The Lady Next Door

An unexpected arrival, a forbidden romance, and a young woman who discovers that obedience is not the same as happiness.

London, 1887.

"Stand up straight, Charlotte! Honestly, must I correct everything you do?"

Charlotte Whitmore straightened her back.

Her stepmother inspected her with the same expression she usually reserved for poorly polished silver.

"That dress is entirely unsuitable."

"But it's the one you selected for me, Lady Beatrice."

"Don't contradict me, child."

Charlotte lowered her eyes.

At twenty-four, she was hardly a child. But inside the Whitmore townhouse, her age seemed to matter very little.

Her father had remarried six years earlier, bringing the formidable Lady Beatrice into their home. Within months, Charlotte's familiar world had disappeared.

Her closest friends were no longer considered suitable company. Her letters were inspected. Her gowns were chosen for her. Even the books she read were subject to her stepmother's approval.

Her father, a wealthy merchant who spent much of his time traveling, preferred not to interfere.

"Beatrice only wants what's best for you," he would say.

Charlotte had learned that what was best for her invariably meant what was most convenient for Beatrice.

And now there was Lord Pembroke.

Fifty-three years old, wealthy, widowed, and apparently searching for a young wife who would produce an heir without troubling him with unnecessary opinions.

"You will be especially pleasant to Lord Pembroke at tomorrow's garden party," Beatrice continued.

"Yes, Lady Beatrice."

"And for heaven's sake, stop looking so miserable."

Charlotte said nothing.

She had become rather good at that.

The following afternoon, Charlotte stood beside a rosebush, trying to avoid Lord Pembroke's increasingly unpleasant conversation.

"A wife should concern herself with the household," he declared. "I have little patience for modern women who insist upon independent opinions."

Charlotte managed a polite smile.

"Of course, my lord."

"I shall expect my wife to be obedient. Your stepmother assures me you've been properly raised."

Across the garden, Lady Beatrice watched approvingly.

Then a woman's voice interrupted.

"Lord Pembroke! How delightful. Still explaining the world to people who haven't asked?"

Charlotte turned.

A striking brunette stood before them.

She was perhaps thirty-five, with dark, elegantly arranged hair, intelligent brown eyes, and a magnificent burgundy walking dress trimmed with black lace. A fashionable hat sat at a slightly daring angle above her forehead.

Lord Pembroke stiffened.

"Mrs. Ashford."

"How wonderful that you remember me."

The woman smiled sweetly.

"Although I suppose one does remember the people who refuse one's invitations."

Pembroke's face reddened.

Charlotte nearly laughed.

"Miss Whitmore," the woman continued, turning toward Charlotte, "I believe we haven't been introduced. Eleanor Ashford. I've recently taken the townhouse next door."

Charlotte curtsied.

"Charlotte Whitmore. How do you do?"

"Much better now, thank you."

Eleanor offered her a warm smile.

"And I must say, that gown suits you beautifully."

It was the first genuine compliment Charlotte had received all afternoon.

Lady Beatrice was not impressed.

"That Ashford woman is entirely too independent," she announced that evening. "A widow with her own fortune and no gentleman to supervise her affairs. I hear she spent two years in Paris."

Charlotte continued her embroidery.

"How interesting."

"Interesting? Scandalous, more likely. And I understand she has no intention of remarrying."

"Perhaps she is happy as she is."

Beatrice stared at her.

"What a ridiculous thing to say."

Charlotte lowered her needle.

But privately, she wondered what it might feel like to be Eleanor Ashford.

To choose one's own dresses.

To come and go as one pleased.

To laugh at Lord Pembroke without fear of consequences.

And perhaps most extraordinary of all, to live in a house where nobody shouted orders before breakfast.

Three days later, Charlotte received an invitation.

Mrs. Eleanor Ashford requested the pleasure of Miss Charlotte Whitmore's company for afternoon tea.

Lady Beatrice examined the card suspiciously.

"I suppose there can be no harm in one visit. She is our neighbor, after all. But you will return before four."

"Yes, Lady Beatrice."

"And wear the gray dress."

Charlotte wore the blue one.

It was a small rebellion, but her heart raced all the way next door.

Eleanor herself opened the drawing-room door.

"Charlotte! How lovely."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Ashford."

"Oh, please. Eleanor. I feel positively ancient when you call me Mrs. Ashford."

Charlotte smiled.

The room was unlike any she had ever visited.

Flowers stood everywhere. Books lay openly on tables. A piano occupied one corner, and sunlight poured through tall windows overlooking a private garden.

There was no oppressive silence.

No sense that someone might suddenly enter and find fault.

