*A/N: This is a work of fiction. All Rights Reserved. 2016 by LibMikie101*

Suffolk, England

Mid-Afternoon, April 1804

"Oh, bollocks!"

Lady Charlotte, daughter of William and Arabella, the Marquess and the Marchioness of Crowley, glanced over her shoulder, making sure her nanny, Nessie, hadn't happened upon her and heard her curses. Safe for the moment, Charlotte perched on the cream-colored window seat and continued her watch.

She had an unimpeded view of the drive, would be able to see the carriage much sooner than she could hear it. And yet, she still saw no signs of a rambling conveyance.

Her father's, in particular, with the family crest emblazoned on the side - two swords crossed over a shield.

Charlotte sighed, dropping back to settle atop her calves. Her breeches dug into her legs, and her black boots, their soles ridden with loose bits of dirt and stone, dug painfully into her bottom.

She had taken up residence in the drawing room to wait after being cast out from the kitchens. Mrs. Bingsley had a knack for catching Charlotte's hands when they reached for handfuls of pastry. At least downstairs, she had the servants to keep her company. She supposed Nessie was about her somewhere, but she would insist Charlotte continue with her lessons rather than waiting and watching for her parents' carriage to round the bend.

She glanced behind her. The mantelpiece ticked another interminable minute - one more than when she had looked a moment past.

"Damnation," she whispered.

Charlotte glanced behind her before testing the word once more upon her lips. It fascinated her much more than her previous 'bollocks,' she decided.

She always managed to hear the most intriguing language in the stables when the staff was unaware of her presence.

Charlotte settled back, her head thudding lightly on the wall behind her.

It was midday. Mama and Papa should have been home by now. They had attended Lady Wiversham's ball the prior evening, leaving her with promises of a drive in Hyde Park and a game of chess.

Charlotte heard a clatter, lifting up, her knees digging into the plush cushion beneath her. She pressed her cheek to the window, the cool spring weather sending a chill to her skin.

The gardener's back swept past, and Charlotte sighed.

She couldn't wait to play chess for the first time.

Charlotte pictured the gleaming St. George chess set in her mother's sitting room upstairs. Its pieces glimmered a milky ebony and marble white. She had gotten berated often enough since she had first seen in a few months ago. They were delicately crafted so she couldn't touch. But it drew her, a whisper of the delights of adulthood. She liked the weight of each piece in her palm, the soft, scraping sound as the pieces were moved from square to square.

Papa had told her the name of all the pieces, explaining their significance in the game. Charlotte shifted through each piece, imagining their shapes. In her mind, Charlotte tapped each one with the tip of her finger. Here, at least, in the comforts of her own mind, no one could tell her otherwise.

The pawn was the smallest and bore a simple knob on top. The knight had a ferocious-looking horse's head, mid whinnie. Then there was the bishop. He was adorned with a remarkable, tall cap with an indent she wished she could probe with her fingers. She had told Papa it hadn't reminded her of any bishop she knew. Their Bishop Jenkins wore a flat looking cap, one that made his brown hair stick to his reddened cheeks. Her father had laughed uproariously at that, his white teeth gleaming.

Charlotte smiled at the remembrance, delighting in the pleasure of being found quite humorous, indeed.

Continuing her inventory, she counted the rest on her fingers. The rook. The king resided taller than the rest, a cross atop its piece - one decorated piously, Charlotte had thought. She imagined that Bishop Jenkins would approve most heartedly.

But it was the aforementioned Queen herself that captivated Charlotte. Her visual lingered upon it, following each elegant dip and curve. In her imaginings, it was smooth in her grip, the queen's head tipped with a coronation crown.

"The queen is the most important piece on the table," her father had told her, holding it in his big hands. It had looked tiny and insignificant in his callused fingers. "Even more important than the king."

Charlotte had gasped at that. "But he's the king!" Her response made her father laugh, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. "What about a duke, Father? Is the Queen more important than even him?"

Charlotte knew from her friend, Sophie, that the title of duke was one of the loftiest titles in England.

Her father threw back his head this time in laughter. A beam of sunlight shone through the draperies. His hair came alive, molasses interwoven with chestnut strands. As dark as her own. "Yes, Daughter. Even more important than the duke."

You see," Father said, placing the queen back on the board. He moved various pieces around, and Charlotte watched, fascinated, as the opponents shifted, a battle of moves and tokens.

"The queen protects the king -"

Charlotte's brow scrunched. "But shouldn't the king be protecting his lady, Papa?"

His eyes had crinkled. "Perhaps, but not always, my little one." Her father leaned over, peering at the doorway before he propped his arms on the tabletop, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Don't let on to your mother, but a good queen is always as powerful - if not more so - than her male counterpart."

