The muted sunlight slanted through the dingy window of the London boardinghouse, illuminating the soft curls and fair complexion of the young woman who sat in the chair. She held a sheet of music, and had wrapped herself in a red silk shawl, which contrasted with her simple white dress and brought a blush to her cheeks. He bosom rose and fell slightly as she relaxed, looking with an almost amused expression at the much older gentleman a few feet away, who was studying her, paintbrush in hand. “Honestly, Alexander, I don’t know why you couldn’t allow me to fix my hair before you painted me,” she insisted lightly. “It’s always so messy after our trysts.”
He chuckled, raising brush to canvas. “Nonsense, my dear ladybird. It looks charming, as always.”
“If you insist,” she sighed. “Not as if anyone but you will ever see it anyway. So long as you’re happy with it, I suppose…”
“Nonsense. This will be my masterpiece!” Alexander insisted, smiling.
The young woman laughed, her curls bouncing prettily along her neck. “And pray tell, what would you title such a masterpiece? ‘Portrait of a Doxy?’”
Alexander’s white brows knit in distaste at the term. “Faith, no! I would call you no such thing. For all your skill in your trade, my dear, you know I have never looked at you as a common light-skirt. Come now.” He fixed the young lady with a disapproving stare over his spectacles and she blushed.
“Well, yes, my lord, I know. But you must admit you do have a tendency to spoil me with praises higher than I deserve.”
Alexander snorted, turning back to his painting. “Cyprian or no, Charlotte, there is no praise beyond your deserving. Now pray turn your chin a little to the left… yes. Just so.”
***
The light had long faded from the window when Charlotte finally climbed from the mattress. Sweat now shone from her pale forehead and shoulders, and her curls stuck to her neck and cheeks. As she crossed the room to pour Alexander his glass of sherry, he moaned happily from the bed. “I declare, Charlotte, I am growing too old to enjoy your charms much longer. You do take so much out of me every visit.”
Charlotte giggled, reapproaching the bed and holding out his glass, then climbing back in beside him. “You can hardly blame me, m’lord, when you insist on doing so much of the work yourself. Very singular for a man of your station, so I’ve heard.”
Alexander sipped his sherry, his frail hand shaking with the exertion. “Not at all, my dear! Why, it is a mark of a gentleman to ensure his lady’s pleasure! And I, my dear, am a nabob of the highest order. I stake my reputation on your enjoyment!”
“Do you?” Charlotte said, laughing, and taking a small sip from his glass.
“I do,” Alexander replied, with mock pride.
Charlotte laid her head on his chest, sighing contentedly. The life of a prostitute in London’s east end was by no means glamorous, but Alexander’s visits had brought a peculiar, insular joy to her days that she had not experienced in her previous 20 years of life. None of the girls working the rooms of the boarding house had chosen the trade they had ended up in, certainly, but Charlotte herself had struggled particularly with resigning herself to it in order to pay off her mother’s debts when she had died. It had been years of dark nights entertaining drunken sailors and priggish dandies for a few coins.
Then Alexander had found her, and in exchange for an exclusive arrangement, had provided her with not only the cost of room and board in the boardinghouse, but little gifts and trinkets, regular meals, new dresses and bonnets, and extra spending money to entertain herself on occasion (though Charlotte usually slipped it into the hands of the other girls, which earned her a fond chiding and a kiss from her benefactor for being such a “soft touch”). All the money and gifts and new dresses paled, however, in comparison to the music and laughter and art Alexander had brought to her life. He had taken her to the theater and museums, taught her about painting and drawing, even bought her a little clavichord to keep in her room to practice, though she knew not the slightest thing about how to read music or play. “You’ll learn,” he had insisted, and true to his word, sat with her many afternoons, teaching her the position of the notes and how to read them. She could play a little now, though slowly and with plentiful mistakes. But he never stopped encouraging her. Alexander had made his fortune through his share of a trading company in the Indies. Like so many second sons, he might have gone into the British navy, had he not suffered an injury from a fall when he was young that left him with only one leg. Instead, he had cultivated a love for the arts, and when his older brother had died unexpectedly, he had inherited the family lands in Basingstoke. Not having been accustomed to living the life of a landed gentleman, Alexander had maintained his life of indulgence, not only in fine art, but in fine women, as well. Charlotte had asked him once why he had not married, and he had laughed, brushing off the question. “I haven’t the temperament for marriage, my dear,” he had told her. Nevertheless, he had repeatedly offered, in their quieter moments together, to remove her from this “wretched London hovel” and put her up in a pretty little house in Bath or Reading, nearer to him. But Charlotte, mindful of the scandal it would cause him, had refused the offer, insisting she could never leave her friends here at the boardinghouse. Alexander might not be the most traditional of gentlemen, but she would not allow him to throw away his reputation consorting openly with a whore in his own town. And no matter what endearments he might call her, “ladybird” or “cyprian,” she knew she was no better than a common whore, and that is precisely what others saw when they looked at her. And if he appeared in public with her, where he was known, they would see worse when they looked at him.
