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He is really gone.
As shock has transitioned into the sorrow and acceptance stages of grief, other troubles have come for us. The king, his coffers stretched thin by war, has no money to spare. The final wages owed to my father are the limits of what he provides. Not only do we lose someone dearly beloved, but now we find ourselves in a situation where the money will soon run out.
A storm brings a fresh problem in the form of damage to the roof of the pretty house with the princess tower. My mother, practical even in her grief, is forced to sell the estate, deciding that the townhouse is better suited to our budget. Only no one wants to invest and live so close to the barbarian clans. The estate is sold for a fraction of its worth, stripped of all valuables, and the land turned over to grazing for sheep.
Papa always planned to retire there and dedicate time to wine-making once his soldering days were over.
But now his dream, like him, is forever gone.
I miss my former home with the princess turret and the innocent version of me who lived there.
I miss my best friend, Dara.
I miss the rustic beauty of the Baxter clan tucked away in the foothills of the mountain with the brambles running up the front porches and sheep in the paddocks.
I miss my papa, the big alpha with his purr, the cuddles on his lap, the smile that would light his face when he wrapped his strong arms around my mother and me.
When I sleep at night, I still see him in our former home, visiting me as I played as a child in the princess turret—knocking politely on the door and asking permission to come in. I know I shall never see my father or the home again except in my dreams. The memory represents a simpler time without the sorrow that feels too large for my small body to contain.
When I wake up, it is to the reality of life missing a vital piece.
Yet life continues, and we find reasons to smile again between those moments when the sadness calls.
Half a year later, an alpha warrior who served under my father arrives at our door, late in the evening.
* * *
I see little more, from the top of the stairs, than a glimpse of his uniform before my mother calls him to the drawing room to talk. It is the same uniform my father used to wear. Maybe that is why he seems familiar. Perhaps I only imagine there is something more about him and his scent that lingers in the air.
I think little of it until the next day, when I spot him from the window, his back to me as he works on our carriage.
A servant informs me that my mother is looking for me. I turn away from the alpha standing beside our carriage and the strange prickling sensation his presence manifests, to join my mother in the drawing room.
A leather case lays open on the table before her, with letters spread out.
She is crying.
“What is it?” I go to her side, eyeing the letters, wondering what terrible news they might bring.
Then I see the handwriting, and a cold tingle sweeps up my spine.
“I’m sorry, love,” she says. “I couldn’t open them last night.”
They are the letters we sent to my father, and my fingers tremble as I turn one over in my hand, recognizing the misshapen letters of my younger self’s handwriting.
It is painful to go over them, but as I sit beside my mother and we open them, reading through the news we sent him and which he saved, the process is cathartic. He saved them. I imagine him sitting quietly, on occasion, when he was far away, opening them, re-reading the news we sent, and thinking about us.
“Did the alpha bring them?” I ask. I’m already convinced he must have, given he wore the same uniform my father once did.
“He’s offered to work for us,” my mother says. “He served under your father. Your papa saved his life, and he says he has nowhere to go, having requested discharge from service. The Blighten are being pushed back on many fronts, and many soldiers are returning to their former homes. He said he should feel honored to work here—a payment of food and board is all he seeks.”
I see the softening in her face. I understand that money is tight. The winery and home we sold yielded little in the way of funds, but at least it took away a burden. What we have must last us. There is no money for a dowry. I know my mother is trying to scrape something together, but I’d sooner spend my life as a spinster than use what little we have. Not that the lack of dowry equates to a lack of suitors. Marshal, a young beta lord, had visited me before my father passed and still visits me now.
I don’t love him. Don’t feel even the slightest spark when he is near. But he is kind, and I know my mother approves of him, thinking he can provide a stable home for me. A part of me recognizes that I need to be practical like my mother has been and that I must accept the future bearing down upon me. Many women who wed for such reasons grow in love with their husbands and have a family and children with whom they can share that love.
Only it is hard, and my heart is not practical, and I still dream of a handsome barbarian lad who grew up to be a man.
“He claims he met you once when you were both children and before he left to take up service with Aston from the Baxter clan.”
