Chapter Text
There are no train lines that run near enough to my uncle’s estate to be of any use to us, and I cannot help but wonder if this is by design, as I grit my teeth against yet another painful jolt of the carriage-wheels on the uneven road beneath. Uncharitable of me, yes; but then again if anyone in all of New England deserves uncharity, it is Uncle Feanor. I may be only fourteen, as cousin Finrod is fond of reminding me, but I have world-wisdom enough to know that my uncle hates my father—and that the feeling is not mutual, unfortunately. And so, when my uncle insisted our family celebration for Grandfather’s well-deserved retirement from City Council be held not in any of the fine and comfortable establishments in New York City but instead at his country home, my father did not put up nearly as fine a fight as I wished he had. Or wish he had now, for that matter, as I try to rub surreptitiously at the ache lodged in my tailbone from the accumulated bumps of a ten hour carriage ride.
“Turgon, do stop fidgeting,” Irisse complains, glaring at me miserably from the depths of her party frock. “I swear I shall go mad if I have to watch you wriggle one minute more.”
“You are fidgeting more than I am,” I retort, because it is the truth.
“That’s because I have petticoats on, and they itch, and your wriggling is making it worse,” my sister begins hotly, but she falls silent when our father frowns at her.
“Aredhel,” he warns, and that is enough. My father is not often angry, but he does get disappointed on occasion, and that is almost worse.
“Are we almost there?” Argon asks with ill-masked trepidation. He is the baby of us four, and so can get away with whining. My father’s expression softens, and he shifts the shiny silk hat he carries carefully on his lap to one side so he can lean forward a little and point out the left hand window.
“We crossed onto your uncle’s land once we passed the white fence line some five minutes ago, did you not notice, Argon? We will be at the house soon. Look, there is the apple orchard. Your aunt and uncle make their own cider from those apples, did you know that? Your cousin Maitimo brought a jar on his last visit, I seem to remember you liking it well.”
“Oh, that. It was too sweet,” Argon says dismissively, because he is at an age where he loves most to be contrary, but there is a definitely new interest in his eyes as he leans nearly out the window to stare at the rows of trees, all of them standing in rank like an army might.
“Remember to be on your best behavior, children,” my father says as the carriage makes its last turn to start trundling up the long, wide path to my uncle’s house. This path is much better maintained than the public road we spent most of our traveling on, almost as smooth as the city streets I am familiar with. It is lined with maple and yet more crabapple trees, the former already flaming red and the latter laden with fruit. Argon frowns.
“Our cousins are never well behaved,” he points out, no doubt remembering the last time we visited Uncle Feanor, two years ago, when that terror Curufin locked him in a shed. It took us an hour of searching and my Aunt Nerdanel’s intervention before we were able to find him. “Must we behave well even if they do not?”
Across from me I see Fingon open his mouth and I groan, anticipating the inevitable simpering Maitimo always behaves well, but our father forestalls him with a word.
“Yes,” my father says sternly, with that look in his eye that Irisse and I privately call his Finwe Look: “Especially then.”
*
It is not Uncle Feanor who greets us at the door; it is Aunt Nerdanel.
My father is courteous, as he always is to my aunt, but I saw how he braced himself for that open door, and how his stiff shoulders slumped, ever so slightly, when his brother was not there. I stand behind him, and try not to fidget.
“I sent my husband and his namesake to wash up,” my aunt explains as she ushers us indoors. She has to raise her voice to be heard above the general clamor, as my other uncle and his family have already arrived, and that batch of cousins—besides perhaps only Finrod—are just as rowdy as Uncle Feanor’s sons when they want to be. A cheerful shout goes up as we crowd across the doorstep: Cousin! Brother! Fingon! Artanis!
“Hush!” Nerdanel exclaims, but she is not truly scolding. I have seen my Aunt when she is truly in a temper, when she cuffed Curufin about the ears for locking my little brother in the shed. She turns back to my father to further excuse her absent husband: “Feanor and my son were busy in the workshop and lost track of time. They will be down soon, once they are made presentable for company, and my husband wishes me to convey his apologies.”
