Written for the @everlarkficexchange Spring 2019 Edition, based on: Prompt #88 along with a shameless amount of inspiration from any number of my fave historical novels, period movies, and a tv series or two...
Rating: E (Explicit) This fic contains consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death.
Surprise! It’s me. And now, as promised, the entire story to include a brief epilogue on AO3.
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Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.
My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @alliswell21 and everyone else who has offered up their inbox for submissions. Please enjoy the eighteenth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,
~ M ~
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~~ Chapter 18 ~~
The Harvest Festival lasts slightly longer than two weeks and usually provides us with a healthy income to sustain us through winter and well into spring. It is the culmination of three seasons of overlapping plantings, crop maintenance, and harvest. Hours upon hours of work. Everdeen becomes a hive of life with visitors from all across Southeastern Panem and sometimes even further. Booths are set up for the sale of wares and food treats. There are games for the children to play and contests for the adults. Planting the bulbs that will weather the winter in soil and hopefully flourish in spring carries a festive air in the task, as though we are planting the seeds of hope for the bounty of the present year to carry over into the next. In the evenings, the world comes alive with music and dancing, the lively reels and jigs of country tunes rather than the stuffier songs of the city and high society. Other than spring, it is my favourite time of year.
All through the day, I am occupied with sales and bargaining. Talking with tenants and people who need my attention. Normally my father would handle most of this while I stand beside him. This year, Father is busy dancing with nearly every female in Everdeen, from my mother down to Sae, leaving the bulk of the real work to me. It is heartening to see him so happy, waving away Dr. Aurelius’ concerns and insisting that he has never felt better.
When I mention this to Peeta, who has not left my side all day, he smiles. “Katniss, he is handing Everdeen to you. You have kept it running nearly an entire year. This festival is all due to you. It is your harvest.”
I am not certain how to feel about that and loop my arm through Peeta’s as we watch the festivities. My foot taps to the beat, but I know better than to ask Peeta for a dance, despite my longing to join. I do not wish to cause him discomfort, no matter that I could never feel shame or embarrassment when partnered with him.
As the night winds down, I find that I am exhausted. Once I am changed for sleep and laid out on the sofa in our room, my head resting on Peeta’s thighs as he reads through correspondence he left neglected today. His fingers comb through my hair, mine trace absent patterns on his knee, yet I can tell that something bothers him.
“What news, husband?”
“A friend. From the infantry. He has returned home to troubles. His brother passed, leaving the land to him. It took some time for him to return home and in the absence of a landlord, a large number of the tenants left. He’s in need of hands to help harvest or his wheat crop will be left to die in the fields.”
I pause in my aimless drawing on his knee and consider this. The answer is evident, and I know Peeta has already reached the same conclusion, much as we both dislike it. “How far?”
“The southern half of East Panem. With a hard day of riding Cicero, I could be there in a day.”
“You should go,” I say quietly.
“And miss the festival? Katniss, I do not wish to leave you.” I sit up then, to face him, maintaining as much of a stoic expression as I can manage.
“Nor do I wish you to leave. However,” I say before he can argue. “We will be quite fine here. The Harvest Festival is perhaps the easiest part of running Everdeen, and you will regret not going to his aid if you remain.”
Peeta tilts his head as he examines me and I smile, overcome with affection for my husband. I trace the scars on his face and then lean forward to kiss the edge of them, down along his jaw. “You never told me how you came by these marks.”
“Musket fired too close to the ground while I was seeing to a wounded drummer. Had to move us both to safety before I could continue, and you know what burning clothes stuck to skin can cause.”
“Hm,” I kiss down his throat, already plotting how to persuade him to take me to bed. “When will you leave to help your friend?”
“Tomorrow, I should think,” he says, the anguish in his voice a mirror of the pain in my heart. “He sounds in desperate need.”
“You should offer additional work and pay to several of our tenants. Take extra hands with you.”
“If that is alright with you.”
“Ask for volunteers. How long will you be gone?”
“I will not be gone longer than two weeks, I should think.”
“Then I shall see you back here before the end of the festival.”
“Yes,” he gasps as I shift to straddle him and press my body into his to feel how aroused he is already.
“Is that a promise, husband?”
“It is a promise, wife.”
“Promise me you will dance with me when you return? Just once, Peeta. It can be a slow tune.”
“Katniss,” he groans as I sink my teeth into his shoulder. He curses and promises me a dance.
My mind grasps onto the thought that now would be the perfect time to say it. To tell Peeta of my thoughts just this morning. Three such simple words that he uttered in the dark as though they were no more heavy than an exhale. But did he? Or did I dream the soft sigh of his love against my brow? I do not know, I was barely awake. I bite my tongue and kiss him instead, wild and uninhibited.
Peeta gathers me in his arms then, holding me close to his chest as he heaves us off the sofa and carries me across the room to our bed. I whine slightly, perturbed at being moved, but as he lays me on our mattress, I grasp hold of him and make demands.
As always, he readily gives me what I want. What I need. Clothes and wooden leg discarded on the floor. Whispered words and pleas, and a dance in the darkness. For what is intercourse but a series of bodily movements in harmony…a dance. I demand that he give me more and the creaking of our bed gives evidence to the desperate meeting of our bodies, almost violent in our need.
His hand clenches in my hair, twisting it around his fist, pulling tight against my scalp and bending my body. His moans roll over my skin as he plunges into me again and again. The short bursts of pain cause strange ripples of pleasure that overwhelm and steal my breath. He is holding back, waiting for me to succumb first. It is this knowledge combined with the sound of my name on his lips, a desperate breath of utter longing, that tips me over the edge into blissful, rapturous oblivion.
The rest of the world falls away to nothing as I revel in my release, in the feel of Peeta’s triumphant shout against my neck before he begins to thrust madly. I wonder for one second if we might break the bed and then he stops, his back arched and his head thrown back in exquisite relief, his abdomen clenching and his fingers tight in my hair.
The way he holds me after provides such an exquisite contrast. So perfectly gentle and soothing. His whispers are more effective in drawing me down into deep slumber than a lullaby, and yet…and yet…
My dreams that night are wild and reckless. A man cloaked in shadows and moonlight illuminating only part of his face, unending pleasure stemming from his touch. He takes pleasure from me like an animal, on all fours with his fingers digging into soft flesh, mine holding tight to bed linens and my throat dry with screams of pleasure I cannot voice for fear of waking the whole house. Whatever he takes from me, he gives back tenfold. The crazed thrusting of uncontrollable lust reaching deep inside me to places I’d never known a man could touch.
Then he takes me with his mouth, my legs splayed wide, immodest and desperate, pinned to our bed beneath his strong hands. The delicate scrape of his tongue on me, marking me. Branding me as his as I shatter again and again. And again. It is as though he is determined to ensure that I cannot forget him in his absence.
I am certain my legs have become useless until he settles me on top of him and I become the one crazed and desperate in motion. I long to tell him that I could never forget him. He has rooted himself in my heart, seared himself beneath my skin where I could no more remove my love for him than I can my own scars. But speech proves impossible for me.
