Threads of Gold
A Tales of the Latter Kingdoms Novel
Christine Pope
Dark Valentine Press
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
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Also by Christine Pope
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THREADS OF GOLD
Copyright © 2015 by Christine Pope
Published by Dark Valentine Press
Cover design and ebook formatting by Indie Author Services.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Dark Valentine Press.
Please contact the author through the form on her website at www.christinepope.com if you experience any formatting or readability issues with this book.
Chapter 1
My father was late coming home the evening before. Since this had become something of a regular occurrence, I hadn’t thought more than once or twice on his tardiness during the night in question, besides making sure that Cordell, the household’s man-of-all-trades, kept a lamp burning so there was no danger of my father stumbling in the dark when he finally did find his way home.
Perhaps a lamp should not be necessary, not when a man would normally know his house as well as his own face, but let us just say that my father was often quite impaired by the time he made his way home in the small hours of the morning.
Now he sat at his place at breakfast, blinking irritably at the warm morning light streaming in through the many-paned windows of our dining chamber. “Cordell, shut those damnable curtains!” he snapped, and of course Cordell rushed to comply.
My sister Iselda shot me a troubled glance, but she knew better than to speak. No, she kept her head bent over her bowl of porridge with honey, her hair almost the same color as the golden liquid poured on top of the cereal to make it a bit more palatable.
For myself, I could only force my features into an outward aspect of serenity I most certainly did not feel. Affecting not to have noticed my father’s brusque tone, I said calmly, “Cordell, would you mind very much bringing in some more tea? The pot is empty, I fear.”
He hurried over and took up the empty teapot, even while he shot me a quick glance, dark eyes worried, as if attempting to gauge my mood. Most of the time I did not bother to engage with my father — what would be the point? — but on occasion I would decide I’d had enough of his intemperate ways, summoning the courage to rebuke him for his behavior, even though I knew I would likely regret it later. Cordell was far too well-mannered to ever interfere in these arguments, even though I knew they troubled him. I could not say I enjoyed the quarrels, either, but sometimes I found it impossible to hold my tongue.
What made matters worse was that I had discovered some months earlier a certain tenderness in Cordell’s attitude toward me that would have been unthinkable even a few years ago. He was not so very old — thirty, perhaps, or thereabouts — and, if not precisely handsome, certainly not ill-favored. Once upon a time, our relative positions would have been so very different that he would never have contemplated even thinking of me as anything except his master’s daughter.
Unfortunately, we had fallen quite a great distance over the past three years.
But we had not fallen quite so far yet that Cordell would not do as any of us bade him. He took up the empty teapot and hastened off to the kitchen, while I squinted through the now-darkened room at my father. The gloom could not entirely conceal the pouchy darkness under his eyes, the bleariness of his gaze.
And even though I knew I should have left it alone, said nothing, I could not prevent myself from asking, “How was the gaming last night? You were at Lord Selwyn’s, I believe?”
For that was how my father had been consoling himself the last few years, with cards and drink at the home of any petty nobleman who did not mind lowering himself to gamble with a member of the merchant class, as long as said merchant had enough ready coin to bring to the table. Whether my father would continue to have said coin for much longer was up for debate, but at the moment he considered it a better use of his funds to game with the lower ranks of the nobility than to make sure there was bacon on the table at breakfast, or that his daughters had new winter boots.
Ah, well, I was done growing. I could make do with my boots for another year. Iselda, on the other hand, seemed to grow half an inch each month, and could barely fit into the slippers she wore day in and day out. At least I was more than handy with a needle, and could keep our clothing mended, our stockings darned. Indeed, my embroidery had been deemed so fine that it was good enough for court. Of late, I’d begun to plot in the back of my mind, attempting to come up with some way of offering my services to the fine ladies of the realm so I might bring in some extra money for the household. The only problem with that plan was that my father would most likely go into a flying rage if he ever learned I had attempted to lower myself in such a fashion.
Now he scowled and reached for his mug of cider. He was not one for tea, and the mildly alcoholic pear drink probably did more to restore him than anything else would. I knew he had to have been drinking something far stronger while gambling at Lord Selwyn’s home.
“The gaming was well enough,” he said, although I noted how he would not look at me.
That was a sure sign that he had lost, and lost badly. I tried not to sigh. It would have been so much better if my father had entrusted me with the household accounts, for at least then I would have known how close we were to ruin. As it was, it seemed as if our family was a ship driven onto a rock, foundering there and teetering with every wave, but not yet so precarious that the next influx of the tide would drive us on a reef and break us forever. And all I could do was guess, and attempt to calculate the worth of the few pieces of jewelry I owned, as well as the grander items my mother had left behind, and wonder if it would be enough to keep us afloat.
