She caught the choice of words, content, not happy.
He looked past her, his voice quieter now. “He saved my life after the fire. No other household would have taken me on like this.” He raised his hand to indicate the scarring, the fingers that no longer gripped.
“I can’t do hard labour,” he said simply. “Without him, I’d have no job, no food, no roof over my head. I’d be dead, no doubt about it. I can’t forget that.”
The words sounded like an old defence repeated until he believed it.
He went on. “He’s been hurt before. I think you could help heal that old hurt.”
Aoife absorbed that in silence. A part of her, the naive and hopeful part, wanted to believe it. If he had been different once,maybe he could be again. Maybe she could make him see reason, be a better master to his tenants.
As Alton turned to leave, she said, “How can you admire him and fear him at the same time?”
He stopped. “What do you mean?”
“You’re afraid of what he might do to you, or to Clara. Yet you speak of him as if you owe him everything.”
Alton looked away. “I do fear him,” he admitted. “I’d be a fool not to. If he found out about Clara, she’d be dismissed on the spot. And you know what the world’s like for a woman out there.”
He met her eyes again. “And as for stealing food? A betrayal like that would mean death. He doesn’t suffer disloyalty.”
Aoife’s face drained of colour. “Death?” she whispered.
Alton’s expression softened with pity. “Like I said, you know where you stand with him. Don’t cross him, and you’ll have a good life here.”
He left her standing in the corridor, the echo of his footsteps fading into the hush of the house.
Aoife stayed where she was, cold to the bone.
Chapter 10
Aoife crushed the herbs with the pestle, working them against the side of the small stone bowl. The scent rose sharp, clean, and familiar, and for a moment she closed her eyes and breathed it in. Her mother’s book lay open on the floor beside her, pages softened by years of handling, ink faded but legible.
She skimmed the lines again, though she already knew the recipe. Frostweed to soothe the itch, wigwort to help it heal, and yarrow to keep the evil spirits out. Simple enough. She’d made ointments like this a hundred times.
And yet today everything fought against her.
The herbs clung stubbornly to the pestle, and her hands shook with frustration.
She scraped the mixture into a small jar, set the pestle down harder than necessary, and let out a long sigh.
It had proved a welcome distraction. Any idea she’d had of going around Lord Halverton had been dashed. She couldn’t manage it on her own, and the staff were too scared to try. They lived in this house because the world beyond its walls was colder and hungrier, and far less forgiving. Here they had food, warmth, and beds. Enough was just enough to keep them quiet.
She couldn’t blame them.
Still, her failure sat heavy in her chest.
If she thought, even for a second, about a future where her friends and family slowly starved while she was trapped foreverin a house of riches with a man she could not stand, she wanted to hide under the covers and never come out again. Helping them meant helping herself. She could only bear the endless stretch of a future here if it meant something, if the people she loved were alive.
On top of everything else, there was James. The footman had taken a disliking to her simply for the fact that she was Morran. She had expected the staff wouldn’t be happy, still she couldn’t say it didn’t sting. Aoife wasn’t accustomed to being disliked. That was something she’d have to work on.
Aoife closed the jar. Which of the many storage options was the right place to keep her things? At home, she kept her herbs within easy reach in the kitchen. The bedside table nearest the door seemed the obvious choice, but when she opened the drawers, they were already teeming with candles, writing supplies, a chamber pot, and other items she couldn’t identify.
She looked around the room, her eyes falling on the vanity. That secret drawer might come in handy after all. It wouldn’t be as easy to retrieve her things, but considering Lord Halverton hadn’t wanted her to have them, it was best they were hidden.
She stashed the herbs, the ointment, the oils, and the pestle and mortar, and slid the drawer closed with a satisfying click.
Her mother’s book still lay open on the floor. She picked it up, and as she lifted it, a whisper of paper slid out, gliding to the floor and stopping against the leg of the bed.
