Hidden Ability (Book 1) (2 page)

Lady Shara understands. She has argued against intense training in arms for a child. Now, Jalan will have to master those skills as best and as quickly as he can. He is only eight and his childhood is over, one more thing that passes with her husband.

“I cannot send him to the Society.”

“No, that you cannot.”

“I... I will teach him what I know. But, it’s been a long time.”

“It is all we... It’s all you can do. It will be enough.”

Enough? Is there ever enough? Enough strength? Enough love? Enough time?
Shara doesn’t know.

“I will tell him Hallis. I will tell him when he turns 15. Not before. Let him struggle and learn what he must before he has to know why.”

“Very well my love. Do as you deem best. That is the way it must be. I’ll not be here. You have made your decision. Let it stand as the decision of House Yen. But, a man needs a reason to work hard. What will you tell him when he asks why his training is so difficult?”

Shara looks deeply into her husband’s eyes and says, “I will tell him to put his love for his father into every task. He would never dream of disappointing you.”

The choice is made. Now Lady Shara focuses on the time they have left together. By her actions, she will assure Lord Yen that all he has worked to build will not pass away through any fault of hers. They will waste no more moments arguing.

“I will bring in the children,” says Lady Shara.

Δ

Four children enter the parlor, Lord Yen’s makeshift sickroom. His oldest daughters, Guri and Aena, are missing. They and their husbands have been summoned. Expressions are subdued and voices are muted until one by one the children are allowed to approach their father. Lord Hallis speaks a few words to each. He is unable to rise or hug them. A squeeze of his left hand is all the physical comfort he can offer.

The children cry as they speak to Lord Hallis. They tell him of their prayers for healing, their love for him and how they will miss him. Darla, the oldest of the four, thanks him for always being there when they needed him.

Only Jalan, the youngest, asks why he has to die. Lord Hallis wishes he knew that answer. But, he tells the boy everything passes away eventually, old things leave to make room for the new just as spring follows winter. He promises the children that he will always love them and keep an eye on them. The youngest three, Vee, Tomac and Jalan, he admonishes to do what their heart tells them is right and to listen well to their mother and their older sister, Lady Darla. When Hallis names her “Lady”, Darla and her mother exchange a glance full of unspoken words that must wait till later.

The brief visit is over. Lord Hallis has used all his strength in first reasoning with Lady Shara and then in reassuring his children. He falls into an uneasy sleep after the children leave. Later he wakes and sees an oil lamp burning on a small decorative table of carved wood and his love and wife, Lady Shara, sitting beside the table next to his pallet.

“My love...”, says Lord Hallis in a whispered exhalation.

Lady Shara picks up a water cup and holds her husband’s head as she tilts the cup. Once Hallis manages a tiny swallow, he tries again.

“My love, what is the hour?”

“Sometime near middle night.”

“You should be sleeping.”

“No. I cannot sleep without you beside me. Better for me to stay here in case you need anything. And...”

Lord Yen waits for his wife to continue.

“You will leave me soon enough. I choose to spend whatever time there is with you.”

“I don’t think I can,” says Darla. She is standing just within the door of the parlor where her late father spent his last days. The pallet has been removed and the room restored to its usual arrangement of comfortable chairs set in a semicircle before the hearth. Lady Shara sits in a chair across the room looking into the cold hearth and listening to her daughter’s words.

Shara turns toward Darla and says, “When was the last time you asked your father for help with the accounts?”

“I discussed them with him just last month.”

“Don’t you, I mean didn’t you meet with him monthly and show him the current account standings? Is that all it was, your monthly review with him?”

“Well, yes, but he sometimes asked questions,” says Darla.

“Questions you could not answer? Questions that he had to personally resolve?”

“No, I always knew the answers. And, I followed up on any issues. Although, we didn’t have many.”

Lady Shara stands and moves toward her daughter before speaking again. She looks carefully at Darla’s face and asks in a soft voice that conveys a need to understand, “Tell me again why you can’t do this?”

“That was just the accounts,” says Darla, dismissing the bookkeeping with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been doing those for years. This is so much more. I would have to meet with the overseers. Judge disputes brought forward by the Tenant’s Council. Negotiate and approve trading agreements.”

