Charlotte changed into her dressing gown later that evening and sat at the vanity in her childhood bedroom. She let her hair down from its pins and twists with a sigh and massaged her scalp with a wince. Her hair was thick and heavy, and while vanity permitted her to enjoy it, the relief at dismantling the elegant configurations that formal events required was immense.
She viewed her reflection—so different from the last time she’d sat in that very place and thought with optimism and hope about her future. In truth, reality had surprised and surpassed what she thought she might do with her life, and she was embarking on a career full of challenges she’d never have dreamed of. She was pleased and proud, and she was glad her father had lived long enough to receive word of her college graduation.
She’d expected to feel sadness upon arriving home for the funeral, but the element of unease was worse. She brushed out her hair, looking at the room’s reflection in the mirror. It was reversed—each item properly in place, but then again, not. Everything was backward, flipped, and was a perfect analogy for the state of her reality.
Everything felt off.
She had always believed her mother had died in an accident, had fallen overboard while on a ferry ride down the Thames and drowned.
Now, Charlotte’s father had written to her of secrets, and she had questions. Who could have wanted to hurt her mother? And for what reason? Had it been storming that day on the Thames? Who had been with her mother at the time? Had her father witnessed the “accident”? John had said the letter implied murder, which was a difficult concept to consider.
She remembered prying for details in her childish innocence in the months following the death, but her father had cried, and so she’d learned to avoid the subject. She couldn’t bear to see him upset. It had become a habit, then. She did not ask about her mother’s death, did not even ask Aunt Sally about it. Sally shared details about her sister’s life when Charlotte asked, but they did not discuss the ending of it. Sally had been the youngest of the Hampton children and had adored Katherine. Would Charlotte soon find herself tasked with informing Sally that her sister had secrets—even enemies—that resulted in her death? Her heart clenched.
A quiet knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts, and she answered it to see Thomas standing there.
“Are you well?” he asked.
She blinked. “Am I . . .” Thomas had never asked about her welfare before.
He shifted his stance. “Joan mentioned seeing you leave the gathering before the guests had left. She was wondering if you were ill.”
“Ah.” Charlotte smiled. “Please convey my thanks to Joan. I was suffering from an aching head, but I feel much better now. I convalesced for a time with Amelie and Eva.”
His lips pinched. “I see.”
“I was still entertaining guests. They are family, after all, who came to pay respects.”
“Your family.”
Charlotte blinked again. “My . . . ?”
“They are your cousins. Your mother’s nieces.”
She was stunned into silence. When she finally found her voice, it was flat. “I was unaware you considered Katherine Duvall anything but a mother. My memories are scant, but I was under the impression that we all referred to her as ‘Mother.’”
He flushed. “It was complicated, Charlotte, and I was much older than the rest of you.”
The silence between them stretched. She didn’t want to ask for his insight, but the sense of urgency her father had created left her pride little choice. “What sort of things occupied Father’s time in the months before he died?”
Now Thomas blinked in surprise. “Things? His customary pursuits, I suppose. Bird-watching, word puzzles. He spent time sitting out at the pond, feeding the ducks.” He frowned. “He was at the pond when his heart failed. He’d fallen in.”
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “He fell in the pond?” Her thoughts raced. “What were the autopsy results?”
“Autopsy results?” Thomas scoffed. “There was no cause for autopsy. His doctor had visited only days before and told me Father’s days were numbered. He finally suffered an angina pectoris and died. Honestly, Charlotte, all of that studying has made you rather gauche.”
“I am a doctor, Thomas.” She kept her voice even. “I did more than just ‘study.’ I am also David Duvall’s daughter, and I have a right to know the exact cause of his death.”
Thomas shrugged, spreading his hands. “What difference does it make? He was dying, Charlotte! If you’d bothered to come home, you’d have realized it. Joan was the one who cared for him those final weeks, though it ought to have been his own daughter.”
Charlotte felt emotion rising and tried to swallow it back. Her anger was spurred by guilt, by her belief that he was right. She rubbed a hand across her forehead and chose her words carefully. “I received an odd letter from him just before I returned. He spoke of conspiracies and danger. Something about my mother’s death.”
Thomas frowned, and the bafflement on his face told her he knew as little as she. He finally sighed. “His mind was fading. He wasn’t himself. He thought Joan was a scullery maid and I was a footman. I wouldn’t put much stock in what he may have said to you before he died.”
Charlotte nodded. “Very well.” The words of the letter swam in her head, and she wondered again if they were the product of a man who’d lost his concept of reality.
Silence stretched as they both gathered their thoughts. She imagined herself and Thomas each taking a deep breath and a mental step back. As she shifted her weight to bid him good night, she remembered another thing she’d wanted to ask. “I met some people of consequence today following the services. I wasn’t aware Father kept such august company.”
Thomas lifted a shoulder. “I was surprised, myself. They were mostly your mother’s associates, apparently. MP Worthingstone mentioned spending many social functions with them in the early years. Said it was only right to pay their respects to the husband of a lifelong friend.”
There was an edge to his voice, an unuttered implication that Katherine had been Charlotte’s mother, not his.
She nodded. “Good night, Thomas. I’ll be in Town for the near future but shall return soon to pack my belongings. Please tell Joan I appreciate her patience with the delay.”
Thomas nodded stiffly. “Good night.”
She closed the door with a soft click and returned to the vanity, sinking slowly onto the padded stool. She would have to decide soon which path she wanted to pursue. She couldn’t expect her employers in America to hold her job indefinitely, but she couldn’t leave England without knowing for certain what her father had meant in his final letter.
The first year of her studies in London had included volunteer work at Delaney Hospital, which treated London’s poorest populations. She’d developed a warm relationship with both the matron and the hospital president and had maintained the connection during her years away. On impulse, she pulled a piece of paper from her stationery set and addressed a short letter to them both, asking if she might call on them soon. Though she didn’t know where it would lead, the simple fact that she was taking action, that life wasn’t just happening to her, calmed her nerves.
When she finally turned down the lights and climbed into bed, sleep remained elusive, tired though she was. Her father had left her with questions that might never be answered.