Charlotte studied her portrait where it leaned against the wall across the room. In the light of the lamp, the colors were dim, but she could see the creamy color of her arm against the red silk. He really did see something in her, she realized. Something nobody else ever had. Something special and beautiful.
Alexander was nearly three times her age, of course. She had no youthful illusions about love or anything so romantic. Rather, they had a mutual fondness and affection, almost like that between and old uncle and his favorite niece, with the exception, of course, of the business arrangement. But Charlotte had long ago ceased connecting sex with anything but a monetary exchange. She had never even considered it could be a pleasurable exercise until Alexander came along, and now she no longer bore it with gritted teeth, but occasionally even enjoyed it.
Charlotte’s thoughts were interrupted as Alexander’s body convulsed in a fit of coughing. She sat up, worry knotting her forehead as she watched him cough mightily. “That cough is getting worse, m’lord,” she said quietly, but Alexander waved a hand dismissively. “It’s merely the weather. My lungs detest this London smog, especially in the cold.”
Charlotte rose and took her new red silk shawl from the chair. “Well then, let us keep them warm,” she said, smiling, and tucked them both under the luxurious shawl.
***
“Charlotte!” Hetty’s voice at the door startled Charlotte, who had been struggling to piece together a poem by Byron in the new book Alexander had left for her on his last visit. She rose to answer, dressed in only her shift, her dark blonde hair tumbling loose to her waist. “Letter come for you, Charlotte,” the younger girl said, holding up a letter sealed with a pair of initials: J.W. Charlotte studied the letter in confusion as Hetty let herself in and perched on the edge of the bed. “Looks important. Who’s it from?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte replied absently. “I don’t know anyone with those initials.”
“It isn’t from Master Alexander then?” Hetty asked, her eagerness readily apparent.
Charlotte shook her head, opening the letter. She scanned the neat writing quickly, her hand suddenly flying to her mouth.
“What’s wrong, Charlotte?” Hetty asked solicitously.
Charlotte could not speak for the tears that choked her. Finally she lowered her hand, and sat weakly in her chair. “He’s dead,” she replied.
***
It was a full day before Charlotte could bring herself to answer the summons in the letter. She spent much of it in her bed in her dark room, quietly refusing the soup Hetty brought. The precocious girl nonetheless stayed by her side, sleeping in the chair and checking on Charlotte throughout the night. She had sobbed at first, but soon her sobs had given way to a silent staring at the wall. Charlotte knew she was selfish to think it, but after the initial shock of Alexander’s death had passed (he was in his sixties after all, and had been of poor health much of his life), she could not help the path her thoughts took toward the future. How bleak it would be without Alexander’s visits and patronage, without his gentle humor and careful tutelage. He had opened Charlotte’s eyes to a world of art and music, a world no mere prostitute was entitled to. And now to face that door closing after she had glimpsed the riches behind it… it was nearly more painful than the idea of having to entertain the drunks and dandies again. Charlotte loathed herself for the selfishness of her thoughts, but she could not help them, and as night drew to a close, so too-- she imagined-- did the best years of her young life.