“Oh. Yes, the overseers,” says Shara in agreement. “Brighton can be such a problem, especially with the livestock difficulties on the northern holdings.”

“Brighton is the overseer for production on the southern holdings and he’s a pleasure to work with. Norn, who is the northern overseer, can be difficult, but his daughter and I hit it off last year. She has been such a help dealing with him.”

“Then the difficulty must be with the Tenant’s Council?” asks Lady Shara with a hint of concern to her words and the edge of a smile on her lips.

“They do raise some perplexing issues. It’s amazing what problems people create for themselves. But, we only meet once a month and I actually enjoy it in a way. It helps me feel more in touch with the people working and living on our lands.” As she completes her thoughts, Darla notices the smile that has blossomed on her mother’s lips. “Wait a moment, you’re toying with me.”

“Not really, darling,” replies Shara with a tender tone. “I only gave you an opportunity to think more clearly about your objections. You can be so much like your father when you feel overwhelmed.” And now Lady Shara’s smile freshens even as a mist comes to her eyes.
Even that look you are giving me echoes your father.

“You... You used to do this to father too,” says Darla as the memory puts a smile on her face and a laugh in her words. “Father told me once that he saw a lot of you in me. He said you always knew how to cool his hot words and warm his cold heart.” Darla sees her mother has started to cry and she feels her own tears begin even as they both laugh and embrace each other.

Shara speaks softly while holding her daughter close. “Anyone can give you reasons why you cannot do something. It is up to you to find the reasons why you can and the help of those who can tell you how.” Slowly the two women pull away from each other until they are holding hands. “I will not say this in front of anyone else. It is for you alone to hear. You are the strongest of my children. Your father and I discussed this many times. Although he was the first to say it, we both wanted you to be named lady. And...”, Shara falters for a moment and then regains control of her tears, “I cannot do this alone. Without you, House Yen will fall. Not soon, but as fast as the crows can tear us apart. With Hallis gone, they are already plotting ways to take advantage. This house is meant to pass into your hands. It should never have been so soon.” Again, Lady Shara pauses. She looks directly into Darla’s eyes and continues, “I am here to help you. I will always support you and work with you. There must never be any public divide between us. Come to me and we can debate and decide together. But, when House Yen speaks it will be with the voice of Lady Darla.”

“But mother, I am only 15,” says Darla.

“And, I am only 35 and already a widow,” says Shara. “When life serves the meal, we are obliged to eat it. Let us add our own spice and make each course as agreeable as we can.”

Two boys continue a debate as they walk toward the Yen Manor House. Jalan is taller and thinner than Tomac. Tomac, nine months older than his foster brother, is built wide and solid like his late father, Lord Hallis Yen.

“Mother won’t let anyone go near it,” Tomac says.

“Why not?” asks Jalan. “If she hates it so much why doesn’t she have it torn down? We could do it for her.”

“I don’t know. Mother doesn’t like to discuss it. You know that.” says Tomac.

“Well, I say tear the windmill down or fix it. Father died supervising the building of it. How does it honor his memory to let it set until it falls down?”

“It has been two years,” concedes Tomac. “We could bring it up with Darla. She must have talked to mother about it. Maybe she knows something mother hasn’t told us,” says Tomac.

“She always knows something mother hasn’t told us. Not that Darla will tell us either.”

The pair walk past the summer kitchen and their conversation stops long enough to examine the food being prepared for dinner. Mistress Dahlia is busy with baking and cutting vegetables. She shoos the boys away after letting each of them snatch a hard roll. Tomac and Jalan laugh and bow to her from a safe distance before entering the manor through the winter kitchen. The large room is dark. The hearth and ovens are cold. Various bowls and culinary implements sit upon two worktables, the only signs that Mistress Dahlia is working here as well. The boys know from experience that the cook has granted them their only concession prior to the evening meal. Interfering with her always turns out to be more trouble than it is worth and they move on without searching for additional stray morsels.

As they climb the back stairs to the second floor, Jalan asks, “Shouldn’t we look for Darla in the office?”

“She wasn’t expecting any visitors today. I’m sure she will be in her study. Vee said Darla is working on a special project and wants to be left alone. Her study is where she goes when she wants privacy.”

“Darla might not want to see us then,” says Jalan.

