Chapter 22 - Rolling Up The Sleeves
Another night with too many thoughts and not enough sleep left Catherine irritated at Mistress Murphy’s remarks when the older woman assisted her dressing for the day. All the nights she had spent on her own since her wedding had haunted her.?
At first she had felt righteous triumph at Aidan’s withdrawal. It was the least he could have done, after all. But doubt had crept in. It had been his right. He had not used it. He easily could have — whether she liked it or not.
She’d spent another couple of nights angry. He had won. She had married him. He had this alliance with her father he had craved so badly — and now she was so beneath him that he didn’t even want to touch her? The wrath at his rejection burned hot. It had kept her from overthinking.
But after everything that had happened, she failed to stoke the flames of her rage, and now she was left with confusion.
Mistress Murphy’s testimony for the Viscount.
His own letter. She’d refused to read it for so long — now she could recite every single word from memory. Not that it was of any help.
She’d imagined an apology. Or maybe an attempt to charm her. A declaration of love. But no — he had given her a manifesto. His words were deeply etched into the paper from too much pressure writing them. The ink had barely dried before the paper was hastily folded, the writing smudged in places.
“I’d do it again.” he had written.
What exactly was she supposed to do with that?
The groan stretched her chest before she could bite it back, earning a questioning sound from her chambermaid, muffled by hairpins between the old woman’s lips.
“The tenants, Mistress Murphy,” Catherine mused, and then went on, encouraged by another sound and a tug at her hair. “…does m’Lord usually get along with them well?”
Another strand of her hair got pulled back and secured, allowing the maid to speak.
“He grew up with most of them, m’Lady.”
An amused huff followed before Mistress Murphy attacked Catherine’s head with renewed vigour.
“Out here you always ‘get along’. No other choice.”
Catherine nodded slowly.
“I thought so.”
A pair of hands turned her head to the left, then back.
“Ready, m’Lady,” the maid muttered, then her voice grew louder.
“You ought to get to know people around, m’Lady.”
A polite curtsey, as Mistress Murphy withdrew.
“It’s a beautiful day for a walk, too.”
Catherine slowly nodded to her own reflection.
A walk.
On her own.
It felt scandalous to even think about it. But then this wasn’t Kilkenny. This was the Viscount’s own land. Hers as well, if she thought about it. She’d never second-guessed strolling through the gardens at her father’s house.
After a quick breakfast in the kitchen — to Mistress Jones’ dismay, the cook had told Catherine in no uncertain terms it didn’t befit her Ladyship to not use the separate dining room — she grabbed her coat, announced her plans, and left.
It was a welcome distraction from her usual days as Viscountess.
With no specific duties her husband expected from her, she had spent most of her time inspecting the books.
He had not lied about saving children from starving.
The books proved Aidan had bought amounts of grain and potatoes to feed a village.
His village. The measly rent he had collected on quarter days had not paid for it. That much was clear.
Lost in her musings, Catherine only realised her feet had carried her towards the stables when she was almost there.
Loud voices were talking in Irish — she didn’t understand a single word.
She shook her head a little. The unfamiliar sounds could as well be friends sharing a joke as foes threatening each other with death.
She wasn’t keen on stumbling into an argument. Yesterday’s visit to the village had clearly shown how little people liked her presence around. Mistress Murphy had confirmed it wasn’t Aidan they despised. And why would they have spoken in English for him? They despised her. Not him.
Curiosity caused her to draw closer. In the open doors of the stable she saw her husband, together with his stablemaster and another man she didn’t know, hunched over what seemed a broken carriage. All three men were yelling at each other before they came to an agreement.
In a combined effort Aidan and the stablemaster — Padhraigh, if Catherine remembered right — lifted the vehicle at one side, both groaning from the strain, while the third man slammed a hammer against it.
She stood close enough to see Aidan’s jacket carelessly thrown aside, a splash of colour in the dust. His sleeves rolled up, exposing his lower arms.
The carriage came down again, and the men started to swat their backs. Aidan’s strained expression lifted, a quick grin crossing his features.
The smile was unguarded. Showing the white of his teeth, and dimples in his cheeks.
It caught her entirely off guard.
She’d only seen him smile like this once. Back when he had helped her trick Maisie out of the stables, so she could warn her fiancé about the Sheriff’s plans for a group of traitors.
Just that the man standing there, only in his shirt, dirty and sweaty, didn’t resemble the noble Viscount at all.
Catherine’s heart sped up painfully when she understood how much he belonged here.
Not the Viscount. Not the rebel.
Him.
Aidan.
The O’Donell.
He was working shoulder to shoulder with his people — not caring for the way they had disrespected him only yesterday. He was needed. Relied on.
He was too busy to even look up. She was glad he didn’t see her. Catherine spun on her heels, quickly moving back towards the house.
Nobody needed her here.
Her only worth here was the connection to Lord Butler. A connection that would bring food to people’s tables.
Her stomach coiled into a tight knot, like she had swallowed something cold.
Her own husband didn’t need her around either.
She was the thorn in his side, separating him from his own people.