Yet, in the moments when I am coherent enough to recognise the blue eyes watching me as I dance over his body with abandon, I capture the words he moans to me in his ecstasy and hold them close to my heart.
Yours.
I’m yours, Katniss.
Yours, yours, yours.
Everything I am is yours.
Always.
And…
I love you.
… I love you so…desperately…deeply…
I reach a final, tremendous peak with those words floating in the sultry air around us and then dreams yield their hold to the dark, blissful oblivion of restful, dreamless slumber.
In the morning, I am alone. The window shut against a driving autumn rain, and a single orange flower left for me atop of Peeta’s sketchbook, tied to it with a green ribbon. I haven’t the heart to look at the drawing he left me just yet, knowing that there will be no more for some time.
Then the evidence that my dreams last night were far more real than they were imagined begins to accumulate. My wild hair and the nearly wrecked state of the linens on our bed. The teeth and suction marks on my shoulders and breasts and even the back of my neck, the throbbing ache between my thighs. The ten round bruises on my hips where Peeta would have grasped hold of me as he loved me from behind, savage and wild and beautiful. Another set on my thighs where he would have held my legs secure to the bed while he made love to me with his mouth, again and again. My knees weaken at the very thought of it.
Worst of all, though, is the hollow feeling in my breast as I rise and move to the window and know. Peeta’s gone. He left before I could tell him that I love him too. How stupid of me not to reciprocate the words when he spoke them last night.
I rest my forehead on the cool glass, holding the sheet from our bed wrapped around me, my shoulders and my feet bare, hair a wild tangle down my back until Mary finds me like that.
“Mrs. Mellark?” she says my name like a question and I lift my chin. I am not some sniveling, weak willed, lovesick schoolgirl. And I will not act like one.
Peeta will return within the fortnight. I can tell him then. He promised me he would, and if I know one thing about my husband it is that he can be trusted to keep his promises.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“This is good,” I say as my eyes skim over the written out history. It is far more thorough than I could have hoped. “Could she have returned to any of these places?”
“It is unlikely. She seems to have stayed for as long as she could,” Haymitch says and taps one line near the bottom. My cheeks burn as I realise what he is trying to tell me without saying it.
“Oh no. The poor thing.” I glance up at my uncle as he fixes me in place with a penetrating gaze.
“You are not appalled?”
“I am only appalled at the lengths women must sometimes go to in order to feed and house both themselves and the ones they love,” I say as I fold the pages of parchment together. “There are three years missing yet in your history for her.”
“I have some leads to fill that hole. I shall keep looking…unless you wish to stop. We may only find worse things than this”
“No,” I say and glance briefly over the crowd that has gathered for the afternoon games. The rain did not last long enough to force a cancellation of the festivities. The muddy fields have in fact drawn more people, it seems. Those eager for the fresh air and the tempting scents of meat pies on the cool autumn breeze. Children play, ignoring parental sighs that they will need another bath if they are not careful.
“No,” I repeat to Haymitch. “I want to find her, if she still lives. And the child.”
Haymitch scoffs at this and I scowl at him. “You think that wise?”
“You think Peeta would want to leave his half sister to suffer in an orphanage somewhere? Or worse?”
“There is no knowing who the child’s father is, nor what she has grown to become. She would be nearly seven by now.”
“I am aware of that.”
“It is also possible that your husband already knows of her existence and chose to do nothing…”
My neck heats as I consider the possibility but then I shake my head. “No. He would not. If he knows, then he has been searching for her as well. Which leads me to believe he does not know.”
“You will not be able to keep your search secret from him much longer if you are determined to save both,” Haymitch says with uncharacteristic gentleness.
“Perhaps combining our efforts will produce faster results then. When he returns, can you provide him with your contacts?” Haymitch grunts, but he nods in agreement.
I wonder how on earth I am supposed to explain to Peeta that he has a sister, and that I already plan on adopting her, if possible. She belongs with her family, and if she has none now, then her family is here at Everdeen. And how am I to explain the existence of the child without shattering his heart? How to tell him that his mother was reduced to prostitution for a number of years. My heart aches at the thought of it and it is the only reason that I hope he already found this piece of his mother’s journey, so that I will not be the one breaking his heart.
The child will be easier to locate than the mother, it seems, and so I tell Haymitch to focus on that for now. “But we are not conceding defeat on finding Nancy, do you understand?”
“I understand completely,” Haymitch tells me with a strange look in his eyes. Before I can summon a retort, my sister calls for me.
“Katniss, I need to speak with you.”
“Can it wait?” I ask as I notice the massive hay bales being rolled in for the next contest. I am meant to judge who is able to secure and lift their bale the fastest. It occurs to me that it is a shame Peeta is missing this particular contest. With the strength in his arms, he would excel at a contest such as this.
“No it cannot wait,” Prim insists.
I sigh and motion for her to speak. I am developing a headache. Peeta has been gone four days already with no word from him, Haymitch has brought me both good news and complications in our search, and Maysilee is recovering from a slight fever. While the festival at least is a resounding success, it still leaves me drained. At the end of the day, I toss and turn, unable to find sleep despite my fatigue. The empty space in my bed taunts me with unspoken words and fears I cannot explain. The drawing he left me was of me as I slept, the words along the bottom of the page nearly bringing tears to my eyes.
Leaving you is near impossible, and so I go while you still sleep. Had you opened your eyes before I left, and looked at me as you have done these past days, I might never muster the will to depart. Yours always, ~ P ~
“I’ve had a letter from Rory,” Prim’s words intrude on my musings.
“Are we on a given name basis with him now then?” I ask, a little testy. She frowns at me and then I notice her quivering lip.
“I do not know anymore. I told him of your plans to take me to Capitol for a season and now I fear he is withdrawing his interest!”
“Mother and Father agreed to the season as well. Pester them about this,” I mutter and she huffs angrily.
“They only agreed because you insisted! It’s not my fault you regret how your husband hunt turned out. Do you know what Rory said to me about this whole season and more suitors for me fiasco?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Perhaps that is for the best,” she says and I nod.
“If he cannot handle the competition for your hand then his affections are not strong enough to last.” The competitors for the game have taken their places and I give the signal to begin.
Prim chokes on a sob. “I don’t want to him to have competition! I want to marry him! And you’ve frightened him off!”
“Prim,” I say as I turn to her and her watery eyes slice through me. I cannot stand to see her in pain. Perhaps this season idea was a poor decision, but she agreed to it, seemed eager even until now.
“All because you’re not in love with your husband! That does not mean that I will be miserable with my choice, nor do you need to make me miserable with mine! He was going to propose on his next visit, I am sure of it, and now he won’t!” She spins on her heel then, headed straight for the floor as bales of hay slowly rise.
“Prim!” I shout after her but she does not respond.
There’s a shout of warning and then one of the bales descends, the rope sliding through grasping hands and more yells fill the air. I run for her but I am too far away. Joe reaches her first, shoving Prim out of the way of the hay before it crashes to the ground. It disintegrates in a fragrant cloud. Several hands grasp hold of the rope at the same time and heave. With no weight, the hook swings free and wild.
