Neliem, page 14
“It’s all for show,” he mumbles, his gaze focused outside. “Think of a pony show, only no ponies.”
I wince, slowing down my pace to spy out the family gathered across the patio to welcome us. They are an odd bunch. A generation of elderly white-haired aunts and uncles and the much younger generation, Ezra’s cousins no doubt. The way they are paired indicates that they are obviously married, some even have children. They are all blond and exquisitely dressed in pastels that match one another. And for a second, I think I’m staring at a painting. Utterly surreal with only one thing out of place.
Me.
My eyes narrow, registering every detail and leaving nothing to chance. Fourteen Untouchables and their three small children have assembled to scrutinize me as I am paraded around as the prize goose.
I force my teeth to stop clattering and straighten my back.
I can do this. It was me who threw herself off the cliffs, and this is too easy, too simple. My step falters, my ankle almost twisting.
Before I stumble, once again, Ezra’s by my side. His touch welcome.
“May I be excused?” I know I’m asking permission, but for this one occasion, I don’t care.
He shakes his head, a cloud crossing his features. “You promised to be polite.”
Every nerve in my body screams to fight, to draw back my hand and give him a good shaking and only then run and hide in my room. Perhaps under the bed.
Without letting go of my hand, Ezra straightens to his full height, stepping outside. He makes a show to pause and inhale the sweet floral air as if he’d created the heavens and the earth and everything was just as he planned.
He exclaims to no one in particular, “Who ordered such a lovely day to present my betrothed?”
It’s a compliment. For me. I gasp a little and tidy my lace sleeve that’s become tangled and slowly let out the exhale I’ve been choking on.
One little girl adorned in pink giggles. For a second, I think she’s laughing at me, but then I realize she’s just silly. Her mother, seated on an iron chair with a fat cushion, lifts her head, that familiar tilt of her chin a signal.
My feet move. Ezra smiles and nods, wrapping his hand around my waist without being asked. I try to emulate the golden naked statue. Stiff and cold like these people. Their handshakes are cool and distant, holding nothing other than curiosity. The girls are stunning, works of art with their hair and fitted gowns tailored to perfection. One smiles genuinely, but I don’t trust it.
Ezra takes great pains to repeat their names carefully, but their titles of first, second, or third cousins all whirl in my head. There’s a cousin Beatrix not to be confused with Aunt Cora’s eldest daughter Eloina. They look like twins but are in fact, third cousins. Everyone seems on their best behavior, with no sly comment or wiping of their hand clean after touching me. Ezra welcomes them only after they have paid their respects.
Tea is promptly served, with Ezra offering me the first cup to distinguish me as the person of honor. Everyone dutifully tips their head before taking the first sip, and the noose tightening around my neck seems to ease. I breathe in and force the corners of my mouth to lift.
The women cluster together with their mindless chitchat about the weather and colors of the latest fashionable ball gowns. And it’s true, not one of them has an opinion on current events. After exchanging pleasantries and assuring everyone that the ferry ride across the channel from Madera met with my approval, I modestly excuse myself.
Ezra gets up, concern filling his face. I know he wants to object and make me stand my ground and stay.
Like a mouse, I whisper loud enough for all to hear, “Is it all right that I rest?”
He bites back whatever he wanted to say and nods. Only then do I get up and say my farewells. As I pass, one of the male cousins arches an eyebrow, but an older gentleman with bushy eyebrows scoffs it off, checking his timepiece compulsively, waiting no doubt for the allotted time to have paid his respects.
Without looking back, Ezra leads me to the doorway and places a warm kiss on my forehead. “I thought you said you weren’t tired.”
I stifle a yawn and profess an unnatural need to tend to the unpacking of my garments. Which couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Perhaps you will check up on me in an hour or so?” I smile too brightly.
Recognition dawning, he flushes a bit and kisses my hand, allowing me to leave without any more chastisement. I curtsy and take off before anyone can stop me. Someone here is to blame for the latch being severed, and I intend to find out who.