As the sun rose, she willed herself to finally rise as well from her stupor. The future, bleak though it may now be, would not wait, and she had been summoned by Alexander’s lawyer to see to some of his deceased employer’s affairs. Charlotte couldn’t imagine what a lawyer could want with her, and she imagined that Alexander, the kind soul that he was, had probably left her a small gift, perhaps to pay out the rest of the year per their contract. She needed the money, or would soon, and crying in her bed would not pay her bills, so she willed herself out of bed and stood, surveying the room. Hetty was curled in the chair, finally sleeping, and Charlotte smiled at the girl’s loyalty. Pulling a quilt from the bed, she tucked it around the sleeping girl and set about dressing herself against the chill of the London winter.
It wasn’t easy to find a cab so early in the day, and Charlotte had to slog through the wet streets for several blocks before one stopped. The hems of her skirts were soaked through, and she was already shivering as she climbed in and gave the driver the address of the lawyer’s London office on Mayfair Street.
As he drove, she read the letter again:
Dear Ms. Gillett,
I regret to inform you of the passing of my employer and your acquaintance, Lord Alexander Molinari on Tuesday past at his home at the Molinari estate in Basingstoke. I send my condolences for your loss, and respectfully request your personage at the given address within the next fortnight in order to address some matters of business his lordship left pertaining to your situation.
Respectfully yours,
James Wharton, Esquire
Self-consciously, Charlotte adjusted her clothes. Alexander had been fastidious about her appearance, ensuring her clothes were as nice as she’d allow him to buy for her, so she certainly didn’t look the part of her station. Nevertheless, she wondered if this Mister Wharton would suspect it. She told herself it was foolish to think such things, but she was painfully aware once more of how others, anyone besides Alexander, would see her, and she fought a sob that threatened to ruin her careful composure. She missed him already. Indeed he was one of the few friends she had ever had, and the only man to ever see her as something besides a commodity.
The offices of Wharton and Smythe were neatly tucked away in a quiet business district in Westminster, and rather than waste the precious money holding the coach, Charlotte paid the driver and resolved to walk the mile or so to the busier area of town when she had finished whatever business Mister Wharton required of her. She walked into the little shop and was gratified to find a crackling fire to meet her. A man in his thirties looked up from a ledger as she walked in and smiled pleasantly.
“Mister Wharton?” Charlotte inquired and he nodded.
“Miss Gillett, may I presume?” he replied, rising from his desk respectfully.
Charlotte silently muttered a prayer of thanks to Alexander, wherever he was now, that her appearance was at least respectable enough not to raise the lawyer’s suspicions. “I received your letter yesterday. I hope you’ll pardon my delay. I was… shocked to receive the news…”
Charlotte’s voice broke slightly, and she renewed her determination not to cry here in front of this stranger.
“Not at all, Miss Gillett, I assure you. I was quite as shocked as you, I’m sure. Lord Molinari was getting on in age but he was of such hardy character, I never thought he might perish. It is a great loss. And I am sure as his relative it was of special hardship for you.”
His relative? So that’s what he told this man, Charlotte realized. Now she was certain this would be nothing more than a quick transaction, in order to resolve the rest of the contract, most likely. She nodded, feeling a little guilty to be playing along with the falsehood, but preferring it to the truth. And if it was Alexander’s wish, after all, she could only respect it.
“I assure you, I won’t keep you long, Miss Gillett. I simply have some papers here to review with you, and then we can settle the inheritance and get you home to your fire.”
Charlotte stopped cold, her heart skipping a beat. “I’m sorry, Mister Wharton, I must have misheard you. Did you say ‘inheritance’?”
“Yes, miss. Specifically the Molinari house and lands, and the yearly allowance left to you by your cousin.”
“A-allowance…?”
The lawyer paused, studying her expression. “I take it you were not expecting this upon Lord Molinari’s death?” he asked.
Unable to quite stomach the fullness of this realization, Charlotte merely shook her head. Mister Wharton smiled gently and offered his hand, guiding Charlotte to a seat by the fire, as if he could detect the fact that she was quite close to fainting. “Well then… allow me to explain further. May I get you some tea?”