A warning lodges in my throat as it flies up towards Joe and slices him straight up his spine.
He shouts and falls to the ground beside Prim as pandemonium breaks loose. Prim reaches for Joe, crying out apologies and attempting to see to his wound. Joe begins to screech.
“Hands off, witch! Devil take you and your herbs! I’ll not let you drag me to hell!”
Prim retreats as I glower at the man’s display. Everyone steps back from him as he holds his torn jacket and shirt together and waves a bloody hand at us to keep us distant. He raves about witches and sorcery. We are all too stunned to know what to do.
Madge pushes her way through the crowd and slaps Joe across the face. “Cease, man! I am no witch. Come with me and stop making a fuss!”
She grabs Joe by the arm and drags him away. He goes, surprisingly docile. I hurry to Prim’s side, although Mother and Father are already with her.
“I am fine,” she insists, taking their help to stand. The crowd around us whispers and wavers in shock and uncertainty. “But Joe…”
I squeeze Prim’s hand. “I will assist Madge.”
I scurry to follow them, leaving Prim with Father and Mother seeing to her. I pass by Haymitch as he tries to calm a near hysterical Effie and I leave him to it. Assured of Prim’s well being, I care for nothing but my husband’s injured friend — a friend who just saved my sister’s life, although I am certain he despises me.
I am able to follow their trail, a handprint left here and there that leads me to the house, to the bathing room. I fetch Mother’s healing kit along the way and enter the room, gasping and nearly dropping the basket as I take in the sight before me.
“Oh wonderful. Kitten has decided to join us,” Joe snarls as I stare at him…or rather… her…
Torn, bloody bindings and clothes litter the floor. Joe sits on the bench beside the tub, facing me, stripped bare to the waist. Madge bends over her back, her eyes wide as she stares at me.
“Katniss… shut the door,” she says in a wavering voice. I do so, too shocked to do differently. I lock it for good measure and gape, my mind grasping at connections and hints that line up with dizzying speed.
“You… you…”
“I have breasts,” Joe states. “Quite nice ones, too.” She fondles them for a second and smirks at me. “I can understand you gaping at them. I have all of the other baggage that comes with being a woman in this world as well. Would you care to see?”
“I…” I have no idea what to say.
“I could use your help, Katniss.” Madge’s words bring me to my senses. “I’m quite good at sewing but have never sewn human flesh and… I do not know what herbs we will need.”
“Are you certain your patient will accept such witchcraft?” I ask and Joe gasps with pain and shuts her eyes for a moment before leveling me with a fierce look.
“I meant no insult to your sister. She has been nothing but kind to me. And I will… I will apologize to her later. But I could not let them discover me in such a public manner.”
“You had better apologize. You caused a shameful scene,” Madge scolds and Joe turns slightly to glare at her.
“And you slapped me, your highness!”
“I needed to get you out of there before you revealed yourself!”
“You knew?” I ask Madge and she sighs.
“Katniss, please,” she says again instead of responding to my accusation. “I will explain later. Right now I truly need your help. I am quite out of my depth here.”
I move to Madge’s side and help her clean the wound, taking too much pleasure in Joe’s muffled grunts as we warn her of the coming pain before we pour the spirits to kill infections on her opened skin. She releases a string of colourful curses that has both Madge and I sharing a glance.
“For shame, Mr. Mason! Such foul language in front of ladies,” I say in my most scandalized tone. Joe hangs her head and shakes it.
“Ladies,” she sneers and then laughs. It is precisely the reaction I was hoping for, distracting Joe from the pain as Madge carefully stitches her ragged flesh back together. “Neither of you count as ladies by any conventional definition and well you both know it. Your highness with your scandalous affair before your late departed husband was even cold in his grave. And you Kitten, with your insatiable lust, pouncing on your poor husband at every turn, demanding he tussle you in the stables, out in meadows—“
“It was by a lake,” I interject and she scoffs. “If you are going to accuse me, at least ensure that your accusations are correct.”
“As I said… Neither of you are truly ladies, only masquerading as one of them.”
Madge and I share another look, colour rising in both of our cheeks. The way Johanna says the word ladies makes it sound like it would be more of an insult to actually be a lady in her eyes. Madge looks away first when Joe releases another string of curse words.
“Here,” I say, offering my hand to Joe to hold through the pain. She bats it away and I return it to assisting Madge. “So then I assume your given name is not really Joseph…”
“Johanna,” she gasps and then releases more curse words. “My name is Johanna. Jo still works for short. That way, when someone tries to call me Joseph the way her majesty here did, I can tell them no one calls me Joseph. Explains why I don’t readily respond to it, and it’s not a lie.”
Madge’s face reveals nothing. She purses her lips and concentrates on her stitches.
“What is your story then, Jo?” I ask gently. “What leads you to dress as a man and fool everyone around you?”
She laughs sardonically and another stream of expletives makes me blush hot. For a moment, I think perhaps she will not share but then she takes a deep breath and speaks. “Same thing what makes the two of you hide your true natures. Disapproval. My father thought to marry me off to a rector. A man four times my age with two wives already dead in the ground and a belief that there is no ill that cannot be solved by a decent whipping. My dear Mama agreed. She thought the influence of the church was the only —“ More curse words echo off the stone walls and Madge halts her sewing for a moment until Johanna regains some composure. “—The only way to cure me of my evil nature.”
“What makes you so evil? I’ve seen no signs of devil worship about,” I say with a great deal of doubt in my voice. She turns her head to peer at me over one creamy, perfectly shaped shoulder and a sickening feeling fills me as I realise that she is in fact rather beautiful, even with her cropped short hair. A collection of pixie features I took for a boy’s in truth belonging to a lovely young woman perhaps four or five years my senior. She smiles at me and it brings me no comfort.
“My parents discovered that I have as great a thirst for a juicy cunt as I do for a big fat cock.” My face flames with her words but I allow myself no other visible reaction. Her words are meant to shock me. I will not give her the satisfaction. “I never saw the reason why my father and brothers could be so freely promiscuous, could fuck whatever they wanted… women, men, goats… without repercussions, but I was forbidden a single loving affair with a girl I loved.”
“Really, Johanna,” Madge admonishes.
“Allow me some fun, your highness. My back is shredded, I shall have yet another ugly scar, and unless Kitten here takes pity on me, I might be out of a home within the hour.”
“You are not exactly endearing yourself to her with that kind of talk,” Madge says and then an awful thought occurs to me.
“Does Peeta know?”
“Does Peeta know?” Johanna sneers again and my stomach feels as though I had just jumped from a great height.
I think of his words… one night of reckless abandon because he felt sorry for himself… surely he wouldn’t then travel with that person as a companion.
Madge says her name in a warning tone but Johanna fixes me with glittering brown eyes, her gaze unwavering as though she knows the precise direction of my thoughts.
“Of course Peeta knows. He’s been helping me maintain my ruse for years now. In fact, this is about how he found out. I refused my betrothal and when my dearest parents tried to have me sent to an asylum, I ran away.” She hisses and her next words begin strained then even out.
