An Unpracticed Heart

Chapter Two

Charlotte could count on one hand the number of times she had seen the sun in the last month. She had heard tales of Scottish weather during her childhood in Essex, of the incessant wind and rain and snow, that it was a bleak and uninhabitable land, unfit for any civilized creature.

Small wonder then, that Lady Atwater had not thought twice about sending Charlotte here.

She exhaled, her warm breath coating the glass of her bedroom window with a cloud of steam. She looked down, her only view that of the gardener's tool shed, a small stone building with a wooden roof that had surrendered to the elements some time before. And even that dilapidated building was mostly obscured from sight by a thick, ice-laden fog that clung to every stick and flattened every blade of dead, brown grass.

Charlotte stepped back from the window, her hands seeking out the long braid that trailed over her shoulder. It wouldn't do to dawdle. Her aunt had most likely already been in the kitchen for the last hour, elbow-deep in flour for tomorrow's bread, or plucking a chicken for their dinner. Charlotte twisted the braid into a bun, pushed a few pins into the knot, and snatched a book off the end of her bed before heading for the door.

She tucked the book under her arm as she stepped into the dimly lit corridor. Only a small measure of daylight penetrated the gloom that suffused the more narrow passages of the house, but Charlotte found that her eyes had quickly become accustomed to the lack of flame or lamplight in the rooms beyond the kitchen. She took each turning with confidence, never once stumbling as she moved around the delicate furnishings that lined every hall, their surfaces hidden beneath heavy lines of drapery and cloth.

The ghostly figures had filled her with some unease during the first few days of her stay, dusty shapes that had regularly startled her when she happened to catch sight of one of them out of the corner of her eye. But as she grew familiar with the harsh weather and the near solitude that filled her days, so did she also reconcile herself to the phantom-like companions that accompanied her every journey from room to room.

She opened the door to the library slowly, wincing at the squeal that sounded from the hinges. The room was dark, the heavy drapes blocking out most of the daylight from the windows. She walked towards the rear of the room, the fingers of her left hand trailing over the shelves, across rows of gorgeous leather-bound tomes, their jewel tones and gold etching shining from the shadows like hidden treasure.

Charlotte returned her book to its place on the shelf, careful to maintain the precise order of the other books on either side of it. She wished that she had more time to peruse the shelves and make her next selection, but she had already wasted too many minutes. Too much longer, and Mrs. Faraday would come searching for her if she didn't make an appearance in the kitchen before breakfast.

She could already hear the clatter of dishes as she rushed through the halls and made her way downstairs, one hand clutching at her skirts to prevent herself from tripping on the hem. If she had wished to enter the kitchen unobserved, she was about to endure a severe disappointment. Her aunt possessed the keen eyes and ears of a creature bred in a harsh land, so it was the barest whisper of Charlotte's skirts, the lightest touch of her heel on the step that drew the older woman's gaze towards the kitchen door.

"Your breakfast is there." Mrs. Faraday's clipped tone carried a fair amount of disapproval towards Charlotte's delayed arrival downstairs.

"Thank you, ma'am." Charlotte retrieved her plate, still warm, from its place on the hearth and removed the cloth her aunt had used to cover it. The mouth-watering scent of oat cakes filled her nostrils, and she settled down on the edge of the fire-warmed bricks, her knife and fork busy with the crocks of jam and butter Mrs. Faraday has set out for her.