Chapter 8
Aoife woke to movement in her room. A maid was crouched by the hearth, striking flint to light the fire. Aoife watched her for a moment, trying to remember what Clara had said. The girl who lit the fires was the scullery maid, Pansy, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Aoife rubbed her chest, the tightness that had settled over her after she said the oath had not lifted. The air held the soft chill of early autumn, but at home they wouldn’t light the fires yet, wouldn’t waste the wood.
“It’s all right,” Aoife said quickly. “You don’t need to bother with that.”
The girl startled, nearly dropping the tinderbox. Aoife winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s only, I don’t need the fire.”
The maid kept her eyes down, looking awkward and unsure.
“Is something the matter?” Aoife asked.
“Mrs Harrow told me to light it, miss.”
Aoife nodded. “Right.” Everyone was playing their roles here; she didn’t want to get the girl into trouble. “Of course you should light it in that case.”
The girl smiled faintly, relieved, and bent to her work.
Aoife hadn’t slept well. The bed was too big; the silence too deep. At home she had slept pressed between her brother and sister, their warmth and breathing a comfort. Here, the sheets were cold, and the space beside her was empty.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the Athraith. If it was an omen, surely it was meant for her. After all, she’d seen it twice now. But what was it trying to say? That she was in danger here? She already knew. Or was it something else, something she couldn’t yet understand?
When the fire caught, the maid straightened, smoothing her apron, eyes on the floor.
“Thank you.” Aoife smiled. “It’s Pansy, isn’t it?”
The girl shot a look at Aoife but quickly cast her eyes down again. “Yes, miss.”
“Well, thank you, Pansy. It was my job to tend the fire at home, and in my father’s forge sometimes too. I found lighting it to be the fun part. I hated clearing out the ashes.”
Pansy was silent for several seconds. “Yes, miss.”
It was clear Aoife wouldn’t be getting conversation out of the girl. “I’m sure you have other fires to tend to.
Pansy bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, miss. I’ll let Clara know you’re awake, miss,” she said, and scurried out.
Clara arrived not long after, carrying an armful of dresses. Three were already finished.
“You must have worked all night,” Aoife said, astonished.
Clara smiled, faintly proud. “Mrs Harrow helped a little. We wanted you to have a proper dress to wear for breakfast.”
As Clara helped her into the dress, Aoife couldn’t help asking the question that had been nagging at her. “Whose dresses are these?”
Clara froze in her movements. “I’m not sure I’m allowed to say.”
“I’m not sure how anyone would ever find out you did.”
Clara looked Aoife in the eyes, deciding whether she could trust her. “Before he came here,” Clara said at last, “Lord Halverton had a fiancée. I believe the dresses were hers.” Clara returned to her work.
Aoife thought of Halverton’s slip of the tongue the day before. “Was her name Florence?”
Clara looked up at her sharply. “How could you know that?”
“He let it slip yesterday.”
Clara breathed a sigh. “Don’t let him hear you say her name. He won’t like it.”
“Why?”
“It was before my time. I couldn’t say.”
Aoife studied her. The way she avoided meeting Aoife’s eye wasn’t just concentration on her work. “You know something, don’t you?”
Clara sighed.
Aoife softened. “I’d like to know what I’m getting into.”
Clara hesitated. “The way I heard it, the move here was a demotion. Florence ran before the ink was dry on the transfer. Now that’s all I know, so don’t ask.”
Aoife mulled that over. A fiancée who’d left him the moment things turned hard was sure to have hurt him and changed the way he looked at relationships.
Now he’d found himself a woman who couldn’t leave.
She must be able to use that knowledge to her advantage, but how?
Show she understood him and try to find a way to the man he was before he had his heart broken?
After all, Florence must have fallen for something about the man beyond his position. Maybe Aoife could find it too.
As Clara continued her work, buttoning and lacing the dress.
Aoife looked at herself in the mirror. The dress was undoubtedly stunning.
A blue so deep it was almost black, with lace at the sleeves and fine bell-shaped flowers embroidered into the skirt.
But it wasn’t hers. Florence had chosen the fabric.
Florence had chosen the flowers. Aoife didn’t recognise them, an Eldrossi species perhaps.
Did they hold a symbolism she didn’t understand?
Or a meaning special to Florence and Halverton?
Halverton, it seemed, wasn’t moulding her into a lady. He was shaping her into one lady in particular.
***
The sight that met her when she entered the breakfast room stopped her short. The table was set with toast and rolls, butter carved into roses, dishes of preserves and fruit, cold meats, cheese, and smoked fish. It was more food than her family had seen in weeks.
