Breathless

by Sullivan, Francis

  Charlotte laughed. "All right, I'll see you then. Goodbye." She hung up the phone, grinning.

  "So are you going to go?"

  Charlotte turned to see Jack leaning against the wall. "I really can't get any privacy around here, can I?" she asked, brushing past him to walk to her room. "But if you really want to know...yes. Wes is coming for me at seven." She walked to her wardrobe and pulled open the doors, trying to imagine what she could possibly wear that evening.

  "Do you even know much about him, Charlotte?" Jack asked, standing in her doorway. "I mean, you've known him for a couple of weeks. How could you really know who he is?"

  "Jack, remember how much I knew about you two weeks after we met," Charlotte pointed out.

  "Exactly!" Jack exclaimed. "I could still have been an ax murderer for all you knew."

  Charlotte sighed and walked over to Jack. "I highly, highly doubt that your cousin Wes is secretly Jack the Ripper," she told him pragmatically. "But if he does turn out to be an ax murderer, I will take full responsibility for my actions."

  "How could you?" Jack asked smartly. "You'd be dead."

  Charlotte scowled at him. "Goodbye, Jack!" she called, shutting the door on him.

  "At least make sure I'm here when he comes to get you!" Jack called through the door. "Helen and Lewis are going out for the evening and someone needs to make sure you're safe!"

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. It really felt as if Jack were her brother-her very overprotective, annoying brother. But it was still nice to feel taken care of. "Fine," she finally agreed, and continued to get ready for the evening.

  "You look nice," Jack told her as she stepped out of her room later that night.

  "Do you think so?" Charlotte asked, looking down at herself. She had fussed for over an hour on just her hair alone. During the months since she had been away from France, her hair had grown past her shoulders, and her fringe brushed the tips of her eye lashes. After quite a bit of time, she had figured out how to use the hair curler she had found in the bottom of her vanity, and had managed to coax a bit of wave into her straight hair. In her wardrobe, she had found a new dress, no doubt which Helen had made for her. It fit like a glove, the wide neck hugging her collarbone and shoulders nicely, the sleeves like a second skin, reaching to her mid-forearm. The waist was slim, and then the skirt billowed down past her knees, flaring out in a very satisfactory way. She had slipped into some shiny black and white heels, which had made her feel taller and more elegant. She felt pretty. But hearing it from Jack just made everything better.

  "I think so," Jack said honestly, observing her in a way that made Charlotte feel a bit silly, as if she were some pretty little doll. "I think you'll have to keep Wes in check tonight."

  "Is he here?" Charlotte asked.

  "He's sitting in the parlor with some coffee," Jack told her, leading her down the stairs. "But don't worry, I already told him you had to be home by ten tonight."

  "Oh, Jack!" Charlotte cried. "Please don't start acting like my father. I'm almost seventeen years old! I don't need a curfew. I can take care of myself."

  "Oh, I'm sure you can," Jack told her with amusement. "I'm just not sure what you'll be doing to Wes. Don't break his heart too badly, now."

  "I'll try not to," Charlotte assured him as she walked into the parlor. Wes was sitting before the fireplace in a smart suit. When he saw her, he stood straight with bright eyes.

  "You look beautiful, Charlotte," he told her, extending his hand to her. His smile was enough to melt her heart.

  "Thank you," Charlotte smiled, taking it. "You do, too." Her insides squirmed with butterflies as she felt the warmth of his palm against hers. All she wanted to do was pull closer to him, to feel his warmth, to smell his familiar scent, to hear his heartbeat. He made her feel nervous like no one else ever had.

  "So," Jack said, interrupting by clearing his throat and stepping between the two. "Charlotte, you're going to be home in a few hours, right? I don't need it on my shoulders if Helen and Lewis come home late and you're still out."

  "Jack," Wes told him with a small smile, "I hardly think Lewis and Helen will mind very much if I'm the one she's out with..."

  Jack cast Wes a sharp look. "Still, all the same. She still has school tomorrow. So just don't get her home too late. And...be careful," he finally added, looking strangely serious.

