Chapter Eleven - Seeds of Hope
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Seeds of Hope
ROSAMUND DID NOT wait for Tomas to open the door when she reached Blackthorn Hall. She swung open the door and ran. Gnash waited for her at the top of the stairs, but she ignored him and ran through the grounds towards the greenhouse.
“Lady! Lady, wait for me!” called Gnash.
The tears had not stopped since she left Sunfall Keep. Her skin flushed, she had clutched at her arms as her breathing continued to become more ragged and frayed. She banged at the walls, clawed at the upholstery of the seats
She hated this place. She hated all of them.
Everything. She had made a fool of herself in front of these people.
Lavinia had helped her along, but it had been her that had made the mistakes.
Like an idiot she had thought she could just waltz into that salon, and everything would be fine.
And for what? A small taste of freedom? Was that worth the price of stepping into a nest of vipers.
Each of their faces rose up in her mind; Celeste’s frown of disappointment, Seraphine’s pursed lips, Lavinia’s cruel smile, Marianne’s fear and Elswyth and Isolde’s pity.
Each of them judging her and finding her wanting.
I hate them, I hate them.
When she reached the conservatory, she flung open the doors and stormed into the glass room. Her hands on her waist, she paced and tried to get her breathing under control.
The worst part was that she cared what they thought.
Their approval should mean nothing to her, but their approval meant her survival.
Bastian had shown that any of them, at any time, could be the next person up on that barrel with a rope around their neck.
Her aunts had foolishly thought this marriage would save them, save her.
It only thrust her deeper into the fire.
And she had not been ready for them, for any of it.
A swell of rage rose in her and turning to the terracotta pots that had still to be filled, she lifted one and hurled it across the room.
The pieces smashed against the black stone and scattered across the floor.
Only then did she realise she was not alone in the conservatory.
Standing just to the left of where she had thrown the flowerpot, beside the dried-up fountain, stood her betrothed.
He was dressed in what she had come to realise was what passed as ‘casual’ for him.
Black leather trousers and a high collared cotton shirt.
He also wore his patent black riding boots and his ever-present black leather gloves.
There was something off about him today though, something different that she could not quite place.
The shock of seeing him here in her sanctuary was enough to pull her from her outburst, “what are you doing in here?”
“This is my house,” he said with a shrug, though his frown remained fixed on her, “I take it that your visit went well?”
She laughed bitterly and slumped back to lean on the workbench. The wooden table creaked with the weight.
“Oh yeah, it was great.”
“Hmm,” was his only response.
He knelt and began to pick up the pieces of the broken pot that had she had smashed beside him.
She watched him, listening to the clink as he carefully placed each piece into his other hand.
Gnash appeared in the doorway, wheezing as he clutched at his tiny chest, “Lady! Lady runs fast! Oh!” he spotted Dorian and immediately stood to attention and bowed deeply, “Darkest One.”
Dorian did not look up from his task to acknowledge the bow but did huff what Rosamund felt could have been the approximation of a laugh. He pointed to a bucket and said, “bring that over Gnash.”
The little goblin immediately rushed forwards with the bucket and held it whilst Dorian filled it with the pieces.
She had expected the prince to hand the task over to the servant, but instead he continued to work away, picking up the pieces.
She was suddenly reminded of an old tale her aunt used to tell her and Evelyne when they were younger.
She chuckled quietly to herself. The tightness in her chest begin to ease.
Dorian and Gnash turned to look at her, the former with a frown, the other with a grin.
“My Aunt Beatrice told me once that there are creatures that drink human blood in Ravenor. They’re only thwarted by throwing rice at them and waiting for them to pick up every piece,” she explained, her throat still a little tight but forcing out the words, “if I knew it was this easy to stop you I would have done it much sooner.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
He lifted the now filled bucket and crossed towards her.
She stood up straight, a tension filling her again as he drew near.
She had forgotten who she had been speaking too, and the fear she should feel at insulting him.
He loomed over her; his head tilted slightly to the side.
He leaned forward and carefully placed the bucket on the workbench behind her.
He was so close that she could feel his breath on her neck, the tingling of his power across her skin.
It should terrify her; she knew what would happen if she came into contact with that pale translucent skin.
But with reddening cheeks, she realised it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant sensation.
He drew back, “I think you know now that you don’t need to go to Ravenor to find vampires, Lady Rosamund.”
In his hands was another pot from the workbench. Now further apart she realised that his usual coldness had not been there.
How long had he been here before I arrived? Has the warmth of this place seeped into him?
He examined the pot in his hand, and she saw the small green shoot that had started to appear above the rich soil. So close to him, she had expected it to wilt, to brown and die just as the rest of his grounds had. However, as he held it up to the light it only appeared more vibrant.
Carefully, he put the small pot in her hands, “what will it be?”
“Forget-me-not,” she said, holding the pot gently.
