A cherubic girl, one who was as silent as the small hours of the night. She nodded, shook her head, and pointed, if necessary. Cook insisted that one time, in answer to the question How many pieces of apple fritter do you want, Miss Charlotte?, the girl had given a beautifully enunciated Twelve. But no one else had ever heard her say so much as Mamma.
One time Livia had overheard Lady Holmes weep about her family being cursed. Not only can I not have sons, but half my daughters are imbeciles! Livia had come away feeling both relieved that she herself wasn’t an imbecile and heartbroken that Charlotte, whom she found darling and hilarious—she never failed to smile at the sight of Charlotte attacking her food—might someday become as unreachable as Bernadine.
But now Charlotte had spoken her first full sentences. Livia would have been indignant had anyone else corrected her so unceremoniously, but Charlotte had spoken and Livia had—no, not butterflies, but a whole stampeding herd of wildebeest in her stomach. With everyone else still dumbstruck, she shook Charlotte’s mitten-clad hand, which she held in her own, and asked, “Do you mean a proposal of marriage, Charlotte?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Livia,” Lady Holmes scoffed. “She doesn’t know what that is.”
“Yes, a proposal of marriage, Mamma,” Charlotte answered. “I know what that is. It is when a gentleman asks a lady to become his wife.”
Again, stunned silence all around.
Sir Henry got down on one knee, a feverish gleam in his eyes. “Charlotte, my dear, why do you say these images constitute a proposal of marriage?”
Charlotte cast a critical eye at the picture, her expression amusingly grown-up. “It isn’t a very good one, is it?”
“Maybe not, poppet. But why do you say it’s a proposal in the first place?”
“Because it says Will you marry me. Actually, it says Well you marry me.”
“I can see a well. And I can see that the horseshoe opens up and looks like a U. And the Virgin’s name is Mary,” said Sir Henry. “But how is the cat ‘me’?”
“Exactly,” Henrietta joined in. “That makes no sense.”
Livia would have liked to shove a snowball deep down the front of Henrietta’s frock. But Charlotte didn’t seem to mind. “The cat is in the middle of a meow. But since there’s only half a cat, it’s half a meow. And half a meow is ‘me.’”
Henrietta pouted. “How do you know half a meow isn’t ‘ow’ inst—?”
“Henrietta, shut up.” Sir Henry placed his hands on Charlotte’s pink cheeks. “That is remarkable, poppet. Absolutely remarkable.”
“Are you sure?” said Lady Holmes. “She might be making things up and—”
“Lady Holmes, kindly shut up, too.”
“Well!” Lady Holmes sputtered. But she wasn’t as easily silenced as Henrietta. “But you must tell Charlotte that since she is able to speak, she may no longer be so rudely silent.”
Sir Henry sighed. “Do you hear your mother, poppet?”
“But Papa, why should I talk when I’ve nothing important to say?”
Sir Henry barked with laughter. “Why, indeed. You’re wise beyond your years, my dear poppet. And you have my blessing to be as silent as you’d like.”
This was said with a glance at Lady Holmes, the corners of whose lips turned down decidedly. With an exaggerated half bow, Sir Henry offered his wife his arm; she flattened her lips further but took it. Henrietta grabbed his other arm. Livia and Charlotte resumed walking hand in hand.
The next day was Sunday. After the sermon, the vicar announced from the pulpit that Miss Tomlinson had made him a very happy man by consenting to be his wife. Soon news was all over the village that those odd pictures on the noticeboard had been the vicar’s way of proposing, as he and Miss Tomlinson were both fond of puzzles and rebuses.
Sir Henry pranced around the house, looking delighted and smug. Livia was happy for Charlotte, a little jealous that she wasn’t the one to decipher the message, and strangely despondent. It would take her a long time to understand that the asphyxiated feeling in her chest had nothing to do with Charlotte but everything to do with their parents.
Sir Henry disdained his wife as Lady Holmes disdained her daughters. They weren’t happy together but Lady Holmes was the far unhappier one.
It had been frightful for Livia to understand this. Her mother had seemed immensely powerful, an Olympian figure striding about her fine country house, emanating command and superiority. But she was impotent before her husband’s contempt.