Once Upon a Romance 02 - As The Last Petal Falls (11 page)

“You must be joking. I have only just recently risen from my sick bed, you cannot expect me to—”

“No one goes idle here, Miss Wellesley,” he cut in impatiently.

“Then give me some task to which I am
suited
.” Vivienne spoke through gritted teeth. “I can read and write three different languages, develop trade relations among the barbarian steppe tribes, predict the future value of rare commodities within an acceptable margin of error, and represent my family’s business interests with all due consideration for the law in any of the four court levels of Albion! I can
not. Make. Soap.
”

“It’s not hard. It only takes one good hand to stir Connelly’s kettle, and that leaves him free to mix up medicines without worrying that the soap will burn. The medicines are important, but trust me,” he put on a grim face and a serious tone, “you do
not
want to bathe with burned soap. It smells terrible, and tingles unpleasantly. That is,” he paused and gave her a pointed look, “assuming you wish to bathe at all? Perhaps you’re getting used to the general level of grime?”

Vivienne grimaced. He’d gotten her, and they both knew it. For the past two days, ever since her grand apology, the only thing she’d really complained of was how dirty she was. Even with water to rinse with, her skin still felt gritty, and her hair… It really didn’t deserve to be spoken of. MacTíre had been all sympathy when she was bed bound, but now he was going to use her complaints against her. Fine. If he wanted to play dirty, so could she.

“Very well, then.” Vivienne spoke sweetly, and the men around her started at the change. “If I must learn to make soap then I must learn to make soap. Connelly, would you be so kind as to show me to the stillroom?” As she glided away, following the stunted little man, she heard one of the Shapherds mutter to MacTíre.

“That was odd.”

“Mmmm… I’d guess she’s planning some sort of retaliation.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing serious, man. Just watch out for incoming pillows.”

Vivienne was entranced by the still room.

“You gathered all this yourself?”

“Upon occasion I have had the assistance o’ wee Billy.”

Vivienne smiled. “And I’m sure he was a vast help. But for the most part?”

“Aye, ’tis the work o’ these two hands.”

“That’s astonishing.”

The small room was full to overflowing with plants in all states of preservation. From the ceiling hung a wooden lattice, and dangling down from each juncture was a bundle of pungent herbs or fragrant flowers. Along the walls were racks and racks of tiny jars full of stamens and seeds and pollens, and larger jars with dried pods and roots of all kinds. The corners held large buckets with shredded tree barks, and smaller vessels overflowing with tiny red and purple berries. Vivienne stood amazed, until she caught sight of the heavy wooden cabinet standing to one side of the doorway. Then her curiosity flared.

“What’s in there?”

“Hemlock, nightshade, eye o’ newt. Dragon’s blood an’ serpent’s tooth.” The little man spoke softly, but his reply made a tingle run down Vivienne’s spine. A suspicion grew in the back of her mind, but she pushed it away.

“You’re not serious?”

“Indeed, lassie. Well. All but the dragon’s blood. ’tis powerful hard ta come by.”

“Of course.” She smiled. “But the rest?”

“Oh, aye. There’s times that even the worst o’ things can be o’ some help.”

“I suppose that’s true. Now tell me, Connelly, how does one go about making soap?”

It was as nasty as Vivienne had known it would be, but more interesting than she had expected. Connelly explained the steps and monitored her as she carefully melted the lard, then brought it and another pot of water from the ash barrel to the same low temperature. The fumes rising off the ash water were horrible, and once she leaned too close and Connelly had to take her outside for a breath of fresh air.

“Careful now, lassie. Ye dinna want ta be fallin’ in the pot.”

Then it was back inside to carefully pour the water into the lard, and stir and stir until Connelly said it was done. It was monotonous, and Vivi felt her mind drifting away. She couldn’t stay here and make soap indefinitely. Once her arm was healed she would need to leave; otherwise spring would come and find her no closer to Inisle. She had no illusions about her ability to evade the searchers her father would have looking for her, once they were unhampered by the winter snows.

Her left arm ached from the repetitive motion, and she stopped stirring and stretched for a moment. It was maddening, frustrating, and altogether infuriating. If she just told him who she was, then he would have no choice but to let her go. Assuming, of course, that he was an honorable man. But if she told him who she was, and he
was
an honorable man, then he would doubtless have her escorted home with a band of armed men to guard her.

