Chapter 6: The Servant's Envy
The morning light crept through the shutters like a thief, pale and hesitant, and Jennie woke to the sound of birdsong and the absence of warmth at her back.
She turned, her hand reaching across the furs, and found the space beside her empty. The sheets were cold. He had been gone for some time.
She lay there for a moment, staring at the hollow where his body had rested, and felt the ache of his absence settle into her chest like a stone. Last night had been a dream, a fragile, beautiful dream, and now the daylight threatened to burn it away.
She rose, her bare feet padding across the cold floorboards, and dressed herself in a simple woolen gown—practical, unadorned, the sort of thing a farmer's wife might wear. She braided her hair back from her face, tied it with a strip of leather, and made her way toward the kitchen.
The scent of smoke and simmering herbs met her before she reached the threshold, and she paused in the doorway, watching the scene before her.
Elara stood at the hearth, her back to Jennie, her hands moving with the practiced efficiency of a woman who had spent years feeding hungry men. She was older—perhaps forty—with iron-gray hair pulled into a tight bun and a face that had been weathered by hard work and harder winters. She did not turn when Jennie entered.
"Good morning," Jennie said, her voice softer than she intended.
Elara's hands did not pause. "Morning, mistress."
The word hung in the air between them, heavy with something Jennie could not name. She stepped into the kitchen, her eyes scanning the stone walls, the copper pots, the fire that crackled and spat.
"Can I help?" Jennie asked.
Elara turned then, her gaze cool and appraising, sweeping over Jennie from head to toe. "The mistress of the house should not dirty her hands with such tasks. It would not be proper."
Jennie felt the sting of the words, subtle as a needle, and she forced a smile. "I was not raised to idle. In my father's house, I helped with the cooking, the cleaning, the mending. I would like to help here as well."
Elara's lips pressed into a thin line. "As you wish, mistress."
She handed Jennie a knife and a basket of potatoes without another word, and the two women worked in silence, the only sounds the scrape of the blade against the skins and the hiss of the fire.
Jennie focused on her task, her fingers moving quickly, but she could feel Elara's eyes on her, watching, judging. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until Elara spoke.
"His lordship prefers his eggs soft-boiled, not scrambled. Three minutes, no more. He says scrambled eggs are for children and invalids."
Jennie nodded, filing the information away. "I shall remember."
"And his bread," Elara continued, her voice flat, "he likes it toasted on one side only, with butter melted into the crust. Not the soft part. He says the soft part is for women and the infirm."
A small, quiet thing flickered in Jennie's chest—something between irritation and amusement. She kept her eyes on the potatoes. "He has particular tastes."
"He is a particular man," Elara said. "He has been particular since he was a boy. I have known him since he was in swaddling clothes, you know. I was his wet nurse before I became his cook."
Jennie looked up, meeting Elara's gaze. The woman's eyes were hard, unyielding, and there was something in them that Jennie recognized—a fierce, protective loyalty that bordered on possessiveness.
"Then you must know him well," Jennie said carefully.
"I know him better than most," Elara replied. "I know the sound of his footsteps when he is angry. I know the way he takes his tea when he has not slept. I know the dreams that wake him in the night, the ones he does not speak of."
The words were not spoken as a threat, but they landed like one. Jennie's fingers tightened around the knife, and she forced herself to breathe.
"Then I am fortunate," Jennie said, "to have you here to guide me. You can teach me all the things I do not yet know."
Elara's eyes flickered, something unreadable passing over her face. "Indeed. I can teach you many things, mistress."
The silence returned, heavier than before, and Jennie bent over her work, her mind churning. She thought of Leonid's arms around her, his breath warm against her neck, the way he had said you are my home. She clung to that memory like a lifeline, willing it to shield her from the coldness in Elara's gaze.
The potatoes were finished, the fire stoked, and the stew set to simmer when they heard it—the heavy fall of boots on the stone floor, the click of the door latch.
Leonid appeared in the threshold, and the kitchen seemed to shrink around him. He was dressed in a simple linen shirt and dark breeches, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair still damp from the river. His eyes moved between the two women, lingering on Jennie, and something in his gaze softened.
"You look like a serving girl," he said, his voice low, rough. "There is flour on your cheek."
She reached up instinctively, but he crossed the space between them in three strides and caught her wrist, his thumb brushing the flour from her skin with a gentleness that made her breath catch.
His touch lingered, his eyes holding hers, and for a moment, the world fell away—the fire, the pots, the silent woman watching from the hearth. There was only him, the warmth of his hand, the weight of his gaze.
Then he looked at Elara.
The change was subtle, but Jennie felt it—a shift in the air, a tightening of his jaw. Elara lowered her eyes and curtsied, her movements stiff.
"My lord," she murmured. "Your breakfast is ready."
"Thank you, Elara," he said, his voice cool, formal. "That will be all."
Elara did not look at Jennie as she slipped past them, her skirts brushing against Jennie's leg, and the kitchen suddenly felt too small, too quiet.
Leonid turned back to Jennie, his hand still resting on her cheek, and he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. "What did she say to you?"
"Nothing," Jennie said quickly. "She was only teaching me how you take your eggs."
His eyes narrowed. "Jennie."
"She said you like them soft-boiled. Three minutes, no more. And your bread toasted on one side only, with butter melted into the crust."
He stared at her for a long moment, then let out a low, breathy sound that might have been a laugh. "She is testing you. Elara has been the mistress of this kitchen for twenty years. She does not take kindly to being replaced."
"I am not trying to replace her," Jennie said. "I only wanted to help."
He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, a slow, deliberate gesture that made her shiver. "I know. But Elara sees you as a threat. She has raised me since I was a boy, and she does not trust anyone to care for me the way she does."
"And do you trust me?" Jennie asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching hers. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
"I trust you more than I have trusted anyone in years," he murmured. "But trust is a fragile thing, Jennie. It must be earned, and it must be kept. Do you understand?"
She nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Good," he said, pulling back. "Then eat your breakfast. You will need your strength. We have much to do today."
He turned and walked to the table, settling himself into the chair with the ease of a man who owned everything he surveyed. Jennie stood frozen for a moment, her cheek still warm from his touch, before she moved to join him.
She set a plate before him—soft-boiled eggs, toasted bread, a thick slice of ham—and watched as he ate, his movements efficient, almost mechanical. He did not look at her, did not speak, and the silence between them was a different kind of tension, one she did not yet know how to read.
When he finished, he pushed back from the table and rose, his eyes finding hers across the room.
"There is a field that needs tending," he said. "The flood waters have ruined the fence line. I will be gone until evening."
"Shall I prepare a meal for your return?"
He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder. "If you wish."
"I wish."
He held her gaze for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and Jennie was alone in the kitchen, the fire crackling, the stew simmering, and the weight of his absence pressing against her chest.
She sank into the chair he had vacated, her fingers tracing the edge of his plate, and she wondered how she could feel so warm and so cold in the same breath.
The day stretched before her, long and uncertain, and she knew—with a certainty that settled into her bones like frost—that Elara's test had only just begun.