How long any such funds might last, I did not know. I was the eldest child, and therefore my father’s heir, for at least here in Purth a young woman could inherit land and money, if not a title. But all that would count for very little if it was all gone by the time my father left this world.
I knew I should not be thinking such things. My father was not so very old — some five and forty — and therefore should have had many years left to him. But the loss of his wife, and the dwindling of his fortunes, had taken their toll on him. True, the first set of disasters were none of his doing. First, there was my mother’s death in childbed, and the much-longed-for son with her, when Iselda had just turned nine. Almost immediately after that, most of the continent suffered a poor harvest, following a hot, dry summer of little rain. The shortfall left my father little enough to load
on his small fleet of ships, or to send off with one of the overland caravans that traveled between our homeland of Purth and neighboring kingdoms such as Farendon, and, to a lesser extent, Seldd. Then there was the loss of one of his precious ships in a violent squall off the coast of South Eredor, followed by the realization that he did not have the capital to replace it. And so on.
I decided to try another tack. “Will you be going to your offices this morning?” I inquired. Lately, it seemed as if he had been spending just as much time at home as the small storefront he maintained on Larksheath Street, in a district of mixed shops and warehouses and merchants’ offices. I knew he disliked going to the office, as it was only a further reminder of the distance between him and the men he rubbed elbows with every night, but even as depleted as our fortunes might be, there was still day-to-day business that must be handled.
Another scowl. “If I am, it will be on my own time, Annora, and so do not bother to poke and prod to get me out the door.”
My hackles went up — mostly because he was correct. It was too wearying to have him underfoot all day, and yet he was the master of the house. I certainly did not have the right to order him to go to his office so that Iselda and I might have some peace and quiet for a few hours.
“I am not poking and prodding,” I replied calmly, as Cordell returned with a fresh pot of tea. He poured for me, perhaps lingering longer at my elbow than was strictly required, and then moved around to refill my sister’s cup as well. After that, he set the red stoneware teapot down on its trivet and went back to keep watch in one corner, in case any of us should need something further. “It is only that I thought I would beat the rugs today, and you know how that gives you sneezing fits.”
That would be Cordell’s and my task, along with Darinne, our one and only housemaid. Once upon a time, we had had five maids, and a footman, and…well, suffice it to say that those days were long gone.
Since I had fairly cornered my father, his brow only looked that much more furrowed. Of course, he could always command me to put off that one particular bit of housekeeping until later in the week, but, untidy as he might be in his personal life, he was house-proud. It would never do for us to have a chance visitor who might note some dust on a mantel, or a rug long overdue for a good cleaning.
“Very well,” he said at last, then drained his mug of cider. “If you must. But make sure it is all done by the middle of the afternoon, for I will be coming home early to prepare for Baron Lesender’s birthday dinner.”
“Oh,” I replied, my tone flat. Baron Lesender’s gatherings were legendary. I only wondered at my father being invited to one, especially an event as auspicious as a birthday celebration. But I supposed that word had long ago gone around that my father had a tempting combination of poor luck and an open purse, a sure way of getting invitations to households he truly had no reason to be visiting.
There was no point in my protesting that he should not attend such a gathering. I would only be scolded for my impertinence, and I had had quite enough of confrontations with my father that morning. Nothing I could do or say would prevent him from going, and if I was silent and meek now, then at least I might gain a few precious hours of solitude.
“Well, I hope you have a lovely time,” I told him, and left it at that. From the way he arched an eyebrow at me, I could see that he hadn’t been fooled by my overly sweet tone.
But at least he said nothing else, and got up from the table soon afterward, making his ponderous way down the hall and up the staircase to his room. Over the past few years he had begun to put on a good deal of weight, blurring the lines of a face that had once been handsome, a figure that once had been strong and broad-shouldered. Now it cost him some effort to go up and down those stairs.
I could do little about that, however. He would not cease his drinking, nor deny himself the rich foods he loved. Perhaps that was why he dined out at the homes of these so-called “friends” of his so often. At their tables he could get the dishes we had been deprived of in our own house. Just as well for me, I supposed. After all, a meager household budget was one way of ensuring a slender waistline.
* * *
“My lady, you should not be doing this,” Cordell protested as I picked up the broom and swung it against the rug he and Darinne held with grim determination.
“Who else?” I replied, fighting back a cough, for the rag I had tied over my mouth and nose had slipped down to my chin during my exertions. “I cannot ask Grimsby, for his domain is the kitchen, and if I offend him, then I will have to bake all our bread and prepare all our roasts as well.”