"Your home is beautiful," Charlotte said.

"Thank you. I rather like it myself."

"Did you arrange everything?"

"Every last dreadful detail."

"Without asking anyone?"

Eleanor laughed.

"My darling, whom would I ask?"

Charlotte blushed.

Eleanor noticed.

But she was kind enough not to mention it.

Tea became conversation.

Conversation became laughter.

And for the first time in years, Charlotte found herself speaking freely.

She told Eleanor about her childhood, her absent father, and the mother she barely remembered.

Eventually, she mentioned Lady Beatrice.

"She isn't always cruel," Charlotte said. "Sometimes she can be quite pleasant. Especially when Father is home."

Eleanor set down her cup.

"And when he isn't?"

Charlotte looked toward the window.

"She reminds me constantly how fortunate I am that Father provides for me. She says I have no talents, no accomplishments worth mentioning, and that without a husband I shall become a burden."

Eleanor's expression softened.

"That is a terrible thing to tell a young woman."

"Perhaps she's right."

"Charlotte."

Eleanor reached across the table.

"Look at me."

Charlotte raised her eyes.

"You are clever, charming, and very beautiful. I have known you for less than a week, and I can already see that."

Charlotte's eyes filled with tears.

"Nobody has ever spoken to me like that."

"Then you've been surrounded by entirely the wrong people."

Charlotte laughed through her tears.

Eleanor squeezed her hand.

"And Lord Pembroke?"

Charlotte looked miserable.

"Lady Beatrice says he intends to marry me."

"And what do you say?"

"Nobody has asked."

Eleanor's smile disappeared.

"Then allow me to be the first. Do you wish to marry him?"

"No."

The answer escaped before Charlotte could stop it.

Then, more firmly, she repeated it.

"No. I do not."

"Good."

Eleanor leaned back.

"That, my dear Charlotte, is an excellent beginning."

Charlotte returned the following afternoon.

And the afternoon after that.

At first, they drank tea and talked.

Then they walked in Eleanor's private garden, where nobody could observe them from the street.

Eleanor showed Charlotte her collection of French novels, played the piano for her, and taught her a few rather scandalous expressions she'd learned in Paris.

Charlotte laughed so hard she nearly fell off the sofa.

One rainy afternoon, they found themselves sitting together beside the drawing-room fire.

"Have you ever been in love?" Charlotte asked.

Eleanor considered the question.

"Yes."

"With your husband?"

"I was fond of my husband. He was a decent man, and we had a comfortable marriage."

"Then with whom?"

Eleanor looked at her for a long moment.

"A woman I knew in Paris."

Charlotte went very still.

"A woman?"

"Yes."

"But... can two women be in love?"

Eleanor smiled sadly.

"Charlotte, people have been falling in love with the wrong people, according to society, since the beginning of time."

"Was she beautiful?"

"Very."

"What happened?"

"She married a gentleman from Lyon."

"Oh."

"It broke my heart for a while."

Charlotte looked down at her hands.

"Did you kiss her?"

Eleanor smiled wistfully.

"Oh, yes. Many times."

Charlotte blushed.

"What was it like?"

"Wonderful. Especially when we were alone and didn't have to pretend we were merely friends."

"And do you miss kissing her?"

Eleanor studied Charlotte's face.

"No, darling. Not anymore."

Charlotte raised her eyes.

"Why not?"

Eleanor leaned a little closer.

"Because there's someone else I'd very much like to kiss."

Charlotte's heart began to race.

"Who?"

Eleanor smiled.

"I think you know."

Charlotte hesitated, then whispered:

"Then why haven't you?"

Eleanor gently touched her cheek.

"Because I was waiting for you to want me to."

"I've wanted you to for days."

Their first kiss was gentle, almost questioning.

Charlotte drew back, startled by the sudden warmth spreading through her chest.

"Oh!"

Eleanor smiled.

"Shall I apologize?"

Charlotte shook her head.

"Please don't."

And this time, Charlotte kissed her.

The clock struck three.

Neither woman noticed.

They remained beside the fire, sharing kisses and whispered confessions.

Charlotte had never imagined that affection could feel so natural.

Or that she could want another woman's arms around her quite so desperately.

Eventually, Eleanor stood and offered her hand.

"Would you like to see the rest of the house?"

Charlotte knew perfectly well what the invitation meant.

She took Eleanor's hand.

"Very much."

Upstairs, Eleanor's bedroom overlooked the garden.

Heavy velvet curtains framed tall windows, and a magnificent four-poster bed occupied the center of the room.

Charlotte stood beside it, suddenly nervous.

"Eleanor?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I've never done anything like this."

