Chapter Text
Lady Charlotte Willingden was not a beauty by any of society’s standards. Fashion favored blonde-haired, willowy-built, blue-eyed women with a gentle, polite and obedient personality. She was neither. Tolerably petite but too curvy. Her head was attacked by chocolate-brown unruly curles with eyes to match. Despite her efforts, she could not hide that she was too opinionated, too outspoken and just plain too much of anything she ought to have been too little of. On top of that she had been shelved with her three-and-twenty years. Five seasons and no offer of marriage to show for it.
The cursor blinked, as had it for weeks if not months. There had been a time where it looked like a little eager puppy wagging its tail. Now, it was a finger tapping impatiently. You have a deadline. You have a deadline. You have a deadline. Charlotte sighed. As if she didn’t painfully know.
Another ball. Another disappointment. Charlotte stood by the potted trees nursing a cordial, hoping that no one noticed her existence. She needn’t bother. She was, save for the fat daughter of Mr. Hankins, the only one with a dance card so empty the blank piece of paper practically yelled it. Her eyes scanned the room. Maybe tonight there would be a gentleman whom had not witnessed her being overlooked season after season. A man blissfully ignorant of her lack of favorable traits.
The Willingden estate was not entailed, she didn’t need to marry for money or anything. The thought of going through life alone had become a frequent friend. Especially at night when she couldn’t sleep. But Charlotte wanted a partner in life. A best friend. Someone to hold those lonely nights.
Charlotte buried her face in her hands. Should she change the name now? Her heroine was always named after her when she wrote, and they always resembled her with a burning intellect and a unremarkable prettiness. It was her method. She had to live her story, then give it to someone else. Maybe a Catherine, or an Annabelle, or... oh, what did it matter, she was blocked no matter the name of her awkward main character. She needed a hero to her story. A man of flesh and blood she could use as inspiration. This was what had worked in her first three regency romance novels, earning her the title of bestselling romance novel author two years in a row. And a truckload of expectations from her publisher.
Maybe wine? She looked at her wristwatch. 2.14 pm. Perfect time for a glass of rosé. Red was for later; she was an educated woman after all. She laughed bitterly. If a stray cat passed by, she would have to pack up and leave before she ended up like a crazy cat woman living by herself in the woods without a house in sight and the nearest town one hour’s drive away.
Sighing again, she decided that a run would be better than wine. Frustrated she hit CTRL+S on the keyboard, as if it would be a disaster if she lost the 160+ words. Shaking her head at herself, she went to change.
It had rained for the first week she’d been there. Not just rained. Poured. She had written a full page of poetic rain descriptions.
It poured. The sky opened and heavy drops soaked her in a few seconds. Like a watercolor painting of pale silk-grey darkening to a thunder-grey, the lines between sky and sea were blended to a blur. Bla bla bla. Etc.
She had couped up in front of the fire with her laptop, a warm blanket and hot chocolate topped with an embarrassing amount of tiny marshmallows. Of all the outerwear she had thought to bring, Wellingtons had completely skipped her mind. Three pairs of sneakers and her favorite Chelsea boots had never fully recovered the Northumberland downpour.
With dry weather, finally, the exercise would do her good. Changed and ready to go, she took off in a brisk pace. The sun grazed her decision with its rays flickering idyllically through the treetops. The dirt path was slippery some places but it only added to the adventure, and at least she had come prepared with running shoes for all kinds of weather and surfaces.
Her family joked that she had no sense of direction and as much as it annoyed her, she had to admit to the truth in it. It wasn’t that she couldn’t if need be but her mind was always busier plotting a story than paying attention to her surroundings – which is why she chose a track circling a landmark close to her cottage; the tallest tree she had ever seen. She would have to find out which kind it was. She called it Ben, after Big Ben. Not very original, matching the story of the story she was not able to write. As long as she could see Ben, she would be able to find her way back.
The run felt good. Her leg muscles burned pleasantly and her Garmin watch showed she was closing in on 7 miles. That would have to do for the day. She lowered her pace to cool down and pulled her AirPods out to enjoy the silence of the wood. Big mistake. It was not silent at all. The trees swaying in the wind creaked eerily. Birds took off in sudden terrifying basking jolts. She felt she was being watched and started to scan the terrain nervously. “Get a grip, Charlotte”, she hissed at herself. Her outing had gone from Austen to Hitchcock in a matter of frantic heartbeats.
Beech Cottage was within sight now and she picked up pace and pulled out the key from her pocket. Ready to either unlock the door or stab the eye out of a serial killer preying on lone female writers living in woods, whatever came first.
