Manor of Secrets (20 page)

“Where did he go?” Janie asked. Harry didn’t want to see her. Couldn’t stand to be around her.

“He’s searching the basement. He said he knows all the good hiding places.”

“You got the right man for the job, Lord Broadhurst,” Janie said, pacing the hall. “Harry knows everything there is to know about The Manor.”

“That’s funny,” Lord Broadhurst said, cocking his head to one side. “He said the same thing about you.”

“Once we’ve searched the house, we’ll have to think about the grounds,” Janie said. Her fear of the walk to the icehouse in the dark loomed large, but she pushed it away.

“Is there anywhere she might have gone?” Lord Broadhurst asked. “I worry she may come to some harm.”

“Or not return at all,” Janie finished for him.

“Quite.” Lord Broadhurst ran both hands roughly through his hair and looked at her pleadingly.

Janie stopped her pacing and closed her eyes. Trying to envision where Charlotte’s imagination would take her. She thought back through all the places she’d seen her in the past week. Her room. The kitchen. The garden.

The lake.

“I think I know where she is,” Janie said, heading for the courtyard. She didn’t care that she brushed Lord Broadhurst aside in her haste. She didn’t care for precedence or class. She cared only for Charlotte.

I
t was bloody cold in the woods. And dark.

Charlotte regretted her impetuous flight as soon as the canopy of leaves blocked out the moonlight. The shadowy wood held none of the heat of the day. Her flimsy gown did nothing to fend off the chill.

Fingers of dry bracken tugged at the chiffon of her hem, and she felt every rock and tree root beneath her slippers. She had somehow wandered off the path and lost her sense of direction. She wasn’t convinced she would be able to find the lake at all, given her disorientation.

What she wouldn’t give for Janie’s sensible shoes. And her company.

Charlotte stopped walking and reassessed her situation. She was being sent to finishing school. Her mother was going
to find a way to stop her from writing. One so-called friend — Fran — was about to go and tell the entire world that Charlotte had been kissing a footman, bringing scandal to the family and ruining her reputation. Her other friend — Janie — didn’t even see her as a friend, and after all the things Charlotte had said, she couldn’t blame her.

And as Charlotte stood there, unable to choose whether to go forward or go back, she had to admit to herself that Andrew Broadhurst wasn’t the ogre she’d imagined he was. Now she had ruined any possibility of getting to know him better.

Not only that, but Lawrence hadn’t followed her. He hadn’t grabbed her hand and run down the drive with her, ready to face the world at her side.

He had let her go.

A noise like a scream came from the trees, and Charlotte nearly screamed herself. Suddenly, a great shape swept over her — gray and gold and a glimmer of white. Silently, the owl soared between the trees and out into where she could see the glimmer of stars and a trace of moonlight.

It had shown her the way to the lake.

Charlotte used that as proof that forward was the way to go. Not back.

She couldn’t go back.

Her mother just wanted her to disappear. The sixth child. The daughter. The extra.

The mistake.

Charlotte stumbled the rest of the way down to the water. The path was too dry to leave footprints, but the lakeshore was still damp, and her feet sank into the mud when she reached the water.

Good. Evidence that she had been there.

She wondered if anyone was out searching for her yet. Had Fran told just her mother? Or the entire assembly?

And would anyone care? Would her mother just think she had gone off in a sulk and not realize she was missing until morning? Would Sarah say anything when she went upstairs to help Charlotte change for bed?

Would Sarah even go, considering Charlotte had been caught kissing the very footman Sarah had her sights on?

“No use feeling sorry for yourself,” Charlotte said out loud, sitting down on the rock to remove her slippers.

She sat, muddy shoes in her hand, and smiled. Because she
could
feel sorry for herself. The scandal. The servants not wanting to be associated with her. Lady Diane’s censure.

But she didn’t.

Charlotte felt — for the first time in her life — free.

Drawing her right hand back, she threw one slipper as far out into the lake as she could. The splash sounded loud against the backdrop of the trees, the ripples silvering in the moonlight.

“I’ve taken control of my own destiny,” she said, hauling back and throwing the other shoe. “I’m writing my own story.”

Charlotte pulled off her stockings and flung them for luck, but they fluttered like cobwebs and settled wetly on the lake surface not a yard from her feet. Ignoring them, she stood, her toes squelching in the mud on the lakeshore, planning her next move.

She took a step. And another. The lake lapping at her ankles. Soaking up into the hem of her Worth gown.

“Janie!”

She thought she heard Harry calling out. A trick of her overactive imagination. Janie had been fired. Harry, too, probably. And some of it was her fault.

They’d be better off without her.

“Charlotte?”

The voice was so close Charlotte almost lost her balance on the shifty bottom of the lake. She turned to see Janie just
at the edge of the trees. She was perched on the balls of her feet, one hand on a tree for balance.

“What are you doing?” Janie asked, her head cocked to one side.

“Leaving.”

Janie sucked in a breath. “Why?”

“Because Mother wants to send me off to finishing school. In Yorkshire. With a bunch of insipid girls whose only goal is to be a good hostess and marry well. Where the only books are
Aesop’s Fables
and Mrs. Beeton.”

Janie’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Mrs. Beeton has some good advice,” she said. “She at least knows how to sew on a button.”

“I think I’d rather stay here.”

Charlotte heard an indistinct splash, and a shiver ran up the back of her leg. She wondered what lived in the lake.

