Page 8 of Claiming the Tower
“Well. You could certainly use a friend or three. How are your brothers, to ask about the other direction?”
Hereswith wrinkled her nose. “Mostly busy enough with their own pursuits they haven’t bothered me. It’s not as if I am likely to marry at my age, and it is also terribly convenient for them both to have me running the house for Papa.” She hesitated, her fingers hovering an inch or two from the teacup. “There will be a fuss about that at some point, but I hope not for some years yet.” It was a vast house, far too big for one person and whatever number of staff were required, even before thinking about the cottages on the estate. Papa had been clear he wanted it to come down to her for the rest of her life. With precautions to make certain no one hurried that along.
Papa and Mama had not come from the most aggressively expansive of the Great Families, but both of them had known how that particular war was waged from childhood. It was part of the reason for Papa’s interest in the Anglo-Saxons, how history provided a distillation of the politics and sometimes over-reaching grasp of humanity.
Papa sometimes teased that he should have named Hereswith Emma. Then she’d have been named for the woman who had gone from being Æthelred’s wife, then Cnut’s, then mother to Edward the Confessor. But her actual namesake had navigated a series of entirely complex family events before ending up as a nun in Gaul.
Hereswith had very little religious feeling in her, not the way people meant. But she understood the desire to turn toward something larger than herself, in hopes of something better for enough people to matter. She certainly appreciated the desire not to be under a man’s hand or control.
That was also part of Papa’s strategy. If he left Verdant Court to either of her brothers, they would fight endlessly over it. And for another, they had homes, entirely sufficient for their needs. There would be money to go with it. And for another, Papa— and Mama, before her death— had given quite some thought to how to make sure Hereswith could make her own choices for her life, in as much as anyone could.
Marcus had let the silence draw out, but then he said, “You do know that if you need a hand with that, I am glad to help. And it’s not as if we don’t both know half those who go before the Courts.”
“Or work for them,” Hereswith agreed. She was quite adept at reading legal documents of all sorts by now, between her own Incantation training and what she’d learned in the course of their work. Every word mattered, sometimes. “Oh, don’t worry about that. Papa retains Bryce and Howell for all that sort of work.” One of the best firms for any kind of property, now in their third generation of sons inheriting the family business. Unlike some generational lineages, the current set were perhaps the sharpest of the lot.
“I won’t fuss, then.” Marcus snorted. “It’s just that—” He hesitated. “May I speak freely about something I am uncertain about?”
Hereswith raised an eyebrow. “You are rarely uncertain. Please, go ahead.”
“You have seemed less happy than you have been at some times. Not that your work isn’t superb. It’s the quality of the feeling, not the quality of the work. Today, for example. A year or two ago, it would not have annoyed you so much. Even though, yes, there are grounds for a dozen legitimate annoyances that need dealing with.”
“How do you feel about it?” Hereswith countered, while she thought about his observations.
“Annoyed and frustrated, but not with the edge you have. It is, pardon, about what I expected.” Marcus spread his hands out.
“But not what we deserve to expect. That’s my problem, maybe. People should have better than that. Especially if we’re sending them off to fight in a war that’s ...” She twitched her hand. “The reasons for this war are rather more obscure than most. You needn’t repeat them to me.” Nominally, it came down to questions of religious freedom. Russia wished to press Orthodoxy further, causing the English and French to align with the Ottomans in opposition. Given that those three had three other religions in play, it made little sense put like that. The real argument was far more over territory. Specifically, a premature scuffle in the making about who would get pieces of the Ottoman Empire if— probably when— it actually fell and shattered. “I am more irritated, I agree. I’ll keep myself under better control.”
“It is not your control I am concerned with.” Marcus leaned forward now, reaching to touch her hand lightly. He didn’t do that often, outside the various hostessing duties and dances they attended. One reason they worked so well together was that they understood each other’s comfort and boundary markers very well. “It is right that you’re upset. I should be more upset, really. But I worry that you have nowhere to take it. I have William and a few other friends.”
The thing was, he was right. Papa was one person she could talk to, but he was only one. She half closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his fingers on the back of her hand. “I’ll think about it. Perhaps feel out if my friend, today, might listen. It’s all rather tedious, even when it’s also important. Most people don’t care about any of the nuances.”
“Do that. Try it. Perhaps she’ll be interested. Or have some useful idea. Merlin knows we could use a few. An outside perspective’s sometimes a great help.” Marcus lifted his fingers. “Besides, I can’t imagine you talking more than once or twice to someone who wasn’t intelligent, with her own skills and talents. You have standards.”
That at least made her smile. “I’m glad someone appreciates them.” Far too many people had found them uncomfortable. “All right. Shall we have a go at figuring out how to write a letter that does half a dozen things without appearing to do any of them too loudly?” That task was about getting the right set of people in the same room in a way that might encourage a useful informal conversation or two. But it was going to be an exceedingly delicate balancing act, because of an unhappy marriage and a bit of political posturing. And, as often happened, a lady’s hopes for her marriageable daughter being aimed in entirely the wrong direction.
Chapter 6
June 8th in the village near Madam Judson’s home
“I’m just so very glad you’re able to help out.” Bess looked up from where Mrs Halston had laid out the plans for the summer festival. Today’s work involved making sure that the tables would go in sensible places. “The lists just keep multiplying.”
“Oh, I’m certain. And the first time doing anything like this, that’s always the hardest, isn’t it?” Bess considered, rummaging for her notebook to add a couple of comments. “Do you think that the table for the cakes will be steady enough there? I wonder about the slope of the ground. Perhaps it’s nothing.”
Bess’s trained eye— and her trained magic— told her the slope was, in fact, not at all a sensible choice. But she had just as much training in how to frame the question so that she wouldn’t be challenging someone with more status, power, influence, or all of the above.
“Do you think so?” Mrs Halston fluttered her hands. “How would you suggest making sure?”
“Perhaps roll one of the children’s balls and see what happens?” Bess suggested. “Lawns can be surprisingly deceptive. And this field, well. It’s had a somewhat less orderly life, hasn’t it?” As fields went, this certainly wasn’t entirely promising. In other villages— allowing for the problem of magic— Madam Judson’s house would have had pride of place. In the ordinary way of things, the grounds might have been opened up once a year for such an event. Obviously, that wouldn’t do here.
The ground at the centre of the village wasn’t any good. It was all tamped down and often muddy. And the field nearer the church itself, well, there were stories of unmarked graves, those buried without church rites, by the wall nearest the field. So they had set up in a field a little way back, currently not being farmed. Sheep had been let out, and goats, so the grass was currently close-cropped, but that did not exactly make for an even surface.
It was a wonder that Bess had been able to talk Madam Judson into allowing her to assist this afternoon and then next Thursday. Though she wouldn’t be able to lend a hand after that with the setup. Madam Judson had a number of plans leading into the obligations of Solstice week.
That, at least, had another kind of promise to it. Bess could look forward to an afternoon on her own on the Solstice proper. Madam Judson had an invitation to the Council rites this year, courtesy of her son. Giving the household staff the afternoon off, or a day shortly after, was one of the more longstanding traditions among the Great Families. That had been true for centuries.
In this case, Bess was decidedly not invited to the Council rites. Madam Judson would be in the bosom of her loving family with one or the other of her daughters-in-law on hand to fetch and carry. Or a son, if they could be drawn away from their own conversations for long enough.
Solstice might well be the one day she got largely to herself in twelve months. Bess had made the most of her daydreams, trying to decide what to do with it. Oh, she’d almost certainly go to Albion’s Midsummer Faire. That was what everyone did. It would be a crowd, and it wasn’t as if she’d have much coin to spend on treats.
