Chapter Two
Jeroen was having a hell of a day. And not the good kind. The mansion sat in complete disarray, and her maids resembled headless chickens as they straightened her things, cleared her lunch and cleaned her room. She appreciated their work, but it was driving her nuts.
She was supposed to be writing her father's speech for the Fall Gala. Impossible with all the noise and chaos. The staff was readying the house for the coming festivities. Cleaning her room didn’t exactly fit into the picture, but her parents were obviously using the fall season’s parties as an excuse to clean everything.
Time to make her escape, if only for a little while.
Her ladies maid, Dana, was nowhere to be seen, and Jeroen didn’t feel like hunting her down to have her hair done. She settled for pulling her long white hair into a simple black ribbon and tied it firmly, leaving the ends to dangle.
Grabbing her quill, ink and paper, she headed for the library, hoping it was in a better state. Making her way down the beautifully Shaped staircase, she lovingly caressed the smooth, flowing wood of the banister, sculpted into a long swath of driftwood. The style was at odds with 18th century English Regency fashion, but it was so striking her mother had insisted on it. It made quite the statement as people entered the house.
A familiar flash of light appeared in Jeroen’s mind, soon replaced by an image of an older woman with wispy gray hair. Every time she touched the banister, the woman’s face appeared, her features now as familiar as her own mother’s. She looked kind.
Jeroen guarded the knowledge of her vision Gift carefully. She’d often wondered who the woman was, but didn’t dare ask. As a rule, the upper crust did not have Gifts, and if they did they were sent to the Clans to be raised, forever exiled from the peerage.
Her small Gift was a trifle anyway, not worth alarming anyone over. She owed it to her parents to keep her oddities to herself.
Jeroen reached the landing. The vision dissipated as she removed her hand from the banister.
Her eyes snapped into focus, and she tensed at the scene before her. Staff whipped to and fro in a cleaning frenzy. Her search for peace did not look promising.
She ducked through the crowd into the library, only to see scores of servants dusting and oiling the Shaped furniture, brushing the carpet and straightening the bookshelves. The invasion jarred her. Normally the staff tidied out of sight, so quiet and careful not to be seen it seemed the house stayed clean by magic.
Jeroen fled to the gardens, wincing in the bright sun. She supposed she should have worn a bonnet but refused to brave the cleaning hoards to retrieve one. What she really wanted was a nice, dark room lit only by candlelight, but that wasn’t an option at present. She would have to suffer.
At least the temperature was comfortable. The warmth of the summer air hadn't entirely given way to fall. She could get some work done as long as they weren’t dusting the damned bushes.
Jeroen stepped briskly down the rose-lined path to a light, airy gazebo set with a table and chairs. The suns rays stabbed at her eyes. She squinted at the ornate, whitewashed shelter, supposing normal people would like such a setting. Trouble was, she wasn’t exactly normal, although she’d die before admitting it.
She laid out her things on the table, barely able to see. Her vision was a hundred times better in the dark, but piercing light or no, she simply had to get the speech written or her father would have her head. She sat with the sun behind her, using her body to shade the paper, took her pen, dipped it in ink and began to write.
My esteemed ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming here today. First, on behalf of us all, I’d like to thank Lord and Lady Hentelsen for making their lovely home available to us to celebrate the most important event of the year - the Fall Gala. (wait for applause)
Fall is a time of harvest and profit, and this year has proved to be no exception. The crops are in, the new plumbing system on the north side of
Her pen hovered over the words, a drop of ink dangling precariously from the nub. She frowned. It was probably a bit too dry. Then again, so was the intended audience. It practically put her to sleep just to write it, but her father liked to do what was expected. A dry, boring speech for the Gala was certainly expected.
She sighed, cursing whatever god or goddess hated her enough to make sure this was her job. She’d much rather be out ruthlessly haggling decent prices for high grade sand or driving aggressive business deals with her peers, but today was not the time for such things. Her father would not be pleased if she didn't present him with the expected speech.
She dutifully continued to write, but her mind rebelled against the task as if putting it off would put off the Gala. It was the social event of the year, but she was not looking forward to it. She'd been announced last season, changing her status to ‘marriageable’ in the eyes of her Peers. Ever since, men had been beating down her door.