“I ran away, cut my hair, dressed myself as a boy, and enlisted in the infantry. I was a drummer for them. You know, the ones that beat the cadence to send commands across the fields. I was shot in the leg, and that would not have been a problem, but I panicked. Then some crazed loon took a bayonet to my side while I was attempting to drag myself from the field. I cut the lout’s throat but the damage was done.” More curse words and she smacks her hand on the stone bench.
“Nearly done,” Madge soothes and Johanna takes a few more deep breaths.
“Peeta found me. I told him I’d rather die right there on the field, knowing what he’d discover as soon as he started tending to me… God love the man, he tended to me anyways and barely even blinked. Not even with musket fire around us… a brush fire. An enemy soldier attacking him. He just… sliced the man the way you slaughter a pig then went back to sewing me together enough to move me. He even yelled at another medic who tried to help, sent him to assist the others wounded nearby instead. He stitched me up, and then lied to the doctors. Said the leg wound was the only one. He stopped by the field hospital every day after and saw to the wound on my side himself. When I was healed enough to rejoin the field, another drummer had already taken my place. Peeta convinced the commander to make me a part of the medical team instead.”
“Driving the cart to move the wounded and the dead,” I supply.
Johanna nods, lifts her arm then, and points to a long jagged scar over her ribs, curling beneath her breast. Exceptionally close to the orb. “This is the one Peeta stitched back together.”
I drop my eyes and watch as Madge finishes her stitching.
“He never asked me why. Why would a girl hide as a man and join the infantry. When I asked him why he never asked… he said he assumed I must have a damn good reason and it was none of his business. He trusted that I would tell him if and when I was ready to trust him. No one would willingly subject themselves to such a life unless they were desperate, had no choice, or wished death upon themselves, he said. It is quite cute when he is so naive.”
I wipe my hands clean with a rag and set myself to the task of crushing herbs.
“So then when he took that sword to his leg…”
“I couldn’t let him die,” Johanna whispers, turning her head just enough for me to see her profile but not enough to look me in the eyes. “I wanted to because then the only person who could betray my secret and see me returned to my family would take my secret to the grave. I would be safe without having to trust in a man. But… I couldn’t. He saved my life, so I saved his.”
“And did you and he…Were you one of the women he…” I trail off, unable to voice the despicable fear choking my throat closed.
“No, Kitten,” Jo says and finally meets my eyes. “I told you he’s a right gentleman. I offered, several times in fact, but he always refused. Said it wasn’t right to take advantage like that when he knew my secret. He saw that knowledge for what it was, something a lesser person would use to control me and so he refused to give even the impression of such control. The damn righteous bastard said he wouldn’t sleep with someone who felt they owed him a debt like that, and that the only reason I was offering was because I felt I owed him. Not because I loved him.”
My spine grows stiffer and my motions as I grind the herbs more forceful with every word she speaks. It sounds like something Peeta would say, but I don’t know if I can believe Johanna.
“Don’t tell him I said it… but he was right to refuse me. He’s been the only real friend I’ve had in years and I am glad he wouldn’t allow me to ruin that,” Johanna says and then she grins. “But he wasn’t above listening to me every night I got drunk and a little too talkative about all the reasons my father thought I needed divine intervention. All the maids and local girls. The boys I let beneath my skirts. My favorite though was a dairy maid named Portia. Ah she was a sweet treat indeed. And you’ve reaped the benefits of my big mouth, haven’t you, Kitten?”
I mix the herbs with the cream despite the burning on my cheeks. I am at least appeased that I am not healing one of my husband’s former lovers, but the fact that Peeta apparently learned much about pleasing a woman simply by listening to this one aggravates me. I smack the cream onto her back and she startles, once more cursing and glaring at me.
“Is that why you hate me then? Because I have been intimate with him while you were not.”
“That would be too simple, Mrs. Mellark. Give me some credit for having more depth of emotions than a jealous harpy. I despise you because the two of you are free to love one another openly and no one will question or recoil from you for it. No one will accuse you of being unnatural, sinful, or an abomination for having that tussle in the stables or by the lake and wherever else on this green earth the two of you have been when you cannot control yourselves. I despise you because you have a real and extraordinary love right in front of you, and you are too much of a coward to admit it.” I blink at her and she scoffs.
“I am not a coward.” Madge stares at me as I spread the cream along the stitched seam of Johanna’s back. “But I won’t admit it to you before I say it to him.”
Johanna’s eyes widen, astonished and so feminine in that moment that I wonder how I did not see it before. The curtsies, the things she’s said to me, the way Peeta reminded her on the day we met that a rough serving man cannot just grab a lady and pull her from the mud without her permission…
I turn to Madge to keep Johanna from questioning what I just confessed to her. “You have been awful quiet during all of these revelations. How long have you known?”
“Since the day after your father awakened.”
I am taken back to that day. The stables. The tea.
“The tea for the monthlies was for Johanna,” I say and Madge nods.
“I did not like keeping it from you, Katniss, but I thought it best at the time. Even though Johanna insisted she and Peeta had never been intimate, I feared the truth coming to light just then might ruin what was growing betwixt the two of you.”
“Which begs the question, Kitten…what will you do now?”
I look between the two women and consider the options, all of what has been revealed to me tonight.
Pulling long strips from the healing kit at my feet, I meet Johanna’s gaze. “Now I will bandage your back. When I am done, you shall return to your dwelling, drink every drop of the tea I am sending with you. You will sleep on your stomach and not disturb or scratch at the bandages. In the morning, Madge and I will tend to your wound. You will only admit either her or myself to see to your care. While I do not believe that my parents would turn you out should they learn the truth, I will not take that risk without your blessing. And once you are healed, you will stop teaching Maysilee to jump side saddle and teach her how to do the thing right. Safely astride. I’ll not see her break her neck over something so foolish as propriety.”
Johanna squints her eyes at me as I speak and then laughs when I am done. “Now I see it, Kitten. I know why he’s so hopelessly in love with you!”
I ignore this and bandage her back, but I have the strangest sense that I have somehow acquired a new ally.
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To be continued… look for chapter 19 on the blog of @everlarkficexchange.
Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.
My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @justajjfan and everyone else who has offered up their inbox for submissions. Please enjoy the thirteenth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,
~ M ~
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~~ Chapter 13 ~~
The house feels reborn as the fog of fear lifts with Father’s fever and the immediate worries of him not surviving his amputation dissipate.
It is strange to see my father with his arm truncated so, but having caught glimpses of Peeta’s limb in bed at night, I am neither shocked nor repulsed. As Peeta said, there will be obstacles to my father living his life should he awaken, yet it is not impossible. He will still have my mother, my sister, myself, and all of our love.
I wonder briefly how Peeta and my Father would get on. I think of Peeta’s kindness and patience, his wit in moments when no one else seems to know what to say, and smile to myself. I imagine they would get on splendidly, as soon as my father recognises that Peeta’s surname does not define his character. As my mother pointed out, Peeta is nothing like the man who sired him.