My father smiles, a little tightly, but he is too much a gentleman to call my aunt out on her falsehood—because of course he knows as well as I that Uncle Feanor would sooner think to apologize to our carriage horses than to my father for any tardiness. And anyway my Aunt Nerdanel has the same charm about her that Maedhros does, if not his beauty, and it is very difficult to dislike her.
“He is already forgiven,” my father assures her, and then busies himself helping Argon off with his coat, which he hangs up on one of the many coat pegs set in the wall beside the door. Aredhel shoves her way past me, and as I catch my balance I barely remember not to aim a retaliatory kick at her ankle.
“Cousin Celegorm!” She chirps, as that cousin does indeed hove into view: Celegorm’s hair is always a little too long for fashion, just as his eldest brother’s is, but there the resemblance to famous Maitimo ends. Maedhros is pale and elegant, but Celegorm is burned dark by his days spent wild out of doors and his nails are raggedly cut. He never attended school in New York like his older brothers did, and rumor says he is very nearly illiterate. This is the first time I have seen him wearing anything finer than cotton shirts and breeches, but even cleaned up as he is there is nothing of manners about him, only rude mannerisms aplenty. He dives forward but barely notices Irisse, instead seizing a startled Fingon by the arm.
“Fingon!” He exclaims. “It is good to see you! Please do come with me a moment outside—the hound bitch I wrote you about has had her pups, and I was hoping you would do me the favor of examining them.”
“Oh—certainly,” my brother stammers, as Celegorm is already dragging him through the crowd towards the side stable door, chattering all the while. Fingon looks a bit comical as he tries to nod politely to each family member he is unceremoniously manhandled past, but soon he is gone from view. I find myself alone, as my father is still talking with Aunt Nerdanel—and Uncle Finarfin, who has come forward to welcome us and to inquire after my mother’s health—and Argon has disappeared somewhere as well. Aredhel is now stooping to shove her boots back onto her stocking feet instead of changing into her silk slippers—meaning, no doubt, to follow Celegorm and Fingon. I hesitate, unsure of where to put myself, but then I hear my name called and I look up to see a new figure advancing towards me, having evidently come from the kitchen, to judge by the floured apron still tied around its hips.
It is Maedhros; I recognize him by his bright hair, and his laugh, but by nothing else. I have never seen this smile before: there is no thought in it, and the lack of self-awareness makes him look much younger than his nineteen years. My tall cousin is even taller with his trousers rolled up past his knees as if for wading, and his shirt-sleeves also pushed above his elbows, exposing the freckles on his forearm as he thrusts his own hand out to shake mine warmly. This, too, is Maedhros’ way; he never treats me like a child even when my own brother does.
I wish it was easier to hate this cousin.
“Turgon, it is good to see you,” he says with such earnest frankness that I cannot but believe his enthusiasm is genuine. He looks me over, and laughs again. “You have grown some inches since last we met! How go your studies?”
“I am top of my class in maths,” I inform him, puffing up a little. “My instructor says I have the makings of an architect.”
“Maybe you might build a hospital for Cano,” he suggests, with a twinkle in his eye. “Goodness, a doctor and an architect all in one family. Uncle Fingolfin must be very proud. And what are you aiming to be, then, Aredhel—president?”
My baby sister scoffs as she darts past Maedhros and deeper into the house. “Anything but housewife!” Is all the answer she calls back before disappearing through a gap between Angrod and Aegnor. I try not to look mortified when I realize Aunt Nerdanel definitely heard that, but my aunt only raises one eyebrow as she dryly comments “Wise girl,” and continues her conversation with my father.
“Where is Fingon, anyway?” Maedhros asks me, releasing my hand. His own hands and arms are much browner than I had thought them in New York, where he is usually very properly covered with jacket, cuffs, and gloves. Even the skin at his open shirt collar is tanned, which makes me suddenly realize he must work shirtless about his father’s farm just as rude Celegorm does. The thought is so scandalous (and at odds with the fashionable image I have of my cousin from our encounters in my city), I can barely remember to answer his question.
“Outside,” I manage to say. “Celegorm dragged him away to look at the new litter of puppies.” Reluctantly, I add: “I think he was disappointed to be dragged away.”
