Chapter Text
Leonie knows she does not fit in in the Duchess’s sitting room. The walls are papered with such pretty designs that makes her hunter’s eye jump between painted flowers. The air is thick with the smell of roses and fine teas. And she knows that her stiff amber gown—the only item of clothing that wasn’t trousers or a loose fitting tunic—do not meet teatime requirements in terms of fashion. She could barely get the mud from beneath her fingernails before being dragged off to the castle across the Park.
Still, Ignatz—her dear friend whom she met during those rowdy teenage years, when he had been under the tutelage of a fine Sauin artist—insists that his benefactor is not a man to be refused or delayed. Leonie’s visit to him, which was to be filled with day trips out into the wilds of Leicester, lugging Ignatz’s painting tools and Leonie’s own bow and marksman gear, is replaced with a stiff tea time that leads into dinner.
His rectory, which is quite sizeable in comparison to Leonie’s little home, abuts Rosedale Estate. And nervously, as they walked over in the warm afternoon light, Ignatz whispered that he feared the Duchess deeply.
Well, perhaps he did not say it directly, but the way his voice quivered as he pointed out the windows and their high prices was enough to Leonie. Still, she was never one to scare easily. From Ignatz’s words, the Duchess is nothing more than a bored wife looking for scandalous gossip to fill her time with and meek young things to harass into spilling.
And Leonie, of course, is a prime candidate for gossip. Daughter of a Sauin merchant and elder, and a hunter herself; she unlike anything most nobles have even seen.
The moment Ignatz steps into the drawing room and bows before the Duchess, his eyes widen behind his big spectacles. His gaze begs for Leonie to come closer, and from that moment she feels that there is a target on her back. The invisible paint from the circle drawn on the back of her stiff dress sinks through the fabric; she feels moisture coat her back, and startles before she realizes it is sweat.
“Your grace, may I introduce Miss Leonie Pinelli.” Ignatz says. “Of Sauin village.”
Leonie takes it as the cue to take a calculated step forth, like she’s tracking an especially-skittish rabbit. She takes in the splendour of the room for a moment longer, the feeling of displacement sinking into her mind, as she comes face to face with the Duchess.
“She’s taller than you said.” She remarks.
Leonie feels the first arrow pierce her back. She curtseys politely before meeting the Duchess’s gaze. “It’s a genetic trait.” Leonie responds in a thin voice.
The Duchess looks surprised at the response. Her brow raises a little as Leonie steps back in line with Ignatz. She can see his shoulders shake, his hands tremble slightly and hesitates as Leonie throws a thin, shit-eating smile at the duchess. “It is an honour to finally meet you, your grace. My friend speaks highly of you.”
The Duchess lowers her brow. “His sermons are indeed fine.” She says. “As are his paintings.”
“You could have not bestowed your kindness on a more grateful subject, ma’am.”
The Duchess holds her eyes a moment longer, a sense of pride and pleasure looming in that old gaze. She seems pleased with such words, though Leonie can still feel the lingering ache of the arrow in her back, and feels that there will be more to come before the tea has cooled.
“Never would there be a more grateful person than Mr. Victor.”
Leonie glances over her shoulder. Her eyes widen as Lorenz—who is supposed to be far off in Derdriu with Mr. Kirsten on business—fills her vision. His countenance is, of course, marked with a thick frown and narrow eyes. In his long hair is a soft red ribbon, tying the edges into a ponytail. His armour is done away with, revealing a fine velvet tail coat, embroidered carefully with roses.
Briefly, Leonie thinks of Bernadetta, off in Derdriu, looking for Mr. Kirsten.
A bit of annoyance bubbles up in Leonie’s stomach. “Mr. Victor. Miss Leonie.” He greets with a cordial bow to both of them.
Ignatz looks a little brighter as Lorenz takes a step towards the two. Leonie feels herself only grow more annoyed with his sudden appearance. He is supposed to be far off, far away from her—and this is supposed to be a relaxing visit with Ignatz, not another frightful afternoon with Lorenz Gloucester, the man too proud to even glance down his nose.
The Duchess’s voice rings clear through the room. “Lorenz, are you acquainted with Mr. Victor and Miss Leonie?” She asks.
“Yes ma’am—“ Leonie begins to answer. Ignatz grabs her hand and the words die in her throat. She stares at the floor, at the swirling carpets the resemble ivy and thorns.