Two hours later, a still numb Charlotte had realized that the man who had been her exclusive client for two years had now left her a small estate in Basingstoke, an interest of 200 pounds per year off the shares of the late Lord Molinari’s business ventures in the Indies, and several other investments besides. She had managed, thus far, to retain her composure in a sort of numb shock, but when Mister Wharton added that Alexander had left her his box seats at the Royal London Opera, she finally dissolved into tears. Only a few hours ago she had struggled to face the prospect of a future without any more art or music or poetry, and here Alexander had provided for all of that and more, for the rest of her life. For his part, Mister Wharton weathered the fit of tears admirably, offering his handkerchief and sitting quietly with Charlotte until she could calm herself. She apologized profusely, but he excused her “grief,” as understandable, given the circumstances, and admirable besides, that she had been so fond of her cousin. “I can understand why he left you the property, with such a tender relationship.” Charlotte barely managed to swallow the laugh that threatened to burst from her at the unintended irony of that statement.
Within another hour, Mister Wharton had gotten her signature on all required documents and made arrangements for Lord Molinari’s funeral as well, since as he only surviving next of kin, Charlotte was the sole person who could sign off on the arrangements. As she rose to leave, she thanked Mister Wharton profusely. “It’s my pleasure, I assure you, Miss Gillett. I am happy to see that my old friend’s heir is every bit as deserving of his generosity as he believed. I will be in touch with the rest of the arrangements. May I walk you to your coach? On a day such as this, my wife would never forgive me if I allowed a lady to fall on the icy streets.”
Charlotte started. “I-- haven’t got a coach. That is… I thought I’d walk to the square rather than hold it.” Mr. Wharton looked aghast. “Faith, no, Miss Gillett, please! Allow me to accompany you to the inn across the way and hire one from them. You’re a rich woman now, Miss Gillett! You shouldn’t be walking in this weather.”
Bewildered, Charlotte assented, and soon she was being handed into a coach by a solicitous Mister Wharton, and trotted back home to the “wretched London hovel.” Hetty met her at the door, looking concerned, and Charlotte answered her anxious “What news?” with an exuberant hug.
***
A week later, the carriage driver that arrived at the inn in Windsor to pick her up where the cabby from London had left her seemed surprised to find that his new mistress had only a few belongings to her name, but he dutifully loaded up the chair, the two bags, and the clavichord before handing her into the carriage. “Are we meeting Mister Wharton at the estate?” she asked him nervously, and he answered with a terse “Yes, ma’am,” before closing the door to the carriage and mounting his post. Charlotte tried to doze for most of the trip, but she found herself anxious, afraid that she would wake and find all of this to be a dream, and instead of an estate and opera tickets before her, only a rutting man with the scent of liquor on his breath. Eventually, though, she must have dozed, because the carriage door opening awoke her, and she hastily sat up, blushing, as the carriage driver offered to hand her down. She thanked him, then turned as a woman’s voice said her name. A young woman, only a few years older than Charlotte herself, stood at the edge of the drive, wearing the uniform of a house maid. “Miss Gillett?” she repeated. “Yes… I am Miss Gillett,” Charlotte replied, self-conscious. The maid smiled. “I’m Lavinia, your new housekeeper. Mister Wharton told me you’d be coming when he hired me. Welcome to Campbell Greene.”
For the first time, Charlotte became aware of the immensity of the manor house behind the girl. It was easily three times the size of the London boardinghouse, with four chimneys, countless windows, and rolling hills that stretched away behind it to the edge of the woods a mile away. Charlotte forgot herself and stood, agape. “Mister Finch has yer bags, miss, if you’d like to follow me? I’ll show you the house.” Shaking herself, Charlotte simply nodded and followed Lavinia, dutifully.
The tour was long, appropriately for the immensity for the house, and the more rooms Lavinia showed her, the more Charlotte felt she could envision Alexander living here in these halls, playing his harpsichord in the parlor, painting in the sun room. The entire house had the feel of his taste and moods: stately and artistic but not overly fancy. He was a confirmed old bachelor, and he had not thought it proper to waste money on finery that was of no use to him.
“And here’s the library, miss,” Lavinia said, opening a set of oak double doors for Charlotte to pass into the room. As Charlotte entered the room, her attention was captured by her likeness, wrapped in a scarlet silk shawl, holding a sheet of music, gazing at her from over the mantle. “Oh! Look, I knew I recognized yer face, miss! I’m told Mr. Molinari painted that himself. Never told anyone who it was though. Just a portrait of a friend.”