“Celegorm has done little else but talk of dogs this entire last week since the whelping,” Maedhros says, rolling his eyes. I am struck again by how relaxed my cousin is, here in his father’s house. I had not thought it possible for anyone to look so at ease under Uncle Feanor’s roof. I find I do not like it.
“Do not worry,” my cousin continues, grinning. “I will save poor Cano.” And with that he leaves me, and I am immediately pounced upon by the Ambarussa, whose rambunctious company I will be unable to extricate myself from for nearly an hour.
*
Uncle Feanor does not have anywhere near as many servants in his employ as my own father does at our fine house in the city. There are only four housemaids bustling about the kitchen, and no men at all, for Uncle Feanor has not had any hired hands on his property since Maedhros was about thirteen—longer ago than I can remember. Even those four housemaids are not really proper maids, I learn from Amrod; they are only the unmarried daughters from neighboring farms whom my aunt is employing to ensure she can properly entertain our rather massive dinner party.
“They aren’t here for the pay, though, not really,” Amrod tells me conspiratorially, with a gap-toothed grin. He has already lost three teeth to Amras’ one, though when I comment on it Amras is quick to inform me one of those three does not count, because it only fell out when Amrod was hit hard in the mouth during a scuffle with Curufin. “They’re all just sweet on Maitimo and are hoping to dance with him tonight.”
“Mary Mason fancies Maglor more, I think,” Amras says with glee. “She was peeling potatoes for an hour, earlier, and she kept glancing around and singing—“
“I thought your brothers already had sweethearts,” I say. The twins look simultaneously scandalized and delighted by my error.
“Of course not! Why would they?”
“Oh,” I respond feebly, remembering what I’ve seen when Uncle Feanor’s two eldest sons are in New York, and the stories that always make their gossip rounds once my handsome cousins have gone: “No reason, I suppose.”
When the twins finally lose interest in me and run off to play with Angrod instead, I end up wandering towards the kitchen, as I am hungry after our long journey and impatient for the dinner to begin. The warm, busy house is filled with good cooking smells, and the promise of food is torturing me. There seems to be some merit in what the twins told me, as once I reach the kitchen doorway I observe all four of the visiting farm girls are wearing dresses far too nice for housework, and have even curled their hair, although the heat in the kitchen has flattened those ringlets somewhat. Instead of merely supervising their work, my Aunt Nerdanel is working hard alongside them, and it is strange to see her—the lady of the house—leaning into the stone oven to heave out a massive covered roasting dish; even stranger to see some of her older sons crowding around to help, and strangest of all to see my elegant Aunt Earwen cheerfully carrying cases of silverware out to the long dining tables that have been laid in the front room. I try to imagine my own gentle mother doing something as mundane as setting a table, and I cannot.
“Turgon!” Aunt Earwen calls to me, smiling brightly. “Do help lay out the silverware, if you please; Galadriel has already begun folding the napkins.”
“Or you could finish the blasted napkins,” Galadriel mutters to me, pulling a face, but I ignore her. Sometimes she and Irisse are a little too much alike.
I cannot think of any excuse that would not seem rude, so I busy myself setting out forks and spoons of varying sizes, and knives for both meat and butter. The farm girls begin to emerge from the kitchen in turns, carrying baskets of roasted corn, still in their blackened hulls, and smelling like smoke and sweetness both. They set the food upon the table, then disappear and reappear again with baskets covered in cloth, with tureens and ceramic bowls and beautiful silver serving platters covered with mirror-shiny lids. The silver dishes, I know, must be my Uncle Feanor’s own craft, for he would never care to eat off another man’s metalwork.
Eventually cousin Maedhros re-enters the house with a bottle of very expensive looking wine swinging from his hand, still corked. Fingon is with him, speaking animatedly as they walk. He is describing some kind of surgical procedure, if the way he is gesturing with the corkscrew in his hand is indicative. Maedhros nods and asks a question, looking wholly engrossed in the most flattering way—most flattering because there is nothing of artifice about his interest. I feel a pang of jealousy, and then another pang as Galadriel elbows me in the ribs: “Stop wrinkling my napkins,” she says crossly.
I open my mouth to retort with something unkind, but then there is a sudden stir about the room and I look up to see that Feanor, my eldest uncle and our host, has emerged from his room at last to join the company.