Hilde #2
It was cold in the cottage, a good deal more so than it had been outside in the sunlight, and Hilde found herself shivering as she started a fire in the hearth.
There was no stove. Elmwood had lowered himself into Rud’s chair, now mercifully wearing a spare pair of the man’s breeches, and seemed to be taking the place in.
Janey’s touch was all over, from the carefully sewn curtains on the window to the jars of preserves in the cupboards.
“You’re good at that,” said Elmwood.
“What?”
“Building a fire. I would have thought that the Lady Croft would have people to build her fires for her.”
She laughed. “The Lady Croft does, but Hilde the farmer’s daughter and Hilde the maidservant were required to be quite competent at it.”
“Were you really both of those people, before you were Lady Croft?” he asked.
“I was indeed.”
“That sounds like quite a story.”
She took down a skillet that hung over the hearth. The fire needed to die down a bit before she could cook over it, but she suspected that if Elmwood had fled Merewyth without breeches, he had likely also left without breakfast.
“It’s actually not much of a story at all.”
“Very well, keep your counsel if it pleases you. I will try something simpler instead, for I find that I must know why the Lady Croft was up a ladder trimming vines off a dilapidated dovecote and swearing like a soldier.”
It was a fair question. In truth, she was a little chagrined to be caught at the task, not because it was beneath her as a lady but because it was a frivolous use of time. She would never have squandered anyone else’s daylight on such a project.
“It’s flowering greencreep. The vine. It’s native to Paladoor, where they grow it neatly up walls and it behaves itself, but in this climate, it will tear a building down if left to grow unhindered.
You have to cut it back hard every spring.
I’m particular about how it’s done, and I won’t waste anyone else’s time and labor on it.
But it is a sweaty, finicky task. Hence the swearing.
” Paladoor was an island nation far to the south.
The weather was so hot there during the height of summer that the greencreep died back naturally, making it unnecessary to prune it.
Elmwood was leaning forward, obviously delighted.
“Why would you care how it’s done?”
“Well, if you cut it back too far, it damages the next year’s blooms.”
“Then why grow it at all? Why not rip it out?”
She frowned at him. “Have you ever seen flowering greencreep? It’s stunning when it blooms, putting out veritable clouds of blossoms that smell like spice cakes. I enjoy painting it. Something so beautiful is worth a bit of trouble, in my opinion.”
Elmwood nodded thoughtfully, as if absorbing what she’d said. He seemed oddly pleased by it. “A supporter of beauty for beauty’s sake. You surprise me, Lady Croft, as up to this point in our acquaintance, you’ve been all business.”
It rankled a bit, though she could not have said why. She would have thought she’d be pleased to have someone say that about her, as she prided herself on being someone who got straight to the point.
“I will endeavor to take that as a compliment, Lord Elmwood,” she said, knowing it sounded prim.
He smiled at her slyly, and she had the distinct feeling that he knew he’d agitated her and was pleased by it. But instead of continuing that line of conversation, he asked, “How did a Paladoorish vine end up on the Croftholde dovecote? Did you plant it?”
“Oh no, it’s far older than I am. There was a Lady Croft, about one hundred years back, who was Paladoorish.
She was an avid gardener and planted a number of things from her homeland.
I suppose I have a sort of connection to the greencreep because my grandmother was also Paladoorish.
She was one of that Lady Croft’s serving girls, and ended up marrying my grandfather, who grew up in the village. My mother’s parents.”
“Did you know your Paladoorish grandmother?” he asked, sounding a bit wistful.
“A little. She died when I was young. I have a memory of running into her skirts to hide. She handed me something to eat. I can’t remember what it was.”
She busied herself with the frying pan, greasing it and lowering it over the coals that had formed. Why had she shared that memory with him? She didn’t think she’d ever mentioned it to anyone before, not even Thorgoode.
She fetched two eggs from the cupboard. They were at least a few days old, from before Rud left, but they should still be fine.
She cracked the eggs into the pan and sniffed them.
They smelled edible. If they hadn’t, she could have Charmed them fresh.