If they think that they would so easily get rid of me, they have no idea who they are dealing with.
Upstairs, the servants are already unpacking my things in my room, which holds two narrow beds. When I walk in, they all straighten and bow meekly, inquiring how they may assist me. One maid can barely control her stutter, and her left cheek spasms unnaturally, as if I were someone of importance.
Then I remember I now am.
This fact startles me. I know I will never get used to this sudden elevation in status. Immediate respect tingled with a mixture of awe. From the hushed whispers and not so subtle stares floating throughout the house, Ezra’s the catch of the Mercer clan. One that, without one ounce of effort, I’ve snared in my web.
Without explanation, I wave my hands over my face, pretending that I need some fresh air when in fact every window’s wide open, allowing the coolest breeze to fan out the room.
Without looking where I’m going, I walk straight into a wall of solid muscle. Ezra. “Well?”
And I realize that I’ve underestimated him. He’s not buying my act. He’s not a gazelle after all, but as I suspected before: a panther.
“I just needed a moment. They’re a bit overwhelming.” I motion downstairs to the patio, where his family’s engaged in mindless chitchat, eating until their bellies are stuffed while complaining about the most mundane things. I want nothing more than to tell him about the latch and point out the most likely culprit—any one of those blond gods—but something holds me back.
They’re his family.
His blood.
Ezra notes the sleeping arrangements and frowns. “Why are there two beds in here?”
From the notecard on her bed, it seems I have been paired with the doe-eyed Tanya as my bedmate. Her open valise is in the corner already unpacked.
Ezra lifts the card with my name tightly scrawled on parchment. He glares at the servants. “Who saw to these sleeping arrangements?”
His feathers ruffled, he takes matters at hand, a little too eagerly in my opinion. He personally sees that my things are removed at once and put in their proper place, his room, which is on the opposite wing facing the orchard, not the busy avenue.
Outside, carriages are neatly lined up in the street, waiting their turn to drive into the estate. Which means more family members. The protocol is for the driver to unlatch it and allow the man out first, then the women. Not that I’ve been privy to this type of treatment. Before this week, I’ve only once been on a carriage, more often times than naught in the back of a rickety old wagon, jiggled up and down as if being flung against rocks. Suddenly, a troubling thought crosses my mind. There is a custom of Untouchable men always being seated by the carriage door. The fresh memory of Ezra always making sure I was seated closest to the window the day of our betrothal itches in the back of my mind.
The way his soft hand sends a little tingle shooting. His breath, always sweet, reminding me …
Downstairs, the massive doorbell clangs loudly, breaking me out of my reverie. Shuffling footsteps and doors snap open as newly arrived family members crowd into the foyer. A whirlwind of top hats and bonnets and enough lace to drape around the world encompass every inch of marble floor. Darling Cassia, with her familiar high-pitched screech that passes for a greeting, makes her way to the front of the line as introductions are made.
I noted her absent earlier on the patio. Interesting enough, she’d kept to her rooms until now, avoiding my official introduction to the family. A dashing Henric, impeccably dressed, bounces down the stairs. There’s a hop to his step, and remarkably, if it were even possible, he looks more handsome than the last time I saw him. Of course, outside of the teashop with a look of dismay etched into his fine features is not a fair comparison. I take my time to study his movements, how he glides from one stuffy relative to the next, the air of self-assurance pouring from every cell in his body. His hair’s combed back with pristine accuracy, every strand in place, his face as always, unreadable. He narrowly misses being suffocated in Cassia’s embrace. But, like the predator he truly is, he avoids her like the plague, mindlessly chitchatting with a gentleman who could easily pass for his grandfather. Cassia pretends not to notice the slight and focuses on another elderly gentleman with a cane and top hat, who discusses the weather in great detail.
