The Heart of the Lone Wolf (7 page)

But I had to take care and prevent the Cook’s talk from turning to love. It was important to distract her attention before she recalled the passion between my parents. If I didn’t, her eyes would mist over just before she reminisced about her lost love, the sweetheart who became a husband of indifference. Sentiment made the Cook tedious and her stories about love always put me in a foul humor.

But romance was not the only weakness the Cook couldn’t resist. Her love of talk also included an appetite for gossip. I can still see her mottled face light up and her eyes sparkle each time she divulged the secret shame of our neighbors. And she would talk to everybody willing to listen. My father disapproved, for the Cook ruined reputations with her loose tongue. He always reprimanded her severely whenever he caught her and she was devastated every time, for the Cook revered her Patron. But her repentance only lasted as long as it took for her to uncover a bit of nastiness, and history would repeat itself. As much as he loathed gossip, Papa never dismissed her. He needed the Cook because of me.

Papa gave me everything. I had new clothes for every season, delicate creations of silk, muslin, or velvet adorned with intricate beading. For every birthday and Christmas, I received a doll from far away, always carved by the best craftsmen in those parts. Papa always gave me dolls from a country in the world I was studying at the time so I could see what people looked like in the wild lands and in the Orient and in the exotic Indies.

Whenever the fancy struck me, I could go to town and get whatever I liked. The merchants waited on me themselves.

The one thing my father taught me himself was the art of dining. Morning and midday meals were simple, but dinner was lavish. Papa did this solely out of honor and respect for my mother. Left to his own tastes, he once admitted he would have preferred supper to be as simple as breakfast and lunch. But Mama had cherished dining with ease and elegance, and he knew she would want that passed on to me.

Every evening, my maid laced me in a gown of silk, lace, or velvet and dressed my hair. Then I would meet Papa in the dining parlor. He looked especially handsome in a jacket and breeches tailored to fit him just right. With his hair tied back and in the light of the candles, his rugged features softened and he looked just like the Patron that he was.

With seven courses served, dinner never passed in less than two hours. The table was always set as if we had honored guests, but we rarely ate with anyone other than the Duenna and the Tutor. I didn’t realize this was unusual until I overheard my great-uncle, a cheery man who lived in the northern countries, chastising Papa about it.

“They aren’t exactly servants,” Papa retorted. “This is part of her education.”

“How does this enhance her education?”

“Their presence adds company to the table. The girl learns how conversation flows and will develop the social graces that she will de finitely need.”

“I see,” Uncle pressed. “So they are paid to dine with you?”

“They are paid a handsome wage,” Papa replied. “They have yet to complain about this duty, so why are you?”

“Because she should be learning these skills only from you.”

“And you well know I’m incapable of teaching her that.”

His tone became cold and Uncle dropped the subject. Papa’s argument was

reasonable for he had no fondness for society. But I knew better. In the first courses, Papa was thorough as he inquired about my day, how I was progressing in my studies, which lessons were my favorites and which were not. He often asked me about my riding and where I went that day. But once he was finished, the Duenna and Tutor would carry the conversation. Papa would remain silent unless the subject veered to state affairs. Then he would engage in a gentlemanly debate with the Tutor. But he had nothing left to say to me.

Papa never said an unkind word to me again after that first day, but I never felt at ease around him. I always stiffened whenever he was near. Sometimes I could scarcely breathe from the turmoil inside of me. I didn’t know what I wanted from him. He had such mild brown eyes. But when I looked into them, his gaze was always empty. And the way he spoke, with well-modulated pleasantry, tore me apart. By the time I was seven, I knew how to empty myself of feeling before I looked at him.

My father was revered. He was the most respected Patron all over the continent.

He was known for his hard work, and he was the only Patron to toil alongside his peasants. Those who envied him criticized his methods as dangerous, but they were as lazy as they were proud. Their fortunes often dwindled while his lands and in fluence increased. The wellbeing of his farmers improved, and most came out of debt under his rule. All stayed on as his tenants, working even harder for their Patron as they continued to prosper. Somehow that made the loneliness of living with him even worse, yet I’d grown accustomed to it.

