Charlotte was mad at herself. She had promised herself, sworn up and down- no more love stories. None. Not even a tale of passing attraction turned tragic loss- she was through. She was nearly twenty and four now and much too mature of an adult to amuse herself in this manner- no she would write things of scholarly import and business- her father always said to leave love to the satirists and the French, and it was about time she should do so. But then, oh then she had met the shoemaker's son at a Country Dance, and now she found herself beneath her favorite old catalpa tree- long green pods dangling above her head and her journal upon her knee. Looking back at the five pages of pencil scrawl she was both pleased and upset with herself- the wild romance had all of her usual flair and dramatics, exactly what she had promised herself she was to avoid.
"Oh Charlotte Turner, grow UP!" But even as the words escaped her lips she smiled. Yes, Papa would much rather she wrote treatises on nature or local politics, but even he had to admit that it was romance that kept his paper alive. Poems and anecdotes from European journals that her carefully copied and typeset, and local creations made to satire the news of the small city. Yes, even Williamsburg had romance, and some of the scandals would make even Parisian ladies turn pink- Charlotte was sure of it.
But this journal, this was just for her. Charlotte had started keeping a journal as soon as she could write, she was lucky that her father had encouraged her education. He had no sons, and it stood to reason that she and her future husband should inherit her father's printing business when he retired. If I ever find a husband, that is. At twenty four, she was certainly not an old maid- but it seemed that most of the girls she had grown up with were already settling down. And not one prospect yet- well, there was one once, but it didn't bear thinking about.
But now, ahh now she had a daydream again. Brilliant eyes that sparkled as they turned by the right, and then left- not leaving her face even when they made long lines to travel down the hall and back again. She had felt herself blush and even now a pink tinge came to her cheeks. How was it, that she could grow up in the same town as him and never notice until now? And how much more difficult it was to arrange a chance meeting now that it was her goal, why just last week she had seen him at the market and had barely even noticed.
Well, at the very least she was now determined to attend the assembly in honor of the governor's wife's arrival. Though it was sure to be less fine than the grand ball at the Governor's Palace, the shoemaker's son would perhaps be there. Smiling at nothing in particular, Charlotte re-read her last sentence.
"The Admiral with brilliant blue eyes gazed into the brown eyes of Bess, and he knew in a minute that she was the maid for him.
Romance, it seemed, was in her blood whether she would will it there or not.
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