“You’ve never wanted to stay here. You’ve always wanted to see the rest of the world.”

Charlotte snorted. “Yorkshire is not the rest of the world.”

The water around her calves shifted, and Janie’s eyes left her. Suddenly, Charlotte knew that someone else was behind her. Probably Harry. She’d heard him calling. She cursed
herself for not realizing that Janie was trying to distract her. Trying to delay her. This wasn’t what she had imagined at all.

Without thinking, she took another step into the lake, but the ground fell away beneath her and she plunged into the cold, inky blackness, the shock making her gasp water right into her lungs.

An arm came around her waist, and another across her chest, and she was wrenched back into the air, coughing and spluttering.

And kicking.

But the arms didn’t let go.

Janie rushed into the lake, and Harry burst out of the trees behind her, racing to reach her before she, too, fell off the ledge.

And Charlotte squirmed far enough around to look up into the dependable brown eyes of Andrew Broadhurst.

“Yorkshire isn’t the end of the world, either,” he whispered.

But he didn’t let her go.

Janie wrestled out of Harry’s grip and splashed toward them.

“What were you thinking?” Janie shouted, and looked like she was about to wrench Charlotte right out of Andrew’s arms and throw her back into the lake. But Andrew held out
a hand to steady her, and then lifted Charlotte out of the water and carried her to shore.

As soon as he set Charlotte down, Janie put a hand on both of her shoulders and shook her roughly.

“How could you be so stupid?” she asked, and then wrapped both arms around Charlotte in the tightest hug she’d ever received in her life.

Throughout it all, Andrew Broadhurst never let go of her hand.

Janie pulled back and gazed at Charlotte, tears streaming down her face.

“Janie?” Charlotte said, feeling panicky. “You never cry.”

“I thought you were going to do something stupid,” Janie said, taking a deep breath. She looked down at the muddy bank, and then used the tips of her fingers to wipe below her eyes.

Charlotte frowned. “What did you think I was going to do?”

“Charlotte, I read that story,” Janie said, pressing her lips together and looking her in the eye. “Your story. About the girl who falls in love with the Italian count. How she goes down to the lake —”

“Lake Como,” Charlotte added.

“And throws herself in.” Janie hugged Charlotte again. “It’s not worth it. This isn’t some Gothic novel, this is real life.”

“Janie.” Charlotte couldn’t keep the shock from her voice. “You read my story?”

“It was your writing. It wasn’t my business to be reading any of it. And I only read the first page. I was sorry at the time, but I’m not now. It’s the only reason I knew where to find you.”

Charlotte laughed a little, but felt a stinging in her eyes. “If you’d read more, you would have known it was a ruse. She was
pretending
to kill herself. So she could escape.”

Janie stepped back, nearly toppling over.

“So that’s what you were planning?” she asked in a whisper. “To disappear?”

Charlotte nodded. But as she did so, she began to see the foolishness of her actions. “I thought if people saw my footprints here, and found my slippers and stockings floating in the lake, they’d just assume …”

Everyone was staring at her.

“I imagined no one would look for me. That I could escape. That I would be … free.”

“You’ll never be free, Charlotte,” Janie said.

Charlotte felt it like a blow. Janie the risk taker. Janie her friend. Telling her she was stuck in this life forever. She sagged backward, and Andrew caught her again.

“She means you’ll never be able to escape the people who care about you,” he murmured into her ear.

Charlotte shivered and he let her go, taking off his dinner jacket to wrap around her shoulders.

“We would
always
come looking for you,” Janie added. “I think your imagination got away with you. You probably had the whole script written out in your head. You’d come down to the lake, leave your clues, and disappear. Your mother would host a society funeral, bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t gotten to know you sooner.”

Charlotte felt a stab of truth. Her mother would care more about the funeral than her disappearing daughter.

“But you know, Charlotte,” Janie said quietly, “you can’t always write the book of your life. Things happen that you don’t plan.”

Charlotte smiled weakly. “People are unpredictable,” she said. “They never do in real life what I think they’ll do in my head.” Looking at Janie, Charlotte thought maybe that was a good thing.

Janie laughed. “Isn’t that the truth?” Charlotte saw her cast a sideways look at Harry.

Charlotte sighed. “I thought I saw things so clearly. That people are the characters I write down. But no one is. Nothing is like I imagined it.”

“That can be a good thing,” Janie said. She widened her eyes a bit, her mouth curving upward at the edges, and then flicked a glance over Charlotte’s shoulder.

Charlotte knew exactly what she meant. Andrew Broadhurst. He wasn’t at all as she’d imagined. He’d seen her kissing someone else. And yet, he’d come out into the wood to find her.

And Lawrence hadn’t.

Charlotte took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. She forced herself to look Janie in the eye, rather than hanging her head in regret. “I’m sorry for all those things I said to you. And I’m sorry things are what they are, that my father is the lord of The Manor and you’re its kitchen maid.”

“Not anymore,” Janie said wryly.

“And I’m so sorry for that, too,” Charlotte added, nearly in tears. “For my mother and her rules.”

“It’s not her fault they were broken.”

“No, it’s mine,” Harry said. Charlotte noticed that Janie wouldn’t look at him. “But I didn’t tell anyone about your writing, Lady Charlotte. I saw Janie hide it, but I never saw it again.”