Chapter 4
POV: Sorsha
The house smelled of coal and bread, threaded with his scent.
The kitchen was warm and well-used. Sunlight streamed in through the window that opened outwards. A cast-iron stove stood against one wall, its surface gleaming and nothing like the stove we had.
A kettle rested on top, and beside it, a metal toasting rack leaned against the backplate, and a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth sat on a cutting board.
A broad wooden table took up most of the center, its surface worn smooth. One leg had been reinforced with a flat strip of iron, bolted neatly. I wondered if Callum had fixed it or if it had been his father.
I tried to remember his father, but his face wouldn’t come to me. He died years ago—back when my mother was still alive, so I must’ve been about ten.
I couldn’t remember ever seeing Callum’s mother. What happened to her?
Dishes were stacked on the open shelves neatly, everything from cups to plates and cutlery. Dried herbs hung from a rafter—rosemary, sage, chamomile, and some other herbs which I couldn’t identify, but smelled lemony. I’d never used any of them, but guessed some were meant for brewing tea.
Everything you needed to live comfortably, provided you had money to buy food.
I backed out of the kitchen and straight into a warm body.
Jumping away from him nervously, I turned, and our eyes met.
“Er,” he said, a blush creeping up from his neck.
I waited.
“We can get to know each other first, um, there is a spare room,” he mumbled.
“Oh,” I responded.
I hadn’t even thought that far, but if he was willing to wait, then maybe this wasn’t about sex or an heir at all.
He stepped into the kitchen, removed a large tin from a shelf, and pulled a document from his breast pocket. The shirt pulled tight across his arms when he moved, and for a moment, I was completely absorbed by those muscles.
His pants fit well and looked relatively new.
He placed the document—our marriage certificate, I presumed—into the tin and returned it to the shelf.
I wanted to say something, to apologize for not being able to read, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Our eyes met again as we stood facing each other awkwardly.
“Let me show you your room,” he said eventually, and I nodded.
I followed him down a short hallway to a cozy room with a nook bed and clapped my hands in delight, the package slipping to the floor.
We both bent down at the same time, and our heads connected.
“Ouch, sorry,” I mumbled, stepping back and rubbing my head.
He picked up the package and pointed at a three-shelf unit with a rod mounted across the top. Hooks hung from the rod, making it easy to hang anything up.
I’d never had anything to store my clothes because my father pawned the chest of drawers that had once sat in my parents’ bedroom.
Reaching up, my fingers just brushed against the rod, but that didn’t matter; I’d fold the dresses.
“I’ll move it,” he said, standing directly behind me.
This must have been his room once, and with his height, he had no problems reaching so high up.
“I can just fold the dresses,” I suggested, turning to him and taking the package.
I was dying to wear one of those dresses and feel like a normal person without holes at the seams and threadbare sleeves.
He took a step back. “I’ll leave you to it. Come to the kitchen afterwards, and we can have lunch.”
“Okay.”
He closed the door on his way out, and I spun, giddy with the kind of happiness I wasn’t used to.
I had my own room with new clothes and shoes.
But could this happiness last?
The thought rose up, unwelcome but familiar—was there really a chance of being truly happy?
Maybe for a while there was, I decided.
I laid the parcel on the bed and unwrapped it, tearing the paper in my excitement. I’d never had underwear, and now that I did, I wasn’t too impressed. The top buttoned down the front and pushed my breasts upward. Was it supposed to do that? The pants were silky and felt strange to wear.
I pulled the dress on and immediately felt overdressed. It would take time to get used to wearing layers.
But I loved the new shoes—the innards were soft and comfortable. I no longer had to grip the shoes with my toes to keep them on my feet.
Feeling like a princess, I walked into the kitchen, where Callum was slicing the loaf of bread.
“Butter?” I said in astonishment. I hadn’t had butter on my bread in years.
“And honey.”
He gestured to the chair, and I sat down, even more excited to have food this early in the day. Placing the slices into a small basket, he sat down and looked at me.
Was I supposed to do something?
Did he pray?
Oh God. What if he discovered I was uncouth and had no clue how to behave? Would he throw me out?
“Please, help yourself,” he said, taking a slice.
I almost exhaled in relief, then took a slice and buttered it slowly, making sure even the crust had butter on it. Following his lead, I spooned honey onto the slice, and it ran down the edges onto the plate.
He’d cut his slice into sections.
That might be a good idea. I followed his example and did the same, sucking honey off my fingers.
I looked up and found him staring, and quickly yanked my finger out of my mouth. “Sorry,” I mumbled, my cheeks heating.
“My fault—I forgot to put napkins down.” He turned and opened a small drawer, placing napkins on the table.
Napkins? What luxury. And they felt silky soft.
I ate another slice and probably could have eaten two more, but didn’t want to look gluttonous.
I also wanted to thank him.
“Um,” I started, and his gaze lifted, those beautiful eyes catching me off guard. “Thank you for everything, but… you didn’t have to marry me. Why did you?”
He cleared his throat and busied himself packing everything away. I stared in admiration when he opened an icebox.
I had once offered to deliver ice, but the shopkeeper said I was too weak to carry the blocks and would take too long.
“Oh, can I see? Where are the ice blocks?” I asked.
He stepped aside and slid open a compartment, revealing two large blocks. I couldn’t resist—I ran my hand over the icy surface and smiled up at him.
“I have work to do,” he said, a little too quickly, and closed the icebox. “You can do whatever you want.”
“Oh.”
Whatever I want?
Did he not expect me to do anything?
And he hadn’t answered my question.
Asking had taken courage.
Not long after, I heard the clanging of a hammer and decided to familiarize myself with the house.
It wasn’t huge, but in much better condition than ours.
Besides the kitchen, there was a lounge with a sofa big enough to sleep on and two separate chairs. The wooden armrests gleamed, as though they’d been polished just this morning.
It surprised me that Callum did the housework. Neither my father nor Ryan ever lifted a finger. I’d long since stopped cleaning—I just didn’t have the energy after working all day.
But here, I would. I’d keep everything sparkling.
As a wife was supposed to.
I found his bedroom and couldn’t stop staring at the bed. It was much bigger than any I’d seen before. Soft blankets covered it, and I couldn’t resist running my hands across them.
Maybe one day I’d sleep here, if he hadn’t tired of me by then.
When I opened the last room, I froze.
A bathroom with a toilet, a tub, and even a sink. No more slipping outside in the dark to use the outhouse. There were two levers at the sink. I hesitated, then turned one—and exclaimed in delight as water sputtered out.
But then I looked up and caught my reflection in the mirror.
My smile faltered.
An angry red welt still marked my cheek and nose. My hair was wild and tangled. My eyes—too large, the same shade of brown as the brook that ran past my old house. My cheeks looked hollow.
I wasn’t pretty.
What did that man in the crowd say? Dipped your hand in the shit.
He was right.
What could someone like me possibly offer a man like Callum?