  Charlotte smiled at him. "Stop worrying, Jack. Everything is going to be fine." Without hardly thinking, she reached out and hugged him and pecked him on the cheek, as if he really were her brother. But as soon as she did, she realized it didn't feel right. He wasn't her brother. It didn't seem right. And by the look on Jack's face when she pulled away, she could tell that he thought it was strange, too.

  "Yes, well," Jack said, clearing his throat uncomfortably again. He walked the pair to the door and opened it for them. "Have a nice evening," he said in a clipped voice.

  "Thank you, Jack," Charlotte told him gratefully. "I promise I won't be home late." She gave him one last smile before heading out the door with Wes.

  Wes had been right. The restaurant he took her to was beautiful and elegant. Charlotte pictured people like her parents dining at its classy, dim-lit tables, garnished with candelabras and bouquets of roses. She couldn't help but feel very mature and glamorous, especially as she sat across from Wesley, who was the epitome of class.

  She did everything right. She gracefully sat in the chair that Wes pulled out from under the table for her, and crossed her ankles delicately. She gently laid the cloth, embroidered napkin across her lap. She made pleasant small talk and ate in small bites, sipping politely from her water glass. And of course, Wesley was the perfect gentleman that she could always count on him to be.

  That was maybe what she admired most about Wes. He was always charming, he was always generous, always pleasant. There were no surprises with Wes. He was exactly what he was at face value. And Charlotte appreciated that more than she would have ever expected to.

  Later that evening, they walked along the London pavements, eating ice cream from a little shop that Wes knew about. Charlotte was enjoying this part of the evening best. She enjoyed walking beside Wes, close enough so that their hands brushed one another's once in a while, while they casually talked about anything and everything that was on their minds. But especially about theatre. Charlotte was glad that it seemed someone else loved theatre as much as she did. But one topic was still haunting her mind.

  "Wes," she said, finally summoning the courage to ask. "Why doesn't anyone ever talk about your relationship with Jack? Why is everyone always so quiet on the subject?"

  Wes was quiet for a moment, but to Charlotte's relief, he didn't seem at all put off by the question. On the contrary, he seemed quite pensive. "What did Topher tell you?" he finally asked Charlotte. "I'm not quite sure where to start."

  "Only a little," Charlotte told him. "But I'd rather hear the entire story from you."

  Wes thought for a moment, eating a bit more of his ice cream. But then he began, very quietly, very matter-of-factly.

  "My father was a soldier in the Great War," Wes told her. "He was very young, but very passionate about it. He wanted nothing more than to go off to war. He was only sixteen when he enlisted. And he was immediately sent to the Battle of La Somme, in France." He looked at Charlotte. "While he was there, he fell in love with a young French woman named Sylvie."

  "Sylvie," Charlotte whispered. "Just like-"

  "Just like your play," Wes smiled. "Lewis named the play after my mother."

  Charlotte shook her head. "I never knew."

  "Not many people do. Not many people know my story," Wes told her with serious eyes, as if telling her that she had to be a special person to be able to hear it. "My mother had lived in nearby France and wanted to help the English. She offered her services to the English, to help nurse the wounded soldiers. She and my father met when he was shot in the side. They fell in love as she tended to him. When he was sent home to recover from
his injuries, he insisted she come back to England with him, where she would be safe. And she agreed.

  "He recovered at Helen and Lewis' home, with my mother by his side the entire time. And when he felt well enough to go back to the war, both Lewis and my mother protested greatly. They didn't want more harm to come of him. But he was adamant. This was what he wanted to do.

  "He was killed in June of 1918. They brought his body back home, but it was so badly disfigured that it was barely recognizable. I don't think it would have even been brought here if it weren't for Lewis, who had insisted so much. My mother was a complete mess. She didn't want to do anything or go anywhere. But it was becoming painfully obvious by the day that she was pregnant. I was born on November 11th-the very day that armistice was called and the war ended. And I think that must have just added salt to her wounds, to have her fatherless son born on the day the war that killed him ended."

