Neliem, page 25
“Tanya, I didn’t mean it like that …” Cassia’s voice breaks into a pitiful wail.
“Cassia, stop worrying about stupid Henric. What you should be focused on is finding a handsome lover.” Something thumps to the floor. “I have.”
“You have not … who?”
“A handsome brother …”
My cheeks burn. Tristan, she means Tristan. My Tristan.
I move past the door when the servant girl from downstairs clears her throat politely. It takes me a moment to realize why.
I finger a coin and offer it freely. “For your trouble.”
She curtsies in a way that reminds me of Etta. Soft and jittery, not meeting my eyes. And when her thin fingers graze over mine, I think of Etta’s wonderful yellow eyes, wondering how much better life in Odessa will be for her. Later, when I confronted Landis, he shared that a position as a lady-in-waiting to a rich woman in Odessa had been secured for Etta’s mother. The lady was already taking a liking to her as well as Etta, who now had a private tutor twice a week, seeing to her education.
Downstairs, the family’s clustered like chickens before the dining hall, greedily waiting for the doors to open.
What we had for breakfast and tea alone was more than I would eat in a week. And yet these scavengers demand more.
“Why do they always make us wait?” One immaculately dressed cousin, who can’t be older than me, complains bitterly. She catches my gaze and presses her lips closed, as if speaking ill of the servants is something she’s been warned not to do.
I watch the group carefully. The two elderly uncles stand back with their canes, impatiently tapping the marble floor as if to make the doors magically open. The aunts tend to their daughters like mother hens, picking and fussing to make sure they are possibly less detestable.
Backtracking, I go down the servant’s stairs. The aroma of something burnt turns my stomach. The entire kitchen’s fogged with some stench as maids scurry about, opening all the windows to let in a fresh breeze.
In the kitchen, a harried cook, tendrils of long hair coming undone from her disheveled bun, wails, “She burnt the curry, the dimwit.”
The scurry maid, a fresh welt on her face, huddles in a corner. “It isn’t my fault.”
A memory flashes before me of my own mother doing the same thing, slapping me for burning some small morsel of food or for refusing to eat something so rotten that I gagged. If it hadn’t been for Ezra, I would be her. If not cleaning the school, at some Untouchable home being worked to the bone. The hope of love or a family a mere fantasy. An ice-cold shiver runs down my spine.
The two maids mock her before retreating to the dining room.
With renewed interest, I observe the poor girl hunched over, weeping on the kitchen floor. Above her lies a blackened pot of curry, which the cook scrapes off.
“Barely enough for anyone … stupid girl …”
I close my eyes and breathe out of my nose. It takes everything in me to resume my descent down the stairs, dread piercing my gut. Part of me wants to shut it all out, like I have most insults. It’s nothing new to be called stupid, or ugly or useless. But since arriving here, I’ve been treated better than I have for most of my life.
My heart lunges just watching her. Her hair’s come undone and rests in long red curls around her drenched face as she continues to sob into her sleeve.
The cook admonishes her further, “Milly, get off your arse before I slap you silly and cut some tomatoes … marinade will have to do …”
A step below me creaks, and the girl catches my eye and bows at once. “Ma’am.”
I nod and try to think of what to say. If it were Etta, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell her to stand up for herself and give the fat cook a piece of my mind.
I smile.
A good sock to the eye would silence the cook for a while. But such an impulsive action would grant the girl’s immediate termination, plus a call to authorities.
The fact remains that I alone can do nothing.
I help Milly to her feet. She’s pretty, and if given a chance to wash up and put on something clean, she might shine. “What happened?”
The cook, knee deep in stirring the soup, shakes her head. “Nothing to trouble yourself about.”
“It was the other one.” Milly swallows. “The very pretty one, she wanted to know how the curry was made.”
The cook edges closer with a wooden spoon. It would take two moves to disarm her and have the said spoon up a very uncomfortable place. Catching my expression, she wisely backs down.