“Good morning. Is someone else joining us?” she asked.
Lord Halverton didn’t look up from his newspaper. “Good morning, and no. No one is joining us.”
The room was bright with pale morning light that fell across the large table from tall sash windows. It smelled of coffee, smoked meat, and beeswax polish. The chairs were high-backed and upholstered, beautiful but soulless compared to her own. Aoife perched on the edge of hers.
Halverton finished the article he was reading, folded the paper, and looked at her properly.
“You look incredible,” he said, standing up. “You’ll look even better once the new silks arrive. The green will suit you especially.”
He crossed to her side of the table. Standing behind her, he brushed the hair from her neck, sweeping it across one shoulder.
Aoife forced herself not to move. A silver necklace hung in the air in front of her for a moment before Halverton lowered it, fastening it behind her, his fingers warm against her skin.
The seconds stretched. He did not move. Aoife’s breathing quickened, her skin tingling as he stood behind her, not saying a word.
Brusquely, he swept the hair over her shoulder again and returned to his seat.
“You must look the part,” he said.
Aoife reached for her glass, mouth dry, buying herself a moment to decide what to say. She could not say it was beautiful; she hadn’t had a chance to see it. She knew she ought to thank him, but she could not bring herself to do so for a gift she had no use for.
“You shouldn’t have,” she said at last. It was polite, demure, exactly the sort of thing the lady in his book would say, and it had the benefit of being entirely true.
He smiled faintly.
She looked at the table again. “There’s so much food,” she said carefully. “What happens to what we don’t eat?”
Halverton shrugged. “I don’t know.” He gestured to the footman, who refilled his glass.
“You don’t know?” Aoife asked incredulously.
Halverton shrugged again.
“Could you find out?” She asked, trying not to sound rude.
The butler, standing nearby, shifted uneasily.
Halverton sighed and turned to the butler. “What happens to it?”
Mr Lanyon cleared his throat. “Anything that keeps, my lord, will be presented again tomorrow. Perishables are sent to the servants’ table. Anything spoiled goes to the pigs.”
Halverton nodded, satisfied. “See. None of it is wasted, and no one in my house goes hungry.”
No, only those on your farms.
He turned to her. “Now, stop asking questions and eat.”
A footman stepped forward. “What shall I serve you, miss?”
Aoife hesitated, heat rising up her neck.
She asked the footman to tell her what it all was before selecting two pieces of fruit, one she’d never had before and a pear which was her favourite, plus a few slices of cold meat. And finished it off with a small roll with a butter rose.
Her plate was barely half full, but she didn’t think she could eat more.
“Anything from the hot buffet?” the footman asked. When she gave him a blank look, he gestured behind her.
She turned. She rose instinctively to get a closer look at the sideboard weighed down with dishes. Bacon, sausages, porridge, and three kinds of eggs were all kept warm over little flames. Halverton’s voice cut across the table.
“The servants will bring it. Sit down.”
He’d already returned to his paper.
She sat. “Anything from the buffet, miss?”
“No, thank you.” The footman set the plate before her and stepped back. She forced herself to eat slowly, mind turning. So much food. More than they could ever finish, even with all the servants.
She waited until Halverton’s attention drifted to the newspaper, then tried to slip a small roll into her sleeve. His voice came without looking up.
“Eat it.”
She froze. “It could feed my brother and sister,” she said.
“It is not for them. It is for you.”
She wanted to argue, but didn’t. Yelling would do nothing. She drew a breath instead. “Thank you for the food,” she said evenly.
What would Cormac do? The thought popped into her head unbidden. Cormac would leap across the table and strangle him. She almost laughed out loud at the image, quickly hiding it behind a cough.
If she couldn’t take food herself, perhaps the servants could help her. There had to be a way. She mulled it over as she ate. Halverton continued to read.
Aoife was nearly finished when the butler stepped into the room. “My Lord, Mr Edrith is here to see you.”
“Who?” Halverton asked without looking up.
“The harbour master, sir.”
“Tell him his timing is most inconvenient, and I shall speak with him later.”
“He did say it was urgent, sir.”
Halverton finally put his paper aside. “Very well, show the man in.”
The butler gave a curt bow before backing out of the room.
Halverton folded his paper and laid it down on the table.
A short, rotund man entered the room, hat in hand.
“What is it, man?” Halverton asked, sounding exasperated. “And whatever it is, it had better justify disturbing my breakfast.”