Borne in Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

man who suits you, and who is willing to marry you; I will do my utmost to see you have the opportunities you seek,” he said without any suggestion of confidence.
    She tried to stop the tears from falling, and very nearly succeeded. “Thank you, Uncle Wallache,” she told him demurely.
    “You must be realistic, my girl,” he said sympathetically.
    “I have no fortune and you are my only real connection,” she recited, repeating the phrase he had told her regularly since she was seven.
    “That’s right.” He glowered at her as he spooned up the soup, then broke off sections of bread and began to sop up the broth. “You don’t want to end up on the shelf. I have nothing to leave you, and I cannot continue to support you—”
    “Not with Rosalie and Hedda coming,” she interjected.
    “Exactly.” He popped a bit of soaked bread into this mouth.
    “You mustn’t think that I mean you any harm, of course,” he went on as he chewed. “But there are limits. Perhaps, if my work is well-received, I will be able to provide a stipend for the youngsters, but I doubt I can afford to do it for you.”
    “I see,” she said, very coolly now that she had mastered her outrage.
    He nodded to her. “You sit down and finish your dinner. You don’t have to decide everything right now.”
    “Not with the girls coming,” she said, too brightly.
    “Yes. I have set two of the maids to preparing rooms for them, down the hall from mine.” He dropped his spoon into the small puddle of soup at the bottom of his bowl. “I’m going to have to assign one of the maids to them permanently, so you will have to share Idune with them.”
    “As you wish.” She moved her soup-bowl aside, its contents largely untouched.
    Von Ravensberg persevered. “I know you’ll be courteous with them. These accommodations need not be an occasion for distress.”
    “Certainly not,” she said, planning to discover how to reclaim her one privilege—her maid—from the cousins.
    He reached for the bell, ringing it emphatically. “They say they have trout today for our fish, with potatoes in a Dutch sauce.” He studied her for several seconds, as if truly seeing her for the first time. “Your appetite is lacking, my girl. You should eat something more than those nibbles you’ve had.”
    She blinked. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I’ll have a good portion of fish,” she assured him, wishing she could vanish from the room.
    Werther appeared in the door. “Are you ready for the fish?” he asked. “It is ready to be served.”
    “That and another glass of wine,” said von Ravensberg. “And bring a small glass for my niece. It is her Natal Day, and she is now a woman. She should have wine when I do. But no beer. Gentlewomen should not drink beer.”
    “Nein, von Ravensberg,” said Werther.
    He smiled his approval. “Is it truly trout we’re having?”
    “So I am told. With potatoes, bacon, and Dutch sauce.” He picked up the platter of turnips-and-cabbage. “You’ll want more bread, too, I see.”
    “Soon, lad, soon.”
    “Yes, Graf—” He stopped himself. “Von Ravensberg,” he corrected himself.
    “Exactly,” said von Ravensberg as the under-chef let himself out of the smaller dining room.
    “Thank you for ordering wine for me, Uncle Wallache,” Hyacinthie said, suspicious of his sudden magnanimity.
    “It is time you learned how to behave as a woman. A sensible man expects to have a sensible wife.” Von Ravensberg coughed once. “You must not cause disgrace to me and our family by your conduct, which means you must establish how much wine you may safely drink.”
    “Oh,” she said, lethargy coming over her again like a pall.
    “You owe me that much, my girl—not to bring a poor opinion upon me through your carelessness. I have housed and clothed and fed you since you were seven when no other relative would do so.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “You don’t realize how the world is. Every