The Wind and the Wolf, Copyright 2021
Chapter 9 ~
“La! Miss Oanada does not eat enough to keep a bird alive,” Madra said when Flora Moss deposited the tray of uneaten food in the sink and busied herself with task number three on Mavis’s list: clean and polish the copper pots, pans, trays, and molds. At least the tedious work allowed her to enjoy the morning’s gossip that Lotta Jo exaggerated and animated with her colorful imitations of local personalities such as Rena Oldroyd. What a shock upon first hearing those sultry tones strident with anger or cool with disgust coming from Lotta Jo’s lips.
“Oooh! How is a woman to keep her girlish figure, especially one in Miss Oanada’s condition?” Lotta Joe chortled, imitating Rena and rubbing her pudgy hand over her round belly.
Flora jumped, startled from her daydreaming about spending the night with Darcy. Her blissful reverie was shattered by the clatter of her tin of copper polish rolling across the kitchen’s terra cotta floor tiles.
“I did not mean to frighten you, Flora.” Lotta Joe laughed and squeezed Flora’s shoulders in an exuberant embrace. “Coming from the Oldroyd’s service I imagine Rena made everyone jump at the sound of her voice.”
“Miss Rena has her demands. She is particular about everything, or so my sister Tilda has said often enough,” Flora said. She retrieved the tin of polish from where it had rolled beneath the sturdy kitchen table. She stared in awe at Lotta Jo. The cook’s enormous size dominated the kitchen. She was sole authority over the food, what was cooked and served, although Mavis Rosenthorn had final authority over everything and everyone, including Lotta Jo.
Mavis frowned, disapproving. “Miss Oanada will be making demands if she hears you talking like that, Lotta Jo. Not that she would, being more considerate and kinder than some who could have become mistress of this house.”
“Including Rena Oldroyd for one,” Madra said. “She would make changes and the cooking would probably be the first change on her list.”
“Peasant food!” Lotta quipped mocking Rena’s you-disgust-me tone. “Humph! Peasant food indeed.”
Flora laughed, exclaimed, “How astonishing! How do you do that? I have never heard anyone sound so much like someone else in my life.”
“Lotta Jo has natural talent, Flora,” Pearlie twittered.
“That I do, dearie!” Lotta Jo leaned over her stew pot and inhaled the aromatic steam rising from the simmering broth full of vegetables.
“How many other people can you imitate, Lotta Jo?” Flora asked.
“Lotta Jo does not need any encouragement, Flora,” Mavis answered. A matronly scowl sent Flora back to polishing the copper pot.
“Master Kieron went through the kitchen ceiling the first time he heard Lotta Jo doing her imitation of him,” Pearlie said.
“Master Kieron is my best one. He loved it, he did!” Lotta Jo laughed, her round belly jiggling beneath her white apron. “Mavis — Mavis my darling!” she piped, her voice deep and gruff.
“Who else, Lotta Jo? Can you do Miss Oanada?” Pearlie asked.
Lotta blinked thoughtfully, pursed her lips. “Miss Oanada has music in her voice. Her voice is a bit too tricky for me.”
Madra chortled. “Especially since you have a voice as raucous as black crow, Lotta Jo.”
“I can do Master Inali and his brother with my crow voice, although the two of them sound so much alike it is hard to distinguish one brother from the other, unless they are quarreling. Althar’s voice has a note of sadness, I think.” Lotta Jo peered into her stew pot.
“Do they quarrel?” Flora pumped. She wanted to learn more, however indifferent she tried to sound and appear as she bent industriously over the copper cooking pot.
“La! I have never in my life heard such a row go on between two brothers. Not even Master Kieron and Master Jantz carried on as loud or as violently as the way those two did over Miss Oanada and the babe.”
“Lotta Jo,” Mavis warned, but her disapproval went heeded except by Flora. She smeared a daub of copper polish on the next pot and wiped and rubbed the metal until the copper gleamed.
“There will be trouble between those two, mark my words, Mavis. It is obvious to me,” Lotta continued. She crushed and sprinkled bay leaves into the simmering stew pot, stirred.
