Chapter 30
A few days later, Aoife and Clíona sat together in their room along the women’s corridor. Clíona was altering a sleeve by the window, pale autumn light falling over the silk as she worked. Aoife leaned back on the bed, watching her.
As soon as Aoife had reentered the house after the uprising, she’d gone straight to her rooms and gathered her things. The dress she’d been wearing the day she arrived lay crumpled in the dark recess of the wardrobe beneath her undergarments. She’d pulled it free and tried to tug it over her head.
The seams strained tight across her back and ribs. The bones that had once pressed sharp beneath her skin had softened now. Enough that the hollow beneath her collarbone was gone.
She pulled the dress off with difficulty, holding it scrunched in her hands. It was proof of how much she had changed.
Cormac had warned her. ‘You’ll tell yourself you’re doing it for good reasons. To keep the peace, to soften him, to help your father, the village.’
Her chest tightened.
That was exactly what she had told herself, that every compromise had been a necessary step.
Had the changes gone deeper than clothing and manners?
Had the woman who had learned to yield when Halverton touched her, when he drew her close or took her mouth as though it belonged to him, become a habit she could not unlearn.
The next time a man reached for her, would her body answer before she had time to decide.
Would she ever be able to shake Lady Eva?
A flicker of guilt rose in her chest. Cormac had seen it coming long before she had. And she had dismissed him.
She swallowed hard.
It wasn’t as if she’d had a choice.
The thought steadied her a little. She had done what she had to do. What anyone would have done in her place.
Still, a small, treacherous voice lingered in her mind.
With no other choice, she resigned herself to wearing the dresses Halverton had bought her.
Her eyes fell on the box Clíona had brought in that morning; the gown the colour of a summer meadow.
It had been too bright, too joyful for the sombre events of the morning.
She struggled into it without Clíona’s help, fumbling with the fastenings. Its joyous exuberance felt exactly right.
With her mother’s book and her herbal supplies clutched in her arms, she slipped quietly from the room and made her way to the servants’ side of the house.
Clíona and several of the others had returned later that night. She and Aoife had been sharing a room ever since.
The quick flash of steel caught Aoife’s eye.
Clíona’s needle darted through the cloth by the window, pulling Aoife back to the present.
Aoife pushed the memories aside.
“So,” she said at last, a teasing note in her voice, “when are you and Ultán finally going to make it official?” At least half the staff had gone by names that weren’t truly theirs.
Many had chosen to reclaim them, Alton and Clara included.
Others, like Mrs Harrow, had been called by their imposed names far longer than the names they were given at birth and so decided to keep them.
Clíona smiled, the corners of her mouth curving as she kept stitching. “He already asked,” she said. “We want to wait until things settle down. We’ll marry in the spring, find a place together after.”
Aoife grinned. “I hope you’ll stay in the village.”
“We couldn’t imagine going anywhere else,” Clíona said.
They left the room and walked down towards the servants’ hall. The doors that once connected the servant’s side to the house were now boarded up. Sawdust and soap hung in the air.
The servants’ hall was busy. About half the staff had stayed; many had nowhere else to go, others were still unsure what to do next. Without Halverton’s constant demands, the rhythm of the house had changed. The cook had stayed, thank goodness, and on this morning she’d made porridge for everyone.
Aoife offered to take the bowl for Halverton.
She carried it through the service passage, out the staff entrance, across the courtyard and around to the front of the house.
Setting the tray inside the entrance hall, she picked up the empty dish from last night, stepped back, and closed the door, ringing the bell as she left.
It echoed faintly through the hall as she turned away.
When she returned, everyone was seated at the long table. Clíona passed her a bowl, and James leaned forward.
“Did you see him?”
Aoife shook her head. “No. But he ate last night’s meal. Must still be there.”
James frowned. “It’s strange. I used to spend half my life on that side of the house. Waiting for orders, fetching wine, standing about like an ornament. Now I’ve not seen him in days.”
Ultán sat down opposite them. “You think he even knows we’re still here?”
Clíona stirred her porridge. “I doubt it. He barely noticed us before. Why would he start now?”
After breakfast, Aoife joined the others at the storeroom to help load sacks of food and barrels of grain onto Farmer Gowra’s wagon. Her father had come with him. They’d clearly made peace since their fight over the horseshoes.
As soon as she’d greeted her father, the questioning began. “How’s Cormac?”
“Riona says he’s doing well,” her father replied.
“No sign of the evil spirits having gotten in?”
“No.” Her father shook his head. “The wounds are knitting nicely.”
“Is he up and walking? He shouldn’t spend too long in bed; it’ll weaken him.”
“I haven’t seen him up and about.”
Her father raised a hand as Aoife was about to protest.
“Riona knows what she’s doing.”
Aoife’s next question was cut off by Farmer Gowra, “You two going to help or what?”
It was hard work. The sacks were heavy, and even moving them in pairs their arms soon tired. All the time she was working, Aoife couldn’t stop thinking about Cormac. What was he doing now? How long until he’d be able to lift a sack of grain again?
