Chewing her lip, Lenna looked longingly to the side of the Manor where she could sneak in through the servant’s entrance without being fussed over. Ultimately, she didn’t want to chance running into her husband. This time of day he would be hunkered down in his study right across the hall from the less used entrance–either pouring over the latest shipping reports or drowning himself in brandy. With a sigh, Lenna trekked on towards the arched front door. She knew he would throw a proper fit if he saw her disheveled and muddy after walking back from the town’s bakery alone.
By the time her boots hit the first stone step, the grand doors swung open with a groaning creak. The entrance hall was a flurry of movement as servants dressed in the dark colors of the Doortan Manor surrounded her, taking the basket of baked goods to the kitchen for dinner service, tsk-ing at the mire coating Lenna’s dress and boots, and calling for a bath to be drawn.
In hindsight, she should have taken the private side entrance after all.
Less bustle, less notoriety, less acknowledgement.
She extended a small smile to the servants as she relinquished the basket and allowed herself to be steered from the front door to her chambers. Once inside her bedroom, muck dripping onto the cool tiled floor, Lenna’s head twinged with fresh pain. A heartbeat later, her handmatron, Olivera, strode into the room, took one look at Lenna’s sodden appearance, and disappeared into the connecting washroom with a huff. Lenna heard the splash of water filling the tub, accentuated by Olivera’s veiled grumbling. Too exhausted to decide if she should apologize for her disheveledstate or dismiss the woman, Lenna mutely stripped off her mud-soaked coat, followed by her dress skirts and undergarments, before standing in front of her bedroom mirror. Though the edges of the silver rimmed glass had long ago begun to tarnish, she paid them no mind.
Her hair, usually well maintained, lay frizzy and matted beneath the light green scarf she wore for her walk. The reddish gold curls were dull, reflecting the weather and the now consistent head pain thudding across the front of her skull. Ripping off the scarf, Lenna shook out the curls with her fingers and locked eyes with the reflection staring back at her. Her hands smoothed down soft stomach, where no trace of abs or muscle definition remained from when she was younger, when she lived on horseback, racing, hunting. When she had been so full of life. Soft lines marred loosening skin below honey-brown eyes now perpetually rimmed in purple from lack of sleep and sun. A woman of fifty-one. Though she loved the lush curves that graced her hips, she missed the strength and tenacity of youth, where a walk to town wouldn’t tire her out so completely. Her body felt too weak, as if it was unable to keep up with the march of time itself. Lenna couldn’t tell if the tears welling up in her eyes were from drifting thoughts or the persistent throbbing in her temples.
Lenna tugged her robe from the hook next to the mirror and belted it tightly, screwing her lids shut against a particularly sharp burst of pain. Half-staggering into the washroom, she shuffled across the ice-cold floor to sit on the bench next to the tub. With her head in her hands, she waited on Olivera to finish filling the tub with warm water.
“Is there any peppermint oil left?” Lenna asked as she rubbed tautness from her shoulder. Itlessened the onslaught of the violent throb that radiated from her head down into her jaw for a single, blissful moment.
“Another headache, my Lady?” Olivera questioned–but without waiting for an answer, she pulled a small vial from the shelf next to the tub and added some drops into the now steaming water. Lenna groaned in confirmation with her eyes closed. She rubbed her face with her fingers, trying something,anything, to chase that sliver of relief. Olivera shut off the squeaky tap before taking her leave. “I’ll give you privacy and check on you in a bit.”
Lenna raised her head just enough to watch Olivera depart through pain-slitted eyelids.
The headaches started their merciless assault last month.
At first, they were short pangs of discomfort that blurred her vision and made her dizzy. But as the days progressed, the headaches increased in agony and length, and her husband, Leon, called upon the town’s healer to request any concoction of salve or oils that could bring Lenna comfort.
Neither the recommended peppermint oil nor the crushed herbs and increased water intake lessened the pain at all. The healer also recommended shoulder massages to pull tension out of Lenna’s head and neck muscles. Of course, Leon made a snide comment of how Lenna had zero stress on her shoulders and the headaches were probably some “womanly” problem from getting older. The healer had pointedly ignored that since Leon paid handsomely for house calls and usually let him leave with some rare bottle of brandy.
