Charlotte took the cup of tea from Hampton House’s gruff housekeeper, Mrs. Burnette, with a smile of thanks. “The chamomile will put me right to sleep,” she said to the older woman, who nodded briskly.
“You cannot be staying up all night when you’re on the train early for your new job.” Her tone was stern, but Charlotte saw the pride in the woman’s expression—pride she would undoubtedly deny if pressed to acknowledge. Mrs. Burnette had always seemed to feel it was her job to keep the Hampton House tenants humble; she had made an impressive career of it.
“I’ll be right as rain in the morning.”
“Shall I awaken you with a knock?”
Charlotte headed for the stairs, carefully carrying her tea while also lifting the skirts of her housecoat and nightdress. “I do appreciate the offer, but it is unnecessary.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Burnette sniffed. “I’ll be awake just the same if you need me.”
They said their good nights, and Charlotte climbed the stairs to the first floor where there was a large sitting area in the center with windows that overlooked the front garden and street below. Doors flanked the sitting area, two on each side, leading to four bedchambers, three of which once had been occupied by Charlotte, Eva, and Amelie, while they had been working at The Marriage Gazette with Sally in their early London days together. The time had been magical, though Charlotte wasn’t sure she’d realized it then. They’d been in such a hurry to move into adulthood, to become Women of Independent Means, but as she reflected on it, she remembered the fun they’d had, evenings out or staying home, sitting on each other’s beds and laughing late into the night.
The floor was currently unoccupied, which had worked well for Charlotte, who simply moved back into her old room. She was warm with nostalgia, if not a little lonely for company. She entered her room and set the teacup on a small table near the hearth. She’d put away most of her belongings, but a few items were still strewn over the open armoire drawer and lower shelves. The lights were low enough for relaxation but still bright enough to read by, and she went to the vanity for a novel she’d placed there.
She thought to read, but after picking up the book, she put it back down and sat at the vanity instead. She brushed through her hair, looking into the mirror and seeing the room in reverse. She was restless, feeling unsettled about the note she’d received.
Your father was a madman . . .
Charlotte had brought a few items with her from the country house, one of which was her mother’s trunk that her father had retrieved from the attic. Her eye landed on the reflection of the cedar-lined chest seated on the floor at the foot of her bed. The name of the company, Kiel, was backward to her view in the mirror, the letters slanting the wrong way, the broken lock lifting from the wooden surface on the right side instead of the left.
She put her brush down and turned, viewing the large box as it truly was. The broken lock had given her pause. Her father must have misplaced the key after having stored the trunk for more than two decades. She imagined him trying to open it without causing damage to the trunk itself. He’d always been so careful that way.
She moved to sit next to the trunk, tracing her finger along the nameplate. She’d seen the chest in the attic as a child when playing games with her friends. It had always been locked, and she’d never had a peek inside. Now knowing that it was a treasure trove of her mother’s things, things she could have enjoyed through the years growing up without her, she couldn’t help the sense of betrayal she felt. Had the loss of Katherine Hampton Duvall been so tragic for her father that he’d been unable to bear more than the portrait of her that hung downstairs in the parlor? She suspected now that he’d allowed that only as a nod to decorum.
She lifted the lid, closing her eyes as the combined scent of cedar, old paper, and a light perfume she barely remembered from childhood wafted up. This had been her mother’s hope chest, full of items she’d have embroidered and collected in her younger years and put away for safekeeping upon her marriage. Charlotte had a similar chest, but it had been neglected over the years. Her governesses had tried, bless them, but growing up in a household of brothers had not been conducive to adequate hope-chest-filling.
Charlotte traced her finger along the smooth cedar planks. Copies of what she assumed were her mother’s favorite books—Persuasion and two books of poetry by Byron—sat next to a multitude of letters tied in separate stacks with fine pink ribbons. There was a scrapbook filled with playbills, calling cards, purchase receipts for custom hats, and notes from friends and admirers. Sets of finely embroidered linen napkins, pillowcases, and table runners filled one corner. Small bundles of fine lace that must have cost a fortune were wrapped in tissue paper that crinkled quietly when Charlotte touched it.
Remnants of an entire life contained in a solitary box. Charlotte felt a stab of sorrow so complete that her eyes burned, quiet tears spilling over her cheeks and dripping onto her hand. There was no noise in the room save the quiet ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel. Ticking away the seconds of her life. Would this be all Charlotte left behind, as well? Would she leave behind loved ones too bereaved at her passing to ever speak of her again? Would she even be missed? Would she leave anything of substance behind, anything that would prove she had been in the world and left it better than she’d found it?
She blew out quietly through pursed lips and sniffled, wondering absently if there was a handkerchief in the box she could use. “A jest, Mama,” she whispered. “I’ll not sully your precious work.” And it was precious—the small, neat stitches and beautiful patterns were perfection, and a far cry from anything Charlotte had ever been able to produce. “Except for in surgery,” she said aloud. “My surgical stitches are second to none.” She smiled, wondering what her mother would think of her now.
