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the French-accented voice asked from down the corridor.
    Charlotte reopened her eyes, sniffed, and removed her hand from the edge of the doorway. “Yes,” she murmured. “My mother shared its history with me after my father had passed due to illness. I was eleven. I never thought the tunnel actually existed.”
    “Ah. So you grew up in this house?”
    Charlotte half nodded. “Yes.”
    “And what is your name, Mademoiselle? I do not believe we were ever properly introduced.”
    Charlotte slowly turned to the woman, her hand leaving the doorway, and met the woman’s gaze from down the corridor. There was an inherent, proud strength in those blue eyes. A strength she felt oddly compelled to admire and trust. “I am Lady Chartwell. The only child of the late Lord and Lady Sutton.”
    Madame de Maitenon’s eyes visibly widened as she hurried toward her and closed the distance between them. “You are Lady Sutton’s daughter? And the widow of Chartwell, no less? I have never been one to judge based upon gossip, for there are those who gossip against me, but when I first met your husband at a gathering shortly before his death last year, strutting about like a rooster with clucking hens on every arm and every leg, I knew exactly what he was. Brusque. It isn’t any wonder it all ended the way it did. And what he did to you after his death!” She tsked. “Leaving you nothing. While his family merrily tossed you from the estate without so much as a skirt. Or a jupe , as we French would say.”
    Charlotte felt her cheeks flare. It sounded even worse coming from the lips of a stranger. She did leave the estate with an entire wardrobe and close to one hundred pounds. That is, until all the legal fees started accruing. “Rumors are not always as they seem, Madame. I have done fairly well for myself. Considering.” After all, she had managed to hold on to her family’s London home this past year. A triumph in and of itself.
    “And if you must know,” Charlotte added, “I am actually awaiting a sizable settlement from the Lord Chancellor himself regarding my part of the estate. Word should be arriving from the courts any day now.” She hoped.
    Madame de Maitenon was quiet for a prolonged moment. She glanced at the tunnel beside them, then peered back at Harold, who was still dutifully piling splintered pieces of wood into several neat stacks.
    Eventually, Madame de Maitenon turned back toward her, eyes ablaze with unusual mischief. “Aside from all the costs of the damage done to your home, how much will you take for your tunnel?”
    Charlotte blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”
    “The tunnel.” Madame de Maitenon brushed at the sleeves of her gown, which still harbored some of the settling dust around them. “I need it. For my school.”
    How… odd . “For your school?”
    “ Oui . It opens in mid-May. A little later than I would have hoped, but it will still give me enough time to do all that I have planned for the Season.”
    Silence hung between them.
    Charlotte expected the woman to further elaborate, yet clearly the woman felt as if she had said enough. “Will it be a school for children?” Charlotte prodded, hoping to the high heavens that the woman didn’t intend to shuffle orphans through the tunnel for some evil purpose.
    Madame de Maitenon let out a small, playful laugh. “Men can be like children. Can they not?”
    Charlotte’s brows came together. “ Men? I apologize. I do not think I understand.”
    Madame de Maitenon sighed. “Of course you do not. No one understands. And that is the problem. No one is willing to assist an old Frenchwoman with a dream. I assure you, if I were younger it would be different. Much different.”
    Charlotte couldn’t help but feel a twinge of empathy. For she certainly understood what it was like to have no form of aid. “What sort of assistance do you require? Could I be of any help?”
    Madame de Maitenon shook her silver head while wrinkling her small nose.