  Charlotte shook her head in sympathy. "I wouldn't have been able to bear it. But at least she had Helen and Lewis to help her through everything."

  "But that's one of the worst parts of the story," Wes told her with a grim smile. "My mother adored Lewis. But she fiercely hated Helen." Seeing Charlotte's shocked face, Wes nodded. "Helen was the closest person my father ever had. She was born mere months before him. They did everything together and grew up side by side. And when he wanted to go to war, Helen supported him. She encouraged him. And when he wanted to go back the second time, she still stood by his side. When he was killed, my mother blamed her for everything, saying he wouldn't have gone if Helen hadn't encouraged him to. And she may have been right. But Helen never forgave herself after that. No matter what she did-dedicated performances to him, hung his portrait over her hearth, named her own son after him...it never seemed like enough. She still hates herself over it."

  "But then how did you ever come to live with the Careys?" Charlotte asked. "If your mother hated her so?"

  "Because she was the only one my mother could turn to, and know that she wouldn't be refused." Wes looked down at his feet. "I was only six months old when my mother caught the Spanish Flu. She knew she couldn't take care of herself, or me for that matter. She went to the Careys looking for help. They took her in. She lasted only a week before she succumbed to it. And then the Careys took me in as their own."

  "Before Jack was even born?"

  "Before Jack was even born," Wesley repeated. "So you see, Charlotte. He was never the spoiled only child that everyone makes him out to be. On the contrary, he took on the role of the playful, frisky, second-born who could never amount to enough in everyone's eyes, because he was in the shade of two great shadows."

  "Of yours?"

  "And Topher's," Wes added. "You wouldn't think it, would you? But from a very young age, Topher excelled in school. He could have gone to any school in the country for University. He was accepted to Cambridge, you know. But the scholarship wouldn't cover all of the costs, and although the Careys gladly offered to pay the bill, he couldn't accept it. He wanted to be a self-made man like his father had been, not someone who had to rely on others to get where he wanted to be in life." He sighed. "And then there was me. Not particularly extraordinary at any certain thing, but well-behaved, well-mannered, diligent in school, friendly, careful. But when Lewis and Helen expected these same things of Jack...I don't think he could handle those expectations. So he rebelled. But the problem was that he didn't just rebel against his parents, he rebelled against his life. He was just as smart, just as quick as Topher, and could be just as charismatic as I could. But he hated being compared. So he made a new name for himself.

  "As the years continued, he continued to push away from his parents, while I held on. I needed them. Especially since I always felt the absence of my own parents. So naturally, as time went on, Helen and Lewis began to feel they had a more close relationship with me than with Jack."

  "But Jack didn't like that," Charlotte said quietly, remembering what Topher had told her.

  Wes smiled at Charlotte knowingly. "Despite his rebellions, Jack gets surprisingly jealous. And he was jealous of me, for the attention I got from his parents. So when I went to University, it was agreed that I give them some...space...to maybe make things better between them and Jack. But I'm not sure if it all was worth it," he chuckled. "Because I'm not so sure that he's ever changed."

  "So..." Charlotte said slowly. "You've never really had a good relationship with Jack?"

  Wes shook his head. "Never. I always loved him like a brother, but I don't think he ever liked me. We could never talk to each other. And even now, it's odd seeing him. He's like a stranger, who I've lived my entire life with." He frowned and shook his head again. "But I'm not willing to give up Helen and Lewis. They're all I really have left. I can't lose them now, because of my cousin." And then he was silent.

  Charlotte looked at Wesley. She had never seen him so quiet, so upset. All she wanted to do was comfort him, to tell him that someone was there for him. But she couldn't find the words.

  "I'm glad," she finally told him. "I'm glad that I, out of everyone who could have, is paying this tribute to your mother, in the play that's named after her." Wes looked up at her. "She probably wouldn't even care," Charlotte said with a laugh, shrugging her shoulders, "that some silly little French girl who has barely a care in the world will be playing her role...but I'm glad."

  "I'm glad, too," Wes said with a smile. "And I think you're wrong. I think she would be very glad that you're playing the role. And I also think she'd find it funny that history is repeating itself," he said with a coy smile.