Tears sprung to Charlotte’s eyes once more as the enormity of this final gift settled upon her. This final gesture, Alexander’s portrait of her, had legitimized her claim to this house and all the fortune it entailed. This was all hers now. And as he had insisted, she was no longer a common whore. Now she finally was the woman in the portrait, the woman he had seen when he looked at her. He had always been true to his word.
He chuckled, raising brush to canvas. “Nonsense, my dear ladybird. It looks charming, as always.”
“If you insist,” she sighed. “Not as if anyone but you will ever see it anyway. So long as you’re happy with it, I suppose…”
“Nonsense. This will be my masterpiece!” Alexander insisted, smiling.
The young woman laughed, her curls bouncing prettily along her neck. “And pray tell, what would you title such a masterpiece? ‘Portrait of a Doxy?’”
Alexander’s white brows knit in distaste at the term. “Faith, no! I would call you no such thing. For all your skill in your trade, my dear, you know I have never looked at you as a common light-skirt. Come now.” He fixed the young lady with a disapproving stare over his spectacles and she blushed.
“Well, yes, my lord, I know. But you must admit you do have a tendency to spoil me with praises higher than I deserve.”
Alexander snorted, turning back to his painting. “Cyprian or no, Charlotte, there is no praise beyond your deserving. Now pray turn your chin a little to the left… yes. Just so.”
***
The light had long faded from the window when Charlotte finally climbed from the mattress. Sweat now shone from her pale forehead and shoulders, and her curls stuck to her neck and cheeks. As she crossed the room to pour Alexander his glass of sherry, he moaned happily from the bed. “I declare, Charlotte, I am growing too old to enjoy your charms much longer. You do take so much out of me every visit.”
Charlotte giggled, reapproaching the bed and holding out his glass, then climbing back in beside him. “You can hardly blame me, m’lord, when you insist on doing so much of the work yourself. Very singular for a man of your station, so I’ve heard.”
Alexander sipped his sherry, his frail hand shaking with the exertion. “Not at all, my dear! Why, it is a mark of a gentleman to ensure his lady’s pleasure! And I, my dear, am a nabob of the highest order. I stake my reputation on your enjoyment!”
“Do you?” Charlotte said, laughing, and taking a small sip from his glass.
“I do,” Alexander replied, with mock pride.
Charlotte laid her head on his chest, sighing contentedly. The life of a prostitute in London’s east end was by no means glamorous, but Alexander’s visits had brought a peculiar, insular joy to her days that she had not experienced in her previous 20 years of life. None of the girls working the rooms of the boarding house had chosen the trade they had ended up in, certainly, but Charlotte herself had struggled particularly with resigning herself to it in order to pay off her mother’s debts when she had died. It had been years of dark nights entertaining drunken sailors and priggish dandies for a few coins.
Then Alexander had found her, and in exchange for an exclusive arrangement, had provided her with not only the cost of room and board in the boardinghouse, but little gifts and trinkets, regular meals, new dresses and bonnets, and extra spending money to entertain herself on occasion (though Charlotte usually slipped it into the hands of the other girls, which earned her a fond chiding and a kiss from her benefactor for being such a “soft touch”). All the money and gifts and new dresses paled, however, in comparison to the music and laughter and art Alexander had brought to her life. He had taken her to the theater and museums, taught her about painting and drawing, even bought her a little clavichord to keep in her room to practice, though she knew not the slightest thing about how to read music or play. “You’ll learn,” he had insisted, and true to his word, sat with her many afternoons, teaching her the position of the notes and how to read them. She could play a little now, though slowly and with plentiful mistakes. But he never stopped encouraging her. Alexander had made his fortune through his share of a trading company in the Indies. Like so many second sons, he might have gone into the British navy, had he not suffered an injury from a fall when he was young that left him with only one leg. Instead, he had cultivated a love for the arts, and when his older brother had died unexpectedly, he had inherited the family lands in Basingstoke. Not having been accustomed to living the life of a landed gentleman, Alexander had maintained his life of indulgence, not only in fine art, but in fine women, as well. Charlotte had asked him once why he had not married, and he had laughed, brushing off the question. “I haven’t the temperament for marriage, my dear,” he had told her. Nevertheless, he had repeatedly offered, in their quieter moments together, to remove her from this “wretched London hovel” and put her up in a pretty little house in Bath or Reading, nearer to him. But Charlotte, mindful of the scandal it would cause him, had refused the offer, insisting she could never leave her friends here at the boardinghouse. Alexander might not be the most traditional of gentlemen, but she would not allow him to throw away his reputation consorting openly with a whore in his own town. And no matter what endearments he might call her, “ladybird” or “cyprian,” she knew she was no better than a common whore, and that is precisely what others saw when they looked at her. And if he appeared in public with her, where he was known, they would see worse when they looked at him.
