Lies and Letters

by Ashtyn Newbold

  The surprise in Mama’s eyes faded and she gave me a knowing glance. “Very well. You must receive adequate rest this evening, for tomorrow you will meet Mr. Webb.”

  I smiled but when I turned away my face fell. Why was I not anxious to see him? Before I would have been filled with excitement and anticipation over the prospect of winning the attention of a wealthy gentleman, of flirting to my heart’s content. But now, all I felt was a glaring emptiness, devoid of emotion. I walked like a ghost to my room. Anna was there to help me prepare for bed. It was strange that the most comfort I found here was in her friendship and company.

  We each spoke about the events of our day as Anna brushed my hair and I was overcome with longing for Clara. Oh, how I missed her. She must feel so betrayed, so angry and upset with me. I couldn’t blame her.

  Anna seemed to sense something was wrong, just as she had when I had stepped into the carriage when I was leaving Craster. But much like then, she didn’t pry.

  “Sleep well, Miss Charlotte. Tomorrow will be an eventful day, I trust.”

  I took a deep breath. “Indeed. Thank you for your help.”

  Anna watched me, an inquisitive look on her face, but left without another word. I blew out the candles and climbed in bed, thinking in the dark. Why was I feeling this way? I had never imagined I would feel like such a stranger here, after only four months of being away. Mama looked at me differently now. She was more critical and disdainful, the way of treatment she had always saved for Clara. I thought of the way she had looked at my hand that first day, how disgusted she had been.

  My chin quivered and I bit my lip to keep from crying. I had longed to return here for so long, but now that I was back, I was vastly disappointed. I hadn’t known that freedom meant missing what I had before. My thoughts wandered to James. It was a practice I had shunned since that first mile on the road home, but I allowed myself to think of him at times like this when I was the most weak.

  I wondered how he had spent the past fifteen days we had been apart. I wondered how long it had taken him to forget me. I wondered if he had really ever loved me, and if he did, how long it had taken him to hate me instead. Because I knew, without a doubt, that he hated me now. How could he not hate me after all I had done to his heart? I shivered and tightened my blankets around me and for the first time I wondered which fate was worse—living here in the South and knowing James hated me for leaving him, or returning to the North and knowing I disgraced Mama.

  Burying my face in my pillow, I took a deep breath. No. Even if I wanted to return, I couldn’t. James would never forgive me. I couldn’t bear to be around him and know that he wouldn’t smile and tease me and laugh with me. He would never play the pianoforte with me, or comfort me, or assure me that my decision to come back had been the right one. Perhaps he had even found another girl in town to love. Someone much kinder and more deserving of him than I was.

  I scolded myself for even thinking of him and closed my eyes. This was my home now. I wrapped up my emotions and put them where they couldn’t be found. Tears pooled beneath my eyelids but I didn’t let them fall. This was what I wanted. I would court Mr. Webb and perhaps my luck would turn. A voice inside me whispered that I had made a mistake, that I was a fool, but I shushed it. Mr. Webb could offer me a beautiful home, dozens of dresses, and months every year in London. What more could I ever need?

  Eventually my breathing relaxed and my eyes dried. Yes. When I met Mr. Webb, I would do all I could to secure a match with him. It was just within my reach now. My heart would have nothing to do with it.

  It will be easy, I told myself, because my heart is in a place very, very far away from here.

  z

  The following day was eventful indeed. I spent the morning hours trying on my new gowns while Mama circled me, eyebrow raised. Anna made several attempts at my hair; Mama swiftly made vocal her disapproval at all of them. By the fifth attempt, Anna’s hands shook, but she managed to create a style Mama found acceptable. I watched Anna’s eyes in the large mirror. She was terrified. I made a note in my mind to apologize for Mama later.

  “Wear the blue gown,” Mama said. “It matches your eyes.” She turned and walked toward the door. “And it looks least absurd with the gloves.” The door slammed shut behind her. I flinched.

  When I finally came down the stairs that afternoon, Mama, Louisa, and Eleanor waited at the bottom. I was nervous for Mama’s reaction, but was relieved to see her smile. Louisa and Eleanor looked as if they would enjoy nothing more than to strangle me.

