Chapter 12 #2
Chloe forced herself to swallow a third spoonful of mutton broth. It tasted like ash.
The hearth fire was roaring, throwing deep waves of heat into the room. The food was perfectly seasoned.
Melodie had spent an hour helping her dress for the evening, presenting a heavy gown of deep, rich wine-colored wool that Chloe had not known how to refuse.
It felt like a costume, like she was dressing up in another woman’s life, pretending to be a lady while the true master of the castle hid himself away.
The candles flickered, casting long, lonely shadows across the tapestries.
Angela had ridden out to visit a friend near Loch Fyne and wouldn't be back until week's end, which left the hall short its only other steady presence besides the one that mattered.
Edward was not coming.
She refused to ask the servants where he was. She would not degrade herself by becoming the desperate, searching wife who sent boys into the dark to drag her husband to her side. She sat with her spine locked perfectly straight, her chin high, listening to the logs spit and pop in the silence.
On her second spoonful of broth, she remembered his promise.
Four outings.
On her third spoonful, she counted the days backward in her head.
Two days had passed since the distillery.
Two days since his palm had found her waist, since she'd felt his heartbeat go unsteady beneath her hand, since he'd set his jaw and stepped back into the cold instead of finishing what neither of them had started.
Chloe set the silver spoon down with a soft clink.
Around the perimeter of the hall, the servants moved with a terrified, hyper-vigilant quietness.
They were watching her. She could feel the weight of their eyes, the deliberate slowing of their movements, the way their gazes snapped toward the floorboards whenever she looked up.
They were waiting to see if the new Lady O’Brien would break.
She reached for her goblet, took a slow, composed sip of her wine, and let the liquid warm her throat before she spoke to the empty air.
“Please return the dishes to the kitchens.”
The young servant boy near the sideboard paused, his eyes widening. “Me Lady?”
“The food,” Chloe said, rising from the table with smooth, deliberate grace.
She folded her linen napkin and smoothed it beside her plate, her fingers steady despite the slow burn of anger in her chest. “Take it down to the lower hall. There is nay purpose in lettin’ it grow cold in this empty room. ”
She did not wait for his bow. She turned and walked out of the hall, her wine-colored skirts whispering furiously against the stone.
The heat from the kitchens reached her long before she reached the bottom of the spiral stairs. The rich, comforting scents of fresh-baked bannocks, peat smoke, and roasting meat drifted up the stairwell, accompanied by the low, easy rumble of laughter.
She pushed the heavy timber door open.
The room fell instantaneously silent. Melodie was perched on a stool near the hearth, while Isla stood by the long prep table, her hands covered in flour.
Duncan was in the middle of what appeared to have been a highly animated story, his arm frozen mid-gesture, and Mrs. Donnan sat at the far end of the table, cradling a mug with an expression that suggested she was merely tolerating the youth’s noise.
Two young scullery maids stopped scrubbing the iron pots along the back wall.
They all stared at her, their bodies stiffening as they tried to readjust. It was the same invisible barrier that met Chloe in every corner of Castle O’Brien, that painful pause where the staff struggled to balance her humble past against her current title, unsure whether to offer a stool or a curtsy.
“There is an entire cauldron of mutton stew comin’ down from the hall,” Chloe said, keeping her voice light, stripping the tension from the air before it could choke them. “I told the boys to bring it down here. It would be a sin to let it go to waste.”
Mrs. Donnan’s sharp eyes tracked Chloe’s face for a long, quiet second. Then, a tiny, approving nod dipped her chin.
“Aye,” Isla said, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron as a cautious smile broke through her hesitation. “We certainly ken how to empty a cauldron in these kitchens. Will ye sit with us, me Lady?”
“I will,” Chloe said, slipping onto the bench beside Melodie.
The rhythm of the room returned gradually.
“So there Tyler is,” Duncan said, spreading his arms wide, his wooden practice blade wedged under one elbow, “standin’ in the middle of the yard in full view of every man on the mornin’ watch, and the mare has him by the back of his belt.”
“By the belt,” Isla confirmed, pointing her spoon at Chloe for emphasis. “I saw it from the wash line. The animal had made up her mind, and Tyler had nae say in the matter whatsoever.”
“He was tryin’ to talk to her,” Duncan said. “Like she was a person. Very calmly. Saying ‘easy now, easy’ while she dragged him sideways through the mud.”
Melodie laughed behind her palm. “Did he fall?”
“He did nae fall,” Duncan said with great dignity. “He was placed there. By the mare. Deliberately.”
“Face first,” Duncan added solemnly.
Without a word, one of the scullery maids slid a steaming cup of spiced ale in front of Chloe. Chloe took it, her fingers curling around the warm earthenware.
Melodie leaned toward her. “Is it true ye’ve already had Mrs. Donnan reorganize the store cupboards, me Lady?”
“Twice,” Chloe said. “The second time she suggested it herself, which I am choosin’ to take as progress.”