Normally she would never even consider using her Charm where someone might observe her, but Elmwood was different.
He had a Charm himself, and he knew she had one, too, even though he had not said as much.
Why had he not brought it up? Was it possible he had not noticed the Charm thrill when they touched?
The idea of him asking her about it was both alarming and exhilarating. What would it be like to discuss this part of herself with someone who could not judge her for it? There were so few Charmers left, she might never have another opportunity. But there was no civil way to broach the subject.
“Are those for me?” he asked eagerly, peering at the eggs.
“I thought you might be hungry.”
She was very aware of his eyes on her as she cooked.
When the eggs had set, she slid them onto a plate for him and handed it over.
He took a bite of egg and groaned appreciatively. It was rather unseemly.
“Nimsby is dreadful at eggs,” he said, mouth full. “He always scrambles them and cooks them until they have the consistency of boot leather.”
“Mr. Nimsby is not a cook, no matter how resolutely you make use of him as such,” she said, trying to hide the smile that he had provoked. “He’s not even a steward.”
“He isn’t bad at cooking, eggs aside. When I can find him, that is.
” Several seconds passed wherein he seemed to be quite occupied with enjoying the eggs.
He finished the last bite, then said, “You are full of surprises, Lady Croft. I have never known a Lady who could fry such a fine egg. I suppose it is a further product of your mysterious history, which you do not wish to share with me. Not that I blame you. I wouldn’t share my secrets with me. ”
She settled on the bench by the fire, frowning.
She didn’t think of herself as someone who had secrets.
There was her Charm, of course, but that was a secret so old that keeping it was like breathing.
Hiding Thorgoode’s death had been different, though.
It was like trying to hold a host of sparrows captive in her hands.
Lord Elmwood already knew about her Charm and Thorgoode alike, and somehow, she did not feel unsafe with her meager but dangerous secrets in his hands.
Why did she have the sense that she could trust him?
Was it an illusion, spurred on by the reckless kinship between them because he was a Charmer, too?
Was that why she now had the impulse to tell him whatever he wished to know?
Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing. Perhaps if she did confide in him, it might make him understand why she needed his help so badly.
“My history is not a secret. Our mother died of a fever when my sister, Han, and I were still children, and our father followed after a few years later. When he died, the tenancy of our farm was granted to another family. This was before Thorgoode had come to live at Croftholde. The old steward, Tom, managed things back then. He took us in at the manor and put us to work. I was eleven and Han was seven.”
“It must have been difficult, to lose your family and be sent to work,” said Elmwood.
She tipped back the bench, propping her feet up on the hearthstone.
“I’d been working the farm since I was old enough to count eggs, and once our mother passed, I was expected to fill her shoes.
I grieved when our father died, of course, but in some ways, it was a relief to be taken in at the manor.
Tom was kind, and so was Cook, and the work was gentler than running the farm—especially with no Lord Croft in residence.
We even attended the village school for longer than most of the farm children could. ”
“Then Lord Croft returned to the ancestral seat?”
She nodded.
“He hadn’t visited in all the years we’d lived there, so it shocked us when he turned up and announced that he’d be staying.
No Croft had spent more than a fortnight at Croftholde in seventy years.
And at first, it was certainly more work—though Han didn’t mind.
She loves horses, and Thorgoode’s arrival meant that finally she had more than farm nags to tend to. ”
“You did mind?”
She hesitated. She had no desire to discuss her feelings about Thorgoode.
It was undoubtedly a betrayal to say anything critical of him, when he was lying dead in the root cellar and she was meant to be grieving him.
But the truth was that she had resented his presence deeply when he’d first arrived.
She’d loathed scrubbing his layers of fine bedclothes with lye soap.
She’d hated beating his featherbed, stoking his fire before it was light outside, and emptying his chamber pot.
She’d thought him a great hulking nuisance, but she certainly wasn’t going to tell Elmwood that.
“No,” she lied. “In any case, he ended up surprising everyone by marrying me, and that’s how I became Lady Croft.”
“Do you miss him?”
It was not a question she was expecting, and it hit her like a mule kick to the chest.