Charlotte House Affair 01 - My Particular Friend

looked back from the coach as we left Deerfield Park and saw the house lit brightly by the winter sun. We heard the crack of firearms as the men again attempted to do the pheasant population no good.
    ‘I’m looking forward to going home,’ I said.
    ‘You did not enjoy your stay?’ Mrs Fitzhugh asked.
    ‘It seemed a complicated business and overlong to my taste,’ I said. ‘I prefer the simplicity of the city to the subterfuges of a country house.’
    ‘Well said, Jane,’ Charlotte said.
    ‘In fact, I think I am quite through with Mr Worcester.’
    ‘Oh, no, there I think you are wrong. I do not think
we
are done with Mr Worcester. But for now, I must agree with you; it will be good to be home.’

    * Editor’s note: A ‘rotten borough’ was a parliamentary constituency that maintained its two representatives to the House of Commons despite its population having fallen precipitately, sometimes in contrast with a considerably larger nearby city. Old Sarum near Salisbury, with its three houses and seven voters, is the classic example of a rotten borough.
    A ‘pocket borough’ is a borough completely under the control of one person or interest. Pocket boroughs were so common that sometimes members of parliament were referred to as ‘Mr So-and-So elected on Lord This-and-That’s interest.’
    In this affair, Dunny-on-the-Wold went from being a rotten borough to a pocket borough, under the control of Sir Walter. The 1832 Reform Act abolished 56 rotten and 130 pocket boroughs and added 41 boroughs to more equally represent population and industrial centres.

The Bride Who Wasn’t There
    T ake a look at this man, Charlotte,’ I said as I looked out the window of our drawing-room. It was a particularly cold rainy day and I had hopes it might turn to snow if only to relieve the monotony of a week of rain. I had noticed not for the first time a man, bowed down by the wet and cold, walking in front of our home with an indecisive step. At times he seemed on the verge of approaching our door but then would stop, seize his hat upon his head and retreat down the street, only to return a minute later and repeat his actions. ‘I think this man is suffering from a great burden.’
    Charlotte stopped her incessant tinkering with her Bach fugue, which I admit was partly the reason I called her to the window. As I had learned, Charlotte was not only a gifted musician but also a determined one. Since our return from Deerfield Park, she had applied herself to recreating a missing page of her incomplete score. Mrs Fitzhugh and I initially approved of this, for it meant a relief from Charlotte’s usual complaints of boredom, but after a week of hearing the same notes played over and over, each iteration only slightly different from the previous, I now welcomed any break in her routine.
    ‘What man, Jane?’ She joined my side just as the man had moved out of view.
    ‘He has turned away again but he should return shortly.’
    To her credit Charlotte remained at my side to wait, softly whistling the same notes she had played on the pianoforte. Then the man returned and again made toward our door, but turned around and walked away. This time, however, he stopped after a few steps, his back to us, his head down, drenched to the bone, the very picture of despair.
    Charlotte stopped her whistling and went into the hallway and called for Mary, Robert being out on errands. She did not wait for Mary, however, but immediately went to our front door, opened it and called out to the man. Peering out through the window, I could see Charlotte step outside despite the rain and walk toward the man. I left to join my friend and found Mary walking down from the floor above to see what was the matter.
    ‘Mary, there’s a gentleman outside who looks as if he’s had a shock and he’s quite wet. I think Miss House will bring him in. If you would please fetch some towels and then ask Mrs Hutton to provide something warm?’
    Mary ran to do as I asked and I went to join Charlotte, stopping to grab an umbrella before stepping outside.
    I found Charlotte pleading with the man.
    ‘Please, sir, won’t you come inside.’
    ‘She’s gone!’ he cried. ‘I don’t know how it happened. She stepped in but she didn’t come out!’
    ‘You may tell us all about it inside. I am Miss House, and this is Miss Woodsen,’ she said, as she noticed me trying to shield us from the rain. ‘We may be able to help.’
    ‘You are really Miss