Chapter 16
Lem
I have to pound on Bert and Berta’s door three times before I’m heard over the din. I’m ready to let myself in when it finally swings inward. One of the younger children, dressed in a nightshirt, peers up at me through a messy fringe of sandy hair.
“Mama!” the child screeches. “That scowly man is back!”
Scowly man? Even as I bristle at the title, I realize my forehead is, indeed, currently furrowed.
“The pretty lady isn’t here though!” the child continues, still staring at me.
I can’t argue with that one.
Berta bustles over, shooing the child back indoors. “Mister Lem,” she says. “What can we do for you?”
“My—wife,” I say with a cough. “Her feet have gotten blistered—do you have—”
Before I finish my request, Berta whisks off. She leaves me waiting only a moment before reappearing with an armful of white cloths, a small, lidded pot, and, unfortunately, the cap I’d left behind. “Garlic and comfrey,” she says. “And some onions. Heals everything. What else do you need?”
I accept the bundle, nose wrinkling at the scent. It certainly smells healing, if healing smells like bitter herbs and moldy grass. My eyes, skimming over Berta’s shoulder, land on the teapot Agatha had been drooling over before.
“We’ll take—” I begin, before remembering that I’m not the prince anymore. I shake my head to clear it. “Could I beg a cup of tea? Ag—my wife is fond of it.”
I think she is, anyhow.
Berta’s face beams even brighter. “Tea! Certainly! Just brewed a fresh pot. Bert and I always like to have a cup at the end of the day, you know.” She moves quickly for her size, and is there and back before I can blink, carrying the steaming pot, two chipped cups hooked over her little fingers.
“I’ll carry this,” she says, “since your arms are full.”
She calls an admonishment to the children who try to follow her like a flock of small, grubby ducklings, then walks briskly over to the whitewashed schoolhouse.
Yellow candlelight pours out of the doorway at the back of the room, but the entry is dark, and I hit my shin on one of the small desks as we grope our way to the bedroom.
Agatha looks up when I reenter. I wish I could read her expressions. She’s so composed that it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking. I imagine there’s something in her eyes—a warmth, a softness I haven’t seen before.
And then she sees Berta with the teapot, and pure joy and longing covers her face. “Tea?”
Berta sets the pot down on the washstand, clucking when she sees the basin of rust-colored water that Agatha’s bare feet are soaking in.
Her stained stockings are balled up on the floor.
“Oh dear,” she says, hovering. “This doesn’t look pleasant at all, does it?
Let me help.” She drops to the floor, heedless of the water splashed about, and tenderly washes Agatha’s feet one at a time.
Agatha makes a tiny hiss, but otherwise betrays no pain. Wordlessly, I pour her a cup of steaming tea, and she accepts it in similar silence.
The first sip causes her to close her eyes in rapture, as if just the steam can erase all her pain and weariness. I’m inordinately proud of myself for thinking of it.
I stand by the wall uselessly while Berta fusses over Agatha, washing and drying her feet with some of the cloths I’d carried over, then rubbing a tar-colored ointment on the blistered spots.
And now I’m inordinately jealous, because I wish I were down on the floor, caring for Agatha, so that she’d look at me with that expression of unguarded gratitude, instead of using it all up on Berta.
Not that Berta doesn’t deserve it—she’s been more than kind to a pair of dusty strangers—but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could have it for myself.
“Almost done, dear,” Berta says, withdrawing onion slices from somewhere. I wrinkle my nose as she wraps them onto Agatha’s feet, and step over to take the basin of dirty water from her.
“I’ll toss this out,” I say. Without looking at Agatha, I add, “You should undress and lie down. Don’t try to stand on those.”
I make my exit before she can say anything, and take my time dumping the dirty water. I should have grabbed the pitcher, too, so I could refill it, but I didn’t think of that. I never do think of the right things.
The stream runs right past the village, so I pick my way through the purple twilight and kneel to rinse the bowl and scoop it full again. I walk slowly back to the schoolhouse, both to prevent spilling and to give Agatha plenty of time to get herself covered up however she wants.
She needs another set of clothes, and probably a hairbrush, and some new stockings—
I set my mouth in a firm line.
I’m sure she’ll have them, probably soon.
Sharp-tongued or not, she’s still beautiful and charming, and there’s certainly some man around who will be more than happy to provide everything she needs.
As soon as this sham marriage is annulled, she can find someone rich enough to let her resume a life of luxury.
