Precious Things by Kelly Doust Read Free Book Online

outbuildings too, which had provided shelter for the small market, held once a month on the grounds many years before. There were stables, kitchens, and a disused brewery and bakery her father no longer kept running. The orangery and greenhouse were still in use, but the servants’ quarters had only been half-occupied since her mother died. They never used the grand hall or the various sitting and drawing rooms any more. The music room was closed, the pianoforte sold a long time ago. Vaulted cool rooms lined with Father’s diminished wine collection lay in the cellar below, and the chapel was small but still large enough to seat a hundred guests – though it rarely did. In fact there were never visitors, besides the occasional delivery or the more increasingly common debt collectors.
    It was a relief in a way as she’d never quite mastered the knack of talking to strangers. On the rare occasion she accompanied Father to social events, he insisted she remain tethered to his side. Indeed, Aimée was so used to her own company that she tended to feel awkward and unable to speak, too stiff and quiet to find more than a few words to pitch into the frightening chasm of silence. Other girls were free to roam about the rooms, giggling and chatting, but next to Father Aimée felt struck dumb, throat stoppered so tight it almost felt filled with cork. Even if she did manage to say a word, she invariably disconcerted people. They seemed to find her too intense, or too questioning. People thought her odd; she could tell from their strange looks and whispers.
    Perhaps Father is right to procure a husband for me now. I’d never find one on my own .
    Aimée watched the dying light burnishing the ancient mirror above the mantelpiece. She had been about to do something, what was that? She’d forgotten. Faustine’s interruption had set her mind wandering . . . Father would be late, and there was still an hour or so before darkness fell. Perhaps she could squeeze in a last ride with Onyx after all – a farewell to her beloved horse.
    Aimée hastened to her room, shutting the door before gathering a fitted jacket and a riding crop she’d found in Maman’s things long ago and kept hidden under her bed. The lapels of the jacket were stiffened with embroidery she’d laboured over for months – a skill that her mother should have taught her, the task falling to Nounou instead – with dark thorny vines curling up about a tan suede collar, symbolising the briar roses covering Sleeping Beauty’s forgotten kingdom.
    Winding through the château’s narrow passageways, Aimée made her way downstairs to the basement kitchen, where a dish of stew sat simmering on the stove untended. Slipping into the yard beyond the herb garden, Aimée rushed towards the stables.
    Onyx had been a gift to Father from a wealthy neighbour following the recovery of his eldest child from fever. Father had insisted on sending his personal physician to care for the boy, and the man had been pitifully grateful. When Father neglected to make use of the noble black Friesian from the Netherlands, Aimée conceded it a stroke of luck and secretly claimed the great animal for herself, making use of Father’s collection of books on animal husbandry and riding.
    Aimée only ever rode Onyx to the edges of the property, circling more than once in the early mornings or after dinner in summertime when the days were hot and long. The estate was large, and when Father was away she could be gone for hours. When he was home, however, she would never risk it. Aimée hadn’t asked his permission – she already knew what the answer would be. ‘Horse riding? I think not. Stay indoors. Your health.’ So she’d circumvented his disapproval by never seeking his opinion, and the staff had never betrayed her.
    In the same way as reading was solace for her mind, riding was a balm for her body. Her only