The Prince and I by Hawkins Karen

Author:Hawkins, Karen [Hawkins, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The next morning, Orlov swung down from his horse, glancing at the sky. “The snow won’t hold off much longer.”

“Da,” Max agreed. “We are fortunate it’s held off as long as it has.” Though he would have found a way to the village this morning if there’d been twenty feet of snow.

Demidor came to take the reins of Max’s horse, leading the horses to the barn. Max tugged his collar higher and looked around the village. It was bitterly cold today, everyone huddled deep in their winter coats and cloaks. Widows Reeves and Atchison waved to Golovin, who was heading toward them. Widow MacCrae was standing by the well, Pahlen already hurrying to take the heavy bucket from her hand. Widow Brodie and her sons were walking into the village carrying as much firewood as they could, while Will brought a bucket of steaming milk from the barn.

There was no sight of Murian. Max walked to the well, where Widow MacCrae stood with Pahlen. “Good morning,” Max said. “Where is Lady Murian this morning? I wish to speak to her about needed supplies.”

“She’s in Widow Atchison’s house, helpin’ wi’ the plaster.”

Ignoring Pahlen’s interested look, Max made his way to Widow Atchison’s small cottage. As he walked, he could hear voices mixed between the ringing of hammers. The villagers were busy working indoors today, using the new supplies to weatherproof as well as they could. Like ants preparing for winter.

The night before, he’d sat through an interminably boring dinner between two women who obviously thought themselves cultured and witty. As he listened to them expound on their travels, complain about minutiae, mock others sitting within hearing distance, and improperly quote authors they’d never read and discuss art they didn’t understand, he’d found himself wondering how they would have reacted if their loved ones had been cruelly murdered, their positions in society lost, their fortunes gone—in a word, if they’d found themselves in Murian’s situation. Would they have dried their tears, clenched their jaws against fate, pinned up their hair, and taken full responsibility for their household servants?

It had taken all of his self-control not to throw his napkin to the table and leave his empty-headed dinner companions to their empty conversation. Had his grandmother not been present he might have done just that, for he cared not one whit what such people thought.

It wasn’t the first time he’d found social drivel unbearable. Before the war, as the crown princes of Oxenburg, he and his brothers had attended countless state dinners and dress balls, and had spent hours and hours engaged in inane, pointless conversations. Given his position, it had been expected, and while he’d never found them all that amusing, he hadn’t minded doing his duty.

But war had changed him, just as it changed all men who engaged upon the battlefield. It made him more appreciative of small things—clean sheets, a smile, the smell of a woman’s freshly washed hair, the deep beauty of the quiet. But it also made him find everyday tasks almost unbearably unimportant.

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