Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Verna woke early, having tossed and turned all night.
She lay still in the grey light before dawn, listening to the gulls’ high-pitched screeches as she thought about Thom.
With disquiet and resignation, she had looked at every path available to her and found that what he proposed, however unwelcome, was the only safe option to protect those under her care.
She thought about the women in the east wing.
The youngest, who had stopped flinching when doors opened.
The eldest, who was learning to read with the ferocious concentration of someone making up for lost time.
Patrice, who had rebuilt herself from being an abused wife and was now teaching the press house work to others.
Dara, who had been with her for fifteen years and who kept the place running with enormous competence.
If Borgine's eldest son, Bain, came here as her husband, they would all be gone within a season.
Sold off to the highest bidders. She knew his reputation; he was a man who kept order through fear and valued loyalty only when it cost him nothing.
He would sell the women, dismiss her guards, and install his own men at the gate, making the estate become exactly like every other noble estate in the Empire.
A place where women were managed rather than protected.
She couldn’t allow that. Thom had given her a way out of the dilemma, and she had to take it, regardless of her own feelings.
By the time the household bell rang, she had made her decision.
She dressed without calling for assistance, choosing the deep green gown that Thom had once said suited her.
He was already downstairs when she arrived, standing at the balustrade with a cup of spiced tea, looking out over the vineyards. He turned when he heard her step.
He looked rested, much better than she felt.
"You slept well?" she asked.
"Like a baby." He smiled, but there was a watchfulness behind his eyes.
They sat together and ate without hurrying. Fresh bread, oil, sliced fruit, and soft-boiled eggs from the estate's hens. On the lower terraces came the sound of the women beginning the day's work, the soft clatter of the press house, and someone calling out across the vineyard rows.
When the plates had been cleared and only the cups remained, Thom turned to her.
"Well?" he asked quietly.
Verna set down her cup and glanced out at the sea, then back at him.
"Yes," she said. "I'll marry you."
His face lit up with relief and tenderness. He reached out and took both her hands in a warm grip. "That’s wonderful, Verna. I promise you I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy."
She smiled at him. "I know you will, Thom."
Then he leaned forward and kissed her. It was gentle, the kiss of a man who was being careful with something he valued. His mouth was warm against hers.
But she felt nothing. No desire or discomfort, simply nothing, the way a window feels when you press your lips against the glass.
She was aware of the pressure of his lips, the warmth of his hands around hers, the faint smell of the spiced tea he'd been drinking. She was aware of all of it and it did nothing to excite her. When he drew back, she kept her expression soft. Whatever he saw in her face seemed to satisfy him, and she was grateful he wasn’t someone who looked too closely.
"I'll make the arrangements when I return to Castine," he said. "A private ceremony before the Trials. Nothing elaborate."
"We won’t want to make a fuss," she agreed. "The emperor mustn’t find out until it’s over."
He stayed another half an hour, talking through the practical side of the ceremony. She listened, contributed where she could, and kept her hands tightly folded in her lap.
When his horse was brought around, he kissed her longer and deeper this time, then held her by the shoulders, looking at her with warmth.
"I love you, Verna," he said simply.
She hesitated, knowing she should say something endearing too, but she simply said, "I’ll see you in two weeks."
She stood at the gate and watched him ride down the long avenue of whispering trees until the dust of the road swallowed him.
The trees were quiet this morning. No hissing, no restless movement of leaves, but the ring showed its displeasure.
It wasn’t hot this time, but cold like ice. Involuntarily, she shivered.
Dara was at the edge of the courtyard when she turned back, overseeing the delivery of oil jars from the press house. She glanced up as Verna approached, and gave her a quizzical look.
"I've accepted his proposal," Verna said bluntly.
Dara went still for a moment. Then she set down the jar she was holding with the deliberate care and said, "I see."
"Congratulations would be customary," Verna said drily.
"Of course." Dara straightened and looked at her. "Congratulations, My Lady." Her voice was warm enough, but her eyes held questions.