“Indeed. I had the honour of commissioning Mr. Victor for several portraits for Camellia Manor.” His strong voice fills the drawing room. Leonie only feels herself growing more cross by the word. “And I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Leonie on a hunting trip in Sauin.”
“Really? Miss Leonie, was my son a proper guest?”
Three sets of eyes fall on her. She hesitates for a second before meeting the Duchess Gloucester’s gaze. She carefully chooses her words. “He was well-behaved, but I fear his marksmanship could use some fine-tuning.”
Ignatz’s eyes grow wide as the words slip from her mouth. The Duchess’s brow crinkles again and Leonie turns her eyes back to the ground. “Do you mean to tell me you know of finer marksmen?”
Another arrow lodges between her shoulders.
“Sauin is a hunting village.” Leonie adds. She can see the Duchess grow more curious and subsequently, annoyed with how coy she is.
“Known for their fine sharp-shooters.” Lorenz interjects. “I fear I do not compare with such fine snipers like Miss Leonie.”
The Duchess’s eyes widen as her brow raises higher. Leonie can already hear the words coming from her thin, painted lips—“ does this girl shoot arrows instead of sew? ”
Instead, she turns her eyes from Leonie and to Ignatz. “Do you have your most recent portraits of the Goddess or her saints, Mr Victor?”
Ignatz scrambles to retrieve his sketchbook from the satchel upon his shoulder and sits down upon the chaise with the Duchess. Leonie turns herself to the window, looking down at the sprawling grounds of the manor and all the rose bushes that surround it, carefully manicured to show only the finest, plumpest red roses. She pretends that she is alone, outside, exploring the forests on her own—focusing her eyes and steadying her bow. She takes a deep breath in, and loosens her fingers on the edge of the arrow before letting it fly—
“Miss Leonie.”
The arrow lands in her back. A frown crosses her face. She fights it from fully forming. “Mr. Gloucester.”
“I did not realize that you are a friend of Mr. Victor.”
“We are old friends, we go back to our youth.” Leonie says, keeping her gaze from him.
She sees Lorenz raise a brow from her peripheral vision. “I was not aware.”
Because you are little aware of anyone else besides yourself. She thinks bitterly. Instead, she says, “You are the Duchess’s son?”
He nods, his hair slipping along his jacket. “Her eldest and only.” He says. “My sisters are with husbands or at finishing school.”
Leonie focuses on a patch of roses, which barely hide the briars that come along with its beauty. She should have never agreed to afternoon tea. Or even come out here.
“I did not realize she was your mother.”
Lorenz raises a brow before following her gaze outside. “You are not the first to think that.”
“Really?”
“Indeed. Many do not realize that I am the heir to the Estate. And Camellia Manor.”
“Two properties all to yourself.”
“They pass from father to son.” He says.
“Then I should hope that you take care of your sisters.” She says. “And not leave them destitute. And without shelter and food.”
Lorenz turns to face her at last. Leonie can’t resist meeting his eyes. “You truly think I would leave my sisters without anything.” He holds a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Miss Leonie. Do think I have no heart?”
For a moment she thinks of responding, “yes , sir, I would suggest a visit to the local physician to confirm the location of such a muscle in your body.” But using better judgement, she simply shakes her head.
“No. Though I wonder if other noble men truly understand the purpose of their power.” She says.
“And that is?”
“To help those less fortunate. And allot them a chance at a better life.”
“Is that not how the nobility is to perform?” Lorenz asks. “The nobility protect the common folk, and the commoner need only give respect.”
“I suppose it is.” Leonie says. “But many seem to forget that.”
Her eyes drift towards Ignatz and the duchess. Lady Gloucester looks unimpressed as he flips through his drawings, looking for something to please her.
“Is the nobility in the position to strike fear into the common-folk?” Leonie asks under her breath.
“No.” Lorenz replies, in just a quiet tone. “Never.”
Leonie glances at Lorenz, who stares at his mother with a most displeased look. His brow knits together and his gaze looks almost hateful as he looks at his mother.
Tea time comes and goes. The Duchess asks Leonie who her benefactor is—which she responds is her grandmother, an elder of the village. And somehow, they get onto discussion of Raphael Kirsten, and Leonie once again worries about Bernadetta.
“I believe he is pursuing a Miss Bernadetta von Varley.” Ignatz says eagerly.
Leonie tries to not shoot daggers at him.
“The heiress to Varley? My, that’s quite ambitious.” The Duchess says. “I hear that Miss Bernadetta is reclusive.”