Charlotte studied her portrait where it leaned against the wall across the room. In the light of the lamp, the colors were dim, but she could see the creamy color of her arm against the red silk. He really did see something in her, she realized. Something nobody else ever had. Something special and beautiful.
Alexander was nearly three times her age, of course. She had no youthful illusions about love or anything so romantic. Rather, they had a mutual fondness and affection, almost like that between and old uncle and his favorite niece, with the exception, of course, of the business arrangement. But Charlotte had long ago ceased connecting sex with anything but a monetary exchange. She had never even considered it could be a pleasurable exercise until Alexander came along, and now she no longer bore it with gritted teeth, but occasionally even enjoyed it.
Charlotte’s thoughts were interrupted as Alexander’s body convulsed in a fit of coughing. She sat up, worry knotting her forehead as she watched him cough mightily. “That cough is getting worse, m’lord,” she said quietly, but Alexander waved a hand dismissively. “It’s merely the weather. My lungs detest this London smog, especially in the cold.”
Charlotte rose and took her new red silk shawl from the chair. “Well then, let us keep them warm,” she said, smiling, and tucked them both under the luxurious shawl.
***
“Charlotte!” Hetty’s voice at the door startled Charlotte, who had been struggling to piece together a poem by Byron in the new book Alexander had left for her on his last visit. She rose to answer, dressed in only her shift, her dark blonde hair tumbling loose to her waist. “Letter come for you, Charlotte,” the younger girl said, holding up a letter sealed with a pair of initials: J.W. Charlotte studied the letter in confusion as Hetty let herself in and perched on the edge of the bed. “Looks important. Who’s it from?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte replied absently. “I don’t know anyone with those initials.”
“It isn’t from Master Alexander then?” Hetty asked, her eagerness readily apparent.
Charlotte shook her head, opening the letter. She scanned the neat writing quickly, her hand suddenly flying to her mouth.
“What’s wrong, Charlotte?” Hetty asked solicitously.
Charlotte could not speak for the tears that choked her. Finally she lowered her hand, and sat weakly in her chair. “He’s dead,” she replied.
***
It was a full day before Charlotte could bring herself to answer the summons in the letter. She spent much of it in her bed in her dark room, quietly refusing the soup Hetty brought. The precocious girl nonetheless stayed by her side, sleeping in the chair and checking on Charlotte throughout the night. She had sobbed at first, but soon her sobs had given way to a silent staring at the wall. Charlotte knew she was selfish to think it, but after the initial shock of Alexander’s death had passed (he was in his sixties after all, and had been of poor health much of his life), she could not help the path her thoughts took toward the future. How bleak it would be without Alexander’s visits and patronage, without his gentle humor and careful tutelage. He had opened Charlotte’s eyes to a world of art and music, a world no mere prostitute was entitled to. And now to face that door closing after she had glimpsed the riches behind it… it was nearly more painful than the idea of having to entertain the drunks and dandies again. Charlotte loathed herself for the selfishness of her thoughts, but she could not help them, and as night drew to a close, so too-- she imagined-- did the best years of her young life.
As the sun rose, she willed herself to finally rise as well from her stupor. The future, bleak though it may now be, would not wait, and she had been summoned by Alexander’s lawyer to see to some of his deceased employer’s affairs. Charlotte couldn’t imagine what a lawyer could want with her, and she imagined that Alexander, the kind soul that he was, had probably left her a small gift, perhaps to pay out the rest of the year per their contract. She needed the money, or would soon, and crying in her bed would not pay her bills, so she willed herself out of bed and stood, surveying the room. Hetty was curled in the chair, finally sleeping, and Charlotte smiled at the girl’s loyalty. Pulling a quilt from the bed, she tucked it around the sleeping girl and set about dressing herself against the chill of the London winter.