“Not our place to interfere, Lotta Jo. If Master Inali quarrels with his brother over Miss Oanada, that is between the two of them. Woe to any one who interferes,” Mavis said.
“Including Edan Drum I wager!” Lotta sniffed as a final emphasis.
The clang of a heavy pot banging down on the table caused Pearlie, Mavis, Madra, and Lotta Jo to all jump and stare at Flora.
“Is everything all right, Flora?” Mavis inquired.
Flora winced at her clumsiness. “Yes, Mistress Rosenthorn. The cooking pot is heavier than I thought. I will try to be more careful. I hope I did not dent it,” Flora hastily apologized.
Mavis smiled. “Quite all right, Flora. Why not take a few hours off this afternoon and visit your sister? I am sure Tilda is anxious to hear how you like your new job.”
“Thank you, Mistress Rosenthorn.” Flora said, relieved. She had worried over how she could get away from Fayerfield House long enough to appease Rena’s suspicions. Still, she was not eager to deliver her skimpy report on Oanada to Rena. Maybe if she told Rena what she wanted to hear, who would be the wiser, certainly not Rena. Flora was too realistic not to know that Darcy would stray, if he had not already.
“I will not be too long, Mistress Rosenthorn.” Flora untied her apron and hurried off to her small room to don her best dress. She pinned her fiery hair into the upswept style that Darcy claimed made her throat too irresistible to avoid kissing. She splashed on the rose scent she had purchased from a San Bargellian perfume booth during the summer fair.
She clasped the silver bracelet Darcy had gifted her on her wrist and, twirling, admired her reflection in the dressing mirror that hung behind the door of her room. She was pretty. She knew that for a fact and, as realistic and practical as she was, knew the advantages she could gain from her appearance. She had learned a lot from observing and imitating Rena’s mannerisms.
Satisfied with her reflection, Flora smiled. Rena’s discarded gown fit her curves to perfection and the yellow heightened the fiery curls crowning her head. If Darcy found her not worth risking his marriage for, other men might find her as attractive and as desirable, other men less obligated to their family and without the castrating entanglements of a wife and in-laws who controlled their fortunes.
By no means did she, Flora Moss, intend to work as a servant for the rest of her days. She dreamed about being the mistress of a large townhouse mansion that overlooked Fayerton and Kilmere instead of being an employed servant. But, which townhouse? How many eligible, wealthy men other than Darcy did she know?
In her secret diary, Flora had devoted page after page to her dreams, her hopes and wishes, and her passion for Darcy. On the other pages of her diary, many of them still blank, she had penned headings in her childish script.
Thumbing through the faux-gold embossed pages, Flora glanced at the names of the other male possibilities she had written down as each possible candidate had come to mind, often thought up as she was performing some boring domestic ritual.
Some of the candidate’s names she had crossed out with an angry black stroke of the pen: Dorwin Fouts was one such name. Although the Village Council member was not married, his fiancée Megan Wellborn, his spinster sister, and his invalid mother were not the prerequisites Flora desired in lover or husband.
Rojah Fayerfield figured prominently in her daydreams, but he had departed on a ship to San Bargel. Who knew when she might see Rojah again? She did not cross out his name and had drawn hearts.
Other names she had crossed out and replaced several times. Her imagination was boundless. Each night she dreamed of a different candidate. Perhaps she did not want one man in particular? A lifetime of devotion to only one man might become too boring and confining.
But, Darcy! Flora sighed and stared dreamily at his name. She caressed the black pen strokes of Darcy’s name and the hearts she had drawn. She wanted no one as much as she wanted Darcy Oldroyd, but before she returned her diary to its hiding place beneath her mattress, she penned in one more name beside her entry of Chaeran’s name: Althar Canavar.
Flora smiled. “Anything is possible, Flora Moss!” She giggled, feeling more secure in her second-hand self-confidence as she set out for the Oldroyd’s and her appointment with her secret employer.
#Excerpt, #Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time, Book 8
E.A. Monroe, Monroe Media
eamonroe 