Chapter 7 Collecting Myself #2
“Are you okay?” Clara asks, touching the back of her hand to my forehead.
I lift a shoulder. “Maybe he had a bad clam.”
“Speaking of clams,” she replies, clicking on a brilliant fabric of green sequins. “If you wore something like this and took the scales all the way up your bodice, you wouldn’t have to bother with the shells. Get Mama’s seamstress to whip up an ocean-inspired headpiece.”
“With a lace mask?” I laugh. “Hotness is basic and men are overrated.”
Her lashes flicker. “I can assure you that the right one is not.”
I only have a week, but miracles are wrought with unholy amounts of money, royal privilege, and Caroline Tiele.
On the afternoon of the party, I run out to Lindenholm, breezing through the front doors of the massive old house where the symbol of the van Heydens, a pair of wild stags locked in eternal combat, is carved into the ancient woodwork at the head of the stairs.
Dust motes dance in the light and I lift my nose, scenting beeswax, fresh mown lawns, and old, old books.
Alix races into the hall and scoops me into an embrace and, half-throttled, I smile at Tom over her shoulder.
“This looks promising,” she says, tugging the zipper of the garment bag slung over my arm.
I pass it off to a member of the housekeeping staff and wonder if I will lose my nerve. “Have you been decorating?” I ask.
She nods. “And I’m famished.” The comment has the color of a complaint from the Middle Ages—the kind where bothersome archbishops get murdered and the king can say his hands are clean. Within moments, a girl brings a tray of coffee and an assortment of tiny sandwiches into the drawing room.
“Thank you…Cora, yes?” I say. The staff member nods and smiles, before taking herself off. “Where is Amma?” I ask. I don’t remember a time when I called her Vrouwheid van Heyden or Madame Han Lan Hua.
“My Ella,” a voice with a faint accent calls from the doorway.
Amma hugs me like an oversized cardigan folded over her chest. In reality, she wears brilliant red lipstick and clothes designed to cow financial wizards into releasing enough funds to put a new roof on crumbling ancestral piles.
Though this is not her home, she fought for it.
When a wild princess was put in her care, she fought for her, too.
“You didn’t hug me like that,” Alix laughs.
Amma talks over my head. “You never stand in one place long enough for this kind of hugging.”
“I’ll hug you, Ali, even if I have to chase you down.” Tom picks her up and carries her across the hall, her shrieks of laughter trailing behind them.
The room falls into silence and Amma brushes back my hair with the palms of her hands, giving me a long appraisal. “You look tired,” she pronounces.
“There’s no reason for it. My mother wants to keep me out of trouble, so I’m on a sort of administrative leave.” I laugh, though it sticks in my throat. “Anyway, it’s a rest.”
Amma doesn’t laugh. “I see how it is. When you can least be spared, you have been pitched from the palace like a pest.” She shakes her head and exhales her frustration. “She mishandles you.”
I am vulnerable and transparent under her sharp gaze, and wish I could drag a curtain between us. She probably sees that, too, because she turns the topic, grilling me about my patronages, and ends by telling me to get a Seongan facial.
“Have you met anyone worthy of you yet? No, I can see that you haven’t.” I wipe my face, trying to get whatever she sees off, but she lifts her voice. “Has anyone seen my son?” she asks.
The footman answers at once. “He is at the west boundary, ma’am, but promises to return for the party.”
Amma shakes her head, earrings flashing brilliantly in the light. “Promises,” she mutters. “He’ll come back, reeking of filth.” She gives me a kiss and checks her watch. “Run down and collect him, my Ella?”
I am at home here, so I dig out an old coat and boots by the kitchen door, roughly my size, and find a key from the row of hooks in the stables. Matching one to a quad, I am soon bumping over the muddy track, the fresh air tearing through my curls.
In the east fields, I find Marc in a ditch with local laborers, covered in dirt and sweat. I hail him from the top of the hill. After he shakes every hand and slaps every back, he makes his way to me, the wind playing through his hair up the steep rise.
At the sight of him, a length of tension spools out of my shoulders, and then I catch myself. Marc is not my lover. These worries I have—about my mother, about my sister—are mine alone. I tug them back again, tucking them under like a circle of dough.
“Climb on,” I say, when he’s close enough to smell. I should mind his musky scent but I don’t. I glance away, remembering Clara’s words, and blush hotly. He was checking you out.
If it were true that he was gripped by a momentary attraction, he had a year to do something about it. I crush the green shoots of hope, ruthlessly ripping them out by the roots. Hope hurts.
I brace myself as he mounts the quad behind me, settling his hands on my waist. Heat flares up my neck, and I thank the brisk spring wind for having already put some pink in my cheeks. I wish he looked like a troll.
Who am I kidding? Marc would make a hot troll.
I drive the quad back, but my stiff posture makes riding double a punishment.
The second time I crack his jaw, he scoops an arm around my waist, anchoring me against his chest. I wish he didn’t make me feel warm and safe.
As soon as I reach the old stables, I cut the engine and scramble off the quad.
“Vede, Ells.” He laughs and reaches for me. I steady myself and put distance between us, speeding along the kitchen path. If he asks me what’s wrong—
“You had to pick today to fix the drainage?” I ask, filling the silence, pregnant with his curiosity. “You have the money to hire out.”
“No one is that rich.” His eyes narrow and he closes the distance between us, raking his fingers through my hair, putting it right.
My hand chases his like a good Sondish housewife, shooing her guests away from the dishes. Don’t do that. It’s my job. Our fingers tangle and he pulls away but I am warm all over.
Han Heyden isn’t hurting for money. “I read Businessmen’s Quarterly,” I say, turning toward the house.
“For the articles?” He winks as he takes my coat with his, hooks them inside the mudroom, and shucks his filthy boots as I shuck mine.
I catch our reflection in a fly-specked mirror and see the reassuring sight of a pair of old friends with dirty faces.
We will never be more to each other than we are.
I have made my peace with that. If my rosy cheeks tell another story, I shy away from reading it.
“If Amma moves back to Seong,” he says, his shoulder brushing mine, “I’ll have to run Lindenholm. No amount of money will replace being on good terms with my neighbors.”
I hook the heels of my shoes with my crooked fingers, slip them on, and retreat to the doorway. I pause there and lean against the jamb. “You could meet them at farming conferences and invite them over for cocktails. You don’t have to meet them in the mud.”
He pauses in the too-small doorway, too, curving his shoulders to fit against the other side of the frame. I look away. “You love our mud. I used to catch you in it all the time. This deep.” He reaches out and brushes a line under my chin, gently drawing my gaze back to his.
I look at him as long as I can—almost three seconds—before averting my eyes to the brick floor. I trace the nicks, uneven lines, and the irregularities of a surface that hasn’t been forced into consistency—training my attention on those gaps instead of the tiny one between us.
He touches my cheek, but I don’t look at him this time. “They have to trust that I will have their backs.” His hand drops and he suddenly shifts. “You remember our college days? Everyone wants to come for the party, but only your real friends will come help you move a couch.”
The quarter hour chimes with a gentle bong and he hitches away from the doorway.
As he goes, his wide shoulders crowd the narrow hall.
My mind travels to a Saturday morning with a tall graduate student and his vegan leather sofa.
A short princess, unwisely wearing flip flops, shouts curses on his children and his children’s children as they load the truck.