  “I daresay Mr. Webb will be smitten out of his wits tonight.” Mama’s voice was full of mischief. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

  I tried to believe her, but I didn’t feel beautiful. Not at all.

  Mama threaded her arm around my elbow and guided me to the drawing room. She closed the door. “Do you remember what I need you to do?”

  “Lean in close. Let him speak about himself. Laugh at every humorous comment he makes. Touch his arm.” My voice was stiff.

  “And the smile … ?”

  I demonstrated my best flirtatious smile.

  Mama gave a huffed breath. “I suppose it will have to suffice.”

  My smile fell.

  “Now. You will avoid sitting on his left side. Keep your hand far away from him. He must not suspect anything.”

  “I will try my best, Mama.”

  She watched me from the corner of her eye as she walked toward the pianoforte on the left side of the room. She ran her fingers over the keys, shaking her head. “What a shame that you will never play again.” Her voice was cold.

  My words came out without permission. “No, I am still quite capable of playing.”

  Her head snapped in my direction. “How?”

  “In Craster … there was a man who taught me. Well, we played music together, really. He played the right hand and I played the left—”

  “Who was this man?” Mama demanded.

  “His name is James.” I realized my mistake as Mama’s eyes widened in shock. “I mean—er—Mr. Wortham.”

  “James?” Mama’s face was pulled tight with indignation. “How improper, Charlotte. I have taught you to be better than that low-class talk. How well did you know this man?”

  My heart pounded. “Too well. But he was very kind to me. A wonderful friend.”

  “And his station?”

  I paused. “Below mine. But he is very kind and agreeable and—”

  “That will be quite enough!” Mama rushed forward and clutched my arm, her face firm and unyielding. “Thank heavens I was wise enough to call you home from that wretched place. I was right. You will not play the pianoforte again, because you will never see this ‘James’ again.”

  My voice was a mutter. “I do not plan to.”

  She smoothed her hair. “Good. Very good.”

  I gave a quick nod. Awkwardness hung in the air around us and I knew that I couldn’t stay in this room a moment longer. Too many things were racing through my mind and heart, and I needed to be alone to sort through them.

  “I am going to my room to rest before Mr. Webb arrives.”

  Mama glanced her approval at me and I hurried to the door. When I was out of the drawing room, I paused in the hall, breathing the air that I had thought was my escape but now felt like a prison. Our family portraits hung just ahead of me, joined now with the Bentfords’. Mine had been painted just two years before. I stepped closer, examining Mama’s portrait. Her eyes were sharp as always, and there was an overall air of disdain in her countenance. Her head was upturned slightly, and her face seeped confidence and condescension. Her lips were pressed tight, implying that the only thing that could make her smile would be money and power and entitlement.

  My gaze slid carefully to my own portrait, and my stomach sunk far to the ground. There, on my face, was the same look as Mama. The same selfish, cruel, unrelenting face. Beautiful to the outside eye, but I knew better.

  I thought of the miniatur
e portrait Mama wore in the pendant at her neck. Never had I considered Mama’s depth of devotion to her own mother. Picturing the straight spine, the heavy eyes, the calculated smile of her own mother, the resemblance was more striking than ever before. I had never known my grandmother. But it seemed she had taught Mama the same things I had been taught; she had schooled a heart into rigid discipline. And Mama thrived off of it. Would I be the same?

  My heart pounded with dread as I thought of tonight, how I would meet Mr. Webb, and how I was expected to be that girl in the portrait. I feared I couldn’t do it.

  I stepped back against the wall to steady myself and wondered for the first time if I really wanted this—if I really wanted to be like Mama. Because to be like her was the only way to please her. And I knew deep within my soul, that if Mama was still the same woman in that portrait, then she wasn’t capable of love. Not now, not like this. So what was I trying to do? Mama could accept me, and she could approve of me, but I would always fall short. Was that enough to make me happy? Did I even deserve to be happy?

