In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 8

Sometime between when Charlie had descended the trellis and when Sophie had begged off any further amusements for the evening, Charlie had come to a decision. Whatever her uncle's plans included, they were certainly not going to involve his niece. Charlie was leaving, escaping until such a time when she could meet the family's solicitor and claim her inheritance

In two weeks time she would be an independent spinster. Charlie had no intention whatsoever of having to shirk the expectations of a society that had tossed her aside so carelessly. Her home would be outside the circle of the ton. Perhaps a quiet country cottage -

Well, a lively cottage, Charlie amended, with only her and Sophie. Their funds were theirs to do what they wished. Their time to be spent how they desired. And no scheming uncles who didn't give a fig for their relations.

No one would force her to bend - to be reshaped, broken, or otherwise.

Charlie felt righteous indignation dogging her steps. Among those were fury, determination, conviction...

And debilitating fear.

Had she gone mad?

The mantra stuck to her person like a leech - she couldn't shake its perch from her skin, but neither could she let it alone, leaving it to do what-have-you against her. She scrunched her nose, detesting the comparison.

But it fit. By God, she couldn't stay now that her uncle had waged war against her.

Charlie reached her chambers at the end of the hall, entering her shadow-lit room. Flames flickered as a fire snapped in the grate, its ends licking the walls in a fury of yellow and orange and red. It appeared rather demonic as it danced and shimmied.

Nessie, her childhood nanny and current lady's maid bustled in at that moment from Charlie's boudoir. The woman had been more like a mother to her, and Charlie's throat burned, threatening tears. She fought for composure, focusing instead on Nessie's actions.

Her graying hair was a fumbled mop atop her head as she scurried past her with nary a look to the side. Her mob cap, securely fastened this morning, now tilted askew, its various pins losing their hold. Black skirts swished about her ankles as she flitted across Charlie's room, her blue eyes scanning the furnishings. "Do you know where I left my spectacles, by chance?" Nessie peered around her vanity, lifting bottles of perfume and scattering the many trinkets. "I know I 'ad them, dear, when I came in to 'elp ye dress. Nigh pricked myself with a pin doing ye 'air, I did. Perhaps-"

Her childhood nanny, and lady's maid, halted mid-sentence, abandoning her search to focus on Charlie. She did a quick sweep of her person, taking in the twigs nestling in her half-fallen locks, the dirt marring the delicate hem of her gown.

"Oh, my lady! What 'as happened?" Nessie shuffled over to Charlie, her fingers touching the flap of her bodice that had torn, lying limp and forgotten.

She allowed Nessie her mothering, the familiarity of her bedchamber wrapping her in a modicum of safety - temporary, though it may be. The chamber was done in muted shades of cream and blue, white trim limning the walls. Her nightstand held her discarded copy of Ackermann's, a cooled cup of her earlier warmed milk next to it.

Her mother's vanity filled the far wall next to the mullioned window, its presence a keepsake Henry had been all too ready to cast out after her mother's passing. If it weren't for the housekeeper, Mrs. Wilkins, it would have been so. The fate of the piece, however, had been sealed when a bevy of footmen had assisted with its current placement in her quarters. It had a large oval looking glass, its edges beveled in gold filigree. The accoutrements of her toilette littered its surface - a fine-toothed comb and stick pins. Rouge and paint.