Page 53 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
Chapter 11
Charlotte woke early the next morning. Dawn was only a low shimmer in the eastern sky and the house lay quiet. Too quiet.
Pulling on a light gown with simple buttons, she wrapped herself in a shawl and ventured out into the house. She’d thought there would be a bustle in the kitchens, but all lay dark and quiet, there, too. With a sigh, she went to the front door, unlocked it and stepped out onto the front stoop.
Ah. There. She drew a deep breath. That was better. The garden in the middle of the square was coming awake and alive with the first sleepy chirps of birdsong. From beyond the square came the sound of rumbling carts and the start of early morning traffic. She closed her eyes and let the sounds soothe her.
She jumped, though, when the door behind her suddenly swung open. Whiddon stepped out, his jaw dropping in surprise. “Charlotte? What are you doing out here?”
Her heart twisted a little. He looked better this morning. Rested. Not so . . . haunted. She wished she’d had a hand in the improvement.
“Listening to the world wake up,” she answered with a shrug. “The house is too quiet.”
His brow lowered. “Is there such a thing as too quiet?”
“Yes.” She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “There is.”
She wanted him to ask, to inquire about the dark thoughts that drove her to fill the silence—all the silences. But he didn’t wish to. She could see it in his face. The need to move on, to escape.
And she wouldn’t force it. Not yet. She would stick to her plan. So, she smiled and nodded. “You must have important business, to get you up so early.”
“Yes.” He took a step down, eager to move on.
“Have a good day, Gabriel.”
He turned back. Paused.
Their gazes met. His eyes looked very green against the brightening background of the lush garden square.
“What is wrong with the quiet, Charlotte?”
She hadn’t been expecting it. Triumph and pleasure leaped sharply inside of her, but she took care not to show it.
“It reminds me too much of my father.”
He frowned. “Not good memories, then.”
“No. Though I do have good recollections of him, to be sure. There was a time when he was carefree and full of songs and smiles and bracing, warm hugs. But he came back at the end of the war . . . changed.”
Understanding shone in his expression. “Many men did.”
“There were still bright spots, but he grew increasingly broody. Querulous. Distant. It was as if he’d retreated far away, or deep inside himself. Those were the times when he could not bear any noise. None at all.” She sighed. “Not so easy, with small children in the house.”
“No. It wouldn’t be.” His head turned and he looked out over the garden. “At least you have the good memories. If our father was quiet, he was likely plotting something. If he was loud, then one of us was being railed at for not portraying the perfect image.” He shrugged. “But at least we had each other. Until my mother died, in any case.”
“How old were you when your sister was born?” she asked quietly.
He had to think. “Seven, perhaps. I think William was four.”
“I was eight when George was born. I was in love.”
His expression lightened a bit. “Yes,” he said vaguely. “There is little better than a baby’s laughter, is there?”
He snapped back to himself and cut her a look—and she mortified herself by blushing furiously.
“I must be going.” He paused and she flushed again as he met her gaze directly. “Good day to you, Charlotte.”
She nodded and watched as he walked away. When his powerful form disappeared into London’s streets, she turned to go and see if the household had begun to awaken.
