Chapter Six Before #2
“How about a bath, my lady?” Ms. Moseley said as she joined Cat in the hall.
The older maid was green-eyed and brassy-haired, though streaks had given over to gray.
She had the look of a farmhand, not a lady’s maid, and the manner of one too.
She came with the island, so to speak, having tended to Rosby before Ryman ever inherited.
Blunt and practical, Moseley was a little too honest for her own good.
Cat loved her at first sight. She was not like Sara, or the servants Cat knew back in the Empire.
All silent as mice, trailing after their mistresses with downcast eyes.
“A bath sounds wonderful,” Cat said, feeling the sweat on her skin. “I probably smell of horse.”
“At least you don’t look like one,” Moseley replied with a grin, her teeth a flash against the dark house. All the windows were shuttered to keep out the daily heat and hold on to some cool shade. She gestured for Cat to move, shooing her down the central hall, past the creaking staircase.
“Come now, let the old left-behind work.”
Cat hesitated, worrying her lip in her teeth. “I didn’t mean you, Moseley.”
“Of course you did, and who am I to argue?” Moseley answered and clicked her tongue. She shuffled Cat along as if she were a sheep on a country lane. “I was left behind by the old master, same as Sparrow and anything else not nailed down.”
“Well, I don’t know what this place would be without you.”
“A ruin, probably.” The maid shrugged as they reached the kitchen at the back of the house.
Dust clung to the floors, the estate far too big for only the few servants to manage. Though Moseley certainly tried, ordering the others about like soldiers in a regiment.
They crossed the kitchen together, the ceiling lower here, the floor made of solid brick instead of planked wood.
Coals glowed in the hearth and Cat caught the smell of bread baking.
The door to the root cellar was open, and dried herbs dangled in the gloom.
A half-plucked chicken sat on the stout table, as well as a pile of sad greens from the garden nearby, ready to be washed and cooked.
Part of Cat wanted to help, knowing Moseley and Sara would have their hands full preparing dinner for Ryman and his guests. The rest of her knew she would only be in the way, her skills in the kitchen more a hindrance than an aid.
“I suppose if I left the island, your husband would have to sell,” Moseley added, the pair of them stepping into the adjoining chamber.
What was once a storeroom for the kitchen had been converted to a room for washing. A tub sat in the corner, the tarnished metal gleaming in the low light.
“Do run off, then, won’t you?” Cat mumbled. She retrieved the small basket by the window that held a corner of soap and a tattered sponge.
At the door to the kitchen garden, Moseley grinned. “I’ll pack two bags, my lady.”
* * *
A BOOK DANGLED from her hand, the pages sliding in and out of focus. Cat could have stayed in the water for hours, suspended, floating, pretending the bath was her own ship on the sea, carrying her off to wherever she wished to go.
Even if she couldn’t think of a place to wish for.
She knew she would start sweating again as soon as she stepped out of the lukewarm water, and the great wheel of discomfort would turn once more.
With guests to mind too. Already she felt exhausted by the prospect of their company.
It would be another experiment in boredom or suffering.
To sit silently and pretend to be enamored with their no-doubt embellished tales of war on the waves.
They would boast and lie, as the black-haired officer had.
And probably swindle her husband out of a few coins, if the cards or dice came out.
Not that Cat would be permitted to participate, though she suited cards far more than her husband ever could.
Or at least I did, she thought, remembering her old life. Before Ryman, before marriage. She used to win ribbons and buttons from her sisters, and even a few pennies from the servants, though she had never kept their money. Until her mother had scowled her usual scowl and taken the cards away.
Unbecoming of a lady, she used to say.
What a lady I am now, Mother, Cat thought bitterly.
Frowning, she turned back to the book she had been reading, the curling lines of ink blotting away memories of her mother.
ARCAYO remains the only Lyrian state independent of foreign control, maintaining its sovereignty. It is therefore known in most circles as Crownless Arcayo.
Unlike the surrounding islands of the Lyrian Sea, the indigenous Arcayans survived the devastating waves of plague that swept through the archipelago upon first contact with Esperese explorers.
Meridian scholars hypothesize the Arcayans enjoyed a natural immunity unlike their neighbors.
