When Charlotte had gone out to feed the chickens and rabbits and check on Romeo and her pony, Sherry, she’d made eye contact with Thomas, a signal her brother was to follow her out.
One side of his mouth lifted, and he said matter-of-factly but with a bit of humor, “I told you before, I don’t know anything about the day the young duke died. I was fishing in the river miles away—and brought home several large perch to prove it. I wish you’d stop badgering me over this. You’re beginning to sound like a fishwife.”
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