Chapter Three - Whispers
CHAPTER THREE
Whispers
ROSAMUND HAD EXPECTED that her eyes would need time to adjust following the brilliance of the streets of Sunspire.
However, the receiving chamber to the temple was filled with natural light.
The stained-glass dome above them shining down a multitude of colours on the marble that surrounded her, and the sea of gathered people.
There had been the din of respectful chatter as she had entered, but as the doors closed behind her, a hush fell.
“Lady Cecily, Lady Beatrice and Lady Rosamund of House Valehart,” cried one of the gentlemen by the door, dressed in white and gold livery, his voice echoing around the brightly lit chamber.
Rosamund shifted her weight and pulled at the sheer sleeves of her dress behind her back.
Her heart raced as the gathered nobles stared back with beady eyes that roamed over every inch of her.
With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she realised that through the multicoloured lights most were dressed in their temple whites.
It made them difficult to look at, and she struggled not to peer back at them.
All of them appeared to tower over her, teetering on large-heeled shoes, the lines of their elegant trousers and skirts lengthening their legs.
Far from the braided updo Dottie had done for her back in Kilgavie; the women, and some of the men, in the foyer had elegant white wigs filled with glittering clasps and headbands.
All the same shade of ivory, all perfectly sculpted to them in a variety of heights and lengths.
Whilst those gathered were uniformly in white, Rosamund noticed that was generally where the similarity ended; each person had added embellishments in different shades.
With the doors now closed a heady scent filled the room and wafted towards her, the various sickly-sweet perfumes congealing into one overwhelming smell that burned her nostrils.
She felt an immediate pounding in her head.
She thought she might faint with it, but the sudden tap of her Aunt Cecily’s cane on the floor brought her back to herself.
The aunts slowly made their way through the crowd, and Rosamund followed, forcing herself to look up at the people around her.
The people who had turned their backs on her father.
The crowd parted ahead of Aunt Cecily. They jumped back as if her aunt or the rest of them had some infectious disease.
One large man held a handkerchief to his nose to block out whatever imagined stench she and her aunts carried.
As they walked the silence lifted and there was the hiss of whispers.
Rosamund swallowed a laugh when it made her think of the large iron kettle on the aga back at Kilgavie Manor, the way the hushed words rose like steam, mingling with the headache inducing perfumes.
Still, it was not enough to block out the words.
“…would have burned the whole place down…”
“…his life’s work, our sacred institution…”
“…what else did he sell to Ravenor? Where else did he sell it...”
“…to steal the sacred Elixir…”
“…the whole family is corrupt; his majesty should have wiped out the rest of them…”
“…the only good Valehart, is a dead Valehart…”
Rosamund was lost in the lies about her family.
About her father. Her head was swimming with the unbearable scent and the bright light of the temple room.
Surrounded by looming, peering, sweating bodies, she could feel herself perspiring, dampness seeping through her dress under her arms and her lower back.
The powdered makeup Dottie had bashed onto her face had congealed.
And all the while the cacophony of whispers wrapped around her, suffocating her, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to breathe.
Her eyes unable to focus, she did not see the white booted foot in her path.
She stumbled over it and crashed to the floor, her hands slapping the marble as she stopped her face from careening into the cold hard floor.
Her knees and shins smacked against the stone, pain shooting up her legs and lower back as her velvet skirts did nothing to cushion the fall.
It would have been better if people had laughed, she told herself.
Even a smattering of titters. But there was nothing.
Only the cold silence of disapproval as those gathered looked down at where she was gathering herself from the floor.
No one stepped forward to help her, not even her aunts, nor any of the group they had stopped beside.
Soon enough the rest of the crowd turned their backs and the whispering chorus resumed with sidelong glances.
Whilst Aunt Beatrice shot her a look of concern and gestured for her to approach quickly, Aunt Cecily had clearly chosen to ignore Rosamund’s fall and pressed on, “Your highnesses.”
Leaning on the handle of her cane, she gave the group a low curtsy, Rosamund quickly following suit.
There was not so much as an incline of the head from any of them.
