Chapter 160 160 - At The Iverson Estate

Today was Montfort's busiest day of the year.

He woke up bright and early, four hours before dawn, to personally see to it that all the guest rooms were cleaned for those arriving early or sleeping overnight. He also personally inspected the uniforms of all the footmen, ensuring there was not a wrinkle or so much as a dot staining their Lord's reputation.

The footmen all stood in a row waiting for him in the hallway, and he walked down the line, his shrewd gaze running down each livery coat, waistcoat, breeches, and stockings. The silk of their attire matched the adornment of the walls, in the house colors of ivory and gold. Montfort stopped in front of one footman, and pointed at a quarter-inch-long thread poking out at the side of his collar.

“Go fix that,” he told the man, who bowed immediately and ran off to do just that.

Montfort continued down the line. He pointed out a piece of lint in one’s hair and a speck of dust on another's shoe. Only when he had completed the inspection, and the three had returned in immaculate attire, did he allow the footmen to return to their duties.

He did this for the guards as well and all the staff working across the vast estate. He also personally inspected the trimmed hedges and the lawn to make sure not even a blade of grass was overgrown on this auspicious day.

That all took him about five hours of brisk walking from one end of the estate to the other, and by the time he was done, the sun had cleared the horizon and was partway up the sky.

Then he moved inside. Staff members bowed as he passed, scurrying to do their duties. He knew each one of them by name, and knew where they were supposed to be stationed for the morning, yet he said nothing, allowing them to fulfil their tasks on their own.

The estate was made up of one massive main building with separate wings, each governed by a housekeeper who reported to him, and three grand guest homes, all of them about five storeys each. Montfort personally saw that every floor, every vacant room, every single thing under his command was perfect.

Then he returned to the main building.

The spirit lanterns on all the floors flickered in tandem, casting a pleasant sunset glow across the doors in a half-crescent pattern. The silver stands and candelabras were all polished to a shine, and none of them had so much as a chip or a speck of dust.

Noise emerged from the wine cellar, where they were likely completing the final count of beverages for the day. That was supposed to have been done yesterday, but one of the shipments had arrived later, and so the cellar hands had to work through the night to complete the count.

His final destination was the kitchen, where the governess was overseeing the first meal.

Lord Wesley would awaken soon, and he always liked to eat with his family just a few minutes after he woke up. He had also mentioned a few days ago that this year's guest of honor would be joining them for breakfast.

“She is a bit difficult, that one,” Lord Wesley had told him, swirling the wine in his chalice as he cast his gaze out over the gazebo. “She is not charmed by any of the usual things a girl her age should be charmed by. I'm told that she wears the same clothes in very similar colors every single day. No jewels or special embroidery. And it's not because she can't afford better, but simply that she chooses to." He shook his head. "Have you ever heard anything like that for a lady of her stature?"

"No, my Lord." In actuality, Montfort did have an uncle who had tailor-made the same blouse and breech combo seven times for the seven days of the week, and wore nothing else. Montfort himself had a cravat collection, and he wore the different colors in a given rotation. But that would not be useful to Lord Wesley right now, so he did not volunteer that information.

"We must do things a bit differently with her," Lord Wesley continued. "We have to win her over somehow, and hopefully this visit will be the thing to do it. Everything must be perfect, Montfort. We must woo her, and make her fall for us, before that Otto Dietrich can get his grubby little hands on her.”

“Yes, sir.” Montfort had responded. He didn’t know much about this guest and what she wanted, but he was confident that he could achieve his Lord's wishes. After all, perfection was his forte, and they had never had anyone complain about their service before.

On the contrary, at Iverson Manor, every guest was treated like royalty, and Montfort saw to it that even the most difficult, demanding visitors left satisfied. He knew how to handle them and meet even the most ridiculous demands.

This Arielle Blacksoil would be no different.

Even though she had returned all of the Lord's gifts without even opening them, and had treated the delivery footman with such flagrant contempt that he was nearly in a pool of tears when he returned.

It had been the subject of gossip on the estate for some time, because very few people said no to Lord Wesley and even fewer dismissed him with such an attitude. The Lord would not seek retribution, they knew. He was too honorable, but the staff was fairly offended on his behalf.

Offended and curious.

Some thought this guest might be an eccentric, old soul who forsook the mortal pleasures in the search for enlightenment. Others thought she was simply spoiled by her cousin and had received many offers for sponsorship already, so she did not see the value in more. Or she was simply ignorant about what the Wesley name meant in ascendant society.

Either way, she had become a person of interest, and everyone was on edge, awaiting the sort of insane demands and unabashed snobbery she would display.

On the way to the kitchen, he was hit by an array of aromas so decadent that even he, a man of powerful restraint and composure, found his mouth watering.

The kitchen was a warzone. The central work table held several decorated pies, a slick, juicy stuffed bird, glazed ham, lobster salad, imported marbled black duck, quartered squid, sliced halibut, and an arrangement of fruits, next to a massive cake, over which the chef stood, painstakingly placing little swirls of icing and strawberries to form the image of a swan.

