My blood boils upon hearing this. I can't believe the audacity of her. What's even worse is that she's right. I'm not about to start a war because of their pathetic attitudes. But to think they're deliberately taking advantage of that disgusts me down to the soul. That's what they're going to do, isn't it? Just test and push me to see how much they can get away with. Skirting nearer and nearer to the line without ever crossing it.
How dare they take advantage of my sacrifice. How dare they treat my misery like a game. Though I'm tempted just to burst into the room, I know it will solve nothing. They will simply bluff and look innocent, and gaslight until I doubt my own mind and what I heard.
I stalk past them, and no one pops out to check who it is. My mood continues to simmer. I now know for certain that it isn't just ignorance. It's willful ignorance. A delight in pushing me, playing with fire, using the excuse that I'm a Hartson, somehow not thinking me human enough to do anything about their games.
The anger stays with me long after night-time falls, and I sleep in the bed alone. The next day isn't much better, though Paul is again there, affable and helpful. He even shows me to the stables, where parts of his duties involve picking out the mud from their hooves and replacing the iron plate, grooming them and making sure their saddles are properly affixed. The dozen or so horses in the stables look magnificent, reminding me of my father's own prized beasts. They likely get better care and food than some of the lowlier peasants that scrape together their resources for survival.
“It always relaxes me to come here. The horses don't care about the nonsense going on in the house,” Paul says, giving me a wide smile. I'm uncomfortable with some of the judgment being flung our way from other servants, and can almost hear the whispers – that I'm probably fucking the stable boy. They won't believe me if I say this isn't true. Even though it's not, and all I want is just people to be damn well nice to me for once.
Besides, Paul doesn't have much compared to what I've seen of Desmond. There's an intensity to Desmond that draws me to him. There's a promise between us that we'll go further than anyone else. Even though our first time fell rather short of expectations, as both of us were just too sloppy drunk to do anything meaningful, I know the real experience will be different.
I think, if we dare to let ourselves go, we could drown in passion. It both terrifies and excites at the same time.
“You know, I've had to attend many lords as they mount their horses,” Paul says, carefully brushing down the white mane of a horse he calls Grazer. “I get to hear things from Rayse, Desmond and their friends a lot. Rayse obviously hates you, but I'm sure that comes as no surprise.”
“None at all,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “If looks could kill, I'd be dead several hundred times over.”
Paul chuckles at that, before clearing his throat, stopping his brushing of Grazer's white mane. “I've also heard things about what Desmond says to all his friends. He usually meets up with three of them in total.”
“Yeah, I know of them,” I say, again feeling slight unease. “What about it?”
“Well, they think he's wasting his time with you, and also think he should seek to get a second wife if he truly wants to be happy. After all, no one expects your union to actually work. And Desmond, well... I get the impression he's not opposed to it. Though he is tactful enough not to state it out loud.”
My senses swim. That does sound like something to happen. Desmond clearly isn't sexually satisfied because we're not actually doing anything. I'm also aware not all his friends are quite as affable as Bobby. My position was always precarious.
He's probably out with those friends now, who will continue to talk shit about me until the cows come home.
It's that same attitude that causes me to stubbornly listen to Paul and try and learn a little more about the farrier side of horse husbandry. I only ever learned to saddle and ride them, and brush down their coats. Not anything else. He's happy to show me. Just as we're both laughing at some stupid joke about chickens crossing roads, a rider clutters into the stable, getting off their horse rather stiffly.
Desmond. I sober enough from my excitement to nod at my husband. He doesn't nod back, but instead looks between me and Paul. As if I'm doing something wrong. So I stand there, staring into his dark eyes, defiant. His hair is tousled from the wind, curlier than usual. His lean strength is as attractive as ever, but his face is cold.
“I don't want you talking to the stable boy,” he finally says, and I glare at him.
“The stable boy is being nice to me. And I'd like to have some people be able to talk to me without a permanent sneer upon their face.”
“You realize how bad this looks?” Desmond hisses. “People will see you two together, and they'll assume –”
“Let them,” I say. “They're never going to think anything good about me anyway.
“You shouldn't let them. It reflects badly upon us. It makes us look as though our marriage is t –” He stops himself just in time, because Paul is listening, interested, and one servant has stopped in their walking, mouth hanging open.
But our marriage is troubled, I think. It's been trouble for a while. And it probably always will be trouble.
“Let's continue the discussion inside,” I say, mouthing a sorry to Paul, who simply nods as we walk off.
“I have to report to my father, first. Wait for me in our quarters. I'll be with you.”
“Sure you're not going to just run off again?” I say snidely, and Desmond sighs, less than amused by my words.
“I won't run off. And I didn't run off before. I left you a note.”
“How nice. A note. Yes, that made me feel so much better,” I snap, before turning my back on him, and retreating to my rooms. I'm doing as he asks, but I'm angry all the same. The walls feel more like a prison than usual. And here I am, the trophy wife, here to wait for my husband to return from the important meeting I'm not allowed to listen to. Probably in case I report any of it back to my parents. Can't have me passing on Claymore secrets. Though I do know a few things they would be less than pleased for me to reveal. Like their still in the works alliance with the Tielmans. Their troubles with the Bonecleavers at the borders. Knowledge that the other clans living with the Claymores care less for the conflict.
I wait about an hour, slumped out on the opulent bed. Ethel bustles into the suite at one point, not even bothering to look at me as she scurries into the wardrobe and plucks out some clothes. She takes a little longer than necessary, and I'm sure she's looking for my Hartson colors. She doesn't find them, though, because I don't trust her intents at all. “Master Desmond has asked me to provide for you some better clothes,” she says, when I finally ask her what she's doing. “He has made it come to our attention that your own ones are limited.”
“Given the fact that I had to borrow his mother's clothes for the banquet, you might be right about that,” I retort. Wondering how she might use this new incident to continue her pathetic, passive-aggressive game. “I would appreciate it if I would wear clothes fit for a wife, rather than borrow from someone else's.”