  "What?" Charlotte laughed.

  "That her very own son is so intrigued by a young French girl, just like my father was."

  Charlotte blushed, but her smile grew uncontrollably. She looked down at her feet, trying to hide her grin.

  But then, softly and gently, she felt Wes take her hand in his, slipping his fingers between her own. She looked up at him in surprise, in genuine happiness, and found him looking down at her with the very same expression. And in that moment, everything felt right. In that moment, it didn't matter that he had a tragic family life, or that her brother was still in France. For she had found someone who made her feel like she had never felt before.

  He was still the perfect gentleman. He walked her up to the door and said goodbye, said that he had loved the time they had spent together, and gently kissed the back of her hand, looking up at her with his sincere brown eyes. He didn't try to kiss her on the lips. He seemed as if he didn't want to spoil anything, after their perfect night.

  Charlotte could have leapt with excitement, with joy. Wes just made her feel perfect, as if she was doing everything right. She ran up the stairs gleefully, dancing and swirling all the way, imagining that this must be exactly what all girls felt like when they were in love.

  Love.

  That stopped Charlotte right in her tracks. Could she be in love with Wesley? She had barely known him for two weeks. Could that even be possible? Could all of the Romeo and Juliet myths be possible?

  Charlotte pondered this as she made her way to her room, but something stopped her. There were strange sounds coming from Jack's room. Curious, Charlotte crept toward his door, telling herself that it was alright, after he had snooped in on her telephone call that evening. She peeked through the crack in the door, and caught the strange sight of Jack, sitting in his desk chair, with her own friend Celia nearly on his lap, as they kissed passionately.

  Charlotte bit her lip. She wondered what it must be like, to kiss someone that fiercely, with such passion. She wasn't mad at Celia. She wasn't angry with Jack. She was just surprised. Quietly, Charlotte backed away from the door and went to her own room, with these strange and new feelings clouding her mind all at the same time.

  "But Leighton, what else can I do?" Charlotte cried, outstretching her arms. She took Emilie, who, in costume, looked like a dirty little street rat at the moment, under her arm. Charlotte couldn't imagine she looke
d much better, herself. Her costume for this part of the play consisted of a torn, dirty old-fashioned dress. Her face was splattered with grime, and her wig looked a wreck. Had she looked like this in real life, she would have felt embarrassed to even speak to Wesley. But she was acting a part, just as he was acting stingy and arrogant as the spoiled rich boy Leighton, dressed in a fine three piece suit with pinstripes. "I need to find a way to survive. I need to find a way for Colette to be safe and warm and happy."

  "Hold, please," came the call from the stage manager.

  Charlotte sighed. It was the night before the show opened, and it was proving to be the most tedious of tech week. It seemed after every other line she spoke, the stage manager would call for all the actors to hold their places, so that the crew could adjust lights or props. It was all very tiresome. The entire week had been stressful and difficult. Charlotte had barely gotten sleep between the late rehearsals and school, and was feeling very cranky and exhausted from the fatigue. She could tell Wes felt badly for her, for he kept casting her pitiful looks with his big puppy dog eyes, and had even brought her some pastries to reward her for the long week. And on top of everything, Charlotte was getting sharp pains in one of her teeth, causing her to flinch in discomfort.

  "Are you alright?" Wes asked, concerned. He ignored the stage manager's protests, and walked up to Charlotte, taking her by the arm.

  "I'm fine," she insisted, not wanting to delay the rehearsal even further.

  "She's not," Emilie stated to Wes. "She's been cringing every time she talks. I think her mouth hurts."

  Wes looked at Charlotte seriously. "What's hurts, Charlotte?"

  Charlotte sighed. "It's just one of my teeth. I'm fine. We have more important things to worry about."

  "Oh, really?" Wes asked, obviously amused. "There are more important things to worry about than the health of our leading actress? I don't think so. Helen," he said, beckoning for her. "Charlotte has a toothache. Don't you think she should go have it looked at before opening night?"