Aristocrat | Âœ“ CHAPTER FOUR

     I kept doing my job, but I found myself desperate not to be in the same place as the Lord. He did leave for two days a week after he asked Marie to clean up his good waistcoat and shirt. I spent that time wondering what the woman he courted was like, and I was depressed by the time the Lord came back to Barcombe with a healthy glow and a jolly ring to his deep voice.

     He must have had a lot of fun.

     Since the Lord arrived back at the castle, I’ve done my best to do my work in the shadows. When I had left my parent’s house, I was so sure I would be content with just being close to him, and now here I was fretting because the Lord might be courting a woman of his status and inclinations.

     Marie must have noticed the change in my mood because she began to take on some of my duties by bossing me into her own. That’s how I ended up in the kitchen washing dishes and checking if the soup on the fire was ready.

     A sigh left my lips as I poked at the flames with a metal rod. I put it aside, going to the corner to take a seat on the stool. It was late in the afternoon, but it was easy to lose track of time. The heavy snowstorm had blocked out the sun, and it was already dark. The two candles that light up the kitchen flickered on their holders attached to the walls by the door.

     I was bored and scared that my mind would preoccupy himself with my imagination of the woman I felt the Lord was courting. Slender, doe-eyed, with full lips and a rosy face—she had to be all those things, plus youthful and classed. I stared down at my hands that had gone rough and were sprinkled with small scars from farm labor.

     She also had to have soft hands too, yes.

     I stared at the flames kissing the bottom of the post as I hummed to myself and upset myself with thoughts of the unknown woman. My head shot up at the sound of the kitchen door creaking open, and when I saw who it was blood drained from my face.

     “What am I having this night?” the Lord asked, making me open my mouth. Nothing came out. I apologized, getting up from the stool before using tending the flames as an excuse not to look directly at him.

     He was wearing a loose-fitting shirt with indoor shoes and tight-fitting tights. He’d been spending a lot of time in the west wing recently. At least that was the information related to me from Marie.

     “Soup, with chicken,” I said, poking at the wood and watching it glow red. “It should be done in a few minutes,” I added, hearing footsteps in the background. I felt self-conscious, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn and face him.

     “It’s been really cold these past few days,” he said.

     The flame in front of me sizzled. “Yes.”

     “It’s dark as well.”

     My eyes focused on the steam leaving the black metal pot. “Yes, it is.”

     “Have I done something wrong?” The master’s voice said as his breath kissed my ear with his warmth. He was standing behind me now, and my heart was beating so fast that I could feel its pressure and noise in my ears. He felt warm—like he had been toasted by the flames in the fireplace upstairs before heading down. My vision blurred and I felt like my feet would give way.

     This wasn’t good.

     This wasn’t good at all.

     “No,” I said, my voice breathy. “Why would you think that?” I asked, trying to think of a way to slip away. He had cornered me, trapping me between his arms. The only option I had was to turn and face him, but I felt that my heart would burst from paranoia if I did.

     “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, taking a hold of my shoulder. “And even now you won’t look at me,” he said, and a sigh followed. “Come on. I’m not the one to punish servants for having a grievance. Tell me, and I’ll rectify it. Don’t hold a grudge with me,” he said, and I felt my face grow warm. I couldn’t tell him why I had been avoiding him—if I did, I was sure his promise not to punish me would fade. What would he think of a man loving another man? It was already inconceivable that a woman in my position would even dare to dream of being with him, not to speak of me.

     “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve just felt a little sick these past weeks,” I muttered, hoping he would buy my excuse. He seemed to because he let go of my shoulder and stepped away from me. I let out a breath I had been holding, before turning to see that he hadn’t left the room. He had his hands on his hips and a frown on his face as he stared at me. I looked down at the floor, pushing a strand of my brown shoulder-length hair away from my face.

     “My, you do look ill,” he said, making me look up to catch his gaze. His dark eyes seemed to be drilling mine, and I wasn’t sure what to think. “You look as white as a ghost. Is it the flu?” he asked me, and I blinked, shaking my head.

     My hands trembled. “I think it’s just a cold—”

     “Why are you working if you’re sick? You should have told Marie or me. We would have understood,” he said, cutting me off. I closed my mouth, standing by the fireplace as I watched him pace around the kitchen.