Not to mention, the assumption that he was an honorable man was a rather large one.

“Ye need ta stir, lassie, yer perilous close ta scorchin’ the soap.”

She sighed and swirled the spoon through the thick mass again, letting her thoughts go around and around with the turning of the ladle.

“Connelly, just who is Fain MacTíre?” She asked the question idly, but Connelly gave her a sharp look.

“He’s a man, lass. What more’re ye askin’?”

“Where did he come from? He can read; is he from a good family?”

“Aye, they’re good people.”

“That’s not what I—” She broke off, and narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why won’t you answer my questions?”

“Perhaps I want yer attention where it belongs.”

“And where might that be?” Vivi arched an eyebrow in irritation.

“On the soap, lass.” He grinned wide, and Vivienne laughed and ceased her interrogation.

At last the soap was done. As Vivienne held the pot so that Connelly could ladle soap into the greased molds, she eagerly anticipated the moment that she could finally be clean, especially now that she had lard under her fingernails.

“How long must it sit?”

Connelly laughed. “Want ta enjoy the fruits o’ yer labors, eh?”

“I should say so.”

“Well, this batch’ll likely be ready by Yule. Ye can be clean for the festivities.”

Vivienne gaped at him.

“You’re joking.”

“Nay, lass, if ye tried afore then the soap would turn yer pretty skin into a ruddy red mess.”

“But I can’t wait a month to be clean!” she almost wailed. It was distinctly lacking in royal aplomb, but she couldn’t help it. If she had to stink for a month…

“The look on yer face, lassie! Dinna fear. MacTíre likes us all smellin’ sweet. We’ll be makin’ another batch ta quick set.”

“How quick is ‘quick’?” Vivienne was suspicious.

He chortled. “Ye’ll be fresh as a daisy three days from now. An’ in the meanwhile,” he held up a small sliver of dark brown soap, “I’ll be lettin’ ye use this on yer face an’ hands.”

She threw her arms around the little man. “Connelly, you’re my hero!”

“Tis my pleasure, lass. Just dinna tell MacTíre that I’ve given it ta ye. He’ll be completely befuddled how ye came from soap makin’ so nice an’ neat.”

They grinned at one another, then a thought struck Vivienne.

“Connelly? If I wanted to make a scented soap, like the ladies at home use, when would I add the scent?”

“At the end, lass. The essence oils are too delicate ta stand up ta cookin’.”

“And do you have any of these oils?”

“Oh, aye, a goodly number. Not much call for them here in the keep, but I distill ’em anyway. Betimes I find a way ta trade a few, others I give away. Were ye thinkin’ ta make a bar or two with scent, fer yerself?”

“In a way.” Vivi let an impish smile cross her face. “Yes, in a way, it is definitely for myself.”

Vivienne was exhausted. The quick-set soap had been mixed up just like the first batch, but while it cooked Connelly built up a fire on the clean hearth. They poured the soap into a tightly lidded iron pot, then shoveled coals from the fire over the pot, replacing them over and over as they cooled. Vivi spent over an hour using the small hearth shovel in an awkward, one-handed grip, and afterwards Connelly helped her dig out the iron pot and stir in the final ingredients before pouring it into yet another mold. Once that was done, the ashes on the hearth had to be shoveled into the ash barrel and covered with water, so that it would be ready for the next time they made soap.

Every task she had done seemed ten times harder with only one hand at her disposal, and her illness had taken more out of her than she’d originally suspected. Connelly told her to take a nap, that they’d look for her room later. It was barely past noon, but as she climbed the stairs to Fain’s chamber, all she could think about was crawling into bed and pulling the covers over her head.

Fain stripped off his heavy gloves as he ascended the stairs. After leaving Miss Wellesley under Connelly’s watchful eye, he had spent the rest of the day in the woods with the wolf pack. He’d told the men he was hunting, and they
had
brought down a deer, but truthfully he was just letting the cold air and the presence of the pack clear his head. His body felt tight, overflowing, filled with
her
. For the past two days, every breath he took brought more of her scent, every casual touch left a lasting impression on his skin. He’d needed the time outside: to run, to stretch, to wash her pervasive presence from himself.