Embark | h.s

Thirteen

"Come, I'll put some tea on," Marisol said.

Celia nodded and followed as Marisol led her to a small house. Celia surveyed her surroundings as she entered behind Marisol. The kitchen was combined with the room in which Marisol and her husband slept, there were no other rooms.

Marisol nodded to a table with two chairs as she secured the kettle over the fire. "Please, sit."

Celia pulled out the wooden chair and slowly lowered herself onto it. Marisol soon joined her and sighed softly.

"Thank you," Marisol said, "for saying those things in my defense."

Celia shook her head. "That woman was cruel to you."

She shrugged. "My husband and I fled Europe for that exact reason, in hopes for a more peaceful life. It's not quite what we had hoped for, but it's better than the oppression we would have faced in England."

"Especially given the recent war," Celia added.

Marisol nodded. "How are you adjusting to life here? If you don't mind me asking, of course."

"It's definitely different. I haven't the slightest clue of what to do. I was raised in a palace and was taught to run a manor, not to live life on the frontier."

Marisol smiled. "I can teach you."

"Would you do that?" Celia asked excitedly.

"Of course," she replied, "You can follow me about my daily routine for the rest of the day."

"Thank you, that will be a great help."

"To begin, you can help me pour the tea," Marisol said as she stood up from her chair.

Celia nodded and followed her over to the fireplace. An iron kettle hung over the flames by a rod. Marisol grabbed a rag from a nearby table and handed it to Celia.

"Use this to cover your hand," she explained.

Celia did as Marisol instructed and carefully wrapped her gloved hand around the kettle. She lifted the kettle off of the rod and brought it over to the two tea cups that sat neatly on the table. With a firm grip, she tilted the kettle and watched the hot liquid pour into the cups. 

Marisol smiled. "Very good. Here," she said, reaching for the kettle. Celia handed it over to her and Marisol brought it back to the fire so it would stay warm. She then rejoined Celia at the table to sip her tea.

Minutes ticked by, turning into hours. It was noon, and Celia and Marisol were hanging up clothes to dry behind the house when they saw a glimpse of brown curls and sparkling green eyes pass by. 

Celia grinned. "Come," she said to Marisol before taking off to the front of the house. 

Harry, dressed in presentable clothing, wore a stern expression upon his face. Celia bound towards him with a smile, but slowed before reaching him as she noticed his unhappiness. Flashes of Andrew blurred her vision momentarily. Harry had not even heard of what Andrew had done and he was already fuming with anger. Celia shook the thought out of her mind and decided not to tell Harry of the misfortunes that occurred prior. She painted the smile back onto her face and continued toward him with a lightness to her steps. 

"Harry," she said, causing him to turn around. 

His expression softened at the sight of his wife. "My dear," he replied, meeting Celia halfway and placing a kiss on her forehead. "Is that sweat upon your pretty head?" he asked with a slight laugh. 

"I'd like you to meet my new friend, Marisol Payne," Celia said, turning slightly to gesture to Marisol, who stood nearby. "She has been teaching me how to complete chores. I hope tomorrow you find that the day runs smoother because of her gracious lessons."

He smiled, dimples hollowing out in his cheeks. "I'm glad to hear that you are adjusting, and I am also glad that you've made a friend. Treat her well," he said with a joking smile.

Celia hooked her arm around Harry's and began to lead him away from Marisol for a brief conversation. "What troubles you?"

"John White," he sighed. "The man thinks he knows everything about governing. Well, I ran a ship for nearly five years, and he's nothing but a bloody artist," he half-shouted.

Celia pursed her lips and glanced around her to find a few people staring in their direction. She clenched her teeth before looking up at Harry through her lashes. "Everything will work out in time."

"The fool will be the demise of this place, Celia," he said in a hushed tone. "And I plan on getting the hell out of here before that happens."

"It's only a few months. If we can survive the Tower, we can survive anything."

Harry looked down at his wife with such affection that Celia thought she would melt into a puddle. "For once, you're the optimist of us," he smiled. "Go, continue your chore tutorials before your new friend thinks you've ditched her for me."

Celia nodded and turned to walk towards Marisol, who had returned to the laundry behind her house.

"And fetch something to cook for dinner, will you?" Harry called.

"I will," she replied.

  ✿  

Celia returned home that evening with vegetables and salted chicken that she planned to make a delicious stew out of, thanks to the recipe that Marisol had given her. She chopped the ingredients and tossed them into a large pot, then letting them heat over the open flame for an hour. At least, that was what she had planned on doing.

After two hours of waiting on Harry to return home, the sun began to set and Celia had grown impatient. She served herself and Ana a bowl of stew, and gave Nerissa her supper. Ana instructed Celia to put Nerissa down for bed while she cleaned the kitchen. Celia thanked her graciously and took Nerissa to her crib, covering the child up in a warm blanket and singing her a lullaby as she watched her drift into a peaceful sleep. 

Once she emerged from the room, Celia found the kitchen spotless, except for a bowl of stew that sat alone on top of the table, awaiting Harry's return. She sighed, placing a hand on her hip and looking at Ana with tired eyes. 

"I try, Ana, I really do," Celia said softly, "But I feel like we will never be on the same page. Perhaps we were blinded by lust when we made the decision to be married."

"Not every marriage is made of love, ma'am," Ana said, "Most are political arrangements, especially for someone of your ranking. Count yourself lucky to have once experienced love, even if it dies out overtime."

"Was it even really love?"

"You've both sacrificed a lot for each other, ma'am," Ana replied, "If that isn't love, then what is?"