by Kelly Bowen
The gorilla nodded and vanished with disconcerting speed.
Charlotte frowned. “If the doctor—baron is to assist, won’t he need to see my work? A portfolio? How will he know that—”
King folded his hands on the desk and fixed his pale, icy gaze on her once more. “One, the baron is only a single cog in this wheel that has now been set in motion. Second, my endorsement of you and your work will be sufficient. Unless, of course, you give me a reason to withdraw it.”
Charlotte nodded, biting her lip.
“I hope you never give me that reason, Lady Charlotte. For I believe this arrangement has the potential to be mutually beneficial.”
“I understand. You have my word,” she replied, ignoring the small voice in her head that was demanding her to acknowledge the enormity of what she had just done. “And my thanks,” she said instead. “For your assistance.”
King sat back in his chair, his face expressionless. “Do not make me regret it.”
Chapter 2
Lady Charlotte? Are you here?”
The question came from somewhere behind the towering rose trellises, the blooms, along with the warmth that had sustained them, now faded in the grip of fall. Charlotte shot to her feet, pulling her cloak tightly around her against the chill in the air. She’d come out to the deserted gardens in the watery sunshine because she couldn’t stand to be trapped in the house any longer, pacing and waiting and pacing some more. Three days had passed since she’d returned from her clandestine visit to King and she’d been on tenterhooks ever since, waiting for a visit she wasn’t sure would ever come from a woman she didn’t know.
“I’m here,” she replied, trying her best to arrange her features into normalcy.
The housekeeper rounded the garden path, her usually pinched face looking unusually befuddled, her arms wrapped around her middle against the cold. “You have a caller,” the woman said, sounding perplexed. “She’s been shown into the orange drawing room. Your aunt is already there.”
Charlotte felt her heart skip, and she willed her expression to remain serene, as though callers for her were regular fixtures. In truth, the housekeeper had every right to be perplexed. Charlotte never had callers. Of any sort. The only time that she supposed there were visitors to their London home was when her parents were in residence, and Charlotte hadn’t seen her parents in almost three years. They never came to Aysgarth and spent little time in London. Currently, they were wintering somewhere on the sunny shores of Spain, leaving Charlotte in the temporary company of an aunt who rarely left her rooms and never had even a passing interest in her niece.
Charlotte spun and hurried through the gardens and into the house, tossing her cloak aside and stopping just outside the door to the drawing room. She could see her aunt installed on the orange-and-yellow settee, the lace trim of her cap drooping over her gaunt face, a woolen blanket folded over her lap.
A soft, melodic voice that Charlotte didn’t recognize drifted from the room, but from her vantage, she could not see the owner. She smoothed the flyaway hair back from her face as best she could and brushed a dead leaf from her skirts. She squared her shoulders and stepped through the doorway.
Her aunt gazed up at her and blinked, as though she couldn’t understand where Charlotte had come from or why she was here. “I thought you were already gone to Aysgarth,” she said, and it sounded more like an accusation, as though she found Charlotte’s continued presence offensive.
“Not yet, Aunt,” Charlotte replied absently, her attention already fixed on the other woman in the room.
She was clad in a simple day dress the color of claret, which made her flawless skin glow. She had rich mahogany hair and dark eyes that met Charlotte’s with frank directness. Confidence and poise positively radiated from her, transforming her classical beauty into something far more striking.
Clara Hayward. Baron Strathmore’s sister and headmistress of Haverhall. She could be no other.
Excitement crackled through her.
“Lady Charlotte, it is lovely to see you again,” Miss Hayward greeted with an ease that made it sound like they were old acquaintances, simply picking up a conversation that they had failed to finish earlier that morning.
“Indeed,” Charlotte offered, a polite smile plastered on her face.
“I knew nothing about these plans of yours, Charlotte,” her aunt warbled from where she sat, sounding grieved. “Someone should have told me. Nobody tells me anything.”
“My plans?” she asked carefully.
“Don’t be coy, Charlotte. It’s not attractive.” Her aunt sniffed. “I was not advised that you had applied to Haverhall. Your parents mentioned nothing of this to me before they left me here.”
Charlotte gazed at her aunt. “An unfortunate oversight, I’m sure,” she murmured.
“I must take the blame for any confusion,” Miss Hayward interrupted smoothly. “For it was I who belatedly recommended that Lady Charlotte apply to our program.”
“Isn’t she a little long in the tooth for a finishing school?” her aunt muttered waspishly, the lace on her cap drooping farther over her eyes.
“Not at all,” Miss Hayward replied, her pleasant smile not wavering. “Lady Charlotte’s artistic skill is highly regarded. She has come recommended to us through numerous society channels as a young lady who possesses the maturity and poise to act as a mentor of sorts to our younger students. A very enviable position, I assure you.”
Charlotte blinked at her polished delivery. Her aunt seemed unsure what to do.
