1862, Philadelphia, USA.
Charlotte Bice, orphaned at age eight, is taken in by one of the city's most prominent families, the Whitcombs, with the promise that she would be raised as a lady. The Whitcombs are certainly not as respectable as they pres...
Warning for my readers: This chapter contains hints of SA. It is not explicit, and I do promise it is relevant to the story, but I know some are sensitive to such concepts. I have marked the portion, beginning and ending with a *.
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"I don't want to do arithmetic. It's boring."
Charlotte lifted her eyes toward the ceiling as though the subtle textures and grand molding could somehow give her assistance. If she had thought Caroline was a little terror before, the child now seemed like the Devil's own brat when she was away from her mother's eyes. She made Martha seem like the sweetest angel, and Charlotte was half-expecting to have her hand bitten at any moment. This girl did not need a governess—she needed an exorcist.
At least today was one of her agreeable days. Arithmetic was only 'boring', instead of 'stupid and you can't make me', as she had declared drawing to be.
"It's boring," little Emma said, echoing her sister's haughty tone with perfection. And Emma didn't even have to work on arithmetic—she was so young that she could barely read, let alone be expected to do addition.
"It is not for us to enjoy—it is for us to do," Charlotte said, repeating the same mantra she had heard as a young girl. She had only been living with the Cartwrights for a week, and she already felt herself dying a little inside with each day. Monday through Sunday, this was her life, and it would be her life for many years.
Isabella was kind, though not as warm as Charlotte remembered. Charlotte had never had reason to dislike the eldest Whitcomb sibling, and she still didn't, but of course, their relationship was different now. At twenty-nine, Isabella was a full twelve years older than Charlotte and had acted almost as a mother figure to her in Charlotte's earliest years with the family.
In addition to their changed relationship, Isabella herself had changed over the years since marrying Mr. Anthony Cartwright. The Cartwrights were a great family with a great reputation, but Anthony Cartwright was a bully. Anyone could see it, especially after he had a few drinks in him, and he usually did. He was rich without a modicum of true class, as far as Charlotte was concerned, and if he didn't have his name to recommend him, he would likely be nothing of consequence. And it seemed as though he had passed that trait onto his older daughter, who was already as imperious as Bloody Mary Tudor at age nine.
"I won't do it," Caroline announced, delicately adjusting the pleats of her taffeta skirt just the way she wanted them to lay.
"You will do as I tell you," Charlotte said.
"I won't do it," Emma echoed, throwing her Tom Thumb's Picture Alphabet onto the floor with a scowl.
"Miss Cartwright," Charlotte said through clenched teeth, retrieving Emma's book but still speaking to Caroline. "If you will not do your arithmetic, you can sit in that chair and do nothing at all." She knew she could get a switch and strike Caroline in the palms—'spare the rod, spoil the child'—but it had always seemed barbaric to her to strike a child, and she wasn't anxious to reach that point.
