The Stowaway

Charlotte's Engagement Party

If there was one positive remark I could make of my family's estate, it is that it was certainly beautiful. From the road, the house appeared handsome and stately, set way back on the lawn just beyond a lush garden and winding cobblestone path, and around the property wrapped an ornate wrought iron fence with a hedge on the interior. When Spring rolled through the grounds, it was like watching an artist working paint onto a canvas. One by one, the English roses would bloom sweet and pink, delphiniums would peel open blossoms in gradated shades from white to deep purple, and the narcissus and chrysanthemum would burst forth in bright, buttery hues, all in celebration of the coming of the sun. Their sweet aroma wafting through my open window would tempt me from my studies, bidding me to collapse in the flowering fields. On the good days, it was like a dream, ethereal and light. 

But all the beauty of the Spring was muted by Winter's resplendence. When the flowers were hushed back under the icy earth and the air was brisk and clear, the snow would drift down and settle onto puffing chimneys and slanted rooftops, its gentle dance lulling the world back to sleep by afternoon. The pristine snow, glittering icicles, silver birch all skinny and sleeping--in Winter, I almost loved this prison. 

The night I escaped was neither Spring nor Winter, but the temperamental month of June, when a beautiful and bright morning could tremble into tears by late afternoon without warning, and the air sat heavy and fat over the grounds. They were languorous days full of humming cicadas and daydreams, full of the feeling of waiting for something to happen, like standing on the brink of childhood, looking down into an unfamiliar and never-ending sea. 

All my life up until that point had been carefully drawn out for me, every detail meticulously planned from the time I rose until the time I slept. My mother chose my clothes, my breakfast, my lunch, my tea, my bedclothes. And the schedule was always the same, except for Sunday and holidays due to Mass. I woke with the sun, dressed, practiced piano until breakfast, studied French and literature until tea at noon, then history and etiquette until two, at which time I was free until supper at seven. 

Usually, I would assist the gardener or escape down to the harbor where my best friend, James lived with his six siblings and ailing mother. But sometimes, I would instead use the opportunity to recline alone under the shade of a draping willow by the creek running through our property. Under the vines, I would close my eyes and try to imagine what the future could hold. Would it be full of stuffy masquerades and noblemen like Mother wanted for me? Of manors and heaps of money? Or would it be full of travel and adventure, like I wanted for myself? Endless horizons and colors that couldn't be found in Cornwall, or any other part of England? 

The only thing I knew of my future for certain was that James would be part of it, for he had been there for all of my past. We met when we were six years old, me, knobbly-kneed and itchy in a ruffled gown, and him, soot-nosed and flaxen haired with a toothy grin. He snuck up on me, shouted "tag!" and streaked down the street; that was all it took. I snatched my hand from Mother's grip and took off after him, gown and all, while Mother yelled the first of years of ignored commands. After that, the dress never came clean and Mother never liked James, though she wouldn't have anyway due to his station. 

Despite Mother's forbiddance otherwise, James and I saw each other almost every day after. If I wasn't sneaking out to meet him in a nearby field, he was interrupting my lessons with a well-aimed rock through the window, causing me to dart through the manor as my tutors chased me. I would almost always get away, though I couldn't escape the lashing awaiting me whenever I returned home. It didn't bother me, the whippings; they were worth the hours of fun James and I had together. 

That was why I decided years ago that should I be coerced into marrying at some point, it may as well be to James. I told him as much when we were ten, and we "got married" there under a grand oak tree, sharing our first kiss, shy and quick. We were just children playing, of course, but I'd meant what I said. Marrying him would be better than some stuffy old coot that my parents would likely choose. It also helped that somewhere along the way, that gangly, grinning kid transformed into a broad-shouldered, callous-handed, handsome man. Not to mention, he was fiercely devoted to his family and making a better life for them all. As soon as he could, he took odd jobs downtown to feed his siblings and send them to school. While I learned to conjugate the verb être, he heaved sacks of flour over his shoulders. While I played Allegro on piano, he rolled barrels of fermenting beer from the harbor to the tavern. As I slept, he read any book he could get his hands on: Don Quixote, Macbeth, Paradise Lost, Dr. Faustus, and more--some of which from my family's library. He even persevered through 95 Theses while his very Catholic mother tutted at him all the while. He said that if a man had the opportunity to read and did otherwise, then his ignorance was his own fault. 