“This specialized term will run over the next twelve weeks,” Miss Hayward had continued, without giving anyone a chance to respond. “It is, of course, similar to our exclusive summer program. And like our summer program, it will also be hosted in Dover, at Avondale House. Aside from art, our curriculum will further develop skills that are equally as refined as the young ladies who take part.” Miss Hayward directed another smile at her aunt. “These specialized terms get so many worthy applicants, and as such, we must take great care to select only those most suitable.” She paused. “In fact, earlier today, I explained the exact same thing to the Duke of Holloway’s sister, Lady Anne.”
“The Duke of Holloway?” Her aunt sat up a little straighter, and Charlotte shot Miss Hayward a surreptitious glance from under her lashes. Had the baron’s sister done that on purpose? she wondered. Dropped the Holloway name because the bachelor duke had become a symbol of the sort of wealth and power that was coveted in all corners of Britain?
“Indeed. The Lady Anne has expressed interest in our Dover programs. As have the daughters of both the Marquess of Pevendel and the Earl of Marchant. An illustrious group of young women, one in which the Edgerton name fits well, don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” her aunt managed, looking a little overwhelmed.
“We are holding the last spot in this upcoming term for Lady Charlotte,” Miss Hayward said briskly. “If she wants it. But I must have a decision, for we will be departing almost immediately. And there are dozens of other young ladies vying for—”
“Of course she wants it.” Her aunt stopped, her colorless lips thinning, a look of utter distaste crossing her face. “Wait. Do I have to go with her?”
“No. Haverhall’s students are, as always, impeccably chaperoned. We also employ skilled lady’s maids to assist the students, and Avondale House has a sterling staff at our disposal.”
“Well, I suppose that’s something then.” Charlotte’s aunt sat back against the settee, looking appeased. “I despise traveling, you know.” She smoothed the wool over her legs and glanced sourly at Charlotte.
Miss Hayward stood. “Can you be ready to depart to Dover this afternoon, Lady Charlotte?”
Charlotte recognized that it wasn’t really a question, even though Dover was nowhere close to where she needed to be.
Go along with whatever it is that will be presented to you, King’s voice echoed in her head. “Yes.”
“Very good.” M
iss Hayward nodded. “You may bring a single trunk of clothing and toiletries. I would strongly suggest that you pack any and all art supplies that you feel you may need in another.”
“I understand,” Charlotte replied, not really understanding anything.
“Please present yourself at Haverhall by three o’clock, Lady Charlotte,” Miss Hayward said, moving past her. “We will travel to Dover from there. I do hope you will enjoy your experience with us.”
* * *
Haverhall School for Young Ladies had once been a grand manor home before it had been converted into a school. It sat on a lush parcel of land just beyond the northwest corner of London, complete with gently rolling hills, fish-filled ponds, expansive gardens, and a handful of cottages. Charlotte looked around her at the pretty blue drawing room she had been deposited in, holding on to the pretty rose-patterned teacup a pretty maid had provided her with, and wondered how any of this prettiness fit into what she was about to undertake.
“Lady Charlotte.”
Charlotte started, almost splashing tea over the edge of her cup. She set the cup aside and looked up to find Clara Hayward standing just inside the door, a petite, copper-haired woman at her side, a leather-wrapped bundle in her arms.
“Welcome to Haverhall,” Miss Hayward said. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Rose. Rose, this is Lady Charlotte. Rose will be helping you with your transformation. She’s got quite the eye for…appearances, shall we say.”
Charlotte scrambled to her feet, stepping around her trunk and feeling like a bloody Amazon warrior next to the slight form of Rose Hayward. And a dull witted one at that. For nothing that had come out of Clara Hayward’s mouth after her introduction had made any sense.
Rose was studying Charlotte thoughtfully with the same dark eyes that her sibling possessed. “My brother tells me you’re a very accomplished artist. A Renaissance specialist, as it were.”
“Yes,” Charlotte replied simply, remembering that this was the Hayward sister known for her own artistic ability.
“You must be for him to go to such lengths on your behalf. There was no lack of competition for the St. Michael’s commission.” Rose’s eyes lingered on her, considering, though not unkind. “I would like to see your work sometime,” she said.
“I would like that, Miss Hayward.”
“Call me Rose.” She tipped her head toward her sister. “And you can call her Clara. You’ll quickly learn titles have little value here.”
Charlotte stared. “Forgive my…indelicacy, but I was under the impression that when it comes to Haverhall and its clientele, titles are almost as important as the money that stands behind them.”
Rose made a decidedly unladylike noise. “For our regular fall and spring terms, they are,” she said.
Charlotte tried to make sense of that and failed. Regular terms? “I’m still not entirely sure what it is I’m doing here,” she said, ignoring that unanswered question and focusing on the one that impacted her the most.
Clara cleared her throat. “Yes, my apologies for that. I would have given you some warning prior to our unexpected visit earlier, had my brother given me the time. However, he brought this—and you—to my attention only late last night, and he was rather cryptic in his urgency and his request for my assistance.” She strode into the room, her skirts swirling gracefully. “My presentation to your aunt was somewhat crude and shamelessly transparent, but we can’t have anyone believing you’ve been kidnapped for the next twelve weeks, can we?”
Charlotte shook her head, still at a loss. Somewhere, she’d missed something important.