She tried to rein her imagination as she approached the front door and would almost have succeeded, had it not been for a foreign object standing on the storm porch. A fresh stack of firewood. She could have convinced herself she had missed it, that it had been there all along... but she had stretched right there before her run. Cold shivers ran down her spine as she carefully walked closer. Her car keys were inside, otherwise she would have jumped straight into her car and left. With her heart galloping in her chest, she did a full panicked scan of the tree line. No one seemed to be there.
Easy, Charlotte. Firewood is not exactly the scary omen of a serial killer. There’s probably a groundskeeper of sorts here. Yes, that’s it. He was here while you were out running. Feeling better, she locked herself inside and locked both locks carefully before finding the largest kitchen knife to do a full inspection of the cottage. No one was there. Of course not.
Calming down, she stripped her running clothes and stepped into the shower. When she was clean and dry, she could laugh at her silliness.
Next day, Charlotte drove the long way to town to shop for groceries. It was quite a drive on small roads and she decided to stack pantry and fridge generously. While walking up and down the aisles she couldn’t help but survey the male clientele. At this point she was desperate for inspiration. Closest thing was a man in his late 40s. Averagely handsome and, judging by his cart, also extremely boring and predictable. He caught her looking at him and tried to smile flirtingly. God, he’s worse than me. Charlotte walked away.
Back at the cottage she scanned the tree line again before getting out of the car. Nothing. As she lifted the heavy bags out of the trunk, she noticed the garbage can had been moved. She opened the lid; it had been emptied. “Definitely a groundskeeper then,” she said out loud, relieved to have solved the mystery.
Later that evening she thought she heard music. She opened the front door. Perhaps she had left the car radio on. Normally, it switched off with the car engine but... No, nothing. You are getting crazy being this alone.
Determined to bulldoze the writer’s block away, she sat down again with a glass of wine and decided to go methodically to work. Her three heroes had been inspired by her last three lovers. A best-selling author like her should be able to create a new interesting character out of those.
She started a new document.
Sir Stringer was based on James. Soft light-brown wavy hair, soft brown eyes. Easy to talk to. A tender, considerate lover. The most wonderful, romantic and handsome man a woman could want in her life. Convenient, predictable and boring. She’d stayed with him for too long and he had been heartbroken when she had finally ended it.
Like a flip of a coin, she went from boring to bondage. Edward was everything that James wasn’t. He was a kinky adventure in bed, pushing her limits and he’d given her orgasms she had only read of. They were together for five months. If one could call it being together. Edward was quite open about that they were not exclusive and that it would end at some point. He broke it off. For her sake. They were about to cross a line he knew she would regret. Hot wetness surged between her thighs thinking of the things he’d done to her. But she wrote romance novels, not the next 50 Shades of Grey. The roguish blond hero with sinful eyes in her second novel, the dangerous Duke of Denham, was based on him. It was also the book where her fame took off. No doubt because the male character was so interesting, even though she’d had to vanilla him down a few notches.
Had they only fallen in love, Francis would have been the perfect combination of the two. But neither of them did. They did however have a splendid time together, going clubbing and having amazing sex. It wasn’t for lack of trying. The two of them were so well-matched it seemed like a crying shame to end it. It did end, they broke it off after an attempt of a romantic getaway together. The break-off sex had been outstanding. Francis was not as handsome as James and Edward, but he was funny, attentive and with just the right amount of devilish rebellion in him to never ever be boring. She loved the idea of him and he had made the best reformed rake falling in love as Lord Crowe in her third book. It would have been tempting to give him a booty call, but he had met the amazing Clara a few months ago and fallen hard for her. Besides, he was her best friend now.
Maybe if she combined the three? Merged them into one. For the next few hours, she gave it her best. It didn’t work. The result was worse than Frankenstein’s monster. Frustrated, she closed her laptop and went to bed.
The days drifted by in their own pace. She got up early in the morning and went to bed in the middle of the night. In between she tried and failed to write.
Sometimes when she returned from a run or walk, there would be a small change or a delivery of firewood or fresh linen at her door from the mystery groundskeeper. After she had gotten used to the idea of another person being around when she wasn’t around, she took comfort in knowing someone was looking out for her.
That was until she went out for a run one morning and returned to find an object that was definitely not from a groundskeeper. A pair of Wellingtons and a card. After a quick 360-degree scan, she picked it up.
Rain’s coming back, you need better foot ware. I guessed your size.