It wasn’t easy to find a cab so early in the day, and Charlotte had to slog through the wet streets for several blocks before one stopped. The hems of her skirts were soaked through, and she was already shivering as she climbed in and gave the driver the address of the lawyer’s London office on Mayfair Street.
As he drove, she read the letter again:
Dear Ms. Gillett,
I regret to inform you of the passing of my employer and your acquaintance, Lord Alexander Molinari on Tuesday past at his home at the Molinari estate in Basingstoke. I send my condolences for your loss, and respectfully request your personage at the given address within the next fortnight in order to address some matters of business his lordship left pertaining to your situation.
Respectfully yours,
James Wharton, Esquire
Self-consciously, Charlotte adjusted her clothes. Alexander had been fastidious about her appearance, ensuring her clothes were as nice as she’d allow him to buy for her, so she certainly didn’t look the part of her station. Nevertheless, she wondered if this Mister Wharton would suspect it. She told herself it was foolish to think such things, but she was painfully aware once more of how others, anyone besides Alexander, would see her, and she fought a sob that threatened to ruin her careful composure. She missed him already. Indeed he was one of the few friends she had ever had, and the only man to ever see her as something besides a commodity.
The offices of Wharton and Smythe were neatly tucked away in a quiet business district in Westminster, and rather than waste the precious money holding the coach, Charlotte paid the driver and resolved to walk the mile or so to the busier area of town when she had finished whatever business Mister Wharton required of her. She walked into the little shop and was gratified to find a crackling fire to meet her. A man in his thirties looked up from a ledger as she walked in and smiled pleasantly.
“Mister Wharton?” Charlotte inquired and he nodded.
“Miss Gillett, may I presume?” he replied, rising from his desk respectfully.
Charlotte silently muttered a prayer of thanks to Alexander, wherever he was now, that her appearance was at least respectable enough not to raise the lawyer’s suspicions. “I received your letter yesterday. I hope you’ll pardon my delay. I was… shocked to receive the news…”
Charlotte’s voice broke slightly, and she renewed her determination not to cry here in front of this stranger.
“Not at all, Miss Gillett, I assure you. I was quite as shocked as you, I’m sure. Lord Molinari was getting on in age but he was of such hardy character, I never thought he might perish. It is a great loss. And I am sure as his relative it was of special hardship for you.”
His relative? So that’s what he told this man, Charlotte realized. Now she was certain this would be nothing more than a quick transaction, in order to resolve the rest of the contract, most likely. She nodded, feeling a little guilty to be playing along with the falsehood, but preferring it to the truth. And if it was Alexander’s wish, after all, she could only respect it.
“I assure you, I won’t keep you long, Miss Gillett. I simply have some papers here to review with you, and then we can settle the inheritance and get you home to your fire.”
Charlotte stopped cold, her heart skipping a beat. “I’m sorry, Mister Wharton, I must have misheard you. Did you say ‘inheritance’?”
“Yes, miss. Specifically the Molinari house and lands, and the yearly allowance left to you by your cousin.”
“A-allowance…?”
The lawyer paused, studying her expression. “I take it you were not expecting this upon Lord Molinari’s death?” he asked.
Unable to quite stomach the fullness of this realization, Charlotte merely shook her head. Mister Wharton smiled gently and offered his hand, guiding Charlotte to a seat by the fire, as if he could detect the fact that she was quite close to fainting. “Well then… allow me to explain further. May I get you some tea?”
Two hours later, a still numb Charlotte had realized that the man who had been her exclusive client for two years had now left her a small estate in Basingstoke, an interest of 200 pounds per year off the shares of the late Lord Molinari’s business ventures in the Indies, and several other investments besides. She had managed, thus far, to retain her composure in a sort of numb shock, but when Mister Wharton added that Alexander had left her his box seats at the Royal London Opera, she finally dissolved into tears. Only a few hours ago she had struggled to face the prospect of a future without any more art or music or poetry, and here Alexander had provided for all of that and more, for the rest of her life. For his part, Mister Wharton weathered the fit of tears admirably, offering his handkerchief and sitting quietly with Charlotte until she could calm herself. She apologized profusely, but he excused her “grief,” as understandable, given the circumstances, and admirable besides, that she had been so fond of her cousin. “I can understand why he left you the property, with such a tender relationship.” Charlotte barely managed to swallow the laugh that threatened to burst from her at the unintended irony of that statement.