Eleanor brushed a loose curl from her face.

"Then we shall do nothing you don't wish to do."

Charlotte reached for her.

"I wish to kiss you again."

"That can certainly be arranged."

And when Eleanor finally drew the curtains, Charlotte discovered a happiness she had never thought possible.

For the next two hours, there were no commands, no cruel remarks, no expectations of obedience.

Only tenderness, laughter, and the quiet delight of two women discovering how wonderfully they suited one another.

At half past five, Charlotte sat on the edge of Eleanor's bed, fastening the buttons of her dress.

"Oh, heavens! Lady Beatrice will be furious."

Eleanor, wearing a silk dressing gown, watched her affectionately.

"Does she require a detailed account of your afternoons?"

"No, but she insists I return by four."

"How dreadfully inconvenient."

Charlotte smiled.

Then her smile faded.

"Eleanor, I wish I didn't have to go back."

Eleanor sat beside her.

"Then perhaps one day you won't."

Charlotte looked at her.

"You make everything sound so simple."

"It isn't simple, darling. But difficult things are not necessarily impossible."

Charlotte kissed her.

"Tomorrow?"

"Whenever you wish."

"And the day after?"

Eleanor laughed.

"Charlotte, if you intend to visit me every afternoon, I shall have to order considerably more tea."

Charlotte rested her forehead against Eleanor's.

"I don't think we'll be drinking very much of it."

The announcement came on Saturday.

Lady Beatrice summoned Charlotte to the drawing room, where Lord Pembroke sat beside her father.

"Charlotte," Beatrice declared, "we have wonderful news."

Charlotte felt a cold sensation in her stomach.

"Lord Pembroke has formally requested your hand in marriage. Your father and I have accepted."

Her father smiled.

"A splendid match, my dear. You'll be very comfortable."

Charlotte stared at them.

"When?"

"Six weeks from Thursday," Beatrice replied. "There is no reason for delay."

Charlotte's voice trembled.

"But I haven't agreed."

The room fell silent.

Lord Pembroke frowned.

"Young lady, your parents have arranged a most advantageous future for you."

Beatrice rose.

"You will not embarrass this family with childish objections."

Charlotte looked at her father.

"Father, please."

He shifted uncomfortably.

"Charlotte, Beatrice has given this considerable thought."

And that was when Charlotte understood.

Nobody intended to listen to her.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

Unless she did something about it.

On Monday morning, Lady Beatrice left for a charity committee meeting.

Charlotte watched her carriage disappear.

Then she went upstairs.

She opened her wardrobe and removed the blue dress.

She packed a small traveling case with her clothing, a few books, her mother's photograph, and the little money she'd saved from birthday gifts over the years.

At the dressing table, she removed the pearl necklace Lord Pembroke had sent her.

She left it beside a note.

I cannot marry a man I do not love. Please forgive me, Father, but this time I must choose my own future.

Her hands were shaking when she carried the suitcase downstairs.

She crossed the garden path separating the two townhouses.

Then she knocked.

Eleanor opened the door.

"Charlotte! Darling, whatever is the matter?"

Charlotte stood before her, breathless, clutching the suitcase.

"I've done something terribly improper."

Eleanor looked at the case.

Then at Charlotte.

"I see."

"I've refused Lord Pembroke."

"Excellent."

"And I've left my stepmother."

"Even better."

Charlotte swallowed.

"And I was wondering..."

"Yes?"

"Would your invitation to stay still stand?"

Eleanor's expression softened.

"My darling, I have been hoping you would ask."

Charlotte dropped the suitcase.

Eleanor caught her in her arms.

For a long moment, they simply held each other.

Then Charlotte whispered, "What will people say?"

Eleanor kissed her forehead.

"Something dreadful, no doubt."

"And what shall we tell them?"

Eleanor smiled.

"That you are my dear friend and companion. Two respectable ladies sharing a house. Hardly an unusual arrangement."

Charlotte began to laugh.

"And if they don't believe us?"

"Then they may concern themselves with their own miserable lives."

Charlotte kissed her.

This time, there was no clock to watch.

No stepmother waiting.

No unwanted gentleman to entertain.

And no reason to leave before four.

Eleanor closed the front door.

"Now," she said, taking Charlotte's hand, "shall we have some tea?"

Charlotte glanced toward the staircase.

Then back at Eleanor.

"Perhaps later, darling."

Eleanor laughed.

"Much later, I suspect."

And together they went upstairs.

THE END

NEW IN TOWN — A series of romantic stories about unexpected arrivals, forbidden affection, and women who discover that sometimes the person who changes your life is the one who moves in next door.