Even more so than the past few months when Father lay comatose with nothing we could do for him, the world has felt suspended the past few days. Now the immediate fear is gone, I feel as though I need to press forward with life, with tasks that fell neglected as we cared constantly for my father. To that end, I intercept Peeta in the study before we head out for our daily ride on the morning after Father’s fever breaks, I head to the study and find Peeta.
“I have a project I wished to discuss with you, husband. Several projects in fact,” I say as he lifts his head and startles at my presence. He stands and I smile at him.
“Shall we discuss your projects as we ride today?”
“I should think so. Bring your sketchbook and drawing supplies with you,” I tell him. He retrieves it from the desk, taking two sheets that hang loose and quickly stuffing them in the drawer that has become his.
As we move towards the stable, I briefly outline my idea, explaining how my mother and father are a wealth of knowledge on the plants in the area, both wild and cultivated, edible and medicinal and poisonous. I explain how the bath room made me realise just how much we stand to loose if my father perishes. For now, we can start with what he has passed on to me, and what my mother can provide, recording it into a book for safekeeping that we can always add to later.
“What do you think?”
“I think it an excellent idea,” Peeta says as we pause in the meadow, beneath a sprawling oak tree. Peeta uses the rope he now carries with him on his saddle at all times to dismount then helps me down as well. His hands linger on me for a few seconds longer than is necessary, but I find that I do not mind at all. We then spread the blanket beneath the tree to relax. “How can I help?”
“With the illustrations,” I say, surprised he did not realise. “Unless you do not wish to.”
“No, I would love to help. When shall we start?”
“How about now?” He laughs as I stand and hurry to gather a few samples from our immediate area. We are soon engrossed in our work, Peeta sketching as I explain uses and growing seasons, life cycles and distinguishing characteristics. I write as I talk. It is quiet, absorbing work and as we ride home, I feel a soft sort of contentment wash over me.
There is more work to be done that afternoon, and my father is not completely out of danger yet, and so I still spend late evenings on towards midnight by his side. It becomes an easier routine to manage now that the stark fear of death no longer haunts every corner.
Life continues. There is a lightness and happiness that permeates the halls as my father slowly recovers. We continue with our shifts, ensuring that his bed remains clean, his limbs exercised, and his body free of further infection. Doctor Aurelius visits and congratulates us on making it through the first stage.
During the days, there is always work to be done. We make excellent progress on the plant book. I rather enjoy watching Peeta’s hands while he works. As he draws, his face takes on an intense expression of concentration, as though there are thousands of worlds and thoughts of beauty locked away inside his head where only he might see them until he pours them onto parchment. I become fixated on those long lashes of his, so delicate and lovely in the sunshine. And also on his lips with their many different attitudes of expression. I attempt to catalogue each smile or frown or other look of his, much the way we do with the plants and flowers. And at night…
At night I share a bed with my husband, yet he maintains a distance between us. It becomes more and more difficult to respect that distance and what it represents. Perhaps this is what Peeta intended in refusing to touch me. To taunt me with his nearness and yet deny me what I truly want.
…What I truly want?
The question makes me sit up in bed and stare at the sleeping visage of my husband one night, nearly a week after my father’s fever has broken.
Do I truly want to consummate my marriage now? Do I desire Peeta the way he wishes me to do so? Granted, we have had a number of pleasant days together working on our record of plant life, and I feel completely safe and secure with him in not only my room, but my bed as well. He has lain beside me at least a fortnight without so much as presuming to kiss me. Such piety and abstinence! It is enough to drive a body mad!
Yet I feel as though there is still something missing. Peeta has done so much for me and my family, stepping up without question or complaint in every arena we have thus far faced together, all while asking little to nothing in return. A leather strap in the stables to make mounting his horse easier, a few loaves of bread to bake, and that is it. That is all he has asked for himself. It seems so…so wrong.
And yet it does not take me long to decide what exactly I can do for Peeta. It might be a failure, and so I do not mention it to him. I would hate to lift his hopes needlessly. Instead, I wait until the following night, as I sit vigil over my father.
By candlelight, I tap a quill on parchment, staring at my father’s motionless form and wondering how best to word this most delicate missive. I do not wish to…pry, nor to give the impression that I do not trust my husband. It is not a lack of trust that spurs me to do this. Not at all, and finally, I begin with that. The truth of the matter. I wish to help him as he has done for me.
Dear Uncle Haymitch,
Life in the country is as dull as ever. Do not expect a visit from us soon as Father is still unresponsive and I rather dislike all the smog the city seems to enjoy keeping close to her bosom.
Marriage is a curious thing, although I think I am succeeding quite well at it. In that regard, however, I have a rather large favor to ask of you. You, with all your connections in the city, are best able to see it done. I need your help finding someone who is dear to my husband and will likely be difficult to discover…
I fill the pages with as many details as I can recall Peeta telling me — his mother and father’s names as well as the estate where they were employed, a general timeline of when William passed, Nancy was let go, and Peeta was left at the Mellark household. It is possible that Peeta’s lack of success in finding his mother is due to his carrying of the name Mellark, a sure signal to Nancy that whoever it is inquiring after her can mean no good to her. Not even Peeta, as she did promise to never see him again. It is possible that she is too far into hiding in order to avoid her own son or to ensure her own employment, free from past “transgressions.” Inquiries from an unattached party — such as my uncle — may have better success.
When I finish the letter, I retrieve from my pocket a drawing that I pilfered earlier today from Peeta’s sketchbook. Given the number of pages he has torn from the book, I am hopeful he will not miss this one of his mother. I fold it together with the letter, seal it, address it, and take it downstairs to the table so that it shall be included in tomorrow’s post.
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For the first time in months, I feel excitement with the arrival of the daily post. It is too soon to hear from Haymitch and yet I cannot help the quick trip of my heart nor the smile on my face as Horatio hands me the post after breakfast. He returns the smile and gives me a happy wish for a good day as he heads off to finish his chores.
I shuffle through the letters, dividing them into piles. There is yet another letter for Prim, from Rory Hawthorne. I gnash my teeth but set it aside for her, heeding the wise words of my friend for now, although I should speak to Peeta about perhaps funding a season for Prim soon. I would much rather she have a chance at several suitors – to be certain — before she settles on this one.
In addition to the normal letters of business for myself and a few for Peeta, there is another with a heavy crest in the wax seal…a crest I have become unfortunately familiar with. Gathering both of our piles, I seek him out and find him where I expect him, in the library, selecting a book to read later today in moments of leisure.
“Your post, husband,” I say and he accepts it with a smile, an expression that turns serious as he sees the seal of the Marquis de Vale on one.
“Thank you,” he says. We settle in to deal with our mail. When both of us are done, we walk together out to the stable.
It is a beautiful day and yet I cannot help but feel that Peeta is preoccupied. His smile is not as easy and his words more sparse than usual. When I mention it, however, he smiles brightly at me.
“No need for concern. I was, however, wondering more about harvest time around here. Are there any traditions we need see to?”
After that, he seems to be his normal self and we converse at length on what needs yet to be done to prepare for the late summer harvest as well as the fall harvest of our crops.
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Ennui strikes its hardest blow in the evenings, when the sun still lingers in the sky and yet the chores for the day are done and dinner consumed. We lounge in the drawing room until youth kicks up a disturbance.