Even though her exotic snow-white hair, dark eyes and honeyed skin were striking, she knew better than to think men were interested because of her looks. She was very tall, a good six feet, and had yet to meet a man who didn’t consider her height a negative. And to add another nail in the coffin, she was aggressive, strong and blunt – the kiss of death for a young maiden who was expected to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and talk about the weather.
No, the real reason they were interested was her father’s wealth and position. And the small fact that she was the sole heir to the Alhalla fortune.
Money and power. That's all that seemed to matter to
people.
Normally she’d agree, being quite familiar with the attraction herself, but being bartered to the highest bidder made her sick to her stomach. The Gala was just another event where men would swarm around her, her height, strange hair and intimidating presence suddenly irrelevant, and all the while she’d know it wasn’t for her, but for her family name and money.
To make matters worse, she hadn't met anyone she could stomach marrying. Most of them were boring or liked to talk to her chest instead of her face. She particularly hated the ones whose eyes would glaze over when she launched into her favorite topics of business and commerce.
Apparently intelligence wasn’t an asset in a wife.
And was it too much to ask that he not be completely hideous? It wasn't that she was shallow. If a man happened to be the right sort of person but not so attractive, she could live with that. But ugliness and stupidity rolled up into one package made her want to run for the nearest cave.
Not that her father cared what she wanted. He'd been pressuring her to choose and choose soon. Yesterday he’d hinted twice that he would be providing her with a short list of suitable men if she didn’t make her preferences known posthaste.
Her world was growing smaller, bringing on a distinct attack of claustrophobia. Her parents had planned her whole life, leaving her nothing to do but live through it. At best she would get a husband she could manage, then she would dutifully give birth to two children, one as the Alhalla heir and one as the backup plan. She snorted. She couldn't believe she had to socialize with people who considered a second child a "backup plan".
And if the stars favored her, her husband would kindly drop dead so she could live the rest of her days as she pleased. She supposed she’d hit rock bottom if her hopes pinned on her future husband’s early demise.
She stood up, stretched, and shut her eyes tightly against the glaring sun. Jeroen had tried so hard to be what her father wanted, but she’d been doomed the moment she’d been born. He’d wanted a boy, as all men did, and to make matters worse he firmly believed women had only one place in society. Too bad for him she was too smart and stubborn to allow him to mold her that way.
She’d reluctantly bent to a few of his edicts to keep the peace, like wearing proper dresses when she knew she’d be seen, and not arguing with people in public, but she’d gone her own way with her education, becoming shrewd and aggressive in all her business dealings. He had no chance against her. She would marry when she was good and ready.
Jeroen thought it ironic her father saw no conflict in treating her like a commodity, a fragile female flower, yet he gave her responsibility for one of their most successful businesses - Alhalla Glassworks. He accepted she had a knack for making money, yet somehow thought she’d defer to him in this marriage business.
She had no idea what he was about, thinking he could have both from her without a fight.
Jeroen supposed she should count her blessings. Some of her friends had it much worse, forbidden to do anything but worry about which dress to wear each day. At least she had something she could sink her teeth into. Something that gave her life meaning.
She’d built the Glassworks into a successful business with some of the best Glass Shapers in the district producing everything from windows, glass sculptures, figurines, tableware and vases. She imported some of the country’s finest silica sand from the St. Peter sandstone formation in
The Glassworks had truly taken off once she incorporated a line of reproductions from ancient days. Her glass soda bottles were a rousing smash. Anyone who was anyone had them lining their mantles, arguing over tea and scones on whether Coke, Pepsi or Mountain Dew was better. Not that anyone knew what Coke, Pepsi or Mountain Dew had tasted like.
Regardless, Alhalla Glassworks was well on its way to becoming known as the place to go to for anything glass.
And Jeroen made it a point to be fair to her employees, paying them well for their work. Their loyalty was her success, enabling her to drive a hard bargain with customers. Her peers paid high prices for the prestige of Alhalla glass, the name lending an air of exclusivity her customers couldn't resist.