When Aunt Cecily realised that none of the figures in front of her were going to respond she rose to her full height and said, “What an honour it is that you could-”.
“So, this is her then?” sneered a woman with long loose strawberry blonde hair.
Rosamund lifted her gaze to look at the woman.
Diamonds had been woven through her ginger hair which had been made to look longer than it was.
Her neck was adorned with the same exquisite stones trailing down to her cleavage which was easily contained within the sheer white dress she wore.
She looked Rosamund up and down, her light blue eyes mapping out every part of her, registering all her flaws for later use.
“Yes, this is Rosamund,” said Aunt Cecily, clearly unsettled by the interruption.
A man standing in the centre of the group said, “I thought her name was Evelyne?”
Rosamund tensed and kept her expression neutral as her hands clasped tighter in front of her.
Like the woman, the man wore his own hair, long and loose, in dark brown curls that fell to his shoulders.
His eyes reminded her of the sea, blue and green, swirling as if in a tempest. Though shorter than the other men in the group, his broad shoulders and chest made up what he lacked in height.
There was a smattering of stubble on his chin which led to a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee.
“Unfortunately, Evelyne has taken ill and we do not believe she will recover,” said Aunt Cecily, a line rehearsed several times in the carriage there.
It still hurt Rosamund to hear it. That they were killing her sister off. She was here to save her sister, but to protect her they must act like she was dead already.
“So, who is this?” said the red-haired woman with a wrinkled nose.
“Evelyne’s elder sister,” said Aunt Cecily, directing her response to the man.
The woman barked a sharp laugh, and shocked voices echoed around the room.
“We know how important this alliance is,” said Aunt Cecily as she raised her voice above the noise, “Rosamund was honoured to take her sisters place.”
“Was she?” said the man, a curious expression on his face, “This was not what was agreed.”
Silence echoed around the room, and Rosamund did not know if she should feel scared or relieved. Perhaps this betrothal would not happen after all.
“If we could perhaps speak with his majesty-”
“My father was unfortunately unable to attend,” said the man, he sounded more pleased than disappointed, “I am here in his stead,” he gestured to the others lazily, “as are my brothers,” he looked Rosamund up and down, “I suppose one Valehart is as good as another.”
There was a round of laughter from the gathered lords and ladies, all of them craning their necks towards them to listen in. Rosamund’s skin flushed and she dug her nails into her palms. Even as the fear held her, she could feel her anger building.
“Isn’t she a little old?” said the redhead in a high nasal voice, “I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Lavinia,” said the man in soft silky tones, whose gaze had not left Rosamund, “be kind to our future sister.”
The gentleman that had spoken stepped towards Rosamund, gesturing for her Aunt Cecily to move aside. He smelled of salt and brine; she forced herself not to take a step back.
“You look tired from your journey Lady Rosamund,” said the man, and looking at her dress added, “and I see you have brought some of the road with you.”
She looked down at the mud speckled stains on the hem of her dress as a chorus of laughter rose up around the room. Rosamund was about to reply when the taller man of the group stepped forward, “Bastian, perhaps Elswyth might take Lady Rosamund to the antechamber, to give her a moment to prepare.”
The man looked to Rosamund, she could feel warmth radiating from him.
The tension in her shoulders ebbed slowly as she looked at him.
Her breathing slowed and her fingers began to unclench.
Taller than his brother, he bore the same athletic build, his sleeveless tabard revealing bronze muscular arms. Where Bastian’s hair was a dark brown, this man had golden curls and a clean-shaven face.
Bastian did not look back at his brother, “I’m not convinced there’s any amount of preparation that would help her with this.”
Another round of laughter from those nearby, Lavinia giggling the loudest. She noted that the other woman did not laugh, the one the golden-haired brother had gestured too earlier, Elswyth, looked at Rosamund with a furrowed brow.
Beside her, another woman turned to shush Lavinia.
She had similar colouring but that was where the resemblance stopped.
Where Lavinia was all sharp edges and flat, this other woman was round and soft, her hair thicker and brighter.
She did not look at Rosamund but turned to the golden man beside her with a pleading look.