“Mother, we’ve not been to a town assembly in ages. Why can we not go tonight?” Prim asks, a cajoling pout on her face.
“It is already late dear, and I cannot leave your father.”
“He is so much better!”
“We could have dancing here, Prim,” Madge suggests and moves to the piano. “I will play. You and Katniss can dance.”
“Oh yes!” Prim squeals. In a flurry of pink fabric and protests, I am pulled to my feet. Primrose is shockingly strong for her size. “You are married now, sister, so you must play the man. No excuses!”
Madge strikes up a lively tune and for one moment, I glance at Peeta, wondering how he must feel being left out of such festivities. He smiles at us, his hand resting on his open sketchbook and several dried flowers spread on the neighboring page. His work stops as we take the first few steps, and soon I am laughing and spinning with my sister.
At one point, my mother begins to clap along in time. We dance and dance into the night until I can hardly breathe. As Madge finishes the fourth or fifth tune with a flourish, I spin Primrose straight towards my mother and she falls laughing into her embrace. As Mother whispers loving words to Prim and kisses her brow, a sadness claims me. Yes, I think, something is missing and I make excuses, wandering out to the hall where it is dark, cool from the lack of bodies, and quiet.
Light from the drawing room makes an eerie slanted rectangle on the floor behind me as I stare out the window. Peeta’s uneven gait approaches me and I lean back into his touch as he rubs my shoulders in a soothing manner.
“Something troubles you?”
“I am not sure,” I admit and we stand there for a moment, our image a hazy reflection in the glass as the sun dips below the horizon and the sky shifts to a darkened gray-blue streaked with gauzy purple clouds. I do not know how to put into words the feelings inside me.
Mother’s laughter reaches me then and it occurs to me that my parents used to dance as a second couple with Prim and I on nights such as this. Before I can consider the implications of that thought, Madge begins to play a much slower tune. I listen for a moment and then turn to face my husband. “Will you dance with me?”
“I wish that I could,” he says, taking one of my hands in both of his, lifting it to his lips.
“The music is not fast, Peeta. You must have danced before and remember some of the steps. No one will see you save for me…please?”
He still looks uncertain, but shifts how he holds my hand and raises our arms over our heads. I cannot stop the smile from splitting my lips as we move through careful steps. It is not a complicated dance, the one he has chosen, in fact it is an older dance. Several years old as I recall dancing these steps with Madge, before the fire, before I was scarred. I hear distant echoes of memory, and while Peeta’s hesitant movements reflect the uncertainty in his features, he does not stop. Our fingers curl together, then apart. We step through a slow circle, close to one another and then back. Every so often, we must pause an extra beat or two for Peeta to regain his footing or shift his balance before we continue, but it is a forgiving song that allows such caution.
Madge plays on, the tune longer than the sequence of steps, and so we begin again from the start. Peeta and I dance in the growing moonlight. His steps falter once. I pause with him and wait a beat to catch the count of the dance on the next bar, and then we continue once more.
When the song comes to an end, he does not step back and bow right away, but we remain as we are, so close.
“Katniss,” he murmurs and leans towards me. My chin lifts, but his torso bends and I watch him bow over my hand. “Thank you for the dance, madame,” he says then returns to the drawing room. My heart beats far too fast in my chest for such a simple dance and I use the excuse to flee upstairs.
After I am changed for bed, I lay there and contemplate what passed between Peeta and I. He claimed to wish to court me, although my father’s infection and amputation caused that sentiment to wither for a time. One could make a case that the only normal aspect of Peeta’s courtship of me thus far has been our time together working on the plant book. Even our time spent baking in the kitchens is a bit unorthodox since we are usually dressed so casually or in night clothes for it. There is also the matter that it is more something I would expect from a married couple, not a couple that is courting.
Tonight’s dance was the first thing we have done that resembles a traditional courtship. And yet, as I drift into sleep, still waiting for my husband to join me, I am oddly tingling all over and wondering why I feel so… disappointed… It is in the fog between dreams and rest that the truth settles in my breast, never to relinquish me from its grasp.
I wanted him to kiss me. Almost desperately.
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I wake fully rested and refreshed. It is most welcome after the several weeks of long, hard days. Welcome until I realise that I have slept late. Far later than I am accustomed to doing. For a moment, I am annoyed at Peeta for allowing me to sleep so late, but as I rise and stretch, I see that he is not here. His side of the bed remains disturbingly tidy. I wonder if he straightened before he left our rooms for the morning or if he refrained from sleeping beside me entirely. I do not recall him joining me in bed last night.
Moving to the window, I enjoy the sunshine for a moment before deciding it is time to face the new day. It promises to be a glorious day and I have slept away too much of it already. At first, I attempt to dress myself so as to not bother anyone, as it is very late and Mary has likely moved on to other chores. I soon find myself paying for my indolence and calling for Mary. She hurries in only to make excuses.
“Of course, ma’am, I can’t find Miss Maysilee. She’s run off again on another sort of adventure. Countess is near beside herself this time. As soon as I find her, I can assist you in dressing,” she says, panic in her eyes.
“Find Mr. Mellark! She’s likely hiding in a game with him or some nonsense!” I shout but my cries fall on the door and not human ears. “Excellent. An excellent start to the day.”
I reach behind me, grasping for laces, but each tug tells me what I already know. I am only making a greater mess of this. Still, I refuse to yield. I feel behind me and make calculated pulls that only entangle the laces further. I growl in frustration and consider going without the damn thing to today. The door opens then and I sigh in relief.
“Oh thank God. Where was she, Mary? On an adventure with Mr. Mellark?”
“I – pardon, madame.” My head whips around and I find Peeta now making excuses to abandon me. “I did not mean to interrupt. I thought you already awake and out for the day.”
“I would be, could I reach the damn laces properly.”
“Excuse me,” he says and opens the door. “I shall send for Mary.”
“She left me like this! She is looking for Maysilee.” I shout and he pauses. “I am trying to do this myself and making a muddle of it. Could you please just–”
I am close to tears, ridiculous as it may seem, and am trying mightily not to let him see me shed them. Of all the things to make me cry after the events of the past weeks, I refuse to cry over corset laces. He nods once then shuts the door, stepping swiftly to stand behind me. His hands move over my back, loosening and untangling the mess I have made.
“You have done this before?” I ask and he stops.
“No. I have not laced a woman into a corset before.”
“But you have…you have removed a corset?” His hands resume their motions as he releases a strained chuckle.
“How am I to answer that, madame? If I say that I have, shall I be met with your fury or disapproval? And if I say that I have not, will you believe me?”
“Yes, then,” I say, a hot fury sparking to life in me.
“I am not as familiar with the workings of a corset as a ladies’ maid. In truth, I am guessing here. Perhaps some assistance, madame?” His words give me pause.
“Then you have not removed many?”
“No, I would not characterise it as ‘many.’ Do you wish me to recite the list or would you rather I focus on yours?”
“If the laces are now untangled, then simply draw them tight, one section at a time is easiest,” I tell him and grasp the bedpost with both hands. I feel small tugs and then he pauses again. “You are not done?”