Within another hour, Mister Wharton had gotten her signature on all required documents and made arrangements for Lord Molinari’s funeral as well, since as he only surviving next of kin, Charlotte was the sole person who could sign off on the arrangements. As she rose to leave, she thanked Mister Wharton profusely. “It’s my pleasure, I assure you, Miss Gillett. I am happy to see that my old friend’s heir is every bit as deserving of his generosity as he believed. I will be in touch with the rest of the arrangements. May I walk you to your coach? On a day such as this, my wife would never forgive me if I allowed a lady to fall on the icy streets.”
Charlotte started. “I-- haven’t got a coach. That is… I thought I’d walk to the square rather than hold it.” Mr. Wharton looked aghast. “Faith, no, Miss Gillett, please! Allow me to accompany you to the inn across the way and hire one from them. You’re a rich woman now, Miss Gillett! You shouldn’t be walking in this weather.”
Bewildered, Charlotte assented, and soon she was being handed into a coach by a solicitous Mister Wharton, and trotted back home to the “wretched London hovel.” Hetty met her at the door, looking concerned, and Charlotte answered her anxious “What news?” with an exuberant hug.
***
A week later, the carriage driver that arrived at the inn in Windsor to pick her up where the cabby from London had left her seemed surprised to find that his new mistress had only a few belongings to her name, but he dutifully loaded up the chair, the two bags, and the clavichord before handing her into the carriage. “Are we meeting Mister Wharton at the estate?” she asked him nervously, and he answered with a terse “Yes, ma’am,” before closing the door to the carriage and mounting his post. Charlotte tried to doze for most of the trip, but she found herself anxious, afraid that she would wake and find all of this to be a dream, and instead of an estate and opera tickets before her, only a rutting man with the scent of liquor on his breath. Eventually, though, she must have dozed, because the carriage door opening awoke her, and she hastily sat up, blushing, as the carriage driver offered to hand her down. She thanked him, then turned as a woman’s voice said her name. A young woman, only a few years older than Charlotte herself, stood at the edge of the drive, wearing the uniform of a house maid. “Miss Gillett?” she repeated. “Yes… I am Miss Gillett,” Charlotte replied, self-conscious. The maid smiled. “I’m Lavinia, your new housekeeper. Mister Wharton told me you’d be coming when he hired me. Welcome to Campbell Greene.”
For the first time, Charlotte became aware of the immensity of the manor house behind the girl. It was easily three times the size of the London boardinghouse, with four chimneys, countless windows, and rolling hills that stretched away behind it to the edge of the woods a mile away. Charlotte forgot herself and stood, agape. “Mister Finch has yer bags, miss, if you’d like to follow me? I’ll show you the house.” Shaking herself, Charlotte simply nodded and followed Lavinia, dutifully.
The tour was long, appropriately for the immensity for the house, and the more rooms Lavinia showed her, the more Charlotte felt she could envision Alexander living here in these halls, playing his harpsichord in the parlor, painting in the sun room. The entire house had the feel of his taste and moods: stately and artistic but not overly fancy. He was a confirmed old bachelor, and he had not thought it proper to waste money on finery that was of no use to him.
“And here’s the library, miss,” Lavinia said, opening a set of oak double doors for Charlotte to pass into the room. As Charlotte entered the room, her attention was captured by her likeness, wrapped in a scarlet silk shawl, holding a sheet of music, gazing at her from over the mantle. “Oh! Look, I knew I recognized yer face, miss! I’m told Mr. Molinari painted that himself. Never told anyone who it was though. Just a portrait of a friend.”
Tears sprung to Charlotte’s eyes once more as the enormity of this final gift settled upon her. This final gesture, Alexander’s portrait of her, had legitimized her claim to this house and all the fortune it entailed. This was all hers now. And as he had insisted, she was no longer a common whore. Now she finally was the woman in the portrait, the woman he had seen when he looked at her. He had always been true to his word.