Verna looked at her steadily. "Say what you're thinking, Dara."
"It's not my place."
"Don’t be foolish. It has always been your place. That's why you’re here."
Dara was quiet, her gaze moving briefly to the road where the dust from Thom's horse had not yet settled. Then she looked back at Verna with a careful expression. "Lord Lanath is a good man," she said.
"He is."
"And the arrangement is sensible. Politically speaking."
"It is."
Dara nodded slowly. "Then I'm glad for you, Lady." But her eyes held a glint of disapproval.
Verna looked at her for a few seconds longer, then said with a touch of defiance, "I must protect you all."
Dara picked up the oil jar again and returned to her work without another word.
The news moved through the estate the way gossip always did: slowly at first, then everywhere at once.
Verna hadn’t made a grand announcement. She had told Dara, and by midmorning her friend the cook knew, and by the time the sun had reached the top of its arc, the household had found out, and after lunch it had reached the vineyard rows where the pickers were working.
They came to her in ones and twos throughout the afternoon, wiping their hands on their aprons or their working skirts, all of them with the same question behind their eyes even when their mouths offered congratulations.
Patrice found her in the courtyard going over the pressing accounts with the estate ledger. She set down her pruning basket and said without preamble, "Is it true? You’re going to marry Lord Lanath?"
"It is," Verna said.
Patrice was quiet for a moment, looking at her with the shrewdness of a woman who had learned to read people’s moods accurately and early.
She’d learned that from her bastard husband, for her survival had depended on it.
"He's a decent man," she said finally, in the tone of someone not entirely satisfied with what was said.
"He is," Verna said a little too brightly.
"And it'll keep the emperor off your back."
"That’s the intention."
Patrice looked at her a moment longer, then leaned down and kissed her cheek with rough affection. "Then good for you, Verna." She picked up her basket and went back to work without another word, which was why Verna valued her friendship. Patrice had been through too much to be judgmental.
A cluster of the youngest girls appeared in the doorway of the portico where she was reviewing the next week's work roster.
The eldest spoke for all of them, haltingly, with a careful speech.
She said that they were glad Lady Verna had found happiness, and that they hoped she would be very happy.
Then they all stood there looking at her with anxious expressions that told her exactly what they were really asking.
Verna set down her papers and looked at them reassuringly.
"Nothing here will change," she said. "Lord Lanath has his own estate to manage and has no intention of involving himself in the running of this one.
Your rooms are yours, your work is yours, and everything will continue just the same.
" She held the eldest girl's gaze. "You have my word. "
The girl's shoulders dropped half an inch with the release of her tension. The youngest took her hand and they filed back inside with smiles on their faces.
She said the same thing, in varying forms, throughout the day.
To the press house women, to the guards when their captain came to her with a face carefully arranged into professional neutrality, and asked whether the household arrangements would be reviewed.
To the two women from the infirmary who appeared at dusk with a small bunch of herbs tied in a ribbon, which they pressed into her hand shyly.
Nothing will change. He won't interfere. You’re safe here.
She said it so many times that by evening she was beginning to believe it herself.
What she didn't say, was that she’d said yes in the first place so nothing would change. She didn't want their gratitude, but she wanted them to stop worrying. They’d been through enough in life.
She hadn’t seen Kalen. After training, she had taken to helping in the fields, but she hadn’t appeared by this nightfall.
Verna had watched her once, at a distance, moving along the rows with her shears.
Her technique was entirely her own, nothing like the careful, trained snip of the experienced pickers, but efficient in a different way.
She picked fast and without waste, her hands moving through the vines with the same economy she brought to everything physical.
But today, when Verna crossed the upper terrace in the late afternoon and looked out over the vineyard rows and scanned the figures moving between them, she found Kalen wasn’t among them.
She shaded her eyes against the bright sun, then turned away from the vineyard and went back to her accounts. Despite telling herself her absence meant nothing, she looked out at the vineyards twice more before the light failed.
Though she knew she should keep away, Verna went to the amphitheatre the next morning.