“If I tighten anymore it shall hurt you,” he whispers, his breath warm over my scalp. “Will it not?”
A sudden laugh rises up in me as I look back at him. His cheeks burn a ruddy shade of pink and he cannot meet my gaze. Not so many corsets in his past after all then. Perhaps only one or two.
“I am not so fragile, Peeta.” Now his eyes lift to mine and a small smile curves up one side of his mouth.
“Fragile is never a word that I would apply to describing you, madame.”
“Then get on with it and do not worry about me.”
“You will tell me if I am too rough?”
“Yes, I will tell you if you are too rough,” I say with as much exasperation as I can muster. It strikes me then as odd that I am so at ease with him seeing me in naught but my undergarments. Then again, we have spent the past more than a month since our wedding dancing around one another’s partial or full nudity, sharing a bedroom and then a bed, yet he has never once taken advantage. He grasps the laces and I suck in a breath as he pulls tight. “Tighter.”
He does as I instruct, forehead creased in concentration. It is rather endearing actually, his concern for me as he laces me up and then ties the laces in place. I release a satisfied breath when he is finished.
“Thank you, sir.” Only he does not move as I expect him to.
I turn and startle at how close he still stands to me, grasping the post now behind me as a strange dizziness sweeps over me. His body sways towards me and his eyes roam over my shoulders, over the swells of breast pushed up and held aloft with the force of feminine underclothes. I am suddenly aware of how intimate this moment truly is, perhaps even more so than the removal of my garments might be, although I feel as though I am about to discover the veracity in that sentiment.
My heart pounds in my breast. My nails dig into the wooden bedpost, and I wonder what move my husband shall make next. His eyes darken and fixate and then his hand lifts my braid from where it has sat, draped over my shoulder and down my chest. His fingers caress over the twisted strands. His scent surrounds me, a now familiar element of my life as my skin awakens to his proximity, eager for his touch.
Our breaths sound strange in the quiet air, only a random creak of the house or song of the birds outside the open window provide accompaniment. I feel the tight embrace of the stays in my corset with each deep breath I take yet I cannot seem to calm it at all.
Peeta’s eyes slowly drift up to my face and I feel more undressed as he looks into my eyes than if I were completely naked.
He drops my braid, his hand rising and passing my ear to rest on the bedpost behind me. It is not so romantic as a dance in moonlight, and yet it is far more intimate to me, the morning sun turning his hair to a golden halo, his eyes a dark blue, almost like the cool waters of the lake where I learned to swim.
And his lips, open and inviting, a pale pink that makes me think of a fancy cake I once ate in Capitol. The hostess had called it chiffon frosting. Would Peeta’s lips be as sweet, gentle, and soft as that frosting? I lift my chin and I close my eyes, anticipating the feel of lips on mine.
The sounds of childish laughter and Maysilee racing down the halls outside our door reach my ears, followed by Mary calling after her and then… a low growl.
I open my eyes in time to watch Peeta slip away from me, using the bedpost to shove himself back. Cool air replaces what was warm beyond measure a moment ago. I stagger forward, following him with not enough speed to catch his retreat. There are five silent steps away from me before he halts and clenches his jaw.
“Forgive me, madame,” he says. “If you no longer require my assistance, I shall leave you in peace.”
“No more assistance needed. I can manage the rest well enough,” I say in a hoarse voice, and he bows then leaves me alone with my thoughts even more muddled than before.
A shuddering breath escapes me as realisation douses me in a chill. Here I have been operating on the assumption that Peeta wished to court me first, has refrained from touching me, out of some sense of nobility or chivalry, but in this moment, I wonder if perhaps as he has come to know me, now that he has seen my scars uncovered in full daylight, he has simply discovered that he can feel no desire for me. Perhaps I was the only one wishing for a kiss just now.
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“It seems so strange, to be out of mourning finally. I did not mourn the earl in my heart at all.”
“Hm,” I hum in agreement and scowl at the letter in my hands from one Mr. Gale Hawthorne. His concerns about my father and any potential marriage between his brother and my sister are the least of my worries right now. I toss his letter aside to deal with later.
“Even in his passing he controlled everything from who I might visit to where I might be seen wearing which colours. I feel so…so free and so silly all at the same time. It’s like I am sixteen all over again, whispering with my dear friend about sweethearts and first kisses.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Although now we’re grown and we both know that kisses can sting and love is not so easy and – listen to me, I am turning morose.”
“Hm.”
I focus now on a letter from my father’s solicitor in town. His concerns regarding the sale of our harvest are far more prescient to me right now, as the late summer harvest will begin in a matter of weeks, and then the fall crops just two months after that.
“Katniss? The pink or the yellow?”
“What?” I ask, lifting my head and scowling at Madge as she holds up one dress then the other.
“For my first day officially free of mourning.”
“Does it really matter, Madge? You shall be stunningly gorgeous in either.” I snap and Madge gasps.
“Oh. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
Only, I have disturbed her. It is her room that we are currently in, after all. I escaped here after an earlier than usual morning ride – without Peeta – left me feeling oddly queasy. He has been avoiding me, my husband.
During the day, he works harder than ever, throwing himself into every task I ask of him and more. From caring for my father, to the kitchens, to the fields, he is constantly busy. So much so that by the time he collapses into his chair at night for a drink with me, he inevitably falls asleep there. On nights when I attempt to wake him to encourage him to move to the bed, he claims he has already removed his false leg and it is therefore easier to remain where he is. I think it an excuse to sleep in the chair again rather than next to me.
Strangely, though, little has changed in the way that he treats me during the day. He is still kind, solicitous, hard-working, and thoughtful. Anyone watching would deem us an excellent partnership. There is, however, one notable difference.
Ever since our shared encounter with my corset laces, Peeta has avoided almost all physical contact with me. It would be quite comical if it did not hurt me so. Whereas before, I did not believe he found me hideous because he showed no reluctance to touch me, now I question that judgement. He flinches back from me and avoids contact as much as possible. His behavior in every other regard, however, remains unchanged.
These new developments with Peeta aggravate and confuse me. Once again, I find myself sleeping wretchedly and glaring across the room at his snoring form.
When I do sleep, my dreams are a tangled mess. Last night, after hearing a most detailed discussion in the scullery yesterday, I dreamt of an unspeakable carnal pleasure and the act the maids had described, only when I moved my skirts to gaze upon the face of my lover, I uncovered the man in the mask. I have barely given him a thought in the past few weeks and so his presence in my dreams, in such an intimate manner, confuses and disturbs me, enough so that today I rode alone, needing the time and space to clear my head and examine what is happening in my marriage. Perhaps if I could get my husband to kiss me, I would not be dreaming of a stranger who made me feel so desired and beautiful.
No, not a stranger, and that is the worst part of it. I could very well be having impure thoughts of his beloved brother. Shame does not even begin to describe how I feel at the possibility and yet I have no control over my dreams. The rub of it is…even in my dreams, I felt disappointment when I saw who it was. That disappointment revealed to me something I have been loathe to admit, given his recent change in affections for me.
