Shades of the Wind (6 page)

at her. The woman’s lips were swollen—as were her eyes—and there was such stark

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emotion in her look it could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was—

hatred.

“Lord Bahru prefers to sleep late each morning,” Catherine said.

“It matters not. The prince says I am to place myself at your complete disposal,”

Nyria snarled, her eyes flashing ebony fire. “That I am to consider you the mistress of

his house from this day forward.” An unladylike snort punctuated the housekeeper’s

words.

“Mistress of his house?” Catherine asked, stunned.

“As though you could ever be mistress here,” Nyria sneered.

Catherine was unnerved by the woman’s attitude. “Have I done something to cause

your dislike, Nyria?” she asked.

“You are here, are you not?” Nyria spat at her. “You, who do not belong, are not

one of us—”

As Catherine watched, the housekeeper’s words were cut off as though a noose had

dropped over her neck to silence her. Nyria’s hands flew to her neck and she scratched

at the flesh there, digging into the invisible constriction that was rapidly turning her

face dark with infused blood.

“Nyria!” Catherine shouted, and rushed to the other woman’s aid.

The housekeeper staggered backward, slammed into the wall and then slid down it

as she clutched at her throat. Strangled gasps came from her wide-open mouth and her

eyes bulged as she strove to draw air into her body. Her legs shot out in front of her, her

heels digging into the carpet.

“Jacob!” Catherine screamed, dropping down beside Nyria and pulling at her

hands. “Nyria, let me see!”

Nyria shook her head from side to side while still trying to free her throat from the

unseen pressure. Her eyes were already rolling up in her head and her gasps becoming

weaker.

When Catherine managed to tear Nyria’s hands from her throat, she was stunned to

see twin indentions pressing deeply into the housekeeper’s windpipe. But before she

could react, she was dragged to her feet and spun away from Nyria. She jerked her

head around and got just a glimpse of a stranger’s broad face before being pushed into

Jacob’s arms.

“She’s choking!” Catherine shouted. She tried to twist out of Jacob’s powerful hold

but the butler held her easily. “I can help her!”

“No, you can’t,” the stranger replied as he bent over and grabbed Nyria’s arms,

jerking her to her feet.

“Let me—” Catherine began, but Nyria was already drawing in great gasps of

breath. Catherine could only stand there—still held in Jacob’s massive arms—and

watch as the housekeeper turned fearful eyes to her.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Forgive me,” Nyria croaked. She held out a hand toward Catherine. “Forgive me,

mistress. I did not know…”

“What happened?” Catherine asked, freeing herself from Jacob. She took a step

toward Nyria, but the housekeeper backed away, still holding out a hand in apology.

“Forgive me!”

Nyria jerked around, stumbled against the wall and then fled down the staircase,

her turban coming undone to trail behind her as she ran. Catherine would have gone

after her, but the stranger stepped directly into her path.

“Best leave her alone for now, milady,” the man said in a deep rumbling voice.

“The master will see to her.”

“She could have choked to death,” Catherine reminded him in an angry voice. “I

am trained as a nurse. I am more qualified than you to take care of someone who is

struggling to breathe!”

“Yes, milady, I’m sure you are, but she was in no real danger,” the stranger said

calmly.

“No real danger?” Catherine gasped with disbelief. “She was choking!”

The man nodded. “She was being punished for speaking to you disrespectfully,

milady.”

Catherine was aware of Jacob nodding his agreement beside her and she turned to

look up at the butler’s impassive face. His cinnamon gaze was on her.

“You believe this too?” she signed.

Jacob answered. “Yes.”

She turned back to the stranger. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me His Grace

was the one punishing her,” she snapped with irritation. “Even though he wasn’t even

here.”

The stranger smiled, displaying a cavernous mouth full of sparkling white teeth.

“He has no need to be in the room, milady, to know when one of his is disobeying him

or to punish them for their wrongdoing.” Without another word, he put a finger to his

temple in respectful salute and then turned to go.