Charlotte had no experience in society or with other gentlemen, but Charlotte had nodded, accepting this as fact.

Sighing from her position at the window, Charlotte glanced about once more, hoping for a glimpse of the carriage. She wasn't leaving until they arrived, she vowed. she stretched out her legs, her booted feet clasped before her on the cushion. Dirt tumbled from the bottom.

Charlotte wondered if she would beat Papa at chess. He had made the Queen sound nigh unbeatable.

"The queen can move sideways like this -" Her father had explained, the black queen sweeping sideways across the board. The knight tumbled into the plush Aubusson carpet beneath the table. "Or perhaps, she will go forward like so -" The bishop faced the same fate, thudding soundlessly to the carpet. "Or perhaps, she will come backwards or slide diagonally and-" Crack! went the white side's queen. The black piece faced head to head with the white King. "Checkmate."

Charlotte had clapped, delighted with the queen's movements. She wanted to take his pieces in a similar fashion, the smile of triumph upon her lips.

A clatter arose behind Charlotte, startling her. Wondering if perhaps she had missed the arrival of her parents amidst her daydreams, a smile broke over her features. It was her nanny instead who bustled in. Her grayed hair was a fumbled mop atop her head, her cap tilted askew as its various pins loosened their hold. She carried a silver tray in her hands, a fruit tart and a cup of tea clattering with her brisk movements. "Now, Miss, you best be eatin'. Don' want yer mother and father to think I'm starvin' ye, I daresay."

For the first time in her eight years, Charlotte turned her nose up at the pastry, her violet colored eyes - just like her mother's - turning back to the window. "Do you think they'll come home soon, Ness? It's been hours!"

Nessie clucked her tongue chidingly, "Now, miss. It only seems like hours cause ye've been sittin' there like a lost puppy."

Charlotte's nose crinkled at the comparison.

"And shouldn't ye be changin'?"

Charlotte glanced down at her breeches and shirt, the boots that were caked in drying mud from her trip to the stables earlier. She glanced at Nessie, perplexed.

"Whyever for?"

Nessie rolled her eyes at her charge as she bustled forward. She took Charlotte's arm, leading her out of the drawing room. "Yer a lady, Charlotte, and a lady needs be dressed as a lady."

It was Charlotte's turn to roll her eyes. "Papa doesn't mind."

"Papa dotes on ye, Miss, but yer Mama, bless 'er heart-"

Whatever her nanny was going to say was lost as the clambering sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones reached Charlotte's ears. Her eyes widened, and Charlotte got her arm from Nessie's grip, halfway down the hall before she heard the huffs as her nanny followed.

"Mama! Papa!"

Charlotte skidded around the corner, shrieking with laughter as she careened across the polished marble. The front door came into view, and Charlotte sprinted for it, ready to leap into her papa's arms. Reeves, their butler, opened the door with his usual decorum. Much too slow for Charlotte's liking. She shifted from boot to boot, the thumps echoing in the open entryway.

"Ack! Those boots, Miss-" Nessie urged, coming to stand beside her.

Then the door was opening, and Nessie's complaints went unheard.

It was not mother and father.

It was a gentleman who stood there, staring back at her.

***

It was much later - what felt to Charlotte like hours in which needles punctured her skin, stealing her breath and weakening her knees - that Charlotte realized with finality that her parents were never coming back.

Her mother's mirror was in sharp shards. The remains of the chess set glittered, each tiny piece glinting upon the dark red carpeting of her parents' bedchamber.

It had mocked her. The mere presence of the game set upon her father's table, hidden in a corner next to the hearth. It spoke of promises that her father would never keep.

She had thrown it, satisfied as it shattered, the pieces pinging as they clattered around the room. They struck her mother's vanity and her father's washbasin, scattered her mother's jewels, her father's favorite soap dish.

Charlotte's reflection glinted off each sliver of the broken mirror, and with it, her uncle Henry. The man at the door had no mercy in his deliverance of the carriage accident. Even less sympathy for the ward he now had to take possession of. His hands gripped her upper arms from behind, his voice reprimanding her unladylike behavior.

Numbness had stolen through her.

Father had lied to her.

Her eyes fell upon the far corner where the shadows of the room thrived. She saw the queen lying upon the carpet, unscathed. Her king a broken sliver with the other pawns.

Was the queen as powerful as Papa had told her? Could she survive such a fate?

Stiffening her spine, Charlotte pulled away from Henry's grip. Determined, she looked away from the piece.

It appeared it was up to Charlotte to find out.

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