The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Seventy-Five

The Countess was bored. She sighed, flopping down on the chaise and rearranging her skirts to expose a few inches of stocking. No one turned around to look at her. She sighed again, louder this time, hoping to provoke some kind of reaction, but no. Even that dratted Mistress Hilton didn't look up from her sewing.

Calantha stared at her with incredulity. There they were, guests of the Earl of Fellshire, right in the centre of the greatest city in the world, and the woman was doing embroidery. She couldn't fathom where she had even got it from. Vanatis didn't seem the sort to have silk threads stored away for any passing lady in need of getting her fix. The old biddy must have brought it with her.

Lady Fae would have got on marvellously with her. The governess had always disapproved of boredom. The merest hint of a yawn would result in a heavy book of Serradorian history being dropped into one's lap. As if reading those dry tomes would help matters.

With a huff of annoyance, the Countess got up, and inspected the paintings for what must be the third time. Their party had been given the use of a generous parlour, overlooking the gardens, and the soft blue walls were almost covered with the Earl's art collection.

Calantha screwed up her nose as she took in the details of the one hanging above her chaise. A ship, riding high on a humongous wave, was swamped by flames. A memory pulled itself out from the depths of her mind, it was the sinking of the Clairwell. One of their triumphs of the twenty-years war. The hull was blistered by cannon blasts, and men threw themselves into the dark water to escape the fire. It wasn't very pretty.

She considered stepping out into the long hall to examine the portraits. Lord Vanatis was born into a family with a long and illustrious heritage. Fine enough to acquire for themselves the flowers of each generation of ladies presented at court, and she'd spotted some truly lovely women in the line-up of Vanatis' ancestors - all dressed in sumptuous gowns which the artists had made sure to paint with great dedication and care.

But she'd been ordered not to leave the room by Wallia. She snorted as she recalled his words, talking to her as if she were a common servant.

Smoothing her ringlets with her fingers, she made a move towards the door.

"Where are you going, Countess?" asked Mistress Hilton without looking up from her embroidery frame. She stabbed her needle into the fabric as if working with tough leather, not delicate linen. Calantha was in no doubt who's face was in that woman's mind as she wielded her tiny weapon.

"Just taking a turn about the room," she said, with as sweet as smile as she could muster. "Will you join me, husband?"

After a laboured pause, the squire turned his head and squinted at her. He'd folded himself into a small armchair, and had made no effort to move since they'd been shown into the room after luncheon.

"Sweetling," she tried again, this time holding out her hand to him.

He sighed, staring at the ceiling for a moment, before hauling himself up, and offering his arm with bad grace.

Mistress Hilton ducked her head over her work, but it could not hide her smirk.

Calantha tucked herself close to the squire as they progressed about the room in silence. Despite the lavish size of the parlour, it didn't take them long to take the tour, but as they reached their starting point, she held on tight to her husband, forcing him into a second trip.

"What do you think of the paintings?" she asked, as they passed a particularly gruesome triptych.

The squire rolled his eyes as he looked over, then paused. "That's rather good," he said, leaning across Calantha to get a better look. "The Surrender of Erman," he said, reading out the small brass plaque on the frame. "Huh."