As for whether I loved James, I couldn't be sure. I loved him as a friend, certainly, but I had no reference point to compare my feelings to romantic love. My parents certainly weren't models of such, refusing to even make eye contact over supper. And neither were any of my mother's friends and their husbands. In fact, I wasn't quite certain that romance was real, but I knew that I would be happy with James. We would have a good life. 

Then one day, after I completed my literature lessons, I came into the parlor for noon tea time and was instead met with a sizable white cake, surrounded by all of Mother's friends and their daughters. I tried to rack my brain to remember whose birthday it was, but I couldn't recall. I looked from woman to woman, reciting their birthdays and anniversaries in my mind, and none seemed to match the day. I must have looked fairly dumbfounded, because my Mother cleared her throat and said, "Charlotte? Have a seat, dear." 

I did as she said, taking the empty chair next to Mrs. Reed, Mother's oldest friend. 

"Good afternoon, ladies," I said, smiling hesitantly. "What is the cause for such celebration on this day?" 

The women all laughed. 

"Your sense of humor is as acute as ever, Charlotte," said Mrs. Reed, grinning and patting my thigh. I pursed my lips and furrowed my brow. 

"Ladies," Mother said, "Charlotte doesn't know of the news yet. I was saving it for our little party, you see. I thought it would be lovely and unique for you to all witness her surprise and joy when I tell her." 

My eyes widened as thoughts raced through my mind. Was Mother pregnant? She did look like she was glowing. But she was too old to get pregnant, wasn't she? Though maybe signs I'd attributed to the change were early signs of her condition. Oh, please don't let her be pregnant, I thought. I had barely survived her; she needn't inflict herself on another innocent soul. Maybe I could take the baby and go start a life somewhere. I could say we were orphaned, or maybe James' mother could take in the child and I could work to pay for its upbringing. 

I was picturing ways I could sneak the baby from the property without being caught when Mother's voice interrupted my thoughts. 

"Charlotte...A man has asked for your hand, and your father and I have decided to accept." 

My teacup slipped from my hands and shattered on the floor. Several of the women yelped as the brown liquid splashed onto their dresses, and a maid who had been waiting by the door drew a sharp breath and rushed in to wipe up the spill, picking up the rosy china fragments as she went. 

I sat slack-jawed, staring at Mother as if she had grown a second head and it spoke Gaelic. She made a remark about me catching flies, but I hardly heard her. I was trying to piece together how James had won her and Father over. Mother hated him, after all; she had for the last twelve years. Father never commented, but I knew he didn't approve either. How did James change their minds? 

"Are you happy, Charlotte?" one of the daughters, Amelia, asked. I gaped at her for a moment before nodding. 

"Yes...yes, I am. I suppose I knew this day would come eventually, but I am rather surprised it happened so soon." 

"Why, of course you are, dear!" Mrs. Reed said, patting my thigh again. "It's only natural!" 

"But how did he convince you, Mother? I thought you hated him!" I blurted. Mother gazed at me, confusion on her face. 

"Hate him? Of course not! How could I hate my future son-in-law?" she said. 

I couldn't have been more surprised if she had announced that she was pregnant with quintuplets and moving to Peru. 

"Of course you did," I maintained. "Just last month you said he would never amount to anything. What did he do to convince you?" 

"I never would have said such a thing about Admiral Moore." 

I squinted at her. "James' last name is Howell, not Moore!" Then she looked at me, and the expression on her face told me the truth. 

"I'm not marrying James?" I said thickly. 

It was as if every muscle in my body had suddenly gone stiff, as if the air had been sucked from the room. Mother's guests, to their credit, appeared visibly uncomfortable. None looked directly at either of us; some stared into their tea as if trying to read their fortune among the leaves. The rest gazed out the window or grew suddenly fascinated by the gauzy curtain's gentle wave. 

Finally, Mother found her words. "No...No, Charlotte. Why would you ever believe you were marrying James?"