She's halfway done with the third draft of the letter in front of her, addressed ostensibly to her family as a whole, but perhaps in truth more for her brother than anyone else. She's had to re-write it several times, partially due to her penmanship, partially due to the lack of anything interesting to say, and largely due to the frustration that bleeds into everything she writes down. The first draft, if she were counting it -- which she certainly was not -- had been nothing but angry chicken scratch, with a repeated phrase over and over again.

This draft is faring better, it seems; the frustration remains, but is more veiled, now, with allusions instead of accusations. Charlotte leans back in her chair, rereads what she's written, trying to ensure she's covering everything that needs to be said. They arrived safely in London after an uneventful, if expeditious journey, the townhouse is lovely, the weather in London is agreeable...she sighs. Everything that needs to be said indeed. Her gaze turns towards the window, watching several people go about their business. She watches a couple arm in arm, the woman tilting her face up to smile at the man, and feels something twist inside her chest.

A knock at the door tears her attention away, and she turns, grateful for the distraction. Her brows lift, her frown softening only slightly as she catches sight of her new husband lingering in the doorway. "It's you," she says, unable to keep the surprise out of her tone. Then her frown deepens, her stomach falling. "Oh...I'm late for something, aren't I?"