Chapter Five
Five
There are still noises in the night, but I’ve gotten better at ignoring them.
Fortunately, in the week that has passed, there have been no more screams. One night I heard faint music accented by bells as if drifting to me from a faraway place.
Another night I heard heavy thuds and grunting that rumbled the door to the main hall.
And a different night, I heard laughter echoing from a distant portion of the manor.
It’s funny how quickly you can grow accustomed to something.
Now I hardly wake up anymore at the strange sounds.
The night after Lord Fenwood and I spoke, I checked the door to my wing.
The handle turned. He’d done as I’d asked, so I kept my word and did not open it. Since then, I’ve never slept better.
For the past week, I’ve found a strange sort of peace to the repetition of my days.
It is nice not to be ordered around or have to meet other people’s expectations from sunup to sundown.
I can walk through the brush and strum in my glade with not a care in the world.
Once or twice, I could swear I sensed the presence of Lord Fenwood listening again.
But if he was there, he didn’t make himself known as an audience.
But today, on the seventh day since my arrival, the peace fades into monotony.
I wake up and lie in bed and don’t have the energy to do anything more than stare up at the ceiling.
What is the point of getting out of bed when there’s nothing to do?
At least back home, I had goals. Every day there was something to be done, some necessary upkeep that I busied my hands with and that made me feel accomplished at the end of the day.
At the very least, I’d have Misty to tend to and ride.
When I was married off, I expected to find a new purpose. I was apprehensive about whether I would like that purpose or not. But building a home and family would be something to work on and toward. Having nothing to do is becoming utterly mind-numbing.
“You didn’t go out into the wood today,” Oren says to me at dinner as he pours wine in my glass. I’m surprised he’s noticed my habits. We interact only at the beginning and end of the day, and I’ve never seen him between.
“No…” I push some potatoes around my plate with a fork. “I didn’t feel like it.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes—I—I’m not sure, honestly.”
“Are you uncomfortable?” He seems shocked that I could possibly be upset or distraught. I can’t blame him. I’m surrounded by a lovely paradise where all I have to do is say the word and my wish is granted.
“No, not at all.” I laugh bitterly. “Maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe I’m so accustomed to being uncomfortable that I have no idea what to do with myself now that the discomfort is gone.”
“Is there something I can get for you?”
“Not something to get…but something for you to do. Would you mind asking Lord Fenwood if he would be open to a nightcap with me tonight?”
His fine gray brows scrunch together as he looks down at me with his beady eyes. “I can ask him.”
I wonder what that unreadable expression meant for the rest of dinner.
Oren doesn’t return. I take my plate down to the kitchen, wash it, as I have after most meals, and return it to its place.
On my way back to my room, I notice that the door to my study is open.
The two chairs are waiting, a sweating glass filled with a cool drink perched on each chair’s side table.
I’m eager to take my seat. I settle in, shifting until I’m comfortable.
Then I grab the armrests and lean back into my chair, pressing my skull against the leather.
Even if the lord startles me, I will not look back.
I want this meeting to go smoothly. I haven’t realized how badly I need to make a genuine connection in my new home until this very moment.
I might not want love from the man, but friendship, a shared goal or understanding—I could do with that, I think.
Even in the worst moments at the manor, I had Laura.
Oh, sweet Laura. I think about her daily, hoping she’s doing well.
“You asked to see me?” That toe-curling voice startles me from my thoughts. I wonder if he knows that, however hideous he might imagine himself to be, with a voice like that, he could have his pick of anyone.
“I did. I thought we might share a drink.” I lift my glass, raising it off to the side so that he can see I’m not making any attempt to look.
I hear the whisper of his footsteps drawing near.
Without warning, his glass clinks softly against mine.
He’s close; if I turned my head I could see him.
But I don’t. The fire smolders so low that all I can make out of him in the reflection on the dark window is a tall shadow. “What are we toasting to?”
“How about the fact that I’ve managed to keep you alive this long?” He chuckles darkly.
I laugh as well. “I’m not that reckless.”
“But I have been known to be.” The chair behind me shifts as he settles into it.
“Oh?”
