My mother always said that love would set me free. She’d sit at my bedside each night and spin tales of handsome princes who fell in love with cinder girls and of peasant boys who married princesses. Stories of true love in far-away kingdoms from somewhere across the seas, and she told me those places did exist, but only if I truly believed. And I did! Oh, how I did!
I believed with all my heart as I closed my eyes each night and laid my head on the satin pillow gifted by an elderly seamstress in the village below the abbey. Yet what I wanted could not be spun on any spindle or wished for by a magic lamp.
Those nights, before I met Edwin, I shut my eyes to dream of adventure—lifted through the air in woven baskets by violet balloons and trotting by camel in shifting sands—and to sleep beside the last glow of the velvety embers of a stone fireplace. Those dreams were not permissible for a lady. The fairy tales my mother shared were just that, and my tale did not come with a happy ending.
I dared not say to my mother, her Ladyship Coral Lafontaine, a termagant society woman, and my father, his Lordship Drewer Lafontaine, an esteemed and highly respected businessman who had acquired interest in an impressive estate bequeathed to a distant cousin by the name of Henry Woollcott, was not in my fairy tale itinerary.
I’d grown fond of Edwin instead, the shop boy at the center of the village, a handsome young man not much older than I with an earnest countenance and chocolaty locks that framed his sharp features. He was a modest and soft-spoken, though unrefined, young man who possessed a genuine chivalrous nature as great as any English gentleman. The idea of me betrothed to a mere shop boy would simply ruin the Lafontaine name, but to me, he would always be more than a shop boy, well deserving of the upperclass society. His Lordship, should he ever learn of our clandestine liaisons by the river’s edge, where we sipped on French champagne by candlelight, and our letters delivered in secret to my lady’s maid, he would do no less than disown me. Perhaps even ship me off to the Americas like some filcher. Yet I could not help myself. I was led by my heart, and my heart wanted Edwin.
Edwin was the forbidden taste of the first ripened autumn apple, red as his flushed cheeks after my hand first brushed his. I, like the apple, would not be ripe for long, and my parents, eager to marry me off, were fearful of my future spinster life. A spinster life was not one I wished for, though. I understood my mother wanted the best for me, as most mothers do: a life of respect, a life of honor, a life filled with riches and a reputable name, but a simple life with a simple boy would not suffice. My mother had always said love would set me free, but my love for Edwin has kept me in prison since I first met him six years ago. I would run if I could, but I could not bear to abandon my love as much as I could. I could not bear to abandon my family.
I was but to walk in dignity as a lady should and only allowed introductions in the proper company from a familiar lady friend or guardian, and speak no louder than the gentle hush of an airy whisper. Any opinions I should have would be determined by the man of my parents’s choosing, and I would live my life in subordination as a proper English housewife in a noble home. This was not the fairy tale my mother raised me to believe, and I doubt now that she believed it herself. An arranged marriage never made anyone in the Lafontaine house happy.
Sometimes I used to stand at my window and look across the dale, where the yew trees swayed and a lingering mist hugged the ground without a breath of night air to move it. When I breathed it in, I wondered if Edwin, somewhere among the houses below, lit by a candlelight on the sill, had breathed the same. Did he read my letters twice, just as I had mine? At night, I slept with them under my pillow and removed them to the lock box hidden at my desk against the wall.
News of my engagement to Henry Woolcott had spread through the town days before I even heard it. Only when I found a letter written in my father’s hand on his desk was I elucidated on the matter, and I accosted my mother in the western corridor, where she said in a stern voice, “You can now have all that you have wished for, dear. All stocks and matters of the estate will be divided among both families. You will marry Mr. Woolcott, and you will outrank us all. You wish to make your mother proud, don’t you?”
“But I do not love him, mother,” I replied.
“Love is merely a condition nourished over time,” Coral said. “I didn’t love your father until two years after we were married, and now I could not imagine a life without him.”
I was considered an adult at sixteen, and in our society, marriage was viewed as a matter of business, one that the Lafontaine’s were in desperate need of. With privilege comes responsibility, one that, according to my mother, I had not yet learned. There were no more bedtime tales left to tell, and I slept alone, haunted by my future with Henry.
That night, when I stood at my window and the green valleys were once again filled with cool mist, I thought of Edwin and wondered what he must be doing, perhaps tending to shop duties. I imagined the dampness of night collecting on his dark hair as he sealed the jars containing cereals and spices and hoisting the sacks of grain into the stock room before closing shop and biking to his cottage at the end of the village. I also remembered the night of our first kiss beneath the ice-glazed willow tree, which sparkled above the frozen river. These memories will forever be memories if I marry Henry. I began to cry hot tears. I could not stand it any longer!
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
I did not dream of caravans or the digging of ancient tombs that night, but instead of the thatch and moss-covered roof of a stone cottage deep in the woods, far away with open windows and wooden shudders that allowed the cooling winter air to circulate through the fire-lit den, and Edwin lying bare beneath a fur rug. After the day’s hunt, I would have prepared a savory, meaty stew and freshly baked bread, comforted by domestic responsibilities, and afterwards, we’d make love and sleep in each other's embrace until dawn, when we’d venture together through the forest, hunting and gathering berries for a crumble that I should bake. I had filched enough jewels from my current home to sell to traders to keep my journey with Edwin forward, and, as dreams were strange sometimes, we’d find ourselves riding trains through Johannesburg in Africa or trailing by ferry down the Nile. Oh, the adventures we could have if I were only free!