I don’t have to turn to know that Ezra’s back at my side, his gaze fixed on me. I nudge my chin. “I saw Henric in town …”
He arches an eyebrow, stepping closer to examine his flock of relations. I continue, unable to stop staring at Henric. “Outside of a teashop … being scolded by a schoolgirl. He said something about Tanya being sent back …”
“It would be best if you didn’t mention that to anyone. And I do mean anyone.” Ezra lets out a sigh, raking his long fingers through his hair, his attention now on the verbose Cassia, who seems to be making a show of embracing every relative as if they were her own. “You don’t have to be nice to Cassia. I don’t like her either.”
His throat catches, as if he was about to say something else, but thought better of it. It’s a tell. He doesn’t trust me. And for some reason, it bothers me enough to inch away from him and avert my gaze. He catches this small movement and stops, a tiny bead of sweat forming on his top lip. I’m about to confront him about the slight when a familiar sensation burrows into my shoulder.
My eyes connect with cousin Henric. For a moment, I fear the worst. That he knows I was the one spying on him. But he all but ignores me, his gaze steady on Ezra. His lips press together as I watch a silent conversation transpire between the two.
“I guessed that,” I mutter, feeling excluded.
From what I overhead earlier from the elderly aunts chitchatting as I studied my tea sandwich, wondering if poison was beneath these people, Cassia arrived three days ago. It seems they are in the midst of remodeling her home. The walls are being stripped of old fashion wallpaper and a nursery set up. But watching her now, engrossed with a silver-haired uncle, I notice how she favors her right side, instead of her left. It’s just a slight inclination that most would never note. But I am not most people.
And most surprisingly, how after days apart, Henric remains aloof and uninterested. Conveying the usual cold-heartedness that Untouchables are famous for, he ignores her. Unlike Ezra, who’s seemingly glued at my hip.
I can’t shake the thought away. Henric’s devilishly good looking and knows it. Cassia clings to his side like a tic, worming her way even closer. Ezra glances back at me, and I offer, “She doesn’t bother me …”
He gives me a knowing look, and once again, I reminded of a dangerous panther. “I mean, not that much.”
I bow, excusing myself, when his hand finds mine, slinking up my arm.
“Fine; don’t wander far.” It’s a warning. One I have absolutely no intention of following.
Ezra arches an eyebrow, his meaning transparent: no leaping off balconies, no direct combat with immediate family members, and keep away from the knives. The silverware will undoubtedly be counted twice before we’re allowed to leave.
Pretending obedience, I sag my shoulders, and offer a contrite smile. It is answer enough. Excused, I stride gracefully downstairs without looking back, my head just a bit higher.
From the wide-open windows, a gentle breeze blows, ruffling the curtains and a bell tinkles. In the courtyard, two handsome carriages approach the house, their wheels crunching the gravel so that a cloud of dust forms choking the drivers. The rattle of the entrance hall doors being flung open vibrates once again. I peek from the closest railing, curious.
Even more relatives. By their attire, all wealthy. And as I previously suspected, they all look the same. Blond and pale. Some are bald and fat, but mostly conveying a style that comes from always having power and privilege.
They prance from the foyer, spreading all through the massive house like a locust plague. Servants scurry about taking cloaks and hats and jackets. Some family members scatter toward the den and others wander through the vast rooms, inspecting the silver and other valuables. Few pay homage to the false idols. One small child dips her finger into a saucer and mischievously licks the honey. I smile. It seems I am not the only one to desecrate their altars.
Huddling together, their heated whispers lift. Undoubtedly gossiping about their handsome cousin’s strange and slightly alarming new addition to the family. My grin broadens, imagining the extent of their conversations. Their worst fears won’t even touch the surface.
Instead of going down the main stairway, I wander back, discovering the servants’ stairs, which are draped in mourning colors to signify the death of someone in service. Digesting this bit of information, I go about my investigation of who might have sabotaged the carriage door handle.
Aunt Cora has been quickly eliminated. Her plump legs can barely climb down a flight of stairs, let alone have hiked up the hill to where we live without drawing attention when she had a coronary. But everyone else is suspect until proven innocent. Then, spotting the library deserted, I stroll quickly inside and close the door so that it’s ajar enough to alert me if someone approaches.