“Lady Cassia?” I ask the trembling girl.
“Milly,” someone screams from outside, and the poor girl rushes away before I can probe further. The salvageable curry is quickly placed in a silver container for the family. What’s left of the burnt curry is scraped onto a bowl for the stray cats.
Deep in thought, it takes me a moment to register the back of my neck prickling. I would have to be blind, dumb, and deaf not to feel the intense gazes of Tristan and Ezra. One of them is bad enough, but two. My knees wobble. Holding up my head, I turn.
Ezra chuckles, “Sweetheart, learning the finer points of domestic bliss?”
The two lift their hands at the same moment, and once again I’m dazed over how similar they are. As if threaded by the same string, their heads cock toward the alley where the ravenous cats are being fed and let out an identical sigh. Almost as if they’re the same person in two forms. Za-Za all goodness, and Tristan with his dark smoldering looks pulsating the very essence of Neliem.
Forcing my feet to move, I follow them, trying desperately not to lean to either side. The dining room’s prepared for the late-day meal. And there’s still evening tea later.
If I stay with these people, I’ll be too enormous to walk on my own two feet again. I glance down at one elderly aunt’s plump feet; Aunt Mildred. She has a wart on her nose and obviously can’t find proper shoes that fit. She wears soft slippers and complains incessantly about the cold, which is ridiculous. If anything, it’s cool, with a pleasant breeze throughout the house. These people have no idea what it is to endure a bitterly cold winter or a scorching heat that fries your skin as you labor for miles to fetch warm, murky water to drink. They wouldn’t last one day in Madera.
Politely, Aunt Cora nudges my shoulder, and I take my place across from Ezra. Unfortunately, I’m paired directly next to Tristan, whose hand finds mine under the table too quickly.
I flinch, suddenly aware of every blue eye in the room.
Tristan whispers like a cad, “Stop fretting; you’ll get wrinkles.”
I purse my lips and stomp on his foot before popping a fig in my mouth.
He releases my hand and stifles a grunt. Ezra’s eyes are on us as he’s served the shrimp cocktail, which I won’t touch.
Ezra raises an eyebrow, trying to determine what’s wrong. He tries his best at a smile. “Fig too dry?”
Tristan moves his foot a safe distance away. “And surprisingly hard …”
Cassia and Tanya are the last to arrive, and I can’t help notice, for a girl whose mother’s about to die, she seems a little too chipper. Batting those strange eyes, Tanya gushes toward Tristan. “I love figs … Tristan, tell us about Cortos. Those figs you brought back last summer were delicious.”
Ezra peers from his untouched plate. He’s divided his food and plays with one half as if trying to find a perfect balance. “If I recall correctly, Tristan was seven the first time he picked figs there. He always brought the best back for me.”
Tristan winks, and cuts into his meat. “Mother made fig marmalade.”
A wave of tension spreads amongst the elderly aunts at the mention of Tristan’s Outcast mother. But the rest of the cousins seem oblivious to the slight.
Tanya licks her lips. “I bet it was delicious.”
She’s openly flirting, and Landis just allows it as if nothing is out of the ordinary. And I know why. He can’t let on that she’s being sent back. The promise of a spice empire is not enough incentive to entice him. Instead, he’s set his sights on poor Etta.
Cassia darts me a glance, then returns to her meal to sulk in silence. She tried calling Henric earlier. I heard the phone ring back twice, but she wasn’t put through. Some nonsense about the wiring. Obviously desperate, she went as far to try to sneak out of the house to see him but was caught and sent to do some embroidery while all the aunts marveled over her accomplishments.
That was the tell. They flattered her too much.
The ancient timepiece ticks noisily and one of the fans must be broken because sweat is collecting under my armpits and down my legs. The tension is as palpable as bitter herbs as I pull on my collar. My feet twitch to run and never stop.
I fidget in my seat as Landis turns with a fake smile directed toward Tanya. “He was eight …”
Tristan chews his steak. “I was five.” He reaches to fill his goblet with wine.
