“How long ago did they die?” I stare into the lemon-colored liquid of my glass.
“What makes you think they’re dead?”
“I can hear it in your voice. There’s a certain tone people have when they’ve lost a loved one. That loss leaves a void that gives everything a hollow sound whenever they’re mentioned.” I take a sip, trying to wash away that sound from my own voice. “Oh, this is really good. And sweet, like honey.”
“It’s mead. Not the best bottle I have but certainly not the worst.”
I smile faintly at the thought of him picking out a bottle just for this meeting from some dusty storeroom.
“Who did you lose?” he asks. My smile fades.
“Both of them,” I say. “My mother died when I was very little. My father said she was not made for this world—that she was too good for it. But that he was lucky that she at least left me behind for him.”
“And your father?”
“He runs—ran—the trading company, as you know…” I trail off. His death is fresher. I’ve tried to shove it away, into the same box my mother’s loss occupies, but it’s not the same. I had a life with my father. Mother is just faded memories and emotions imprinted on my very soul.
Lord Fenwood is patient, allowing me to wallow in my thoughts for several minutes.
“Joyce, his wife, she demanded he begin taking a more hands-on approach to the business by going on more trading ships. He was gone so often there were weeks I had to fight to remember the details of his face. Then…the ship he was on went down. No one found the bodies, so there was hope, for a while. But it’s been so long now…”
“I’m deeply sorry.” He means it. In none of our discussions have I ever smelt a lie on his breath. It strikes me that every single thing I’ve been told in this house has been as true as rain.
“I’ve survived.”
“As we all do.”
Even though we’re sitting back to back, I imagine what he must look like behind me. Is he leaning back in his chair as I’m leaning back in mine? If you looked at us from the side, would it look as though we’re trying to lean on each other, desperate for support? Isolated in a world where we have been cut off from those who should love us most?
“Oren tells me you are distraught. Is it the anniversary of one of their passings?”
I shake my head. Realizing he can’t see me, I say, “No, Mother died in the early fall and Father was in the summer.”
Saying it aloud makes me realize how close the first anniversary of his death is, and how much my life changed in a year. I should be sadder, I think. But I have felt some emotions so strongly I think they burned up, leaving nothing but charred edges of my heart behind.
“And ‘distraught’ might be too extreme a word,” I force myself to continue. “I suppose I want something to do, some kind of purpose here.”
“You don’t need to do anything, just lounge in the luxury I can provide you.”
“That’s just it, I’m not made for lounging and luxury.”
“You’re the eldest daughter of a trader lord.” He chuckles. “Oren told me of your estate. I know the luxury you are accustomed to.”
“You still know nothing about me,” I needlessly remind him with a bit of an edge. “And if Oren thought our estate was luxurious then you should have him check his eyes.” His silence prompts me to continue. “The estate was held together by nails, plaster, and prayer. I should know, I was the one responsible for keeping it upright.”
“You?”
“I know I don’t look it, but I’m actually rather handy, if I do say so myself; I can do a good variety of maintenance and upkeep. None of them exceptionally well, I’m forced to admit. But well enough. I cannot cook you a feast, but I can make sure the food is palatable so that you don’t go hungry. I cannot build you a house, or explain the finer points of architecture, but I can tell you when a roof is going to collapse and where you need to shore it up to make it last another winter until there’s enough money to hire a proper tradesman.” I pass my glass from hand to hand, thinking of all the things I learned from necessity. Part of me is afflicted with the sudden urge to explain Joyce’s cruelty as some kind of misguided lesson. I shake my head and take another sip of the mead. Her intention doesn’t matter when her execution was so wretched. I’m trying to give her benefits she does not deserve.
“So you are saying you would rather be my servant than my wife?”
“No,” I say, so fast and sharp that I hear him shift uncomfortably in his chair. I don’t even apologize for my tone. “I will never be someone’s servant ever again.”
I hear him inhale softly. “Apologies for my wording. I would never make you one.”
Another truth. I release a sigh of relief. “But I would like a purpose, of some kind. I would like to feel useful, at least. I like it when my hands are busy.”
“I’ll speak with Oren and see if there are any tasks that he thinks you would be well suited for.”