When I awoke several hours before sunrise, when only the air stirred with excitement and a gray haze had cloaked the moonlight, I could not deny the brewing temptation any longer. I moved to my dresser and collected the gilded necklaces, rings, and bracelets just like in my dream, and once I was dressed and cloaked, I absconded from the manor into the night like a thief, and I suppose I was. At the corner, I took an extra carriage offered by a pair of solicitors who’d woken to catch an early train to London. I had no money to give, so I traded for passage a ruby set in a silver ring, worth more than their entire antique carriage and almost as much as the steeds that pulled it. Only automobiles were affordable to the wealthy, but I dare not take one of my father’s.
I met with Edwin, who had risen to open the shop at dawn, and he greeted me with a tight embrace and a kiss. I explained how I could no longer withstand our distance and offered him my hand in marriage if only we could run away this very morning. I could hardly speak; my heart raced with natural liberation. I paid no attention to the cold; my face flushed hot, and after kisses that lasted until sunrise, I felt the warmth of the early winter’s sun on my pale skin. I was burning from the inside and out, and the frozen river along the roadside had begun to melt.
Edwin and I agreed to meet in Clegghorn, a northern village, after a day’s travel. It was the smallest village I’d known, and I was certain no one had heard of the Lafontaine family or my engagement. There, Edwin and I were free to start our lives together. I would send a carriage upon my arrival.
It was briskly cold for a sunny winter morning, and the ground was white with frost, yet the sun had warmed the river just enough that the ice had become clear and patchy and the banks soggy, which caused some instability for the carriage ride north.
My escort was speckled with mud, as I could see from the trotting horses that flipped it from their shoes and occasionally slipped in the sodden, slick earth. If the carriage was unable to continue, then I was prepared to move onward on foot.
Part of me felt regret for leaving in such haste as I did; my intentions were not intended to upset my parents. After all, they had raised me well and provided me with everything I had asked for, which wasn’t much. My wants were inspired by being exposed to the world and the resources it had to offer, yet I was exposed to nothing but a shop. I hoped one day they’d forgive me and understand that I should be free to live the life I chose and not the life they chose for me.
As we went along the river, I felt the carriage slip again, and my thoughts, along with my body, went tumbling to the side, and the heat of my body was subdued by the icy waters. My head struck something hard, and my mind went black.
Near the shore, I now stare into the depths of the murky water. I can see my reflection is soft and lonely, pale as ice, and my hair is as black and stringy as rotting lake weeds. My eyes, once sparkling blue and filled with all of life’s excitement, are now empty and dull. I stared for hours at my reflection on the undersurface, trying to recognize the face staring back.
Time passes, and I sit alone, humming softly along with the trickling water, the gentle rustling of the trees, and the occasional bird's song. Sometimes I wonder if I am heard by a hiker who might’ve wandered too far from a path or by secret lovers in respite. Over time,the river has deepened, and the trees have grown taller with each passing year. I don’t know how much time. Time has lost all meaning now. Perhaps years have passed. Decades even. I see a man standing too far from the banks now. He has a square box in his hand that he holds to his eyes. I’ve never seen such a contraption before. With his index finger, he presses it. It makes a noise that reminds me of the adding machine in my father’s study. Sometimes a young couple appears for a clandestine stroll, but no one ever stays long—not here. The river, or may it be a lake now, abounds with privacy and is always best shared with a companion. Yet I have no one. Edwin, I know, is gone. My family, too. Too many winters passed.
Sometimes tears still escape my eyes. The loneliness overwhelms me, and my tears are swept away with the currents as I try to remember a lifetime ago. I am alone to remember the days and nights Edwin and I met here alone, away from the scrutinized watch of my family and away from society’s silly rules, where we’d pluck the ripened autumn berries from the brambles and seek refuge beneath the yews from the bitter wind. I’m alone now, in our special place. And I am still waiting for that special someone to come my way. To stand near me as I look upward from the murky depths.
I wish the river was always warm. The seasons change so quickly, but a damp winter stays the longest. Near the shore, I hum. In faint whispers, my own voice sounds strange to me. When I hear someone approach, I hum louder in the hopes that a curious fellow is lured by my sound. Closer. I am desperately alone, and oh, how I wish to share my sorrow with a companion at the lake.
As a hiker approaches, he gazes at the water. I linger near the shore. Beyond my forlorn eyes, his fingertips trailed the surface. I am close. I long for companionship. Had it finally arrived? I can nearly reach him as he leans over the rippling surface. I feel him in my grasp. As I do, he stumbles. I see the fear in his eyes as he sinks deeper into the lake’s abysmal depths. From the inky darkness, he sees my face and screams until his lungs fill with water. Does he recognize me, I wonder? My name is Charlotte, but to them, they call me Frozen Charlotte, and this is my lake.
The water grows cold as the lazy sun lingers only momentarily in the dreary skies before sinking low behind the mountains. I find myself once again imprisoned beneath the ice. Someday, I will entice a companion who will remain with me. I shall wait for every winter to come, if necessary.