  I turned away from the portraits in disgust and ran. My feet slapped against the marble floors in loud echoes as I made my way to the staircase and up to my room. I couldn’t afford to think this way. I had made my choice. There was nothing left for me anywhere else. Everyone I had dared to love now hated me, and surely they would not allow me to return to them. I simply needed to be strong and move forward.

  Two hours later, I walked down the stairs again, and Mr. Webb and Mama waited with uninviting smiles at the bottom.

  Chapter 25

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  “I love you more than words can yield the matter.”

  The water running over my hand was cold. Chill bumps erupted over my arm and I sighed, enjoying the soothing coolness of the stream on my skin. It was finally warm enough to venture outside. I had never been much of an adventurer before, but any form of escape was worth every precious moment.

  I stood and brushed the dirt off my skirts and wiped the hair away that had fallen in my eyes. The woods were thick behind Bentford Manor, and I had discovered this little stream only a week before. Since then it had become a fortress of relief and distance from a certain much-too-watchful man. I had spent hours alone here, practicing my writing with my left hand, sketching the trees, and hoping Mr. Webb wouldn’t find me here.

  Taking a deep breath, I filled my lungs with the fresh spring air and looked up at the sky through the trees. It was gray with heavy clouds. I watched them move through the sky, a slow roiling that captivated me. It would rain soon, and I knew I should go inside, but I couldn’t look away. The color reminded me of the sky in Craster, and I took a moment to wonder whether or not James was standing under the same colored sky, and I wondered if it were possible he thought of me as much as I thought of him.

  Kicking the grass ahead, I slipped my gloves back over my hands as I walked out of the woods. Almost immediately, I heard a familiar shout.

  “Miss Lyons! Where have you been? I have been so lonely without you.” His voice cracked with exertion as he ran toward me. Mr. Webb stopped, breathing heavily. He doffed his hat and extended his arm to me. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead. “Are you unwell?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” I said.

  He laughed and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. His wavy auburn hair was sticking to the sides of his head. His eyes settled on me, a brown color that I had come to associate with the mud on the bottom of the stream. “I could run miles and miles, dear Charlotte, if it meant I could see your beauty once again. Your eyes remind me very much of the blue satin bow my cat wore when she was just a kitten.”

  “Oh?” My voice was flat. He had offered the same comment on at least two other occasions.

  “Yet I fail to make any comparison that would adequately describe the lovely color your eyes possess. I have never seen anything like it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Webb. You are too kind.”

  He shrugged and flashed a winning smile. Then he went on to tell me every detail of his meeting with his man of business, and how he had acquired another small inheritance from a distant cousin. “Would you like to take a ride into town? I know how much you like to see the new fabrics in the mantua maker’s shop. You like that, do you not?”

  “I do … but we did go yesterday.” I didn’t know if I could manage to undertake another ride with him.

  He stopped walking. “Well, what else do you like?”

  “I like lilacs, summer breezes, ribbons, lace, dancing.” It was not entirely a lie, but I wasn’t allowed to say the things I really liked. Playing the pianoforte, sketching alone in the woods, eating lemon tea cakes, rocky coasts, the sea, and beautiful memories that I had taken for granted.

  “You forgot one thing!” he said emphatically. He turned to face me, pulling me close. Sunlight filtered through his pale lashes and glinted off his sweat. “Me!” He laughed and spun me around. “You like me most of all, I think.”

  I dislodged myself from his arms as quickly as possible and faked a smile. “Of course.”

  He brushed my hair from my eyes and I cringed. “You are so very beautiful,” he said again.

  I didn’t have the energy or the desire to reply. I stepped back, feeling sick and empty and more lonely than I had ever felt in my life. “I must go. I need to prepare for dinner.”

  He nodded with understanding. “Oh! Please wear your lavender gown tonight. It is my favorite.”

  I didn’t look back. But I made a promise to myself that I would never wear my lavender gown again.