“Who are you?” Catherine called out after him.

“I am Hasani,” he told her. “I am the coachytes.”

Catherine started after the man—unfamiliar with the word he’d used—but Jacob

gently touched her shoulder and when she looked at him, he shook his head.

“There is much you will learn of Anubeion and its master,” Jacob told her with his

hands. “You should not question what you learn nor fear it.”

“I don’t understand,” Catherine returned.

“Be patient. You will,” the butler encouraged.

* * * * *

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Shades of the Wind

When Catherine went downstairs and could not find Nyria, she wandered out to

the detached kitchen behind the plantation house. Olabishi was close behind her,

having joined her as Catherine exited her own bedroom.

It was there Catherine found the rather large woman who was employed as the

cook at Anubeion.

“Good morning, Lady Catherine,” the cook said, bobbing a clumsy curtsy. She

appeared nervous. “Did you like your breakfast?”

“It was delicious,” Catherine replied, although she’d eaten little of the omelet.

“What was that marvelous herb?”

The cook breathed a sigh of relief. “It is called cilantro. Some folks can’t tolerate

cilantro. You either love it or hate it. There is no in between. I am glad you liked it. It is

a favorite of the master’s. Is there something I can do for you then? My name is Holly.

Hawkins is my husband.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Holly,” Catherine said. She introduced the cook to

Olabishi. Looking about her, she frowned. “I was looking for Nyria. Have you seen

her?”

Holly’s mouth twisted. “Begging your pardon, Lady Catherine, but I ain’t wanting

to see that harlot.” The older woman sniffed. “Nor her me, I reckon. She stays out of my

kitchen and I stay out of her affairs.”

So no one in the house liked Nyria, Catherine thought. That wasn’t hard to

understand. If she treated them as badly as Catherine had been treated, it was little

wonder.

“If you need something from that one, I can probably do it just as well,” Holly

remarked as she started to peel a mound of potatoes in the pan.

“It’s not important.” She pointed to the potatoes. “May I help? I’ve nothing to do

and you know what they say? ‘Idle hands are the devil’s tools!’” She laughed, expecting

the cook to laugh along with her, but the woman didn’t.

The cook just stared at her, her faded blue eyes glazing over, her head cocking

oddly to one side as though she were listening to something only she could hear.

“Is something wrong?” Catherine asked concerned, for the woman was standing

perfectly still, her knuckles white on the pan she was holding.

Then the cook seemed to shake herself mentally. She smiled warmly. “If you’d like,

Lady Kate.” She handed over the pan of potatoes and a sharp paring knife. “Would

your companion also like something to do?”

“Kate?” Catherine laughed. “My grandmother used to call me that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Holly answered. “Used to help her in the kitchen too, didn’t you?”

Catherine nodded. “And loved every minute of it.” She signed to Olabishi and the

woman nodded quickly, smiling. “I asked Ola if she would like to help too and she says

she does.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“I’ve got some peas in need of shelling,” Holly said, and handed the bowl to

Olabishi.

Catherine plied the knife over the potato skins with expert ease. “My mother

wouldn’t let me anywhere near our kitchen.” She lowered her voice. “And if she heard

anyone call me Kate, she’d have been mortally offended!”

Holly’s smile widened. “But I hear tell you like it so that’s what I reckon I’ll be

callin’ you.”

If the cook’s words surprised her, Catherine didn’t show it. She was too happy to be

working in the kitchen for it brought back pleasant memories she had all but forgotten.

“You are originally from Chale, aren’t you, Lady Kate?” Holly asked, making

conversation as she took out flour and lard from the pantry.

Catherine stopped in mid peel. “How did you know that?”

Holly shrugged as she measured flour onto the wooden table. “You have a bit of a

Chalean brogue.” She glanced over at Catherine. “How’d you end up in Virago?”