     “Leave the food. I’ll do the rest. You can eat some soup with me. It’ll help,” he muttered, and why chest squeezed up. I felt bad for lying to him, but it felt nice that he was fretting over me.

     “Go sit in the dining room. I’ll serve you today,” he said, giving me a smile that made my toes tingle. I nodded, heading out of the kitchen. My stroll to the living room was quiet. I didn’t even let myself speak or move too much when I took a seat for fear of upsetting whatever might have caused the Master to be so kind. Here he was again with his aloof kindness.

     I spent my time waiting by looking at the furnishing in the dining room. It was a table for eight, but only one seat in the far end ever got used by the master. Everything in the room was done in deep brown polished wood and then drowned in the blue of the patterns around. The cushions of the dining room chair were blue, and so was the table dressing, carpet, and curtains.

     My eyes flickered to the chandelier above, staring at the flames as I waited in anticipation in my seat. My attention wasn’t held by it for long since the door to the dining room opened and my eyes turned in its direction. The lord walked in with a tray in his hands and two bowls of soup. I felt anxious when he walked over, placing a plate identical to his own in front of me, before sitting beside me on the table.

     What is he doing? I wondered, staring down at the ceramic bowl that held more worth than me. Why was he letting me use his plates? Why was he serving me? I didn’t have much time to think, because the sound of water being poured into a cup made me look up again. He smiled at me, gesturing at my plate.

     “Eat up,” he said, reaching out to run a hand through my hair. My first instinct was to jump, but I sat still, feeling my face warm-up at the feel of his fingers in my hair. He took his hand away after a while to focus on his own food.

     The sound of spoons smacking the base of ceramic bowls rang through the dining room. I wanted to speak, but there was a lump in my throat. Where would I start? What would I try to talk about? I wasn’t sure, but what I knew was that the silence was uncomfortable, and I wanted to hear the Lord say something at least.

     “I visited the Count of Axminster, do you know where that is?”

     I shook my head, chewing a piece of chicken. It was probably further off than I had ever ventured.

     “That’s okay.” The Lord Laughed. “You don’t have to know him to understand what I’m going to say,” he continued, humming. “The Count’s daughter is into medicine, and there’s a nice doctor she’s patronizing. He claims he can treat my night tremors. He calls it ‘combat fatigue.’ Interesting, isn’t it?”

     A weight was lifted off my shoulders when I put two and two together. He hadn’t gone to the Count to court his daughter. He had gone there to see her doctor.

     “You’re awfully quiet.”

     I blinked, turning to look at the lord. “Sorry,” I said, trying to keep my happiness to myself.

     “You said you’d gone to see a doctor,” I said. “Why?” I asked, not knowing what he meant by night tremors. The Lord smiled at me, letting out a sigh before picking up the spoon in front of him.

     “Sometimes I have dreams about being on the battlefield and just watching people die,” he started, and I sucked in my bottom lip, watching as his eyes grew dark. “I’m okay when I’m on the field, but when I’m back in the castle by myself sometimes I get a chest ache, bad memories and I feel short of breath—like I’m about to die even though nothing’s happened to me,” he added, and I frowned, not understanding what it meant but knowing it was terrible. It sounded like what women in the village I went to with my mother said about their sons came back from the battlefields—that they weren’t the same, and that they had gone a bit insane.

     “Sometimes I dream of when I got this scar on my face,” he said, pointing at the pink keloid that stretched from left the right. “I relive that one time I was careless in the field several nights in a row. You change my beddings often, not just because of pests that get in the blanket hides, but also because I get night sweats that ruin the sheets. Marie knows, but I’m sure she didn’t want to say,” he muttered, and I sat in silence, letting him talk.

     “That sounds… very hard,” I said when the Lord didn’t say anything after that.

     He let out a sigh, reaching out to touch my hair before moving to give my shoulder a squeeze. “It is, but I’m getting help. Don’t worry about me. Finish your soup so you can get some rest,” he said, and I blinked, realizing that the bowl in front of me was still half full.

     I ate with what the Lord had told me swimming in my head.

     Combat fatigue.

     I kept that in mind for the rest of the day, and when I couldn’t sleep at night, I climbed the stairs to go check on the Lord. He was sleeping peacefully with his greyhound at the foot of the bed. I closed the door and retreated to my chamber, content that he wasn’t having his night terrors on this night, at least.