The house was too quiet. For all its faults and creaks, the Ashford residence usually hummed with a low, persistent sense of activity, the occasional distant sound of maid bustling or the muffled rhythm of carriage wheels on cobblestones outside. Now, it was as if the very walls held their breath, waiting. The servants were all down stairs respecting the house in mourning and no doubt gossiping.
Amelia hesitated outside Charlotte's room, her hand poised over the door handle. Her sister was a light sleeper, easily startled by the slightest sound, and yet Amelia had stood here for nearly five minutes, undecided. What words could she possibly use to break a heart again? They already lost one parent and Amelia wasn't fit to become the only family left. What tone of voice could soften the jagged truth of their father's death or the harsh realities of how his death happened? None.
Taking a deep grounding breath, Amelia pushed open the door to Charlotte's room. Her room always smelled faintly of lavender from the garden outside, it was a comforting scent even through the growing storm raging in Amelia. Charlotte was sitting up in bed, the frayed curtains pulled back to allow in the sun. She looked up, her pale blue eyes wide with concern.
"Amelia?" Charlotte's voice, though groggy, carried its usual sweetness. "Is something wrong? I heard voices downstairs and you've that look… the one you get when you're hiding something from me."
Amelia smiled, though it felt as fragile as glass. "Good morning, darling. I… I'm afraid there is something I must tell you."
Charlotte tilted her head, her golden curls spilling over her shoulder like a cascade of honey. "What is it? Is it Papa…" She trailed off, her eyes searching Amelia's face for answers.
Amelia hesitated, then walked across the room and perched on the edge of the bed, taking her sister's hand in hers. They were already cold. "Papa has passed away, Charlotte. There was an incident last night, and he… he did not survive it." Amelia fought the urge to tell her everything, to have Charlotte shoulder some of the truth. To not be an island of responsibility.
For a moment, Charlotte said nothing, her face frozen in a mask of disbelief. Then her lower lip trembled, and a tear slipped down her cheek, Amelia released a breath. "Oh, Amelia," she whispered, her voice cracking. "What… what will we do?"
Amelia gathered her sister into her arms, holding her tightly as Charlotte began to sob. "We will manage, Charlotte. We always do. You have me, and I have you. That is all that matters." Amelia had yet to shed one tear for the man they both called papa. There weren't any tears left.
They stayed like that for several moments, the quiet distrubed only by the occasional sniffle. Finally, Charlotte pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "What happens now? With the house, and everything? Are we in trouble?"
"No," Amelia said quickly, though the words tasted like a lie. "We will manage, as we always do. For now, we must prepare to observe mourning."
Charlotte's brow furrowed. "But our clothes… we don't have…"
"I know," Amelia interrupted gently. "We shall make do with what we have, we rarely go to balls so gowns aren't a problem. Wear the darkest clothes have and black ribbons can be sewn onto your gowns. I'll find a way to alter mine. We won't waste money on new mourning dresses. Papa would not have wanted that." That was a bold lie considering their father believed that the world orbited him and him alone. This small act of rebellion, though he would not be around to see it, felt like a hollow victory.
Charlotte nodded, though her face betrayed her doubt. "I could help with the sewing," she offered timidly. "Or… or anything else. Amelia, you mustn't take it all upon yourself."
Amelia reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her sister's ear. "You're sweet to offer, but I want you to focus on resting. You've been unwell lately, and the last thing I need is you making yourself sick over this."
"But I can do something," Charlotte insisted, her voice stronger now. "I hate feeling useless, Amelia. Please let me help."
Amelia's heart ached for the sincerity in her sister's plea and for the desire to share the burden, but she shook her head. "The best way you can help is by taking care of yourself. But I've been thinking… Perhaps you should visit Aunt Margaret. A change of scenery would do you some good."
Charlotte's eyes widened. "Aunt Margaret? But she's in Bath. That's so far."
"Not so far as you think," Amelia replied. "And it would give you some time to heal. Aunt Margaret has always been kind to us. Besides, I believe she would welcome your company."
Charlotte hesitated, then nodded. "You always know what is best, I trust you. But you'll tell me, won't you? If things get worse? I… I don't want to feel helpless."
Amelia forced a smile. "I promise. Now, let me fetch you some tea. You'll feel better once you've had something warm."
Charlotte lay back against the pillows. Amelia lingered for a moment, smoothing the worn pink blanket over her sister before stepping out of the room. This blanket was the last useable article from their mother. Once the door clicked shut, she leaned against it, closing her eyes. Lying came more and more naturally these days. Amelia wondered if she wasn't so different from her father. After all, the way to Hell was paved with good intentions.
"We will manage," she whispered to herself, willing the words to be true. For Charlotte's sake, they had to be.