Around the table, the maids moved in practiced choreography, swerving out of each other's way and pivoting sharply in response to orders, making the rest of the meals that would join the ones already prepared on the crowded table. In the corners, the scullery maids scrubbed the pans vigorously.

The cook, Alberta, oversaw the entire thing like a military commander, surveying and barking out orders with her arms crossed.

Montfort went to stand by her, and she murmured, “It is the day.”

“Indeed,” he said. “All is well?"

"As well as can be," she said. "Our Lord said the girl grew up in a backwater called Fenway Basin. From there she went to the academy and then to stay with her bachelor uncle. I doubt any of those places offered her the culinary delights she's about to experience today. Francois has that cake stuffed with enough cream and sugar to put her in a coma for several days."

"That is if she has a sweet tooth," he said.

"If she doesn't, she can have the pies, and the master also had us prepare the most popular delicacies from Fenway and its surrounding towns, in case that was what she preferred. A lot of them are fish-based, believe it or not." The cook sniffed. “I cannot believe we’re doing all this for a girl from some backwater village."

"Hush,” he said immediately. “No matter where she came from, she is our esteemed guest, and that is how she will be treated.”

“Of course, I was never going to say that to her face. Lighten up. You don't have to get your panties in a twist over that spoiled brat."

"You seem to be making a premature judgment of someone you don't know."

NovelPhoenix shows the author's chapter in its published form, but this duplicate was copied without approval.

"I don't have to know her. Did you not hear how she treated Pipp?"

"Pipp tends to be overly sensitive. I wouldn't use his feelings as a measure of the gravity of an offense."

"It's not just that. The young master is always in a mood whenever her name is mentioned, which just tells me the type of person she is. I’m sure she is an awful girl who maligned him due to his parentage not being as pure as young Lord Edward's."

“Or he is merely a teenager in a sulk about someone not returning his affections," Montfort said.

Bertha's head snapped towards him, and her eyes widened. "Is that what happened? Where did you hear that?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss it." Montfort had overheard his lord and Wulfric speaking about it, but it was a private matter, and he was not a gossip. "My point is that you should not judge the young lady without knowing her. I know you have a soft spot for Master Wulfric, but it’s important to also be aware of the volatility of adolescent sentiment."

“Oh my, Montfort,” she teased. “You dare to malign your young master?”

“Of course not,” Montfort cleared his throat and adjusted his necktie. “I am simply aware that he is a teenage boy and one easily given to his emotions, unlike his brother."

“Ah yes. I forgot you are firmly in Edward's corner."

"There are no corners."

"Yes, there are. You prefer him to Wulfric."

“It has nothing to do with preference. I simply treat him as the future lord of this house, which he will be, after his father's retirement.” And yes, he did like Edward also, but that was because he was everything a lord should be. Dutiful, proper, honorable, smart. A true gentleman with an eye for detail who was neither too impassioned nor too mellow. Levelheaded and mature beyond his years.

Years ago, when Lord Edward had found out that he had an illegitimate brother, he hadn’t put up a fuss. He hadn’t played the games a child his age might have, despite how much his half-brother tormented him sometimes. Both he and his mother had also accepted the Lady Borjas without a hiccup, which showed the strength of their character.

“Yes, well, I like Lord Edward too,” Bertha said. “Which is why I'm concerned that this girl is going to drive a bigger wedge between them, as Lord Wesley will likely favor whoever she chooses, and they know that. What if she's some seductress who will try to play them against each other?"

“Sentinel, Bertha. She's a young girl."

“So? I was her age once. It was exactly the type of thing I would do. Except I would likely have chosen Wulfric in the end."

"Aw, Bertha, that warms my heart."

The older woman's cheeks heated up and she turned to find Wulfric leaning against the doorway, still in his night clothes, although his hair was dripping wet.

She bowed instantly. “Master WulfricMaster . I apologize for my tactless words."

“Now, now, you don’t have to be so formal, my lady. My father’s not here.” He walked closer and dropped a kiss on her cheek, sneaking around her back to snag a bun from the table. He glanced around the kitchen, observing the activity, then nodded approvingly as he stole a strawberry from the side of the cake, which caused the Francois to clench his teeth tightly, although he did not complain.

“She is not a seductress,” Wulfric said suddenly. "Far from it, actually."

Bertha and Montfort shared a look.

“Well," Bertha ventured. "What is she then?

He gave a smile that was neither amused nor bitter, but somewhere in between. “You’ll see.”

***

Later that morning, whe he heard that Arielle Blacksoil had arrived at Iverson Manor, Wulfric told himself that he did not care one way or the other.

He had woken up early, not because he was anxious about her being here, but simply because it was hard to sleep with all the energy and tension spread across the estate, the constant activity and snipiness that accompanied such a grand event taking place. He had wandered to the gardens and then around the lake trying to find something to do with himself, but he hadn’t found it, because everything here was boring.