Proud . . . so proud . . .
Her father’s parting words to her when she’d left for America echoed quietly in her head, and she hoped, so desperately hoped, that they were true. She missed him so much it was like a physical ache in her chest, and the hole inside her that once held her mother’s memory felt ragged and raw.
A tiny music box in the corner of the chest tickled a memory, and she tipped open the lid with one finger. Strains of a song she’d not heard for years filled the room, and she heard the words in her head, a nighttime song Katherine had sung to her in the nursery.
Under the starlight and far from the sea,
My darling sweetheart waits gently for me;
Under the pine boughs and flowers so free,
My heart’s secret treasure lies waiting for me.
She carefully closed the lid, and the fading notes lingered in the air. She picked up the music box, thinking to place it on her nightstand, but one small leg was caught on something. She moved closer, using both hands to untangle it from a pale green ribbon that was stuck in the corner between the bottom panel and the side.
Frowning, she set aside the music box, then clamped the end of the ribbon firmly between forefinger and thumb. She tugged, but it held fast. She sat back, perplexed, and looked at the corner of the chest from the outside. It sat flush on the floor, with no feet to elevate it, but the bottom of the box was two inches higher on the inside.
She tried again to free the wedged ribbon, then quickly removed the items from the chest, stacking them high on the floor. Before long, she was surrounded by fabric and paper, books and boxes. Now that the box was empty, she could see light scrapes against the sides in large arcs, as if something had been continually lifted and then replaced. She traced her finger along the seam where the bottom of the chest met the sides. There were no ridges or indentations showing where it might lift up, and further efforts with the ribbon proved fruitless. Maybe it wasn’t meant to lift.
Under the starlight and far from the sea . . .
Under . . . Under . . .
Her frown deepening, she rose and retrieved her scuffed, worn medical bag, settling it next to her on the floor. She withdrew a clamp and placed it at the bottommost part of the ribbon where it was lodged. She worked gently and slowly to avoid tearing the ribbon, angling the clamp by the smallest of degrees until a telltale creak of wood suggested movement.
She continued, patient despite growing anticipation, until the bottom of the trunk slowly inched its way upward. The ribbon tore slightly, and Charlotte winced, reaching into her bag for small scissors to use as a lever. The thick sheet of wood from the foundation of the chest creaked and groaned as it scraped against the side, but it finally shifted to a point where Charlotte was able to grasp it with her fingertips and walk it upward a little at a time.
The ribbon slipped free, and Charlotte could see where it had been attached to the bottom of the board at the center of it. A simple but clever mechanism designed to make the task easier. The tip of the fabric had gotten lodged in the corner as though someone had hastily closed the false bottom without ensuring the ribbon could be easily accessed again.
She lifted the false bottom completely out of the trunk and set it aside. Her heart pounded as she looked at dozens of letters that had been hidden from view. They had not been carefully tied or organized as those in the main body of the trunk had. Reaching into the hidden compartment with fingers that shook, she brushed the letters together, revealing a journal and several loose postcards.
Charlotte looked at the door to her bedroom as though she was about to be caught doing something wrong. Acting on instinct but feeling foolish, she rose and turned the key in her bedroom door, locking it.
She knelt by the chest, heart beating quickly, and picked up the thick journal. These things were probably nothing more than additional treasures from Katherine’s childhood—silly letters from prospective beaux or missives from school friends. Charlotte understood the yearning for privacy and had a few treasures of her own that she’d prefer nobody ever saw.
When she opened the journal and looked at the date atop the first entry, her suppositions about Katherine’s childhood treasures was quickly proven false. The entry had been written just before Charlotte was born. She flipped through the pages to the last entry, dated just before Katherine’s death. Charlotte caught her breath at the remaining hauntingly blank pages.
I am taking Charlotte and Robert with me to London, and David and three of the boys will join us in two days. We’ve been invited to a reunion of sorts—the Paddletons, Fineboughs, and Worthingstones are in Town for the Season, and we will celebrate the Carters’ engagement.
Sometimes I wonder why I torture myself by attending events where I know J will be present. There are times when I look up to see him staring at me, the longing in his eyes palpable. Still, I dance and sing and smile, determined to be happy. Perhaps placing permanent distance between us would be the best for all concerned, especially for my own well-being. David knows—he has always known—but where before he was patient, now his jealousy flares. He is such a kind, good man, but sometimes I worry he will reach the end of his rope. How long will a man watch in the shadows while another man covets his wife?
Charlotte’s heart pounded painfully, and she slipped from her knees to sit hard on the floor, staring at the page. The words, while veiled, were heavy in their implications. She swallowed and drew in a shuddering breath.
Oh, Mama. What happened to you?