A maid popped up to the gazebo wielding a broom. Jeroen sat down and continued to write, hoping if she looked busy the maid would go away. No luck there. The woman climbed the steps and began to sweep.
“Sorry my lady, they said I had to tidy up in case guests want to use the gazebo.”
“Please do it quickly. I need to concentrate.” She winced at her tone. She hadn’t meant to sound so irritated. Half the staff was already terrified of her, and it wasn’t the maid’s fault she had to sweep the gazebo.
But still, she wished everyone would go away. All the activity made her edgy. She really wasn’t a crowd person.
The maid swept enthusiastically behind her, kicking dirt into the air. Jeroen felt a tickle starting in the back of her throat.
“My lady? I’m sorry, but I need to sweep under the table.”
Jeroen coughed, the flying grit adding to the discomfort of her eyes. “I’m not getting much done here anyway. I think I’ll go back to the house and leave you to it.”
She was finished with most of the speech anyway; she could write the rest later. Maybe if the maids were done cleaning her room, she could work on the Glassworks accounts. Numbers were comfortingly concrete, and profits always cheered her up.
Once in the house, she wended through the staff and ran back upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. She sighed in relief as she found her room blissfully deserted.
Jeroen closed the heavy wooden door firmly behind her and locked it, vowing they would have to break it down if they wanted to clean anything else. She drew the blue velvet drapes closed, darkening the room to a level that suited her and sat down at her little writing desk, glad to have found some peace and quiet in her own space. In the dim light, her eyes came into focus, her vision razor sharp.
She opened a heavy leather bound book and worked yesterday's numbers, tallying how much money the Glassworks had brought in. Another year or two and her business would be the most profitable in the family. The thought gave her great satisfaction. It was a relief to be good for something besides breeding and connections.
There was a knock on the door and Jeroen jumped, startled at the sudden noise.
"Jeroen! Are you in there? You’re late for your dress fitting! I’ve been looking all over for you!"
Jeroen’s heart pounded, and her blood rushed with adrenaline. Unable to restrain herself, she stabbed her metal-nubbed pen into the desk in frustration. She hated dress fittings and had conveniently forgotten about this one. But the dressmaker had been exacting in her standards, making her return four times to get her Gala gown just right.
To Jeroen, it was pure torture from which there was no escape. Her family valued image almost as much as money. She had to look the part.
Jeroen unlocked the door and her ladies maid, Dana, practically fell into the room. Jeroen’s mouth quirked in amusement. The young woman was constantly having accidents. She supposed it was an adventure to have someone so unpredictable in her life.
"We have to leave right now,” Dana said, “or Mrs. Terwen will not be happy with you!"
Jeroen forced herself not to grin – she had a ruthless reputation to maintain after all – and she was hardly worried about Mrs. Terwen. Jeroen’s social standing meant she could be late with impunity. If the woman gave her any crap, she would intimidate her with her height. Being six feet tall had its occasional uses.
“Dana, help me throw on a dress. Father will have a fit if I leave the house like this.”
Dana took in Jeroen’s silk shirt and jeans. Jeans were all the rage, an echo of ancient
Dana helped her change clothes, starting with a chemise and a short corset. Jeroen laced up the front herself, having always insisted on one she could get in and out of on her own. She topped it off with a dark blue muslin dress trimmed in simple blue ribbon, gathered under the breasts and flowing down to her feet. It was one of her favorites. Her mother liked her to wear pastels, belying her unmarried status, but she couldn’t stand those shades. She’d never been the sort of girl to wear pink.
Dana quickly dressed Jeroen’s hair, then Jeroen slipped on her walking shoes, donned a smart light blue straw hat that gave her a rakish air, pulled on gloves, grabbed her reticule and dutifully floated down the stairs. The getup always made her feel like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. All the better to ambush people with.
She flew out the front door with Dana close on her heels, but slowed when she saw how busy the streets were. She did not need the gossip columns reporting ‘Miss Alhalla’s most indecorous mad dash to the dressmaker’s. The family carriage pulled up, and she quickly dragged Dana in after her. She’d always made it a point to be seen as little as possible. She was less likely to expose herself to gossip, and it was always good to cultivate an air of mystery.