Although, come to think of it, Montberg House didn’t seem too luxurious. Just a bunch of gilding slapped over a run-down estate.
All the better, then. She doesn’t have to impress a very rich man, just someone with enough means to keep her comfortable.
They’ll probably be lining up to dance attendance as soon as we reach a bigger town.
Which is good, because I have my own problems to worry about, like where Henry’s gotten to and how I’m going to find him.
I reach the schoolhouse and make sure to create a bit of clatter when I enter.
Some of it—rattling the door, clomping through the schoolroom—I do intentionally, so Agatha knows I’m coming.
Some of it—hitting my shin on the same crooked desk and muttering a mild oath—is a bit less planned.
The basin of water sloshes, and some tips over one side, leaving a wet stain on my dusty trousers.
Berta is no longer in the bedroom, although Agatha is still dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed. My face falls into its usual frown. “I told you to lie down.”
Agatha rolls her eyes. “Then I couldn’t drink my tea.”
Still, I frown at her. “You need rest.”
She glances away, biting her bottom lip.
I wish she wouldn’t do that. I wish she’d answer me.
I set the basin of clean water on the floor. “I’m going to sit next to you,” I say grimly. “Don’t worry. I just need to wash, too.”
She doesn’t answer, sipping her tea as I settle on the creaky bed.
It groans under our combined weight, and I have to make an effort to keep myself from sliding down toward the middle.
Bending over, I set to work on my own dirty boots.
They’re thicker, better-made than Agatha’s, and my feet are blistered, but not as bloody as hers.
Still, I suck in a breath of discomfort when I peel my stockings off, taking a patch of raw skin with them. The cold water stings.
The bed creaks again. Agatha rises.
I frown. “You shouldn’t—”
“Hush,” she says, though not as sharply as I’d expect. “The tea will be cold if you don’t drink it soon.” She tiptoes across the room, taking care to avoid the worst of her blisters, to pour another cup of tea, which she holds out to me.
I look at my hands—dirty from scrubbing my feet. Agatha, following my gaze, grabs one of the clean cloths Berta left behind and gives that to me, too.
I take the cloth and wipe my hands before accepting the tea with a mumbled thanks.
I shouldn’t be so embarrassed right now. I’m used to being waited on.
But this feels … different.
Because it’s Agatha?
Because I’m not taking her acts of kindness for granted?
Because I’m different?
I don’t know.
I don’t realize Agatha has knelt until I feel her touch my leg. “Move.”
“What?” Surprised, I lift my feet out of the muddied water, and she removes the basin, exchanging it for another cloth, and dries my feet.
I take a gulp of tea. It’s a good thing it’s cooled a bit, or I would’ve burnt my tongue in my haste.
Agatha’s touch is gentle as she smears Berta’s ointment on the worst of my blisters.
I bite the inside of my cheek when she pats it onto my raw flesh.
I’m sure Berta knew what she was doing when she mixed up the concoction, but it stings.
Agatha copies Berta’s onion trick, binding pungent slices to my feet with the last of the clean cloths, then rinses all our stockings in the soiled water.
I watch in surprised silence. Is this the fabled Lady Agatha, blessed with innumerable fairy gifts, wringing out my dirty socks and draping them over the edge of the washtable to dry?
She turns and catches me staring. Her face pinches in annoyance. “Your tea is getting cold.”
I blink at the forgotten cup cradled in my hands. “Maybe I like cold tea.”
Agatha snorts and props her hands on her hips, surveying the room by the flickering candlelight.
The floor, which I suppose I’ll be sleeping on, is dotted with muddy water from our various splashings.
Agatha tosses one of the used cloths on the floor and pushes it around with a bandaged toe, swiping up the worst of the offending puddles.
I finish my tea and stand gingerly. Surprisingly, Berta’s concoction seems to be effective already.
The sting—and the odor—have melted into a soothing sort of warmth.
I can almost feel my skin regrowing, although that’s undoubtedly just my imagination.
Stooping, I take the cloth from Agatha and finish wiping the floor, then set my now-empty teacup back on the washstand.
“I’ll empty the basin in the morning,” I say. My voice is gravelly, as though an unstrained tea leaf has gotten caught somewhere in my throat. Carefully, so as not to spill more of the muddy, bloody water, I move the basin while Agatha strips the quilt and a pillow from the bed.
“Well,” I say, awkwardly taking them from her, “good night, then, Agatha.”
She turns and blows out the candle.