Clean, Bright, and Grey

Lady Grey tucked her hands under her chin and gazed with forlorn grace at the unfinished feast. She had arranged the turkey so carefully, even putting a flower in his beak as a tribute to her youthful sixteen years. The pepper lay scattered among the salt, a devastating waste.

The cloth stayed clean. For the first time in her three day old marriage to Lord Grey his tremours had not disgraced the linen and Lady Grey did not know whether to weep or laugh.

He had been gentle as only a venerable soldier of time could be. She had been patient and sincerely hoped she had conceived a daughter. What she had learned was not enough to pass down to her daughter on her betrothal, but a girl child would be better company than an heir.

Her mind cast over the last hours. She had cut the pie into small bites and fed them to him. His gums ground the pastry to mush that dribbled onto his bib but they didn’t get far enough into the meal to make a mess before he opened his eyes a little wider at her and fallen into her arms.

She had lowered him to the floor and called the chief steward over. Otherwise the servants would stand unmoving at the edge of the drama. They had seen him raise four sons by four wives and watched the eight die of soldiering or disease. Unmoving.

The butler had called the groom who rode into the evening. Two men had arrived. Neighbours who knew Lord Grey and were able to help him to his bed.

He continued to blink at them, mush dribbling down the crevasses beside his mouth.

“He’s alive.” One neighbour grunted on the way up the stairs.

“For now,” commented the other.

Lady Grey had sat beside the bed to the end. Her husband’s boney hand had gone lax. His eyes remained open, unblinking, and his jaw sagged.

One of the neighbours placed his arm around her and conducted her to the sitting room. They had given her a glass of strong spirits and she blinked back at them. A process had begun. Legal people would be by in the morning.

The flower in the turkey’s beak would be wilted by then. The crust on the pie would be dry. She had doused the oysters in lime so the flies were staying away.

She took the goblet and downed the watery wine. An olive felt rubbery between her teeth and she ate a few grapes to wash out the taste of the Mediterranean.

The promise of the child would give her time to circumvent her father’s next move. He had planned it all. Marry Lord Grey, gather her dowager portion of his wealth, and marry her to his neighbour and long time friend who had immense gambling debts.

She smiled at the clean cloth, the blank slate handed to her sooner than even her father anticipated. She called the chief steward to clear the dishes.

About the Author: Where are you from? Chances are, I’ve been there. Africa claims me as her child, Europe claims me as a nomad, Canada claims me as a settler. My voice, accent, outlook and style reflect all the places I have lived and loved. What do you love? I love children and hope never to grow too old to get down on the floor and build, romp, or fly through a child’s imagination. I love animals and am pleased to say, they seem to love me back. https://leoshine.micandpen.com/