A few minutes later, they arrived at Mrs. Terwen’s shop. It was a most exclusive establishment and very expensive. Even the sign was edged in gold. Jeroen had worn her father down until he agreed she could patronize the place. The latest cutting edge fashions were an essential tool in her arsenal and made excellent body armor, keeping people at arm’s length.
The shop was bustling with activity. They were led directly to a private room and brought hot tea and dainty iced cakes. Jeroen unfastened her bonnet and hung it on a peg, then handed the plate of cakes to Dana, who promptly and happily indulged her sweet tooth. Lounging on heavily embroidered chairs, they sipped tea and ate in silence until Mrs. Terwen strode in. The woman gave Jeroen a critical look for being late, but said nothing, not wishing to alienate a well-paying customer.
Jeroen felt a stab of disappointment. She had been looking forward to a fight. Too bad.
Cynically, Jeroen suspected Mrs. Terwen put up with her chronic lateness because the clothes hung well on her tall figure. With her striking hair and social standing, everyone always took note of what she was wearing. Jeroen was the best sort of advertisement in Mrs. Terwen’s line of business.
An assistant brought in the dress, a daring color of deep red, so dark it faded to black. It was an homage to the Regency style her peers loved so much, but broke with current fashion by hanging just off the shoulder and dipping into a low décolletage. Not exactly an acceptable color or cut for an unmarried woman.
It was exactly what she wanted.
Mrs. Terwen and the assistant helped her into the fine silk, horribly expensive and imported from
Jeroen checked the mirror for the result. Her image reflected exactly what she’d been hoping for – mostly.
She loosened her hair and repined it over her ears. They came to points like a small dog and had been the cause of much teasing as a child. She hated it when people stared, but with the right hairstyle, she’d look ravishing, ears and all.
She heard a sharp intake of breath behind her.
“My lady, you look absolutely stunning!” said Mrs. Terwen.
Jeroen rolled her eyes. She could see the wheels turning in the woman’s head, already counting the money that would pour in after people saw this dress. She had to admit she did look striking. The deep red brought to mind some wild creature, and her flowing white hair lent an air of the unnatural. It also showed her perfect, honeyed skin to great advantage. She’d be the talk of the ball.
The dress was her ticket to meeting every gentleman at the Gala. Anyone who was anyone would be there. Hell or high water, she was going to find a man she could tolerate having children with. And even more importantly, someone who wouldn’t interfere with her life. She’d grown too independent to accept anything less.
Irritated beyond belief any of this was necessary, Jeroen consoled herself. At least she was thwarting her father. She refused to let him choose her husband.
And if the plan backfired, bringing every slimy example of man climbing out of the woodwork, she’d scare the hell out of them until they went away. She grinned in triumph, the tension leaving her shoulders. This was going to work.
“Absolutely perfect, Mrs. Terwen. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. You will have to turn customers away after I wear this to the Gala.”
Mrs. Terwen rubbed her hands gleefully. Jeroen half expected the crotchety old woman to jump up and down in undignified excitement. “Thank you, Miss Alhalla. I’m most pleased you like it. You’ll have to beat the men back from your door after this.”
Jeroen winced at that, not looking forward to being besieged, but she was not the sort of woman to back down from a challenge. It was her future she was planning after all.
She spent another hour trying on other dresses for upcoming parties before gratefully creeping into the carriage, thankful beyond words it was over.
She slumped into the corner as they headed home. She envied those who had the freedom to live their lives the way they wished. The Shapers in her employ appeared to have a great deal of liberty. They had their Gifts and could work for whomever they wanted, their success dictated by talent and dedication to the craft.
Despite her hair, ears and minor vision talent, she was just an ordinary young woman who happened to be wealthy, had a good head for numbers, and no freedom at all. She supposed she could run away but knew she had no skills to survive outside her insulated world.
No, she was well and truly trapped, forced to take matters into her own hands to find a suitable husband.
Jeroen fought the urge to sink into despair and visualized the upcoming Gala as a battle. The image buoyed her spirits. She liked nothing better than a good fight.
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