I didn’t know what was wrong between us until I was twelve.

As I said, the Cook’s stories about love put me in a foul humor. My back tensed every time she spoke about the adoration my father had for my mother. Sometimes it was all I could do to excuse myself politely; I always had to resist the urge to say something unkind. But one night, the Cook chose to send me to sleep with stories about matters of the heart. Her manner was more irritating than usual and I couldn’t stand to listen anymore, so I interrupted her.

“What is love?”

It was the first time I’d ever seen the Cook at a loss for words. Her face was always red from working over the stoves and she actually paled.

“Love’s hard to describe,” she muttered, looking away. “You just know when it’s there.”

“But you always talk about it,” I pressed. “Can’t you tell me what it is?”

Her cheeks flushed, but she started when she glanced at the small throw blanket in the middle of my bed. It had been my baby blanket from the day I was born and it was the only thing I had from my mother. She made it for me in the early days of her pregnancy before she fell sick. I slept with it every night, often waking up with my face buried in the soft green wool.

“Love is what your mama felt when she knit this blanket,” the Cook said.

I frowned. The blanket was comforting, but that wasn’t enough to make me

understand. That’s when I started keeping a vigil at my mother’s portrait on the nights my father wasn’t there. When Papa went to her, he’d gaze on her with tears in his eyes.

Often, he would weep, and he’d done this for as long as I can remember. A part of me always wanted to go to him and give comfort. But I never did. Something always held me back.

I liked to sit at Mama’s portrait, but the Cook’s talk about love had me there almost every night. She was pregnant with me when she was painted. After staring at her for weeks, I finally understood. One night, I truly saw the expression in her dreamy eyes.

Something in the way she kept her hands over her belly told me she was trying to hold me. Suddenly, I could smell lilies, the scent so strong I might have fainted had I not grown up with them. The air seemed thicker. I almost thought I could see it moving.

Then I heard a soft voice with the clarity of a silver bell singing and warmth enveloped me, an invisible blanket I couldn’t touch. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was to feel embraced.

“Mama?” I whispered, a little frightened I was losing my mind.

“Come to me, my child…”

I didn’t question the voice I heard. I just did what was wanted of me and floated down the steps to the landing. When I stood before her portrait, I saw that my mother was four fingers taller than me. I wondered if I would grow as tall or even taller. I hoped my figure would be like hers when I became a woman, willowy with delicate curves. I stared at her face. Her beauty was so startling she didn’t seem quite human, but any resemblance between us ended there. All my life, I heard what people said every time they whispered. Servants and villagers always looked at me with malicious pity when they proclaimed what a tragedy it was I didn’t take after my mother.

But that night when I met her eyes, I saw nothing but softness and affection. The scent of lilies grew so strong I was dizzy. In that moment, I knew what love was. I glanced down to my mother’s hands folded over her belly and reached out with one of mine. I remember wondering what her touch would have felt like. Then Papa was there.

“What are you doing here?”

I jumped when I heard him. The fragrance of lilies disappeared and my nostrils burned from the scent of hot oil firing the lamps. The air went cold as I turned to my father standing above me at the top of the steps.

“I said, ‘What are you doing here?’”

I’ll never forget the way he sounded. The measured temperance was gone from his voice, leaving a growl that can only come from a shattered heart. I had never seen him like this. The ferocity contorting his features terri fied me, but there were tears in his eyes.

“I was just visiting Mama.”

My voice felt tiny coming up my throat. I’m not certain Papa even heard me.

He didn’t say anything, freezing us both in place with his silence. I remember that it hurt to breathe, so I didn’t. But I couldn’t stop staring at the knuckles of his hand.