Some nights, Lenna would lay in bed, curled up in a ball, quietly sobbing until sleep dragged her into a deep slumber where agony was replaced with disorienting nightmares of winged demons and monsters with red eyes lurking in theshadows.
As the water in the tub grew cold, and the sickly-sweet aroma of peppermint dissipated, Lenna gingerly made her way out of the washroom and back into her robe.
Sleep. Darkness. Quiet.
All she wanted was to lay down and beg the gods to allow the pounding in her head to subside before morning. Olivera greeted her once she stepped back into the bedroom. The handmatron had closed the curtains, making the room as dark as possible. Lenna would have considered that sweet if it wasn’t for the fact both women knew Leon was currently entertaining Olivera’s daughter in his study, and Olivera had been told to let Lenna “rest” until morning.
Which was a very polite way of saying “keep Lenna out of Leon’s balding hair for the night.”
The newest affair had started months ago. It was not the first affair, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. She felt nothing for her husband or any of the young woman he became enamored with. Honestly, Lenna couldn’t remember the last time she “felt” anything. She was desensitized to the affairs that had gone on for years. By the time the third woman had come and gone, Lenna found herself wishing Leon would hurry up and find another. She knew it was selfish, but she despised the man her husband had become. He was quick to anger and had used his fists to convey that rage onto Lenna on a few occasions.
But life went on, and the abuse happened further and further apart. Lenna wasn’t by any means happy, but divorce was out of the question in Doortan. No holy folk would grant one and no court would accept Leon’s infidelity as an excuse. So, Lenna went on, confined to the doldrums of hiring servants, running the domestic chores the Estate demanded,and gardening.
Gone were the days of riding swift horses through the woods, hunting the sure-footed bucks bedded down in the lush forest,adventuring. Gone were the days where Lenna’s heart would pump fire into her blood as she embarked on mighty ships and sailed the coast of the Slate Kingdom. Gone was any other life purpose aside from being an obedient wife and Lady of Doortan Estate.
“Is there anything else I can get you, some tea perhaps?” Olivera offered, interrupting Lenna’s brooding and pulling extra blankets from the cedar chest by the bedroom door.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” The small talk made Lenna want to crawl out of her bones. She could deal with the fact her husband only enjoyed two things–alcohol and young woman. She could even deal with the headaches–to a degree. But nothing got under Lenna’s skin more than the fake concern slipping out of the handmatron’s mouth.
Olivera left the room to fetch tea as Lenna sank into bed. The weight of the extra blankets sucked her down as sleep beckoned from the edges of her fuzzing vision. The velvet curtains blocked the sinking sun, casting the room in dancing hues of dark reds and purples.
Almost thirty years of marriage, yet it became apparent after the first six months that Leon had no intention of sharing his bed with her. Which was fine by Lenna. The ache to feel loved dulled over time–from a razor-sharp dagger between her lungs to a blunt dinner knife. Lenna felt the years slog by, the times of revelry and excitement far behind her.
Thirty yearsand still Lenna felt like a guest in the Doortan Estate. Leon refused her pleas to change any of the visceral décor of the Manor, where his disturbing paintings of the gods’ monster-like protectors lined the shadowy halls, dismembering non-believersand carrying away wicked women who forsook their marriage vows.
Lenna only wanted to replace the painted gargoyles ripping apart immodestly dressed women with something a bit more tasteful. The grotesque postures and snarling faces did little to calm her mind, reminding her of the stories her mother would recant of gargoyles snatching disobedient wives from their homes if they did not heed their husbands and their faith. Leon had been raised with the same ideals, though his lackluster attempts at swaying the temple priests into believing he was a spiritual man were only slightly more convincing than stories of demonic gargoyles crawling up from the ground to swallow one whole for not paying the tithe on time.
Even the dark colors of the fabrics and upholstery were off-limits to change. Lenna wished for just one room, one corner, to call her own. But to Leon, the request alone deemed her an unruly wife trying to interfere with the integrity of his iron will.
This Manor would never feel like home.
Lenna had learned to accept that.