They share this little smirk that sends a shiver down my spine. This is all some elaborate game for them. Playing with these girls and discarding them as easily as broken toys the moment it best suits them.
The heavenly scent of freshly baked bread wafts through the kitchen door as servants usher in platter after platter of food. Meats with sauces, chicken, duck, quail. My stomach twists. There are already three baskets brimming with mouthwatering bread, enough to feed forty, not twelve, with all sorts of butters and jams to drench our palates.
Tristan playfully flirts back with Tanya, and I think that he might be trying to make me jealous. “I’ll bring you figs next week …”
She blushes, and I find myself wincing. There will be no figs next week, nor the week after. Tanya will be back in that beautiful house she hates with a mother who hits her for not being pretty enough to have ensnared a rich, Hugganoff husband.
Landis, the first chance he gets, will be off to Odessa to seduce Etta, who frankly won’t need much persuasion. But he’ll have to marry eventually. Someone no doubt with a bigger purse and maybe a bit more sense not to flirt so openly.
All the melodrama distracts me from the choice at hand. Ezra or Tristan. Tristan or Ezra. The clock ticks in rhythm. I get up, then sit down just as quickly. I need to decide now, before tonight.
One distinct pair of pale blue eyes burn down on me. I glance up at Ezra, and it’s as if he’s never left me.
I swallow down a dry piece of bread and nearly choke. Tristan’s warm hands slink up my back before I squirm away. “All better?”
Ezra pours some water and, like a gazelle, lifts the goblet to my mouth. Soon, I have downed the entire glass. My chest heaves. The inexplicable need to confess everything pulsates. My Za-Za I could tell anything to. But maybe, just maybe, he already knows.
He shifts his steady gaze to Tristan. “I believe my brother has an announcement.”
And something unsaid passes between them. Some unspoken language forged by years together, and miserable ones apart.
When Tristan doesn’t answer, pin prickles of tension sweep down my back.
“Yes.” Tristan focuses on folding and unfolding his napkin as we all wait. Cassia even looks up, momentarily not overwhelmed with her unexpected trip to Madera.
“What is it?” She turns to Ezra who remains unreadable.
“After much thought, I have decided that a change of scenery is in order.” Still, he doesn’t elaborate. It’s maddening. Ezra, on cue, clears his throat.
“I will be accepting the invitation of the Ambassador and accompanying him to the Capital.” His eyes lock on mine. “Alone.”
A stabbing pain twists through my gut. Tristan finds my hand under the table and I surrender to it, finding a comfort I never thought I could. Overwrought with emotion, I squeeze my eyes shut so that tears don’t burst out.
Tristan releases my hand and gets up to accept congratulations from family. Tanya hugs him too tight, the fret on her face speaking volumes. With difficulty, Landis pries her hands off of Tristan and offers him a firm hug.
It’s as if all the air has left my lungs. Ezra lingers at my side, his face strained. “It is for the better, don’t you think?”
Moments ago, I was seriously debating a life apart from him. But now, the choice is ripped out of my hands. It’s too much.
Outside in the courtyard, Milly scrapes away the last of the burnt curry. Stray cats mew obsessively, licking at the tin plate.
I play with my food listlessly and stare as one scrawny cat breaks into convulsions. Another cat starts vomiting and three others start choking, gagging up green phlegm. I stand up and, without thinking, grab the silver platter of curry and take it to the kitchen, where I pour it out under the faucet, the hot water nearly scorching my hand.
The murmurs and gossiping from both staff and family follow like a storm about to break. I ignore every heated whisper, instinct taking over. Heavy footsteps echo behind me, but I don’t stop until the dish is washed perfectly clean.
I flinch toward the open window where six cats now lie dead, a swam of flies infesting their carcasses. An upstairs maid with a crisp blue apron arrives with clean linens, a frown marring her fine features.
“The curry was …” I see a trace of clay on her sleeve, just like the one in the carriage, and freeze.