“My mother’s family owns a shipping line there,” Catherine told her, amazed the

servant was privy to her personal affairs. “Her oldest brother died when I was eight

and Papa moved us to Virago to take over the company.”

“Did you like it?”

“No, but then again I didn’t have any choice.”

“Me neither,” Holly sighed. “I came here from Ionary with my man, and one day I

hope to be allowed to return home.”

“How is His Grace to work for?”

Holly’s hands were deep in the flour and lard mixture. “If you don’t cross him, he

leaves you be.” She put her shoulders into the work of kneading the dough, folding it

over and over itself. “You cross him though, and you will find he is not a forgiving

man. I have been here ten years. Ain’t a bad place to live.”

Catherine bit her lip, loath asking the next question but determined to learn

something of the man before she met him.

“Is he cruel to his slaves, Holly?”

Holly’s head came up. She was looking at Catherine with shock. “No, ma’am!

Where’d you get a notion that he was?”

“Oh I didn’t,” Catherine was quick to answer. “It’s just that I’ve heard so much

about plantation owners in Diabolusia and since we don’t own slaves, I was just

wondering about His Grace.” She felt her face reddened. “And I do know that Kensetti

royalty as a whole have thousands of slaves at their disposal.”

“His Grace didn’t bring any with him when he came here,” Holly defended. “What

slaves he’s got, he inherited from his great-uncle. He does not approve of slavery,

milady.”

“Then why doesn’t he free the people who work for him?” Catherine asked.

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“He can’t,” Holly said. “It is against the law in Diabolusia.”

“With the grace of the gods, that’s one law that will change one day,” Catherine

grumbled.

“I hope so, milady,” Holly said firmly. “I surely hope so.”

For a while there was no more conversation between the two women. Catherine

moved from potatoes to carrots as she helped Holly make their lunch. Olabishi finished

the peas and began whipping cream. Together they made strawberry shortcake and

vanilla pudding.

“My old granny,” Holly recalled as she slid the biscuits into the hearth oven, “was

real fond of shortcake. I don’t get to make it that often anymore. There aren’t that many

of us eating every day.”

“How is His Grace’s appetite?” Catherine inquired.

Holly stood up from the oven and stared straight ahead at the bricks. “He’s had one

hell of an appetite of late, milady.” She shuddered. She swiveled her head around to

look at Catherine. “You being here will help to ease him.”

Catherine didn’t understand and said as much.

The cook turned to face her companion. There was a strange expression on the

elderly woman’s wrinkled face. “He will not truck with the folks of Anubeion, you

understand, and not many in town neither, just strangers passing through. That was

part of the Covenant, you see.”

This was the second time Catherine had heard of this mysterious Covenant. She

started to ask Holly just what it was when the stranger from earlier that morning

stepped through the door.

“You have company, Lady Catherine,” he said, nodding politely at Holly.

“That would be Lord Kaelin, I would imagine,” Holly said. “Not many other folks

come out here willingly.” She dusted her hands on her apron. “I would suspect the

master sent for him.”

“Who is Lord Kaelin?” Catherine inquired.

“Lord Kaelin McGregor. He is the master’s lawgiver,” Holly answered. “You’ll like

him. He’s a card, he is!”

Catherine looked down at her dress and frowned. There was flour dusting the gray

skirt. “I’m certainly not dressed to entertain my host’s lawgiver,” she sighed.

“You look lovely,” a male voice countered.

Catherine spun around, her hand going to her mouth. A tall blond-haired man

stood in the kitchen doorway, a battered satchel in his hand. He was smiling at her and

from the look in his azure eyes he was amused at her embarrassment.

“I apologize for dropping in on you like this, milady,” McGregor said.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He doesn’t look apologetic, Catherine thought with slight annoyance. If anything,

the man looked supremely pleased with himself. Drawing herself up and trying to

ignore the flour clinging to her skirt, she held out her hand.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” she said primly.

His hand was warm and his grip firm. When he brought her fingers to his lips, she