The countess’s infuriated gaze flies to me for the first time, her eyes widening. “Anna Darvulia,” she says, low, dangerous, like something hidden rustling through tall grass. “Do my eyes deceive me with a phantom, or do I truly see you standing here before me, though I haven’t asked for you?”
I dip into another curtsy, flicking a cool but deferential glance up at her. I sense that I cannot allow a jot of my fear to seep through, to goad her with vulnerability when she’s so irascible. “Beg pardon, my lady,” I say smoothly, betraying no semblance of my clamoring heart. “Your maidservant has fallen ill this morning, and I was sent in her place.”
It’s not exactly a lie; after all, I did send myself here. Though my choice of words would suggest that Mistress Magda sent me. I can only pray that the lady never thinks to ask her.
The countess beholds me narrowly, torn between rampant displeasure, the urge to punish me for my insolence, and the yearning for the comfort she knows I can give. She worries her full lower lip between her teeth until it reddens. Even in her pain, she’s unaccountably lovely, her tangled hair falling over the milky lace of her nightgown like some black, storm-tossed river. The kind of beauty that strikes up a helpless aching in the gut.
“Fine,” she bites off, turning back to the mirror. “Judit, remove yourself from my sight this instant.”
“Yes, my lady,” the chambermaid whispers, hand clapped to her cheek as she scurries gratefully out of the room. She certainly flees more adeptly than she dresses hair.
Relief and trepidation sluicing through my veins, I take her place behind the lady’s shoulder, gently picking up her tangled locks. I twist them against her nape as I brush so that the hair bunched in my fisted grip takes the brunt of each stroke, not the lady’s scalp.
“Is that all right, my lady?” I ask, angling my hand so I can massage the knobs of her skull with my knuckles as I brush. I know how good that feels, from the head rubs my mother used to give me before her hands failed.
“It is,” she murmurs back, her eyelids fluttering with relief, nibble-reddened lips parting slightly. I suddenly think, with an unexpected flush, that her mouth must look just this way after her husband kisses her. “If you would continue . . .”
“Of course.” I let the silky mass of her hair fall through my fingers as I bury my fingers into her scalp, searching for tender spots. If her flux is so painful as to keep her abed, the tension will likely have given her a headache, too. When the tightness ebbs from her cramped shoulders, I see that I am right. She tilts her head back with a faint, grateful sigh, resting it in the cups of my hands, and I feel a tremendous satisfaction at having eased her pain.
“Forgive my forwardness, my lady,” I venture. “But you seem aggrieved. Does something torment you?”
She takes a deep breath, then exhales it through her nose, the smooth space between her eyebrows cinching. “My blood is upon me,” she says, morose. “Again and again and again, such monthly agony. It seems that I do not take easily to my husband’s seed. As if both my soul and body are dead set against producing the heir he so desires.”
Her eyes flutter open, impossibly black and lustrous, like polished jet, and she watches me in the mirror to see what I will say.
“Is it because you already have a son, my lady?” I ask evenly, holding her eyes fast with my own placid gaze. “Do you not want another child?”
“I do not.” She gives a shuddering sigh, as if relieved to admit it. “Gabor—well, you have seen him. He is singular, so thoroughly mine that it is as if I see myself when I look upon him. Beautiful as the day is long, clever, so aflush with youth. So like I was, when I was young.”
I make a sympathetic moue. “But my lady, you are not yet twenty. Still so young.”
She rolls her eyes ruefully, her fingers floating up to palpate the delicate skin at the corners of her eyes. “And yet I wrinkle like neglected crepe already. How much worse will it be after another child suckles at my blood from within, draining me dry?” Her delicate features twist with distaste, the hand in her lap clenching into a fist. “Especially a child of Ferenc’s, riddled with the taint of him, sure to grow just as fulsome as its sire. Sometimes I think I could not bear to host such a creature in my loins, much less withstand the agony of giving birth to it. And yet, it seems I will have no choice.”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” I reply, pressing my thumbs into the hollow above her nape. “A woman’s lot can be so cruel that way.”
“In every way, you mean,” she says with a bitter huff of a laugh. “When Ferenc is away fending off the Ottoman horde, I feel as if I am hefting the whole world on my shoulders, all on my own. Like some bedamned pack mule. I look after not just Sarvar, you know, but all our estates. Keresztúr, Varanno, Léka, and Csejthe, too.” She flits an inquiring gaze up to me. “That last was meant to be my wedding gift, did you know that?”
“I did not, my lady,” I murmur. “It seems a splendid gift.”
She scoffs, pressing her lips together. “And it should be, resplendent estate that it is. But how am I meant to preside over it effectively from so far away? As it is, it feels more like a millstone around my neck.” She pitches her head forward wearily, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“And is the work of keeping it very great?” I ask her, partly to keep her talking to me, partly because I’m genuinely curious. I suppose I never considered that the rich have their own burdens beleaguering them, just as we poor do. I find that I wish to know what hers are, even if they’re likely to be far beyond my grasp.
“Oh, it’s just horrid,” she mumbles, with such a petulant pout that I almost laugh before I master myself. She holds up a hand and begins ticking off her duties. “I must oversee the stewards, to see that they manage servants properly and maintain the estate. And not a steward has ever lived who was not an officious prick.”
This time, I cannot stifle my laugh. Her eyes dart up to mine, mischievous, and her lips twitch with a restrained grin. “I see you know what I mean,” she adds dryly. “I tolerate Aurel only because he is so effective in tending to Sarvar’s needs himself, odious though he is. So much must be done, always. Livestock must be bred, crops sowed, furniture repaired, the ledgers balanced. And the tenants, well—they are forever unable to pay their tithes. I could live for a year off the oats, sheep, and wine that the Keresztúr vassals owe us alone.”
It is an impossible situation for most, given the unforgiving winters we’ve been having, but I do not say so aloud. “That sounds terribly aggravating,” I reply instead. “I’m not sure how you withstand such effrontery.”
“Nor am I,” she agrees vehemently. “And yet, I must also see to their health, for no one else will do it. And to top it all off, there is always some greedy scoundrel duke scratching at the door, harrying our estates where they seem weakest. Attempting to steal our lands.”
I start a little, surprised. “Other nobles try to take your lands?” I had no idea the blue-blooded assailed each other just as ruthlessly as they do those below them.
She gives me a vindicated nod, pleased that I sympathize with her plight. “Indeed. You’d think such conduct unbecoming of nobility, and yet.” Her lip curls slightly. “They know that Ferenc is away so often, that a mere woman holds those lands in his stead. And so they test me whenever it amuses them to do so.”