The sun was high overhead when they stopped for a rest. Her father sat down next to her and handed her a cup of water. She stared at it without drinking.
“Riona has been using Brewthorn, hasn’t she?” she asked. “I know it’s not easy to find. I could send some with you.”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Cormac’s doing fine.” He placed a hand on her arm. “He’ll come to see you as soon as he’s able. Stop worrying.”
By mid-afternoon, the last of the food had been loaded. Her father wiped his brow. “With what Ultán already sent over, that should be enough to keep us through the winter.”
The warehouse at the docks had been one of Ultán’s first tasks. It had been emptied and shared across the county.
Aoife hugged her father tightly before he climbed onto the wagon. “Give Riona these,” she said, pressing a small pouch of herbs into his hand.
“Let me guess,” he said. “For Cormac?”
She smiled. “Riona will know what to do with them.”
Farmer Gowra flicked the reins, and the wagon rattled down the path.
Aoife turned toward the hothouse where Ultán was deep in conversation with the gardeners.
As she approached, they were talking animatedly about how to stretch the harvest before winter.
Ultán knelt to examine a plant. Hurried footsteps slapped against the flagstones behind her, and she turned to see James jogging across the yard.
He smiled at her before poking his head inside the hothouse.
“Ultán, there’s a man asking for you.”
Ultán stood, brushing dirt off his hands on his trousers.
“Says he’s expected,” James continued. “He’s waiting in the servants’ hall.”
Ultán smiled and turned to Aoife. “Come with me.”
They followed James toward the house.
When they entered the servants’ hall, Jory was sitting at the table. He rose at once and shook Ultán’s hand.
“Lord Halverton won’t be managing the estate for the foreseeable future,” Ultán said as they all took seats around the table.
Jory’s expression didn’t change. “I see,” he said.
“For now,” Ultán continued, voice even, “we’ll proceed as though he is.”
The corner of Jory’s mouth twitched in an almost smile.
“The empire will get their shipments, smaller than they’d like of course, not enough to draw attention.”
Jory nodded once. “Keeping up appearances,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“And the neighbouring estates?”
“They’ll hear nothing different,” Ultán said. “Halverton wasn’t one for socialising, I doubt they’ll even notice there’s been a change of management.”
Jory leaned back slightly, considering.
“And in practice?” he asked. “Who’s giving the orders?”
Ultán met his gaze.
“I am.”
Jory studied him for a moment, then gave a small, decisive nod.
“Right,” he said. “So what do you need me for?”
“I know how to write his letters, manage his books,” Ultán said. “But I don’t know how to manage the estate. You do.”
That drew a flicker of surprise.
“You want me back?”
“I want you running this place properly,” Ultán said. “As estate manager.”
Jory’s eyebrows shot up, mouth twitching into that almost-smile again. “I’d like that,” he said. The smile faltered, his lips tightening. “I should be honest with you, though.”
“Go on,” Ultán said.
“I’ve had my troubles since I left here,” Jory said, beating about the bush.
His eyes met Aoife’s, and she smiled encouragingly.
He took a shaky breath and sat up straighter.
“I’m three days sober,” he said. “I haven’t touched a drop since you stood up to that monster, Aoife.
Figured if you can face what scares you, so can I. ”
Warmth rose in her face. “I’m glad,” she said.
The next few hours were filled with plans for the future of the estate and the county.
Aoife fetched books she’d read on related topics in the library, and they spent several long hours discussing how to survive the winter and to protect the murreroot crop next year.
It was difficult work, making decisions that affected so many people, without knowing what the right decision was.
Not caring, as Halverton had, would make such choices easier.
With that finished, Aoife needed fresh air and dirt beneath her fingernails. She was in the gardens, the basket beside her already heavy with herbs, when a small, squealing figure slammed into her.
“Maire!” she laughed, wrapping her arms around the blur of limbs. Maire clung tight, and Aoife sat up with the girl in her lap. Eoin arrived a moment later, rolling his eyes at his sister’s exuberance.
Aoife handed each of them a cucumber. “Try these.”
They eyed the vegetables with deep suspicion before taking large bites. Maire’s face lit up. Eoin brandished his cucumber like a sword and chased her across the grass. Their laughter filled the garden. Even after only a few days of solid meals, their cheeks were rounder, their eyes brighter.
Her father appeared at the gate. “I was going to bring them tomorrow,” he said, smiling, “but they wouldn’t wait.”
Maire froze mid-laugh. Aoife followed her gaze to an upper window; Halverton was watching them.
Aoife crouched beside her sister. “Don’t be frightened,” she said gently. “He rarely leaves those rooms.”
Her father rested a hand on Maire’s shoulder. The moment passed.
That evening, she and Clíona sat side by side in the servants’ hall after dinner: Clíona sewing a hem, and Aoife mixing a poultice for the cook’s bad knee. The hall was warm, filled with quiet voices and the faint crackle of the fire.
They talked and laughed softly over nothing at all.
It had been a lovely day, one of the best in a long time. If only she could see Cormac, see for herself that he was alive, that he was healing. If only she could touch him again, it would have been perfect.