But how remains to be discovered. Researchers at the University of Oxmore suggest their trade links with Itzima, a native kingdom of the Southern Continent, gave Arcayans protection beyond their neighbors, introducing the Arcayan merchant class to foreign contact, mitigating disease.
A small few posit some connection to the Arcayan religion, the worship of the Lyrian Sea.
Crownless, Cat thought idly, closing her little history book and setting it aside. It seemed a peculiar thing, to live without a monarch or sovereign. Though she doubted such a place could last much longer, even in the wild Lyrian Sea.
Would the Empire send more ships to conquer what little free land remains? Does that benefit my lot in any way? Not likely. Unless Ryman is somehow caught in the crossfire, finding himself on the wrong end of a bayonet...
She cheered herself with the prospect of becoming a widow, letting it carry her through the regretful act of leaving the bath.
As expected, she began sweating almost as soon as the water rolled off her skin.
At least her garments here were not nearly so oppressive as what she wore back in Meridia—the layers of petticoats, stiff bodices, lace sleeves, thick skirts.
In the Lyrian, she made do with a thin shift and a cotton or linen dress.
Most days she forwent stockings, but with the Meridian officers on the island, she bitterly pulled them on before donning her shoes.
She was far from polite society, but she was still Lady Rose. Some things she would not—or could not—leave behind.
The officers had gone back to their ship until dinner, giving Cat some respite.
She clung to the cool shadows until the sun was only a few fingers above the horizon.
From her bedroom window, she watched the sea become that strange tempest color, somewhere between blue and gray and green—the terrible shade that seemed to taunt her—and Cat wrenched herself away before she fell into the fleeting memories of a smirking pirate.
There was little cause for adornment anymore, so Cat could not give up the rare opportunity to sift through her jewelry. What little remained of it, at least, between her husband’s poor financial management and the pirates’ raid on the crossing.
She chose a pair of pearl earrings with a matching comb, and a pale-pink dress to set off the newly warm tones of her skin.
The neckline swept low beneath her collarbone, exposing the tops of both shoulders.
It was a far cry from a ballgown, but finer than anything she had worn since arriving on Rosby.
Even Ryman gave her a second glance, his fair eyebrows disappearing into his hairline as she joined him in the parlor.
Immediately, the two officers jumped up from their seats, both bending at the waist with their hats in hand. A third figure, their captain judging by his uniform and severe face, was already standing. He bowed stiffly and raised a glass of wine to her.
“Captain Quine, may I present my wife, Lady Catrine Rose,” Ryman said.
Her husband’s look was sharp, his jaw as tight as a fleshy jaw could be. It was clear he had not forgotten her quick tongue on the veranda and the way she had spoken to the lower officers.
Cat knew better than to do so again, in front of a captain, no less.
Back in Meridia, no navy officer outmatched a lord, even one so destitute as Ryman Rose.
But this was the Lyrian Sea, where noble lords were few and mostly useless.
Not like captains with their fortress ships, piled high with cannons and gunpowder, and dozens of loyal sailors.
The equations of society were unbalanced here, if not completely flipped.
She crossed the parlor with what grace she still possessed, extending a hand to the captain.
“Captain Quine,” she echoed, feeling the brush of his lips on her knuckles. In Meridia, she would have worn gloves, even to a dinner party so small as this. She doubted she even had gloves anymore. “We are honored to host you and your officers, as well as your ship in our harbor.”
Harbor was a strong word to describe the small, shallow cove that housed Rosby’s dock, barely more than a spit of smooth white stone and crumbling timbers. But the captain did not argue.
“The Venerable and I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Rose,” he answered, casting an eye about the room.
The parlor of Rosby House was nothing compared to the mansions and townhomes across the ocean, but the maids did their best to make everything presentable.
Cat noticed fresh flowers in vases and their hoarded beeswax candles burning around the room.
The dusty curtains had even been cleaned, everything swept and organized.
She glimpsed the same care in the adjoining dining room, the table set with the best porcelain and linens.
It made for a far more pleasant picture than Cat thought they could muster.
“I must apologize for my brusque manner this morning,” she added, giving another sweeping curtsy to the standing officers. “I was preoccupied with preparing the house and was unable to introduce myself properly.”