Turning on my heel, I freeze. It’s a library that might have been in a college or university. Once, I found a picture of a library not half as impressive in one of my school books. My interest piques, wondering if borrowing a book about the legendary Neliem would be out of the question. My only copy is at home and is more of a child’s book not the real unabridged version of the legendary hero and his countless adventures.
As I’m scanning for a copy small enough to fit in my sleeve, by accident I happen upon The Chronicles of Neliem tucked firmly on the shelf. Delighted over my unexpected discovery, my greedy fingers pry it out when a too-familiar voice filters through the open door.
“There you are.”
My skin prickles, a wave of heat spreading from my neck all the way to my toes.
He can’t be here is the only thought spinning in my head. But just the same, I pause mid-pull, all my attention toward the hallway. Two elderly women gathered in the corridor are fussing about the arrival of yet another guest. I catch a movement of hands brushing dust off a jacket. Holding my breath, I peek through the doorjamb too petrified to breathe.
As luck would have it, the scoundrel’s back is to me. All I spot are a pair of weathered hands placing a handsome burgundy hat, probably worth more than my entire village eats in a month, on a peg. I narrow my eyes and inch compulsively closer.
The man, who cannot be much older than me, shifts just slightly, and I catch the ruffles in his shirt and immediately relax my shoulders. The fellow Neliem from town last week would never be caught in a ruffled shirt. But whoever he is, he is rich, as I previously suspected, as well as arrogant no doubt. He leans gracefully to his side to stifle a yawn, an embroidered handkerchief with a flowery M in a flaming pink. No, definitely not my Tristan and I shiver in relief. Shaking the tremble out of my hands, I tell myself that it’s merely yet another rich stuffy relative here for a free meal and to scrutinize the Outcast girl.
A weight lifts off my chest as I reclaim my book. Once retrieved, I attempt to hide it when the wind shifts and a scatter of rain and brittle leaves rattle against the closed window, snapping like nails.
“Ta-Ta, we didn’t think you would bother … no one’s heard of you for the past five days.”
The conversation barely piques my interest enough to lift my gaze. I throw a glimpse out the doorjamb, distracted by how the ladies fawn over this man, mussing over his hair, straightening his collar, and going as far as to straighten his shirt as if he were a child. It’s as if they can’t keep their hands off him.
“And miss breaking off my brother’s wedding?”
The book slips through my fingers with a loud bang. Unable to move, I stand frozen, every nerve in my body shattered. It can’t be, no, never, I assure myself. It cannot be the other Neliem from the city; my stalker, my admirer, my Tristan, who flung himself into the channel to save the woman drowning in the carriage. No, never. And the memory of the heated kiss with promises for much more ignite a flame in the pit of my belly. I pinch my eyes closed. It’s a trick. I’m overwrought after nearly plunging to my death when the carriage door flung open and now being surrounded at every corner by my enemy.
The next sentence confirms every fear.
“Oh, Tristan, you will just love her. She’s lovely. Very sweet, so shy. Why, she could barely lift her eyes when we were introduced.”
The other elderly aunt nods her head compulsively, her hand before her heart as if swearing an oath. “It shows someone bothered to teach her right. Perhaps that school she attended.”
My blood boils over her false assumption. The only thing that school taught me was to run for my life.
Tristan, in full form, snickers, “I will be the judge and jury of that.”
The aunts prance off to announce his arrival while a female servant relieves him of his jacket. The way the servant divests him of his outer garment, her hand lingering on his waist, shows that she would prefer to disrobe him entirely. Even peeking from the small slit behind the door, there’s no mistaking the lust radiating off her as clearly as the noonday sun.
Blood rushes out of my head, and I trip, nearly breaking every bone in my body over the book of Neliem. My backside thumps on the floor, causing a commotion that could wake the dead. Tristan momentarily tilts his chin in my direction, but the servant girl brazenly grabs his head, planting a kiss on his mouth that would make me blush to the tips of my ears. That is, if they weren’t already blazing red hot.
