Charlotte looked at her numbly. She felt instinctively in the pit of her stomach that if she didn’t marry Alex, she would marry no man. But why bring that up with her mother? Her parents’ point of view was quite clear. And even if she refused Alex’s hand for a different reason than they would—she didn’t countenance this question of impotence overmuch—her mother had merely confirmed her sense that Alex’s inability to remember their encounter three years ago signaled an unhappy future. She did not want to end up like Sissy’s mother, huddled at home while her husband circled the ballroom with other women. Even the idea of seeing Alex smiling down at another woman, whether she was married to him or not, made her sick to her stomach.

“Mama,” she said, “I want you to promise that you will not discuss with papa what happened three years ago. I know that papa won’t accept Alex’s suit. But I insist that I tell Alex myself.”

Charlotte had no clear idea why she was so insistent about personally refusing Alex’s proposal. In the back of her mind she knew that if her father spoke to Alex, Alex might never speak to her again. Even the thought wrung her heart. How would she get through an evening knowing that his deep voice wouldn’t appear at her ear at some point? How would she be able to dance without the knowledge that, at some point, his large hands would grasp hers? If she were completely honest, in the week since the picnic at which he asked her to marry him she had lived for the moments when he approached her.

Charlotte went to bed feeling numb, cried out. She had promised her mother that she would inform Alex at the first opportunity that her parents would never accept his suit.

“I can’t just spit that out in public!” she had said dully, huddled on the couch in her studio.

“I know,” her mother had replied. “All we ask is that you end his courtship as soon as possible. We are only trying to guard your reputation and happiness, darling.”

That night, for the first time in a week, Charlotte did not go to sleep dreaming of velvety dark eyes and hands that tantalized and persuaded. She stared at the ceiling until glimmers of dawn crept through her new chenille curtains. Finally she turned over and fell dreamlessly into sleep.

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Charlotte didn’t wake up until almost two o’clock in the afternoon. Her maid tiptoed in and out several times, trying to decide whether to pull the curtains and wake up her mistress. But she looked so white lying against the linen sheets, her face distressed even in sleep, that Marie finally decided that her mistress must be getting ill and should be allowed to sleep as long as possible.