Cordell’s mouth tightened, but he did not immediately reply. Grimsby was our cook, and although he had complained lately and often about the lack of variety in our meals, I could tell that his innate stubbornness prevented him from leaving the Kelsden household for a better situation. At any rate, asking a cook to do a housemaid’s work was quite beyond the pale. Better for the daughter of the house to perform the messy task, especially if such unladylike doings were well hidden from the outside world. No one could peer into our courtyard to see me standing there with my hair bound up in a rag as I wore my oldest and most threadbare gown. Our house was the last one on the street, and was bordered on the one side by a row of stately oaks. In the winter they did not afford us much privacy, but now, in the late days of Sevendre, their luxuriant foliage had just begun to turn golden but had not yet started to fall, and so I thought myself hidden enough from prying eyes.
“He’s right, my lady,” Darinne put in. “That is, you should not be doing such work, but since it’s the work of three people….” She let the words trail off, and shrugged her plump shoulders. It made sense for her and Cordell to be holding the rug while I hit it with the broom, since they were both stronger than I. And, unlike our manservant, Darinne didn’t see any need to coddle me. She’d only come to the household some two years ago, a good span of time after my mother’s death. By then I was eighteen, quite old enough to be thinking of marriage, and certainly not anyone in need of sheltering. Iselda she did cosset, and I did nothing to stop her. Perhaps between the two of us, we could be, if not precisely a replacement for the mother my little sister needed, at least someone to watch over her and make sure she came to no harm.
“Since it’s the work of three people, we might as well get on with it,” I said, then swung the broom against the rug again, watching as another puff of dust emerged from the fine weave. The silk carpet had come from Keshiaar, part of my mother’s dowry, and still wasn’t the slightest bit threadbare, even after more than twenty years of use.
Not bothering to reply, Cordell only tightened his grip on the rug and hung on doggedly as I beat it again and again. Perhaps someone passing by and witnessing the spectacle would have said I was hitting that rug just a bit harder than was strictly necessary. It did feel good to swing the broom and watch as more dust was propelled outward by the force of my blows. And if I was thinking of my father and how much money he was going to lose tonight, and therefore swung a little harder each time, who could blame me?
“Enough,” Cordell said at last. “My lady, it is as clean as it is going to be.”
“All right,” I replied, lowering the broom. To be sure, my arms ached from the effort, and I wouldn’t have been able to keep on for much longer anyway. “You may put the rug back in the drawing room. After that, Darinne, please make sure everything is dusted in there. You know how annoyed Master Kelsden becomes if everything isn’t just so.”
She nodded, and she and Cordell then shouldered the rug and began to march it back into the house. I lingered in the courtyard, slapping the dust from my skirts. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see movement in the upper story of the house. Iselda’s window.
I smiled up at her and waved, and she waved back. No doubt she’d been sitting on the window seat and watching our antics, rather than attending to her sums. A tutor came to see her twice a week, but today was not one of his days to visit. Not so l
ong ago, that same tutor had come every day. As the household’s finances had dwindled, however, those visits had become more and more widely spaced, and I feared that soon my father would decide to dispense with his services altogether. At any rate, my sister should have been doing the work her tutor had left for her, but no doubt it was far more entertaining for her to watch me beat the drawing room rug half to death.
Affecting a mock frown, I mimicked scribbling on a piece of paper in the air, and she grinned and shook her head, then disappeared. I was sure if I had hurried up the stairs right then, I would have found her at her desk, busily at work. Poor Iselda. She had a very quick mind but was easily distracted, and being trapped in the house all day couldn’t have been easy for her.
Actually, it wasn’t all that easy for me, either.
Frowning, I tugged the rag from my hair as I went into the house. Subjected to this rough treatment, my heavy brown locks fell to my shoulders, pins scattering on the polished wooden floor. I’d just bent to gather them up when I heard footsteps.
“Is everything all right, my lady?”
I scooped the fugitive hairpins into my palm and then straightened to see Cordell watching me with a sort of worried admiration. A proper lady of more than sixteen was not supposed to go about with her hair down, but there wasn’t much I could do to repair my current disheveled state without seeming too obvious.
Instead, I managed a smile and attempted to ignore the wayward locks falling over my shoulders. “Quite all right, Cordell. Is the rug back in place?”
“Yes, my lady.” He paused then, giving a wary glance around us. “But if — if I could speak to you alone?”
Oh, dear. I prayed he was not going to make some entirely inappropriate declaration of love. That was the sort of display which could send him packing, and yet our meager little household needed him so very badly. I knew we would never be able to afford someone else who was even half as capable. Why he’d taken such a paltry wage, when he could have done better for himself in a grander household, I did not know. I only hoped his choice had not stemmed from some misplaced affection for me.
Threads of Gold (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms Book 6) Page 1