Rose followed her into the room and settled herself on a brocaded chair near the hearth. “I understand that the position that Harland secured for you working in Coventry on the St. Michael’s commission will start immediately.”
Charlotte blinked, shocked excitement suddenly bursting through her confusion. The position that was secured? It couldn’t be that easy. Could it? “So I’m not going to Dover?”
Rose and Clara exchanged a glance, and Clara sighed. “Of course not. That is just a cover. My brother did not confirm this with you before he disappeared again, did he?”
“No?” Charlotte felt like she was feeling her way around in the dark. Should she admit that she had never actually met the baron? “I’m afraid it was all very…last-minute.”
“Ah. Only our two medical students are heading to Dover. You will be traveling directly to Coventry. Mr. Henry Lisbon, the architect overseeing the St. Michael’s project, was a classmate of Harland’s and remains a close friend. He specializes in cathedrals, churches, that sort of thing. We’ve used him before to place our architecture and art students, and even an aspiring mason once.”
Charlotte stared at Clara. “Architecture and art students?” Medical students? Aspiring mason?
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly how last-minute was this all?”
“Very?”
“And how was it that you came to the attention of my brother?”
“A mutual friend?” Charlotte tried, not sure what alternate explanation she could offer.
“I see. And what details did my brother give you about your placement with us, exactly? Or Haverhall, for that matter?”
“Not much?” Charlotte winced. It seemed every one of her answers came out a question.
“Hmph. Well then, allow me to explain.” Clara clasped her hands behind her back. “The students that are part of Haverhall’s exclusive programs, such as this one and the one we run in the summer, are not chosen based on their position in Debrett’s or the amount of coin in their family’s coffers. They are chosen for their ambition and their willingness to defy every preordained expectation put upon them by a society who most often measures their value by their title and their looks. They are selected because they dare to disregard the conventional and possess the courage to do more. To become more.” Miss Hayward was watching her. “To do things denied to them, not by ability or acumen but by gender. Architects. Doctors. Solicitors. Artists.” She paused. “And we help them do it.”
Charlotte stared at Clara, at a loss for words. Her throat felt unusually tight and her heart was racing. For the first time, she understood that she wasn’t alone. That there were others who had circumvented the condescending attitude that had labeled women like her as unnatural. That there were others who had broken themselves out of the cages constructed for them by antiquated attitudes and intransigent expectations.
“Are you all right, Lady Charlotte?” Rose asked from her chair.
“Yes.” She’d never been more all right in her life.
“And you are sure that this is something that you still wish to do?”
“God, yes,” Charlotte croaked.
“Good. Though I warn you, there are conditions that come with this placement you should be aware of before you fully commit.” It was Clara who tapped the toe of her half boot against the side of Charlotte’s trunk that contained her clothes. “You won’t need anything in here. You will travel not as Lady Charlotte, but as Charlie, to facilitate your ability to freely focus on your work and not the reaction or biases of those who may be working with you. Your appearance, like your identity, will be drastically altered. We—and Mr. Lisbon—have learned from experience that these measures, as unfortunate as they are, work best when we have students who are placed directly in their chosen field. Not everyone is…open-minded enough to see your value. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“You have no idea,” Charlotte said harshly, the frustration that had festered for so long igniting. Her brothers and parents had never regarded her as anything more than a decoration when she was a child, though not pretty or witty enough to display. As a debutante, she’d been called an epic failure. Now, as a woman, she was considered as nothing more than an embarrassing duty. From the time she’d been small, Aysgarth had always been her parents’ solution to her shortcomings. Out of sight, out of mind.
Charlotte was done with being invisible
.
Miss Hayward arched an elegant brow. “Should you go through with this, you cannot reveal your identity to anyone, Lady Charlotte. You need to be aware of your conduct, your mannerisms, and even your knowledge of certain matters. It won’t always be easy.”
“No, I don’t expect it to be,” Charlotte replied, the frustration that had risen fading fast amid her growing excitement. No, excitement was too pale. What she was feeling now had crystalized into something more pure. Joy. Anticipation. Determination to succeed.
“How dependent are you upon servants?” Clara asked. “Can you make your own pot of tea? Boil an egg? Lay a fire?”
“Yes to all of those,” Charlotte said. All those years she’d been ignored and left to her own devices, free to range over the dales of Aysgarth and the empty rooms of Jasper House, had suddenly become not a penance but priceless.
“Good.” Rose stood and approached Charlotte, untying the bundle she still had in her hands and rolling it out over the top of Charlotte’s trunk. A comb, a razor, and a pair of shears glinted in the light, and she gestured to the chair that Charlotte had vacated. “I’ll start with your hair. It will grow back, of course, and upon your return, we have an entire host of excuses you may use for the alteration.”
I doubt anyone will notice, Charlotte thought to herself.
“We’ll move on to your clothing and your mannerisms,” Rose continued. “You’ll need to look—”
“Mannish,” Charlotte supplied. “I’ve heard that word already applied to my appearance more times than I can count. My jaw is too square, my face too wide. My height too cumbersome, my figure too sparse. Your task should not be difficult.”
“Predictable fools,” Rose hissed under her breath, and Charlotte was momentarily taken aback at her venom.