  Mr. Webb was a good man. He was friendly and agreeable, but dull and disconcerting at the same time. Mama had been married just a month before, and shortly after she returned home from her wedding trip, she had assured me that I was well on my way to securing a marriage with him. She had smiled, and although I had expected her words of approval and her smile to comfort me, they just left me dry and cracked inside. I lived day by day, hour by hour, always dreading the next. I was miserable. I hated hiding the truth, wearing that stuffed glove day after day, not because I hated the sight of my hand but because Mama did. Every time she looked at me, her eyes flickered to that glove, and glinted with disapproval that etched embarrassment and inferiority in my soul with every glance. I felt choked and trapped by it and I didn’t know how to escape. I doubted I ever would.

  Dinner came at its usual time, and I wore my brown dress with the ivory ribbons. Mr. Webb’s smile faltered when he saw me, and when he cleared his throat he sounded frustrated. We hardly spoke at all throughout the meal, and I could feel Mama’s eyes on me the entire time, digging a hole into the side of my face.

  When the dishes were cleared away and the women were preparing to move to the drawing room, Mr. Webb stood. His throat bobbed with a swallow. “I would like to request a … private conversation with Miss Lyons.”

  Mama’s eyes rounded and returned to normal within a second. “Oh, yes. Of course.” She looked as if it took all her concentration not to leap from her chair and drag Louisa and Eleanor from the room by their ears. “Stepdaughters. Mr. Bentford.” She stood and they followed her from the room, a quiet clattering of chairs and muffled footsteps.

  I stood too fast, panic throbbing through my veins. I knew what he was going to say. “Mr. Webb, I—”

  “Miss Charlotte Lyons, I cannot express to you the extent of my feelings.” He stepped close to me. “I find you enchanting, mesmerizing, and I expect that I never should grow tired of gazing upon you.”

  My stomach lurched.

  “And there is much I am ready and capable of giving you, if you would accept my proposal. Therefore, it is much to your advantage and mine, if you agree to be my wife.” His face broke into a smile, as if his explanation and proposal had been horribly romantic rather than an equation. “Marry me, Charlotte. I daresay we shall make a lovely couple.”

  My mind spun. This was not right. Was this really what I had always dreamed of? Mr. Webb was
growing wealthier by the day. I had seen his estate and it was beautiful beyond words. The few months his uncle remained alive marked the time before Mr. Webb would become an earl. It was as if all my dreams were in front of me, gazing through a pair of muddy eyes, but they appeared in this moment as nothing more than a trap, a ruse, a thorn disguised as a rose. I didn’t want this. I was shaking my head now, and the smile on Mr. Webb’s face was fading.

  “Do you really know me at all?” I asked, my voice hard and fast.

  His brow wrinkled. “Of course! I have been courting you these last three months.”

  I shook my head again and stepped away from him.

  “But—but that does not matter. We shall come to know one another better. We have years to be together!”

  The thought of spending years with Mr. Webb, seeing his face every day, and always wondering what it would have been like if I had stayed in Craster, if I had chosen love instead … I couldn’t bear it. The walls of the room seemed to be closing in, and I could hardly breathe. “You are a good man, Mr. Webb. And I believe you could make someone very happy, but that woman is not me.”

  “Please, Charlotte! Why do you refuse me?”

  “Why do you want to marry me?”

  He was silent. “Because I have never seen a woman more beautiful, more lovely, more magnificent—”

  I stopped him. “That is the problem. One day I will be old and ugly, and you will wish you had never met me.”

  “That is not true,” he said in a low voice. “You are perfection.”

  Releasing a sigh of frustration, I tore my glove away from my right hand and threw it to the ground. I lifted my hand up to where he could see it. His eyes flew open and he stumbled back.

  “Does this change your mind?” I didn’t look away from his face, even as much as it hurt me to see the distaste in his eyes.

  “What—how?” he stammered. It was all he could manage to say.

  “I didn’t show you before because I knew what you would think. These pretenses were not acceptable and I apologize. But even so, my answer remains the same. I will not marry you. And if my suspicions prove correct, you won’t wish to marry me now either.” I watched as his gaze slid over my hand and back to my face. His expression was contorted in quiet shock and a bit of guilt. He didn’t speak.