Page 4 of Kept 2
However, not two hours ago I received a missive from my darling, assuring me all was well, and that she had been particularly busy and so, unable to write.
I wonder what she is doing? I would have thought that running a smaller household along with her very capable mother would have freed her up to write to me. But she is still doing her father’s accounts, and I must believe that he is working harder than ever to restore the family fortunes.
New Entry,
Mother and Father are visiting. They say I am unable to return to Ereston for Christmas as work is being done to extend the house, and it is uninhabitable for a time.
I suspect they simply want me to stay away from Constance, and it angers me no end. But Mother insists a State Bedroom must be installed in the manor, and so the open entry hall, where the carriages once pulled up to allow guests to enter the home through the commanding front staircase, is to be covered and included inside the manor. An entirely new wing will house the new bedroom.
For myself, I cannot fathom how a manor with 90 rooms, 88 of which have fireplaces, could possibly need another wing. As Constance is now fully aware, some families live in homes with a mere handful of rooms and others, still, such as our tenants, share rooms with their livestock.
I told Father I see no reason whatsoever to build an entire wing on the off-chance the King and Queen will pass by – but apparently, it is something all the Lords are doing, despite the fact that in the past the king has always taken his bed on the road with him. It is, according to Mother, the new status symbol for all families of means to have a bed fit for a king available at all times – and she is determined we will not be left behind in displaying our status through such a room.
Father says the King will likelytour the realm once the queen has recovered from the imminent birth of their child, hoped by all to be a son– and when he does, nobles like he hope to host the pair and take the opportunity to press the monarch for favours.
But the expense of the bedroom is so great that Father says he may have to raise the rents to pay for the bed; a silk and timber monstrosity that will take up one-third of the new room.
“I cannot condone this, Father,” I remonstrated with him just today, “already our tenants feel strain from our lack of maintenance on their homes. With Winter coming, many will die if we continue to take from the land and give nothing in return.”
“That will be on your head,” Mother sniped. “We would not have to scrimp for this venture if you would marry a woman of substance.”
“I intend to marry the woman I have loved for many years, Mother, as you well know,” I replied. “I trust you are ensuring she and her mother are well looked after in my absence.”
“She is well-employed,” she sniffed.
I felt there was an inference there, one that had a dark undercurrent.
“Mother, should anything untoward happen to my beloved while I am away, you should know, I will never marry – and when Father dies, should you survive him, I will kick you out onto the street penniless.”
She slapped me then. As mothers are sometimes wont to do. And I probably deserved it.
But still, I will ensure I journey back to Ereston next Easter at the latest if I am to Christmas away from home. That is six months away, and no amount of work on the manor will deter me.
I close the journal, succumbing to my stomach’s rumbling insistence. There is nothing for it. I need to eat. I’d been unable to eat the food on the plane; my stomach had felt like a fist was gripping it, and I’d had nervous diarrhoea for much of the flight. Now though, I was hungry.
Pushing the book back into my bag firmly, I put the straps over my shoulder and head downstairs.
As I reach the front lobby, a young couple comes in, bicycles in hand, and lean them against the lobby wall. I can’t help but smile at how happy and carefree they look, how in love and in tune with each other. But my smile soon leaves my face when I glimpse through the frosted glass panels in the door and realise it is almost dark outside.
“Ugh,” I shake my head, “nope.”
Turning, downcast, I catch the eye of the young man behind the counter, who smirks and asks if he can help. His accent suggests Belgian, maybe Swedish, it’s hard to tell.
“I wanted to go out and get food. But not in the dark,” I shrug.
“You could order in,” he smiles.
“You have deliveries here?”
“It’s England, not the Antarctic,” he laughs, “here.”
He points me to a stack of fast-food flyers on the counter that I hadn’t noticed in my rush to book in, and I feel my face redden, and then pale.
I am hungry, but seeing the waning light outside, I realise I can’t risk it. I have to remain starving until daylight, because I am also utterly helpless and alone.
‘Get a grip, idiot. You are overtired and stressed to fuck out. Order a pizza and sleep. Like Dad used to say; everything will be better in the morning.’
Straightening my shoulders, I pull out my phone to dial for a pizza, just as it startles me by ringing. I close my eyes for a second when I see who it is; I was hoping not to have this conversation just yet.