He nodded, and again there was a slight upturn of the corner of his lips, “hmm, I’ll leave you to it. Try not to break any more pots.”
She laughed, a touch on the hysterical side but again she felt her muscles relax, “Don’t give me a reason too.”
The smile broke through this time, and she watched as that small, crooked half smile changed his face.
The sharp angles melted into a softness that looked unnatural to him, the silver in his eyes melted to a deeper grey and a flush of heat roll off him.
He took a step back, nodded to her and turned to leave.
As he reached the doorway he paused and looked back at her over his shoulder, “you were never going to win this round. They wouldn’t have allowed it.
But you’ll be ready for them next time.”
With that, he left.
Rosamund let out a long breath and turned to face the workbench, placing the small pot back on the table amongst the rest. With delight, she noticed that the rest of the pots had similar green sprouts. Life. There was finally life in this dark place. Perhaps it would be possible to survive here.
But you’ll be ready for them next time.
She could not decide if it had been a suggestion or a command.
Either way, it pained her to admit that he was right.
There had been no winning her encounter today, and dread filled her at the thought of ever having to attend another one.
But she would have too eventually. And she would need to be ready.
With a grunt Gnash hoisted himself up onto the work bench so that he was at eye level with her. He narrowed his large watery eyes and asked, “were they mean to lady.”
“They were not kind,” admitted Rosamund and felt a small tear build in her eye, “but Lady was silly to think they would be.”
“Lady not silly,” said Gnash firmly, placing his small hands on her cheek, “lady bring Gnash next time. Gnash give them a piece of Gnash’s mind!”
She gave him a watery laugh, sniffed and leaned forward to hug him.
The little goblin, to her surprise, did not squirm and try to break free, but clung just as tightly.
With a bittersweet feeling it reminded her of the hugs that she used to give Todric when he had been feeling low.
She would hold him tightly and tell him that she was squeezing out all the tears.
That he could cry as much as he liked, she would squeeze him until they were all gone.
“Thank you Gnash,” she said softly.
She lifted him off the workbench and carefully placed his small, booted feet on the ground. More footsteps approached and she turned around to see a very concerned Mrs Hawthorn with Elira and Rowan peering around from behind her.
“There you are,” said Mrs Hawthorn, bustling towards her, “Tomas said that he thought you’d taken ill in the carriage,” the older woman held her face in her hands brought it down to inspect her face, “are you alright dearie?”
Rosamund gently removed her hands and said, “I’m alright Mrs Hawthorn, thank you.”
“Snooty Princesses were mean to Lady!” said Gnash angrily, arms folded in front of him.
“Were they now,” said Mrs Hawthorn, more darkly than she thought the older woman was capable of, “well, we’ll see about that won’t we. Och, I knew he never should have let you go with Osric.”
“It was my fault Mrs Hawthorn,” said Rosamund, surprising herself with her admission as much as the rest of them, “I should have prepared. Rowan, next time ask him to wait, if you will?”
“I certainly will, my lady,” said Rowan, bringing himself up to his full height.
“Thank you,” said Rosamund, offering him a smile before turning back to Mrs Hawthorn, “I need to order dresses, would it be Seneschal Corvin that I would speak too?”
“It would dearie,” said Mrs Hawthorn with a curious expression, “though most of the royal ladies have their own private dressmakers I believe.”
“I don’t think I have time for that,” said Rosamund biting her lower lip, and starting to grow frustrated again, “in all honesty, I don’t even know what kind of dresses I should be ordering. And they seem just the type to know that it hasn’t been made to order.”
Elira cleared her throat and tentatively stepped forward, “I…I c-c-can sew a, a l-little.”
Rosamund smiled and stepped forward to take her hands, “that would help, we could order the dresses and then you and I can work to make them fit properly,” the maidservant’s face lit up and she nodded enthusiastically, “and,” she steeled herself, “I’ll need your help with my hair.”
The young woman was going to give herself a headache with all the nodding she was doing. Elira clapped her hands together, went to speak, but gave up and just nodded.
“Thank you, all of you,” she said softly.
Mrs Hawthorn gave her hand a squeeze and said, “not a problem dearie, now why don’t I go get you a tea, you’ll be wanting to get started,” she gestured to the pots still to be filled with soil.
Rosamund looked to each of them in turn and felt a warmth in her chest she had been missing.
Mrs Hawthorn and Rowan were already bustling off to look for Corvin to order the dresses.
Whilst Elira skipped after them. Gnash took her hand, beaming up at her.
She was grateful for all of them. Like the women in that room they could have watched her failure.
They could have let her clamber and stumble over herself, but they were here.
They were helping, and suddenly she did not feel so alone.
And Dorian.
Their brief encounter had left her with questions, not least of all the effect that smile had on his appearance.
And on her. She could still feel the tingle along her neck where he had whispered to her.
Then there was the gentle way he had cleaned up the shards of the pot, and the advice that he had given her.
But you’ll be ready for them next time.
And she would.