Page 14 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
After all this time, after all the careful decisions she’d made since the morning she fled from Lord Belling’s townhome, she hadn’t really escaped Finlay or severed the connection she had with him.
Securing the teaching position at Little Windmill House had been a lucky boon. The advertisement appeared in the paper the morning she slipped from the earl’s home, and she’d been the first to respond. Her lack of a formal education proved not to be the stumbling block she expected, largely because her practical experience was vast and varied. And she spoke French like a native speaker.
In the months she’d been employed at the foundling home, she’d formed relationships with her peers, her students, and even the patrons. She feared each connection was foolhardy even as she couldn’t help herself. Since her parents had died from influenza when she was a child, the number of people she could count on was small. Most spurned her family and close neighbors, believing the sickness was a punishment for their sins. When Eliza’s parents finally found her, they did their best to care for her. But they had their own brood to feed and clothe, and Charlotte learned quickly the only person she could truly depend upon was herself.
And then she’d met Roderick and fallen in love. For two years, life was idyllic. They explored. They laughed. They loved. And then he taught her, once again, that trusting others was a painful and foolish exercise.
Charlotte flinched from the memories. The amount of time she’d spent as a widow now equaled the time she’d spent as a married woman, but the pain hadn’t lessened. Perhaps because grief had warped into anger. Into bitterness at being abandoned. Again.
She stopped abruptly in the middle of the walk and clasped her knapsack tightly to her chest. Pulling deep, painful breaths through her nose, she willed her heart to cease its racing. But thoughts of the awful days after Roderick died threatened to send her into a panic.
Looking wildly about her, she spied a small bench tucked under a scrawny tree in the clearing down the street. She hurried to it, the sight of it a lighthouse in a treacherous gale of emotion. She came upon it almost gasping for air and sank onto its unyielding seat. Charlotte longed to drop her head into her hands as she greedily sucked air into her lungs, but she feared drawing attention to herself.
Instead, she tipped her head back as if she were merely inspecting the last umber-colored leaves that clung to the tree’s branches. Those last few leaves, tenaciously clutching onto boughs that no longer wanted them, reminded Charlotte so much of the life she was expunged from, she had to choke back a sob.
She’d been doing well.
Teaching was enjoyable. She respected and liked her colleagues. She’d finally reached a point where she could start setting aside money for the future. She attended shul regularly. What had happened to upset the placid routine she’d clenched with both hands?
Finlay.
With just a glimpse of his merry green eyes and wicked mouth, he’d turned her inside out.
Finally, Charlotte gave in to temptation and dropped her head into her hands as she realized he resurrected all the happy feelings she’d felt with Roderick. Finlay made her want to laugh. To smile. The last time she’d done those things, she’d lost so much. She didn’t know if she could do it again, especially because a man like Finlay—Viscount Firthwell, as she knew she should address him—could never be a fixture in her life unless she agreed to a scandalous arrangement between them.
And what if he proposed such an arrangement? What if he threatened her or her position at the home unless she agreed? She brought a fist up to her mouth and bit her knuckle. She didn’t think him capable of such things, but she didn’t know him. Not really. If he chose to be difficult, he would have all the power.
She would have none.
The acrid bite of bile touched her throat.
A quarter of an hour passed in which she merely expelled deep breaths and discreetly wiped her brow with a handkerchief. Finally, she climbed to her feet and headed home. She had meant to visit the market to purchase more candles for Shabbat dinner, but she no longer had the energy for such a trip.
Her small flat was on the top floor of a narrow building, which she assumed had been constructed of red brick, although the color had dulled with age and coal soot to a grimy brown. It was crammed between a bakery and a seamstress shop, and the decadent scent of baked treats flavored the air, masking the otherwise harsh odors of the city.
Charlotte pulled open the front door, her hands almost shaking for a cup of strong tea. Her foot was on the bottom stair when the door to her left opened, revealing her landlady’s graying head. When the woman’s gaze locked on Charlotte, she knew her tea would have to wait.
“Mrs. Taylor, I’ve been waiting for you,” the older woman said without preface.
Suppressing a sigh, Charlotte responded with a strained smile. “Mrs. Gladington, I hope your wait was not a long one.”
“An hour or so at least. ” The woman’s gray curls shook with agitation. “But I know you’ve only just finished teaching.”
“Indeed.” Charlotte took another step up the staircase, hoping her action indicated she did not have time to chat.
Mrs. Gladington looked toward the front door for a long moment, cocking her head to the side as if listening, before she gestured with her chin to the inside of her flat. “Perhaps it would be best if we talked in private.”
Something in the woman’s cautious behavior raised hairs on the back of Charlotte’s neck. She nodded. “If you insist.”
The older woman’s living space was cramped with furniture, stacks of yellowing newspapers, and the comforting scent of baked bread.
Shooing Charlotte to sit on a patched armchair, the old woman bustled about the tiny kitchen preparing tea. Charlotte knotted her hands tightly in her lap. She’d enjoyed a cup of tea with Mrs. Gladington on more than one occasion and knew the woman was not to be rushed. But the older woman kept stopping to look out the front windows as if she was expecting another guest.
Nervous. She was acting nervous, and it made Charlotte so as well. Her mind was already overloaded with stress; she hoped whatever her landlady had to share wouldn’t tip the precarious hold she had on her self-control.
After what felt like an eternity, Mrs. Gladington returned with a tea tray, which she sat on the crooked table between their chairs. She quickly prepared Charlotte’s cup, offering it to her along with a biscuit.
She took a bite to be polite, but it was tasteless.