Papa was gripping the banister, his knuckles white. Then something compelled me to look at his face. His gaze flickered between my mother and me before he focused only on me. I think this was the first time he truly looked at me since the day the midwife presented me to him. I thought my chest would burst open from the air trapped in my lungs, but I still couldn’t breathe when I met his mild brown eyes. And I saw nothing there. The wind pushed out of me and my vision blurred from the hot fluid pouring into my eyes and down my cheeks. I didn’t realize they were tears until I saw my father again and his empty gaze. Then I was blinded again, crying for the first time in my life when I knew Papa didn’t love me and never had.

He said something, but I didn’t hear him in my hurried flight to get away from him. I never got to sleep that night. I left my room much later to see if I could be with Mama again, but Papa was still there. He sat on the top step, his long back slumped and his face in his hands, the posture of shame. I believe he wanted to love me. I must admit Papa tried.

I never went to my mother’s portrait after that.

Papa acted as if nothing were amiss after that night. He continued to ask about my studies and my riding. But I kept distant from him, my answers as short as politeness would allow. The change in my manner to him was definitely noticed. My Duenna often frowned, and sometimes I caught her and the Tutor exchanging a glance.

But they never said anything.

Then the Vagabond came and everything changed.

He arrived after my thirteenth birthday. He was in the barn, tapping on the stall of the gray colt that allowed nobody close. I had to look twice when I first saw him. A stranger in patched breeches and grimy shirt with a rucksack next to his feet was too incredible. The boys who worked in the stables seemed just as amazed as I was. One of them whispered that Patron had hired the Vagabond to break in the wild colt. He heard us and turned around.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw his face. He was in his mid-twenties, the youngest Vagabond I’d ever seen. He was surprisingly handsome with high

cheekbones and a square jaw. But it was his vitality that I remember most. His face was alive with expression. His golden brown eyes sparkled and he had the whitest teeth. His smile was broad as he looked between the stable boy and I. Then his gaze settled on me and I had to force myself to hold still.

“That’s right,” he said. “Your Papa hired me as his new Horse Trainer.”

He had a strange accent, but his command of language was effortless. I knew he must be a citizen, but never had a man I didn’t know ever spoken to me in such a familiar manner. It was unsettling and the heat rushing into my cheeks mortified me.

“How do you know who I am?”

“Because I saw you riding and your Papa told me,” he said. “By the way, you shouldn’t run a horse that hard perched on a lady’s saddle. It’s dangerous.”

I went cold when he said that. My back became rigid and I couldn’t stop my hands from clenching. The Horse Trainer glanced at my fists and raised his brows.

“I see you don’t like to hear that,” he said.

“I can ride these horses better than you.”

“I don’t doubt that you can,” he chuckled. “But what if something spooks your mount?”

I glared at him, but he only shrugged.

“The way a lady sits in a saddle,” he continued. “With legs on one side? One wrong move is all it would take and you’d be flying off that horse before you knew what happened.”

“If my father doesn’t object to my riding, I don’t see how you can.”

I was so angry after that meeting, I complained about him to Papa that night at dinner. I had never said an unkind word about a servant or a farmer, and I hoped he would dismiss the Horse Trainer back to his vagabond life. Papa was clearly surprised at my vehemence. But after many detailed questions, he heard all that passed between us and looked slightly amused.

“The new Horse Trainer is certainly not the first to express concern over your riding,” he said. “And I must admit he has a point. I never considered that possibility.”

The Duenna interjected that my riding was both reckless and unladylike. Papa shrugged as he always did and said I should slow down. Yet the Trainer still seemed a threat to the one thing I cherished and I despised him.

I had to admit he was remarkable with the colt. That was the most beautiful animal I’d ever seen, and the most uncontrollable horse Papa had in his stables. His best men tried to break him, and ended up broken themselves. The gentleman who sold my father the colt was horribly embarrassed and offered to buy him back. Papa knew the colt would end at the slaughterhouse if he agreed, and he hated for such a magnificent animal to go to waste. But nobody could handle him. Papa was trying to find a solution when the Vagabond showed up.

I wasn’t the only one who complained when Papa hired him. Everybody was