Free Kitty Little by Freda Lightfoot

call her whatever he wished, do with her as he willed so long as she could live in a fine house on his Yorkshire moors, be waited upon by servants and have food in plenty to eat. Even now, in spite of all the strange demands he made of her, the comforts Magnus could offer counted for much.
    Yet she’d never managed to feel the slightest degree of love for him. Would he have treated her differently if she had? No matter how hard she’d tried and however grateful Charlotte was to have escaped the rigours of the damp, overcrowded house where she’d been born, she never quiet seemed able to satisfy Magnus Gilpin. In one way or another she’d always fallen short of some desired perfection. Perhaps he didn’t truly care for her either? Perhaps he’d picked her up that day simply to place her among his other business assets, like a possession. Maybe she didn’t even deserve to be loved. Why should she? Nobody ever had before.
    Jealous of her beauty, her own mother had largely ignored her, and a bully of a stepfather had spent time with her only to teach her how to steal from market stalls, which saved him the trouble of earning an honest crust. Charlotte had made strong objections to being schooled in thieving, when her mother was sober enough to listen, only to be accused of telling fibs.
    ‘One of our Lottie’s wild fancies,’ she’d say, warning that if such wickedness were repeated, the child would be packed off to a wayward girl’s home. Until that moment, Charlotte hadn’t known what an untruth was but she soon learned to become an expert in both lying and stealing. Lies were what her mother expected, so that was what she was given.  
    ‘Eeh, our Lottie, where did you get this nice bit o’ brisket?’
    ‘Kaye’s butchers let me ‘ave it cheap.’
    ‘Nay, see where yon pretty face’ll get you. Tha’ll go far lass. Think on.’
    As far as a prison cell if I’m not more careful, the young Charlotte worried, avoiding sight of her stepfather’s smirking face. She’d keep away from Kayes for a while and try it on with another stall holder, but the fear of being caught was sharp in her. At least at first.
    There were times when Charlotte would’ve liked to insist her stepfather take the risks himself, but apart from the fact that he was a dangerous man to cross, he was fond of making lewd suggestions that he could find alternative ways for her to earn her keep. In the end, despite her better judgement, she’d got caught up in the excitement of it all and begun to steal on her own account. A scarf here, a pretty ribbon there, and always some tale to disguise the truth of what she was about. Charlotte became adept at making believe these items had been acquired legitimately, and that she was part of a normal, loving, happy family. In this way she created a protective shield about herself and, in a desperate attempt to disguise any lingering remnants of shame and guilt, came to live in a world of make believe.
    Consequently she dealt with her feelings for Magnus Gilpin in much the same manner, for the union hadn’t worked out quite as either of them would have wished.
    Their differences, surprisingly enough, were not caused by class. He, naturally, had taken it for granted she’d be eternally grateful, for what girl with her background would not? He could offer her the promised land: entry into a world far removed from her humble upbringing. It was a sign either of his arrogance, or of his security in Yorkshire Society, that he was able to consider a match which a lesser man would balk at. And Society had indeed accepted her, flocked to her door in fact, even if her vowels were rather too flat and her sense of humour at times bordering on the vulgar.
    Yet much as the ladies of Halifax longed to ridicule her as nothing more than a novelty, and a cheap one at that, they forgave her because Charlotte Gilpin had that most precious commodity: style. Unconventional, eccentric, sometimes downright outrageous but