Ethel's lips tighten, and I see it in her face. She's outraged that I spoke back. That I dared speak back. Even though I outrank her, she clearly doesn't think I do.
“You will be sure to have outfits given to suit your position,” she says, and I can't help but think that's not the most reassuring thing I've heard. “I do hope everything is alright between you and master Desmond, though? There have been some comments among the servants, as I'm sure you're aware of. Ever since the feast, we've been worried that things between you two are not as idyllic as they could be.”
Worried, was she? Oh yes. She looks incredibly worried. “No thanks to your efforts,” I say, and she halts, eyes bulging slightly. “Or did you think I wouldn't notice how you're trying to encourage the staff to find ways to slight me?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” she says. “We live to serve this house.”
“Maybe you think you're really smart. Maybe you think that there's no way I'd want to risk all of us on a report to the Graves if it's only small infractions,” I say, gratified to see her sudden look of alarm. I can almost imagine her mind wondering just how I knew. Though I think it would be blatant to anyone.
Her pupils contract. “Such wild and outlandish accusations.” She's rattled, but trying to hide it. “The servants are good, faithful people. And all have suffered under the hands of the Hartsons.” She bows before me and leaves the room, clutching my dresses, including her mistress's ones. I wouldn't be surprised if she was ordered to retrieve them by the lady of the house, in all honesty. Wouldn't let me hang onto those for too long, after all.
A few moments later, Desmond comes into the room, tugging at his formal shirt, which seems bathed with sweat. Possibly he's not had the best day, but I refuse to feel sorry for him. He glances at me, and his expression furrows further. “Well, what do you want to nag about?”
Nag. “What, you don't think I have a good reason to be the way I am right now?”
“I don't have the patience for it,” he says. “It's been a long, tiring, ugly couple of days. I'd like to be able to come back to peace and quiet.”
My anger reaches near boiling point, and it's all I can do not to scream at him. “Yeah, that's fair, but you realize that if all you want me to do is shut up and be nice, you should buy a stuffed animal instead or something. Because my feelings don't stop the moment you walk through the door, Desmond.”
His expression loses some of its hard edge, but his voice remains caustic. “Some would say it's the duty of a wife to wait on her husband. To provide a safe, warm home, a smile, food, and a sympathetic ear to him.”
“That can still be the case,” I say. “But I'm not about to turn a blind eye to problems, or pretend everything is okay when it's not. You never talked to me about the feast.”
He lets out a grunt. “We did.”
“Really? Is there some kind of imaginary conversation that happened where we did? Or do I not remember you promising to tell me in the morning, and then disappearing for two days?”
Desmond closes his eyes, lets out a frustrated sigh, and slumps down on the sofa. “Fine. Say whatever you want to say.”
No. He doesn't get to make me feel bad with that sighing. I can think of a million things I want to complain about. They all bubble to my throat, ready to unleash, before the anger peters out of me. “Do you really think that I'm an easy slut?”
Whatever Desmond was expecting, it wasn't that. He appears less tired, less frustrated as he regards me now. “I don't think that,” he says.
“Then why did you imply it at the feast? In front of everyone else?”
He nods to himself, before saying, “I'll tell you the truth of it. Not that it lessens... what I have said, but I hope it'll ease your mind a little.”
I nod patiently, wondering if he's going to come up with a string of excuses, or something actually heartfelt. I don't think he's a bad person. But we've not really tested our relationship in the traditional ways, either. Possibly because we're not exactly traditional.
“I drank too much, for a start,” he says. “Wasn't watching my own drink. Bobby was warning me, but I ignored him. I didn't want to be there at the feast. I didn't want to sit there and endure my brother's snide whispering for hours, knowing he's trying to turn everyone against us. Knowing he was feeding that Barrowman his lies.”
I start at this. I had, honestly, completely forgotten the earlier part of the feast. I did see Rayse over at the Tielman side of the table. I had noticed him glancing over to us as well, but I just assumed it to be typical shitty Rayse problems.
But of course that would affect Desmond as well. Plus, well, the typical Rayse problems spilled over into that shouting match, so my thinking was rather justified at the time.
“I was angry at him, always trying to undermine us. Angry that the servants weren't giving you clothes, that though you should be my equal, people treat you less as such. Also – I was still feeling – uh – affected by our dealings before we were interrupted.” He rubs the back of his head, and I flush, knowing exactly what he's talking about. “So I said what I said. Thinking you'd want to leave as well. But you didn't – and I was stupid.” He punches the sofa, now looking at the floor. “My father was right to be angry with me.”
I'm astonished, frankly, at his honesty, but I appreciate it at the same time. This was what I needed to hear. Just when I thought that maybe we couldn't ever get past this part of our relationship – then he comes out with this.
“Okay, now I feel less mad at you.” Though I needed to let go of my own anger, too.
“You do?” He stares at me for a moment, probably unsure of where I'm going with this.
“Yeah.” I sigh myself, joining him on the sofa. Though there's a small prickle of excitement, it's not quite enough to shift me out of my mood. “I really wanted to be mad at you. Mostly I'm just mad at myself. How useless I feel, how I have to prepare for people disliking me.”
“Just deal with it and get over it,” Desmond says. “People are always going to dislike you. You're a Hartson.” However, the way he says my surname no longer slips out as a curse. I pay attention to this, one eyebrow raised. “Those wounds don't heal in a second.”
“I know. It'll be the same back home. If there was a Claymore woman who had to marry a Hartson, I'm sure we'd all treat her horribly.” I'd like to think we were more enlightened and therefore more likely to be kinder, but there's a lot of unhealed wounds our side, too. Too many pointing fingers, with no one quite sure how everything started.
“I'm sorry I didn't give you a chance to talk before,” he then says, his voice gravelly, sounding truly apologetic. “Honestly I just didn't want to deal with you going off at me so soon after my father did.”
While I can understand that, it is annoying all the same. Still, I suppose what he did was similar to licking his own wounds, staying away from everything until he felt better enough to deal and process again.
“I want you to be careful of Paul,” he says, which causes a spike of annoyance. “I understand that you need friends, and that if someone's nice to you, of course that's great and all – but just be careful. His intentions may not be exactly noble.”