“Indeed.” Lorenz says. “But upon my viewing of her, she is always very eager and bright around Mr. Kirsten.”
“But her fortune. I also have heard tale that Count Varley is scrupulous when it comes to her suitors.” Duchess Gloucester muses as if this discussion of a couple’s possible matrimony is nothing more than talk of the weather or another woman’s dress at a cotillion. “He is adamant that she marries well in order to keep her inheritance. And that her future husband will receive nothing.”
Leonie glances up.
“Well, I would hope that Mr. Kirsten wouldn’t want to marry for that.” Lorenz says.
“Do you doubt your friend, Mr. Gloucester?” Leonie asks sharply. The drawing room falls silent as Leonie holds his gaze, waiting her answer.
“I’d never do him the dishonour—”
“Then why do you insinuate his marriage is for advantage?” Leonie presses.
Lorenz looks surprised, his mouth falls agape. He lowers his tea cup, the bottom gently meeting in the saucer. “I misspoke.” He says thinly. “Forgive me, Miss Leonie.”
She feels the Duchess’s gaze fall hard on her, as if her eyes are burning her with fire. Suddenly, she feels sick—talking about Raphael and Bernadetta behind their backs, let alone listening to someone think ill of them or their possible union. “Please excuse me.” She says before getting up. She doesn’t wait for another second or even for approval to her excuse. Nor does she realize she is still holding her tea cup. She moves out of the drawing room and out into the hallway, shutting the door behind her.
“What was that about Lorenz? Why would you ever apologize to a commoner ?” She can hear the Duchess and Lorenz still talk. Ignatz must have become a still, struck statue—he is noble, only by his father’s worn title as a fine wares merchant to the Duke Riegan. “She was more than impertinent, especially to yourself. Does she forget her place as a common woman?”
There’s a quiet before Lorenz mumbles something to Ignatz. She hears the other door of the drawing room go—he must have asked him to leave.
The room is silent once more, and Leonie leans closer to the door. China clinks gently together and the sofas sigh as the two move move. Then, Lorenz’s voice mumbles through the oak. Her ear meets the hard, cold wood. “Mother, Miss Leonie is not wrong in her judgments upon Mr. Kirsten.”
“In his marrying Miss Bernadetta for money?”
“No.” He says quietly. The shut door feels like a wall that she cannot climb or leap over; she may only stare up at it’s intimating height. Gripping the handle of the tea cup with frightening strength, she presses her ear to the door. “His intentions were true, yet...”
“Lorenz, what did you do?”
“I believed I was going to his aid.” She hears him say through the oak. “In truth, Miss Bernadetta and Mr. Kirsten had met in Derdriu, and in Sauin prior to that, where they had a flirtation. His attachment proved deeper than hers—the lady had oft run away even when he called—and I had stepped in.”
“You stopped their engagement ?”
Leonie drops her teacup. It shatters onto the ornate carpet and she can hear the Gloucesters inside startle at the noise. She hitches up her skirts and makes a run for the door, throwing it open and making a break into the rose garden.
Bernadetta’s fragile happiness would be ruined forever. The girl had always been delicate of nature and temperament, prone to fits of anxiety and nerves that would confine her to her room for days at a time. When Bernadetta had come to Sauin, she’d been only seven. Leonie, the outdoorsy type, had thought that she was odd for the longest time. That is, until she read one of Bernadetta’s stories. Then, a friendship was born, and wherever Leonie went, Bernadetta was sure to go too.
“I can never be afraid when by your side,” confided Bernadetta.
And Raphael... Leonie knew that Raphael’s life had been full of sorrows, yet he continued to smile. And when she had introduced the two, she realized the match was prime—a reclusive heiress and the kind merchant who could bring her out of her shell.
As her boots beat through the patio tiles of the rose garden, Leonie thinks of how she’s been a selfish fool. A cruel, single-minded fool. She should have said no when Ignatz invited her to the Victor Parsonage. She should have insisted upon going to Derdriu with Bernadetta. Then she might have been able to stop Lorenz and his cruel intentions.
What a wretched, foul man. How could someone be so cruel? Was it because Bernadetta was shy? Was it because House Kirsten was not as affluent as it had once been? Did he take joy out of separating two young lovers, most aptly matched?
