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...
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William awoke with no sense of the time. He might have awoken with no sense of much at all if he had not been greeted by the morbid black crepe draped here and there about the room—there was no chance to forget even for a moment during mourning. He had no doubt the wreaths with their black ribbons were already hanging on the front entrance, announcing the family's situation to any visitor, though he doubted anyone unaware of that situation would happen to drop by a remote country estate. The manor would be silent for the coming days, words murmured in the softest of tones so as not to disturb his father's wandering spirit or some such superstition.
He was also aware of a petite body laying over his own, a slender arm holding him tight, and closed his eyes again. He was in no mood to address how risky it had been to fall asleep with Charlotte—he hadn't wished to be alone, simple as that. He was in no mood for complexity of any kind—it all seemed superfluous, nothing but thought exercises and unnecessary disquiet.
Depleted and having no desire to face the world just yet, William might have fallen back asleep if he hadn't realized Charlotte was trembling ever-so-slightly against him. They were under linens and a thick cover, but the fire in her room had extinguished long ago. Cedarvale was only a little less drafty than his tent—it was not meant for inclement weather, and he could hear the chilled autumn rain bearing down against the manor walls.
His hand easily found Charlotte's, and he gave her fingers a quick, gentle squeeze before carefully extricating himself from under her, exposing himself to the cold gloom of the shrouded bedroom. He rubbed at his bare arms before glancing across the bed at his folded garments. They seemed unacceptably far away to him, and Charlotte's robe was hanging within reach, so he grabbed that instead, pulling it over his shoulders. It was comically small for him, the sleeves ending halfway down his forearms. the fabric stretched restrictively across his shoulders, but it was sufficient.
For an embarrassingly long time, William fussed at the fireplace—he understood the concept, but was out of practice, to say the least. Eventually, after hissed curses and a splinter in his thumb, he had built a respectable fire that crackled and snapped, radiating a merciful heat that swept away the chill like a consoling lullaby.
He stepped back from the fireplace, brushing dust from his palms before running both hands through his hair and turning back toward Charlotte's bed. She was fast asleep again, now clinging to a pillow, and he debated his options. He could return to his own bedroom—he should return to his own bedroom. He should dress and make his way downstairs in anticipation of supportive friends and relatives who were certain to already be arriving. He should also undoubtedly let Charlotte sleep—Lord knew she deserved it.
He would leave, yes, but not just yet. He wished only for a few more moments in this sanctuary, but, replaced by a pillow and uncertain of what else he could do in this room, he sank into Charlotte's reading chair. He had no intention of reading, of course, but his eyes still traveled to the small table, falling upon an unfamiliar book: A Young Wife, by William A. Alcott.
