Work Text:
15 March, 1910
“What’s your name?”
“Barnes, Your Highness,”
Just before she opened her mouth to ask, Charlotte remembered a lady’s maid went by her last name in England. She raised her chin, hating to feel uncertain. She also disliked that her mother had engaged a lady’s maid for her without asking her input. Charlotte was here for her Season. She ought to be able to choose her own maid. “And you’ve been a lady’s maid before?”
“No, Your Highness,” the girl - she could only be a few years older than Charlotte - said, her eyes fixed firmly on the carpet in front of her. “I was an upstairs maid at the Westons. I would help the young ladies get dressed before they -”
“Got a real lady’s maid?” Charlotte interrupted.
“Were presented to Society,” Barnes finished, seemingly unperturbed by the interruption. “I know everything I need to know. Your mother seemed to think so.”
And that was the rub. Both girls knew that for right now at least, Charlotte couldn’t do anything about the situation. “I suppose we’ll give it a trial then,” Charlotte said haughtily. “Mother is hosting a dinner here tonight. I shall wear my pink dress. You may go.”
When the dressing gong sounded, the dress laid on Charlotte’s bed was blue. Outraged, Charlotte turned her new maid. “I wished to wear the pink dress.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Barnes agreed. “But the blue will look far better with your hair.”
Charlotte eyed the dress again. One was supposed to take advice from one’s lady’s maid, correct? She nodded her assent and spent the rest of the evening receiving compliments on how lovely she looked. Barnes, it seemed, would stay.
24 April, 1911
“What about Patrick Crawley?” Charlotte asked, watching Barnes in the mirror as the maid finished curling her hair. “He’ll be Earl of Grantham one day.”
“I heard he was marrying his cousin, Your Highness,” she said.
“They’re all marrying their cousins,” she complained. “I’d marry my cousin except that he’s three years old.”
Barnes moved around her to kneel and help Charlotte into the slippers that matched her gown. “You could wait for him,” she suggested, her lips turning up in a sly smile.
“Wouldn’t that be a wedding portrait? Me with a cane, and him still in short pants,” Charlotte snorted.
“We’ll be sure to patronize Mr. Worth for your gown,” Barnes said. “I’ve heard he can do wonders to disguise a hunchback.”
Charlotte burst into a gale of laughter, her face transforming from its usual severely elegant beauty to a more approachable loveliness. The mirth faded as she looked down at her maid and reached to lay a tentative hand on her shoulder. “You’ll still be with me though?”
Barnes glanced up to meet the other girl’s gaze. “Always,” she said, her hand lifting to cover Charlotte’s for just a moment. She stood briskly, purposefully turning to the dressing table. “We’ll try those gold filigree earrings. They’ll look well with the dress.”
21 October, 1911
Even with a fire in the hearth burning away, Charlotte’s hands were absolutely freezing. She hadn’t been warm since she’d gotten out of bed that morning. It wasn’t storming outside, but between the cold, the howling of the wind and a trick of the light, Charlotte was reminded of the winter gales at Montmaray. Those storms left sheets of ice on the curtain wall, and even though the walls were several feet thick, they needed tapestries or other coverings to keep from radiating cold.
She blew on her hands to warm them. There was no point in thinking of Montmaray now. Her country had only come to mind because she’d just received a letter from her little brother Robert who’d was still adjusting to school life at Eton but was bravely insisting he loved every minute. Robert would go back to Montmaray far sooner than Charlotte would. Her duty was clear, stay in England, make connections, marry someone with enough wealth to be of assistance to the FitzOsbornes. She couldn’t go home and do that.
The dressing gong sounded and Barnes entered her room nearly simultaneously.
“I’ll need to send Robert a package,” Charlotte said contemplatively, chafing her hands together. “Sweets and some wool socks and pen nibs. Would you put it together?”
“Of course, Your Highness.” She frowned at Charlotte’s hands and thrust a fur muff at them. “Stop rubbing your hands like that. You’ll give yourself chilblains.”
Charlotte made a face but instantly stuck her hands into the glorious warmth of the fur. “Has Sir Arthur arrived yet?”
“Not yet,” Barnes said. She touched Charlotte’s elbow, guiding her to sit in the chair. “Do you think he won’t come?”
Another face was made, but she shook her head. “I’m certain he will.”
“Then why were you standing there, wringing your hands like a washerwoman?” Barnes asked, the asperity in her voice softened by the gentleness in her hands as she started to take the pins out of Charlotte’s hair. “You’re not regretting your decision?”
“No,” Charlotte said shortly. The familiar ritual had already begun to soothe her, and her shoulders relaxed just a touch. “I make it my policy never to question my decisions after I’ve made them.”
In thirty years perhaps, very few would have the fortitude to dare to question that pronouncement, but for now, Barnes smiled just a little at the words. “I see. So last Thursday when you changed your mind about your dress for dinner four times?”
“About important things,” she retorted, unable not to smile back when she met Barnes’ eyes in the mirror. “Besides there’s no point in regretting it when I have no choice in the matter.” Charlotte let out a breath as Barnes began to brush out her hair. “He’s extremely rich, and Mother likes him. I have more than enough title for us both so it doesn’t matter that he’s just an industrial knight, and did I mention he’s extremely rich? I think I might take up horse racing.”
“Will you be riding the horses, Your Highness?” Barnes asked, pausing her brush just long enough to squeeze Charlotte’s shoulder sympathetically.
“Do you think they’d let me?”
19 July 1915
It was wrong, quite wrong, Charlotte knew, to feel such joy after a death. It was even more wrong to feel so joyful during a war when all the news out of the Continent was dreadfully desperate. Today, however, she didn’t care.
It was high summer in the English countryside, and when she walked out over the grounds of Milford Park - her house and hers alone, she could visit the horses still in her stables. Most of her mares were too small to be requisitioned by the army, but the foals would probably find their way to France if the War didn’t end before they grew up. Charlotte tried not to think of it as she stroked their velvet noses and tufted manes.
It was all hers now, every bit of Milford Park. Sir Arthur had purchased it for her, to be sure, but just because it was a gift didn’t mean that he had any intention of allowing her to make any decisions about it. Not that he was ever a cruel man or an awful one. He just was one who wanted to be in charge. That, however, was now in the past. Some of those who had written over the past months had subtly inquired what Charlotte was looking for in a second husband. Those who knew her better didn’t bother.
Why would she give this up? Even if there wasn’t a war on, what would be the point to going back to the stuffy ballrooms to find another husband who’d only tell her what to do? Charlotte shook her head at the thought as she turned towards the house and caught a glimpse of a black-clad figure in one of the upstairs windows. What would be the point when all she wanted was already at home?