“I must admit I was glad not to go, Catherine,” she said. “I was afraid—afraid of what we might find and what we might not. I suppose I still am. You must be very disappointed in me. I know I am in myself.”

“Of course I am not, dear Charlotte.” Lady Hartley was gentle, and Charlotte was put in mind of the murmured kisses her mother used to place on her forehead when she was a very small child; she had to force herself not to rest her head on Catherine’s shoulder. “You are quite a remarkable young lady. I have never met another such as you. I do believe if I had known you in my younger years, I would have benefited from your great influence. And as for fear . . . well, I myself am no stranger to it. My life has been full of terror.”

“It must have been terribly hard to lose your father so young.”

“Harder to live with him,” Lady Hartley said. “He was an unkind man, Charlotte. But the terror I speak of is one far greater. I had a lover before I married Leonard, you know.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said, feeling suddenly very much out of her depth.

“We met when we were barely more than children, and really so far apart in society that I shouldn’t have noticed him, but I could not help it. He was so dear to me, so fierce and protective. He’d fight any who hurt me, and I had never known a love like it. I was very young, scarcely fourteen when I took him to bed. We had a few perfect months together, hiding our passion from those who could harm us and then . . . those who could harm us were gone, and it was my turn to be cruel. I cast him out. He was too lowly, too rough ever to be a husband, and as much as I loved him, I wanted the life that I had earned by enduring such cruelty. So I cut him out of my life, Charlotte, but not out of my heart. He lives there every day, and each day I am in terror that he never thinks of me, never cares for me, never imagines what my life has been without him. Can you imagine the constant fear of wondering if the only man you have ever loved considers you at all? Sometimes, I am driven to distraction with the need for just one sign from him that I am not forgotten.”

“Indeed, I can understand that particular madness exactly,” Charlotte said, thinking of Constantin. “But your life with Lord Hartley is such a fine one, and a good one with purpose. That must be of some comfort.”