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...
The next two parts of this chapter aren't exactly light, as addiction is nothing nice, but these idiots are making some progress...they have that going for them, at least. Don't forget to vote if you like the chapter, and feedback is life!
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"What is it now?!"
Charlotte hesitated outside William's bedroom, the snarl in his tone momentarily stopping her in her tracks. But she recovered just as quickly, opening the door and stepping inside. He stood near one of his windows in only a pair of trousers, fiddling with the frame and cursing under his breath.
"Well?" he snapped, turning around. He looked awful, every bit the spoiled prince on the brink of a tantrum, but his expression changed in an instant when he saw her, and he deflated. "What are you doing here?" His expression may have changed, but his tone was still abrasive, although mixed with a hint of surprise.
"Your father asked me to keep you company," she explained delicately, and he clenched his jaw.
"Of course he did," he muttered, bowing his head and inhaling deeply. She did not know what he meant by that, but she hardly had time to contemplate before he was continuing. "I did not say you could be in here."
"Yes, but that would put me in a difficult position," she pointed out, pushing past her own desires to leave the room and spare herself his temper and petulance. It was too familiar for her liking. "He asked me to be here, so if you order me out, I am not sure what I am meant to do. May I stay? I brought tea," she added, gesturing with the tray to demonstrate.
He waved a dismissive hand. "Do what you will," he said. "Far be it for me to put you in a difficult position." There was a hint of mockery in his tone, but she let it pass without comment. She had been warned of this sort of behavior, after all, that his humor would be volatile. And she had experienced far worse from him, and wouldn't take it personally.
"Is there anything you need?" she asked with flushed cheeks, setting the tray on his nightstand next to a revolver she was surprised and not precisely happy to find laying there.
It wasn't only William's mood that was affecting her so. She was in his bedroom, and he was more naked than clothed. She knew that she had to push herself into the same state of mind she had at York, but this room was a far cry from the stark white walls of stench-filled wards. It only added to her discomfort, the screaming sense that she was entirely unwelcome and out of place.
"These goddamn windows have not been waxed in ages," he spat in what would have been a shocking display of blasphemy under any other circumstances, and she heard the window rattling in its frame again. "Does nothing get done around here? It is freezing."
It certainly was not freezing—in fact, the room was thick with the sticky, hot air that suggested a thunderstorm was not too far in the future. But as she turned to him again, she saw that he was shivering, his hands trembling against the window frame. She had been warned about this as well.