“In my younger years especially.” The ice clinks in his glass as he takes a sip. “I have been the cause of many of Oren’s headaches throughout his time caring for me.”
“Oren has been with you a long time?”
“Yes, he’s looked after me since I was a baby.”
“Did you know your parents?” I ask softly, aware of just how difficult this topic can be.
“I did.”
“How long ago did they die?” I stare into the lemon-colored liquid in my glass.
“What makes you think they’re dead?”
“I can hear it in your voice. There’s a certain tone people have when they’ve lost a loved one. That loss leaves a void that gives everything a hollow sound whenever they’re mentioned.” I take a sip, trying to wash that sound from my own voice. “Oh, this is really good. And sweet, like honey.”
“It’s mead. Not the best bottle I have, but certainly not the worst.”
I smile faintly at the thought of him picking out a bottle from some dusty storeroom just for this meeting.
“Who did you lose?” he asks. My smile fades.
“Both of them,” I say. “My mother died when I was very little. My father said she was not made for this world, that she was too good for it, but that he was lucky that she at least left me behind for him.”
“And your father?”
“He runs—ran—the trading company, as you know…” I trail off. His death is fresher. I’ve tried to shove it into the same box my mother’s loss occupies, but it’s not the same. I had a life with my father. My mother is just faded memories and emotions imprinted on my very soul.
Lord Fenwood is patient, allowing me to wallow in my thoughts for several minutes.
“Joyce, his wife, she demanded he take a more hands-on approach to the business by going on more trading ships as the northern seas became more volatile and trade became harder. He was gone so often, there were weeks I had to fight to remember the details of his face. Then…the ship he was on went down. No one found the bodies, so there was hope for a while. But it’s been so long now… ”
“I’m deeply sorry.” He means it. In none of our discussions have I ever smelled a lie. It strikes me that every single thing I’ve been told in this house has been as true as rain.
“I survived.”
“As we all do.”
I imagine what he must look like behind me.
Is he leaning back in his chair as I’m leaning back in mine?
If someone looked at us from the side, would it seem as though we’re trying to lean on each other, desperate for support?
Isolated in a world where we have been cut off from those who should love us most?
“Oren tells me you are distraught. Is it the anniversary of one of their passings?”
I shake my head. Realizing he can’t see me, I say, “No, Mother died in the early fall and Father was in the summer.”
Saying it aloud makes me realize how fresh his death is and how much my life has changed since then.
I should be sadder, I think. But I have felt some emotions so strongly, I think they burned up, leaving nothing but the charred edges of my heart behind.
I think a part of me still hopes, maybe lies to myself, that he’ll show up at any second.
“And distraught might be too extreme a word.” I force myself to continue. “I suppose I want something to do, some kind of purpose here.”
“You don’t need to do anything, just lounge in the luxury I can provide you.”
“That’s just it—I’m not made for lounging and luxury.”
“You’re the eldest daughter of a trader lord.” He chuckles. “Oren told me of your estate. I know the luxury you are accustomed to.”
“You still know nothing about me,” I remind him with a bit of an edge.
“And if Oren thought our estate was luxurious, then you should have him check his eyes.” His silence prompts me to continue.
“The estate was held together by nails, plaster, and prayer. I should know; I was the one responsible for keeping it upright.”
“You?”
“I know I don’t look it, but I’m actually rather handy, if I do say so myself; I can do a good variety of maintenance and upkeep.
None of them exceptionally well, I admit.
But well enough. I cannot cook you a feast, but I can make sure the food is palatable so that you don’t go hungry.
I cannot build you a house or explain the finer points of architecture, but I can tell you when a roof is going to collapse and where you need to shore it up to make it last another winter or until there’s enough money to hire a proper tradesman.
” I pass my glass from hand to hand, thinking of all the things I learned out of necessity.
Part of me has the sudden urge to explain Joyce’s cruelty away as some kind of misguided attempt at a lesson.
Like she was trying to make me stronger and I just misunderstood her.
I shake my head and take another sip of the mead.
Her intention doesn’t matter when her execution was so wretched.
I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, a benefit she does not deserve.