And the dream he'd had last night...the dream involving Arielle Blacksoil crying and his chest aching, it had only been a strange manifestation of his distaste for the girl.

His spending more than fifteen minutes styling his hair and selecting clothing for the morning, rather than throwing on whatever his page gave him...well, that was all because he had to look his best for receiving guests, no matter who they were.

Right?

Right.

Gosh, this was ridiculous.

He was being ridiculous.

When he’d woken up this morning, after that strange dream, he’d dunked his entire head in a bowl of water and kept it there for ages until his brain started working again. But it seemed he still wasn't all there as he descended the stairs to stand in the Grand Hall, waiting for the doors to open.

His mother arrived soon from her wing, wearing a long dress, made of cloudweave, that accentuated her figure and matched her eyes. Edward and his mother arrived together, standing on the opposite side of the honey-veined marble imperial staircase, with a gilded balustrade and ivory leaves woven between the railing.

“So it begins,” Lady Borjas said.

"It begins." Edward was dressed similarly to him, in inverse colors and with the family lordship crest emblazoned on his velveted chest.

Their eyes met, and Edward raised an eyebrow as though asking if he was okay.

Wulfric nodded. He was fine. Just unsettled.

Towards the end of the school year, after Arielle had turned him down for the last time, Edward had asked him if he had real feelings for Arielle, feelings approaching what some might call love.

Wulfric had scoffed.

Even just the assertion horrified him.

He barely knew the girl. They had had one good conversation, and yes, perhaps he had enjoyed teasing her in the beginning, the little cat-and-mouse game they had played. But anything approaching love was ridiculous, and he wasn't sure he even believed in the concept.

Affection, sure. He had affection for plenty of girls and would be alright marrying any of them. But love...for one person...

No.

Ironically, Edward was the romantic out of the two of them, despite not having much experience in that department. He'd said that he did believe in love, and believed he would only love one person for his entire life. Just like his poor, saintly mother.

“Are you okay?” Lady Borjas asked Wulfric.

“Fine, Mother.”

"You don't look fine. You look like you haven't slept. Do you need some sleeping salts?"

He shook his head and was about to run his hand through his hair until he remembered how long it had taken him to style it. He let the hand drop. “Just want to get this over with.”

His mother gave him a curious look, but he ignored it.

There was a single knock on the door.

Without further ado, it opened.

Then she was there, wearing a cloak and a robe made out of black cloudsilk, embroidered with silver. She looked the same.

Her black hair in soft waves around her face, her bright green eyes sharp and curiously vacant. They scanned the interior, not staying on one thing for too long. When she was done with the environment, her eyes jumped from one person to another, landing somewhere on each person's collarbone.

And when it landed on him, he told himself that his breath didn't quicken, and his heart did not skip a beat.

It was annoying to know he was so terrible at lying to himself.

What was it about her?

She had a pleasant face, but it was not the most beautiful he had ever seen. She wasn't exceptionally witty in speech, or cunning of mind. Most of all, she barely acknowledged his existence. She had even asked out another boy in front of him, and he would think that she had done it deliberately to provoke him, but he didn’t know if she even remembered he existed half the time.

Or was that the reason? Was he simply enamored with her because she was not so with him?

“Archmage Elric." His father's voice boomed across the vast hall as he stood atop the staircase.

“Lord Wesley." The archmage standing next to Arielle smiled. "I hope you're having a good morning."

"We hope you are too," Lady Wesley said. They bowed to the Archmage in acknowledgement of his divine authority, while he bowed in turn in acknowledgement of Lord Wesley’s position as well.

Lord Wesley descended the staircase and stood in front of his guests, who had been led in by Montfort.

"Arielle," he said. "Nice to meet you again."

Arielle bowed. "Thank you for inviting me."

"My pleasure. I'm curious, though, about why you changed your mind about attending."

Arielle did not waste a second to explain. "Because you have been generous enough to present me with this opportunity, and I did not want to squander it and spit in the face of your generosity." She said it in a flat, rehearsed tone and accompanied it with a smile that did not seem like her.

It was like a mask more than anything, but his father accepted the explanation, chuckling.

"Well, I'm glad you came around. What do you think of our home?"

"It is very large. And golden."

"And lovely," Elric added.

"Yes," Arielle nodded and gave the 'smile' again. "Lovely."

For some reason, the way she said the word made him snort. His father gave him a look, and he shook his head and looked away.

"I hope you brought an appetite," Lord Wesley said, gesturing for them to start towards the dining hall. "And that you are ready to enjoy delicacies from all around the world. Breakfast with us will feature lots of exquisite cuisine that you likely have never tried before. You both are in for a treat.”

Arielle swallowed and looked a little ill, shooting Elric a quick look filled with panic, before she smiled at Lord Wesley again. This one had a little too many teeth. "Yes. Unfamiliar, unexplored dishes will be...a treat."