Before I can finish my sentence, Ezra appears like Neliem at the doorway. No sound, not even a hint of a footstep. “What’s wrong?”
My hands shake at the thought of what nearly happened.
Ezra stares out the window, and I catch the back of Tristan as he enters a coach. He doesn’t turn or wave. The driver whips once and the horses trot away, until only a flutter of dust remains.
“He didn’t say goodbye,” I whisper.
Ezra takes the platter out of my white-knuckled hands and sets it aside. “I will escort you back. Everyone’s waiting. They are under the assumption that you were having yet another fainting spell.”
There is no possible way I can go back and pretend that everything is normal. Not even Neliem could manage this.
But Ezra doesn’t give me a chance; with a firm grasp, he places me back in my seat with a smile to his family that would fool the devil himself. He takes Tristan’s seat and places his napkin on his lap as a servant offers him a clean plate. “Ta-Ta had urgent business with his trip. And I’m ravished …”
He cuts into his meat like a predator.
Tanya moans, “He promised me figs.”
Ezra smiles his best smile. “I am positive they have figs in the Capital.”
One elderly uncle grumbles, “Politics,” and blows his nose loudly.
The male cousins, who look too much alike, snicker. Tanya blushes and starts peeling a tangerine to pieces. The juices smear on her lacy sleeves, and I just watch. I’ve had enough. There is no way I can stay in this house with these people and pretend.
“I have a horrible headache,” I explain, getting up.
Aunt Cora nods, with a sympathetic look. “You’ve overextended yourself.”
Of course. By doing absolutely nothing and forgetting my daily exercises and combative techniques, I’m overwrought.
I prepare to slip away, but Ezra’s at the door by the time I reach it. He wraps an arm around me and, playing the part of enamored lover, escorts me upstairs to a room across from ours, which they use to store our excessive clothing. The second the door closes, his grip around me tightens, his eyes a stormy sea.
He knows.
With care, he locks the door with a snap. I gulp and am about to explain that I’m in no mood for company when he double bolts the top latch.
My nerves shatter the moment the top latch fastens.
He pants like one of those ravenous dogs that used to chase me out in the woods. The gashing of teeth, the scent of blood in the air, the earth pounding, the need to escape intensifying with every breath.
After what seems an eternity, he turns and faces me. Gone is my sweet-faced Za-Za.
“What was that about? You … flirting with my brother.”
The floor drops beneath my feet as I stumble against the bed.
“There’s something going on between you two …” He approaches like Neliem himself. Dark and dangerous. And so alluring.
I edge back, forgetting that I know how to defend myself, forgetting everything.
“You were in the stables with him.” Seething rage emits from every pore in his body, making him more attractive. More like Tristan. Before I can deny it, he hisses, “Do you deny it? That you got down on your knees before my brother?”
Now, it’s my turn to laugh. “That was Tanya!”
Sense registers on his face, and the murderous gleam softens. “Tanya?”
“They had a thing last summer.”
“I am well aware that they had …” He stops, still suspicious. “But you were there.”
“I had to speak to him.”
“About what?”
I then confess my early morning spying. My continued suspicions about the carriage latch being tampered with. The butler with the scar, the maid who couldn’t meet my eyes. The poisoned curry. The only thing I leave out is knowing Tristan a lot better than he suspects.
To prove my case, I pry the bag with coins out of his boot.
His eyebrows perk, but still, he doesn’t speak. I remember the other maid with the clay smear. But it still doesn’t quite fit. She works only upstairs, not in the kitchen.
When I look up, the most intriguing expression fills his face.
Calmly, he takes the money and unlocks the door. “These schemes have led to nothing. As they always do.”
“But …” I scramble to think.
“The servants in question were fired earlier.” He tosses the bag in the air, the coins clinking together. “Theft will be added to the charges.”
I can’t remember ever being this angry with anyone. “You don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that. But with everything that’s happened, you will stay in bed and rest.”
