Ugh.
Ugh.
***
Ophele was still turning the problem over as she sat with Remin later that night, reading aloud with less than her usual enthusiasm. Reading to Remin really seemed to help her to speak better, and though Remin was usually buried in stacks of paper in the evening, she had no doubt he was listening.
“You already read that paragraph, wife,” he noted without looking up. His quill slashed over the page. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Not really,” she said, and cracked almost instantly. “Only maybe some of the women aren’t as nice as I thought.”
Remin’s eyes lifted to hers, instantly hardening.
“What did they do?”
“Nothing to me,” she answered, and set her book down. “They wouldn’t, would they? I’m the duchess.”
“Ah.”
“Justenin and Mionet were talking about it today,” she said unhappily, and explained what they had said, resisting the urge to rub her abdomen. Had she eaten something bad? It felt as if someone had tied a knot in there and was yanking on it.
“I suppose it’s a caution.” His brows lowered. “I’ve never been especially good at such things, wife. I don’t have patience for it. But I don’t mind if people have their opinions, so long as they don’t make trouble.”
“Justenin says we ought to take care to be seen with Brother Oleare.” Ophele felt a surge of relief as he bared his teeth. “I know! It makes me not want to, even though he’s perfectly nice.”
“Juste’s instincts for such things are good,” said Remin reluctantly. “I suppose there might be busybodies who worry we might convert to whatever it is they believe in Benkki Desa.”
“Atar Ma, it’s a sort of animism and it’s lovely.” Ophele’s chin jutted belligerently. “They have poems about the Lady of the Moon. Why should anyone care what we think?”
“We are meant to be the example,” Remin said, with a hint of humor, but Ophele did not find any of this funny.
“I shall set the example by speaking to whoever I like,” she retorted, with such irritation that he looked at her in surprise. “You said we should welcome everyone, and my mother said that’s what a proper lady does. So I will.”
Even if she wasn’t quite sure what that would look like yet.
But it came to her the next day, unplanned and unprompted, in a chance encounter that Mionet would certainly have protested if she had been there.
As the last sufferers of the fever recovered, work had resumed on the manor, and it was once again filled with carpenters, plasterers, and masons, plowing away at their various projects. Blown through the front door after a visit with Azelma, Ophele found a crew of masons building a fireplace in the shell of the office. It was not an insignificant structure, in a house this big; the hearths in the bedchamber and solar were taller than she was, and this one was nearly as tall as Remin.
Peeling off her gloves, Ophele slipped off her outdoor shoes, watching curiously.
“Why is there brick?” The question escaped her before she even realized she was speaking. Ophele flushed as the four men turned toward her, but decided to brazen it out. “Instead of making it all stone, I mean.”
“Flat surface reflects heat better, Your Grace,” said one of the bricklayers, splatting mortar on the edge of his trowel.
“Oh. It does look very well done,” she replied, eying the straight lines of the bricks and wondering what on earth was possessing her. Maybe it was some spirit of defiance, or lingering resentment for the sudden, unwanted burden of social expectation. Leonin and Davi were staring. “It must have taken a great deal of practice to learn to set them so straight.”
“Some, lady.” The bricklayer was puzzled but willing. “Apprenticed when I was twelve.”
“Oh, did you? I should like to hear about that,” said Ophele, and then realized it was true. And why not? She was the duchess, no one could be rude to her or Remin would crush whatever was still wriggling after Leonin and Davi were through with them. “You take a rest at noon to eat, do you not? The four of you?”
“We…do, m’lady.” The bricklayer’s friends were looking at him with expressions that saidnow see what you’ve done.
“Then I would like to invite you to luncheon, the four of you. And you can tell me about building fireplaces, and becoming apprentices and journeymen,” she said, trying not to sound nervous. “If you don’t mind. It will be quite proper; my guards and lady-in-waiting shall be there. If you would like to come?”
“My lady,” said Leonin, in a warning undertone, but Ophele ignored him.
“I…suppose,” answered the bricklayer, with reluctant murmurs of agreement from his fellows. She didn’t miss their consternation and wariness, commoners called to entertain a duchess, but Amise said men would forgive almost anything if you fed them something nice.