Fire burns in her chest as she breathes in. Her legs scream at her to stop. She runs for cover under a canopy of red roses that have grown over an old marble sitting bench. It has begun to rain, the droplets make her ginger hair tangle. She practically rips out the ribbon that kept her hair in the taut bun that Ignatz had coiled upon her head. The rain seeps through her dress, freezing her to the bone. She doubles over, gripping her knees for support as she struggles for a breath, water running down the back of her neck, along her cheeks, down her nose.
“ Leonie ,”
She snaps up. Lorenz stands before her, equally wet and spent from running. He followed her.
“I must speak with you.”
She cannot speak for a moment. She takes a final deep breath, moves to her full height and holds Lorenz’s gaze. “Have you come to admonish me for berating you before your mother?”
“No.”
Leonie’s gaze narrows. “Have you come to tell me not return to Rosedale?”
“I have not, no.” He says, his voice wavering with exhaustion.
“Then what do you want with me?!” She cries out.
“I want you.” He blurts out. He holds her gaze with firm intent before standing a little taller. “Miss Leonie, I have tried to live with the pain but I cannot bear it any longer. I have fought with demons—your lack of fortune and connections, my prospects, my family’s expectations of me and my place in good society—”
Leonie holds his gaze, shifting from foot to foot. The rain comes down harder now, water running in rivulets along the white marble.
“I fear I do not follow your thoughts, Mr. Gloucester. Forgive me for intrusion.” She says thinly. She turns on her heel, takes a deep breath and prepares herself to run all the way to Victor Parsonage.
He reaches out for her hand, clutching it in his tightly. Such an act makes her turn around to face him, with fire burning in her eyes. “I love you, Miss Leonie.” He pleads now. “Please, end my pain and sorrow and take me as your husband.”
Leonie’s lip curls. “Do you truly expect me to accept such a ridiculous proposal?”
“Ridiculous?”
“Yes! After destroying the only chance of happiness for my oldest friend, do you honestly believe I would agree to your proposal?” She asks.
Lorenz looks stunned.
“And to further humiliations as to admitting that you like me against my connections and fortune.” She asks. “You must think marriage is a means of only bettering yourself, rather than sharing a life with someone.”
“Stop.” He says.
“You want me to stop now?” She asks, clenching her hands into fists.
“Yes, on the account of your friend—”
“Bernie?” She snaps. “What have you to say about her now?”
“That Raphael’s attachment to her was deeper than hers. She ran away from him and turned away his calls often!”
“Because she is reclusive!”
“And the bachelor himself—” Lorenz catches himself for a second. With renewed confidence, he speaks again. “Mr. Kirsten’s House had fell on hard times, there was no doubt that his pursuing of Miss Bernadetta was not in self-interest.”
“You speak of your friends that way?
“I speak of my friends with concern and criticism. I know Mr. Kirsten’s precarious situation and that when pushed, people will do unsavoury things.” Lorenz snarls. “And I know that Miss Bernadetta will inherit Varley territory and a sizeable sum from her father when she matures! I made the judgement upon their separate situations.”
Leonie feels her heart thunder in her rib cage. She feels as though she’s tracking a wild deer on horseback, too quick for her steed and bow arm, but she refuses to yield. “Did you have the sensitivity to think of their shared situation?” Her voice threatens to break.
He raises a brow.
“They were in love. Bernadetta would speak of no other to me, and she asked about him every time I went out to town with Mr. Kirsten.” She says thinly, her voice bordering on frustrated tears. “She had truly loved him, and he loved her. And now their separate situations are as miserable as their shared one.”
Lorenz’s face softens with realization for a second.
“And I appreciate your own struggles. But you forgot that there is no absolute yes in a proposal.” Her voice wavers.
The air between them grows still for a second. The hammering rain falls upon deaf ears. The droplets of water freeze against Leonie’s goosebumped skin. She holds his unwavering gaze.
“Is this your response? A rejection?” There’s disbelief in his voice, as if he’d never even thought that she’d refuse him.
It only makes Leonie more annoyed. “Yes. You poured your selfish heart out to me and assumed I would take your hand. But you are the last man on Sothis’s earth I would ever marry.”
Lorenz scoffs. His eyes fill with hatred and disappointment as he gives her a curt bow. “Forgive me, Miss Leonie, for causing you so much disgust.”
He turns away quickly, following the path back to Rosedale Estate. Leonie feels the adrenaline leave her body, and with it, the wind knocks out of her lungs. She collapses against the wall of the marble canopy, the thorny bush of overgrown roses cutting through her dress.