“Nobody ever wants to see us unless we’re in trouble,” says Tomac with a smirk. “We might as well bother her now as later.”

The boys swallow their last bites of roll and rap on Darla’s door. Their older sister opens the door after a few moments and frowns at them.

“I thought you two were helping Gref,” says Darla.

“We finished,” volunteers Jalan.

“Did you? Then tell me how you managed to stay so clean while you mucked out the stables?”

“Well, you see, Master Gref didn’t have us muck out the stables. He told us he didn’t need us and that we could run along.”

“Master Gref was in such fine spirits that he decided to muck the stables all by himself and let two boys have leave to roam freely about the estate?” asks Darla.

“After he tripped over the rake Jalan dropped, he told us we could leave,” offers Tomac.

“Hey! I didn’t drop that rake until you pushed me,” protests Jalan.

“Well, you stepped on my foot!”

“Boys...”, says Darla.

“Well, if you hadn’t hit me with that bucket I...”

“Boys! Stop it! I’m sure I’ll hear all about it from Master Gref later.”

Tomac stops glaring at Jalan as a look of concern flashed across his face. “That’s not what we came to talk to you about anyway.”

“No, I imagine not. Why don’t you tell me why you are both here and let me get back to work?”

Jalan and Tomac look at each other. Jalan feels sheepish and Tomac seems to be at a loss for words.

“Well,” says Darla, “are either of you going to tell me what this is about?”

Tomac prods Jalan with his elbow.

Jalan swallows and says, “I, that is we, were talking about the windmill.”

Although the estate has several windmills, Darla knows exactly to which one Jalan refers. Her expression darkens. “Didn’t mother tell you two to stay away from that windmill?” says Darla.

“Yes. And, we have,” says Tomac. “It’s just that Jalan was thinking and he wanted to ask you something.”

“It was your idea to talk to Darla. Why are you trying to put it all on me,” protests Jalan.

“I’m just giving you credit for your idea,” replies Tomac.

“My idea! All I said was that if mother hates the windmill so much then why doesn’t she tear it down? It wasn’t an idea. It was just a question. And you wanted to know why too!”

Darla raises her hands in a gesture indicating the boys should stop right there. When she sees she has their attention, she tells them to come in and sit down. They are surprised to be invited into her private sanctuary and before they can recover they find themselves seated in chairs facing their sister. Darla sits on the other side of large worktable that has a large book and several sheets of paper scattered across its surface.

“Jalan, tell me why you wish to tear down the windmill,” requests Darla.

Jalan looks down at his hands folded neatly in his lap before speaking. “I don’t really want to tear it down,” he confesses.

“Then what do you want to do with it?”

“I suppose I want to repair it.”

“Mother has forbidden anyone to go near that windmill after what happened to father,” says Darla.

“I know that.”

“Then why do you wish to disobey her?”

“I don’t want to disobey mother. I just... Well, I mean...”

Jalan feels his discomfort radiating out like heat from a fire. He is uncertain about saying more.

“Yes, go on. It’s all right,” says Darla. Her words sound caring and concerned. “You aren’t in trouble and I’m not angry with you. I only want to understand. What do you really want to do?”

Jalan looks away from his sister and brother. He gazes at the wall for some time before the words begin to spill out of him. They come slowly at first and then with gathering speed.

“I know the timbers fell.” Jalan pauses. “I know that’s what killed father. And I know mother blames the windmill.” He turns his eyes back to Darla. “I watch mother. The way she looks at that windmill. She just stands there when she thinks no one is looking. She stares and stares as if looking will let her see father again. And, then she cries. When she thinks no one is watching, she cries. I don’t want mother to cry anymore. I don’t know why father had to die. I only know he did and I wanted so desperately for him to get up and hug mother and laugh or yell and chase me off because he was busy or anything, anything but die. Now mother watches that windmill and it takes something more from her every time she looks at it. That windmill has taken and taken. First it took father. Now it’s taking mother and I don’t want it to take her. I don’t want mother to die. And, if it’s that windmill that’s doing it, either the windmill needs to be destroyed or it needs to be finished. That windmill is the last thing father worked on. It needs to become something that gives instead of something that takes. That windmill has taken enough. If it was working it would be giving something. It would be the last gift father gave us.”