I want Peeta to be the one to touch me so, to make me feel those things in our bed. Somewhere along this twisted road of our marriage, I have come to desire him for who he is and continues to be — warm, kind, thoughtful, generous, and brave. He has been a steady presence and a source of both hope and laughter, even in the face of darkness and adversity. Haymitch told me that I could do much worse where husbands are concerned, but I am not sure that I could have done much better.
And I fear that he now regrets marrying me, for surely he could have done much better where wives are concerned.
“I know you are quite busy with business,” Madge says, interrupting my musings.
“No, Madge,” I say and groan in frustration at myself. “It is not the damn farm business that has me so unsettled.”
“Then what is it?” she sets aside her dresses and moves to sit at my knee, her dressing gown a soft circle around her, a reminder of just how early I was out riding to escape Peeta’s frustrating presence.
“It is this being married business!”
“Tell me. Perhaps I can help,” she urges.
I spill the entire, humiliating story, even my dreams. As the words leave me, so too does some of the weight on my shoulders, the feelings of failure as a woman and a wife, the feelings of inadequacy and ugliness. A laugh escapes her lips when I am finished and then she shakes her head. “You mean he still has not touched you intimately…”
“Not so much as a bloody kiss. Which only confirms my suspicions that he could not be the man in the mask. That man had no troubles kissing the very breath from me and half removing my dress in the gardens.”
Another laugh escapes and Madge shakes her head at me again. “No, I think it supports his claim. He is already familiar with the effects of kissing you and wishes to avoid being swept away, given the promises he made you on your wedding night and again in promising to court you first. The poor man must be at his wits end trying to keep from touching you.”
I snort yet again as Madge rises and squeezes onto the settee next to me. I am overcome with fondness for my friend and realise how important today must be for her. She need pretend no longer.
“You will be lovely in whatever you wear. Pink has always made your hair appear lustrous, though. Almost like a halo. Would that I had your looks. Perhaps then I might not have such troubles convincing my husband to consummate our marriage.”
“Oh Katniss,” she says and shakes her head with a soft smile. “I think if you were truly trying to convince him to do so, you would have already succeeded.”
“You think him so weak willed?”
“No, I think him deeply enamored with you.”
“Preposterous.”
“Think of it, Katniss. He won’t touch you unless you desire him. He wishes the feelings to be mutual and is willing to wait. He has ceded control of your intimacy to you. In a way it is…well it is far more respect than the earl ever showed me.”
“So he respects me but does not desire me.”
“You are a fool if you think that. The man’s eyes are drawn to you at every possible moment. In truth, I have been jealous of you this past week. Enough time has passed since your father’s amputation that you should both be rested and yet you are not. I thought it due to all the vigour of your night time activities.”
“Margaret!” I shout and then sober as I think of that morning when he helped me with my corset. As soon as I begin describing it to Madge, her cheeks turn pink and her eyes brighten.
“See?” she breathes out. “He could barely restrain himself. And now, he is no doubt avoiding you in a desperate attempt to avoid temptation. All you need give him is a little nudge.”
“Do you think he might respond well if I wore nothing but a mask to bed one night?” I ask and we fall to laughing together.
Despite our mirth as I help her dress in her new pink morning gown – not mourning gown – a twisted knot of melancholy has taken residence in my heart. It is fine to discuss longing looks and the idea of love, quite another to bask in the glow of its certainty and reality.
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To be continued…look for chapter fourteen on the blog of @everlarkficexchange
Hiii, is there any news on M? I'm still waiting for an update on Unmasked :(( hopefully everything is alright with M and I'm really hoping s/he sees this
Hi there, dear Anon!
Things sure have been quiet around here lately, but that won’t be the case for much longer —I hope. 😉
I recently heard back from our lovely M, and I’m happy to report that they’re doing just fine. They’ve just been a bit busy lately but, rest assured, they haven’t forgotten about us or about Unmasked.
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Hi, I was hoping for a reread on Unmasked but for some reason couldn't see chapters ten to fifteen, I also tried searching but nothing appears, could you maybe link me to them?
Hi there!
Well, that’s odd, I just scrolled down and found all of them, but I know Tumblr can be tricky sometimes, so...
Here are the links to the chapters you mentioned: 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15
Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.
My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @katnissdoesnotfollowback and everyone else who has offered up their inbox for submissions. Please enjoy the seventeenth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,
~ M ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~ Chapter 17 ~~
I stretch like a cat, smug and satisfied. The feel of the sheets on my naked skin an arousing reminder of what transpired between them last night. Twice, in addition to the time in the stables. The delicious ache in my thighs and between my legs, really everywhere from my waist down to the soles of my feet, serves as further proof. My lips curl in a smile as my spine curls in waking.
A fresh morning breeze drifts in through the open window, and I sigh happily, turning to slide my hand over the bed linens. I find empty space, although warmth still clings to the sheets. Peeta sits on the edge of the bed with his back to me, already partially dressed. I stretch further and pinch his rear.
Peeta jumps and I stifle a giggle as he turns to face me. A smile lights his features and he leans over, brushing back my wild hair before planting a kiss on my lips.
“Are you leaving me abed, husband?”
“I thought you might want to rest, after last night…” After he loved me so thoroughly that I can still feel him inside me now, the memory visceral and delightful.
“How many times must I tell you that I am not so fragile,” I murmur and grasp his shirt to keep him close.
“You proved yourself quite hardy last night, madame. Perhaps it is I who needs the rest then,” he teases, snatching up my hand and pressing it to his lips. The deep timber of his voice ripples through me, quite sensual and heavy with an awed sort of appreciation. His words are no complaint.
I blush furiously as I recall the vigour of our second…no, our third coupling last night. Now that I know the carnal secrets of the marriage bed, I am discovering just how much of a strumpet I apparently am, at least where Peeta is concerned. Even now, my body awakens to the look in his eyes and the brush of his lips on my skin, the very memory of our entwined bodies and the feel of him filling me, stroking me inside and out until I burst into stars.
My blush unfurls, spreads down my body until it covers and warms me better than the blankets of our bed. I should perhaps feel embarrassed at my newly developed appetite, but I cannot summon the feeling.
“I have something for you,” he murmurs as he releases me. I sit up, holding the sheets to my breasts and eager as a child on Christmas as he hands me a leather bound book with a blank cover, twine wrapped around it, holding it closed. It is roughly the same size and weight as his sketchbook. “Perhaps… perhaps wait until I’ve gone to open it.”
I do not wish to. I wish to tear into it now, but I respect his wish as he stands and finishes dressing for the day. One last kiss that promises thousands of nights and mornings exactly like this one and then he departs. I hear him summoning Mary for me and quickly untie the twine before she can intrude.
The cover falls open in my hands to reveal dozens of blank pages, save for the second one, which is composed entirely of a drawing of me, hair wild and spread across a bed of hay and flowers, arms flung over and next to my head, my expression sultry, as I gaze up at the artist with such desire it steals my own breath away. He’s drawn my scars as faithfully and lovingly as he has my eyes or my breasts. The woman in the picture is free, unconventional and unhindered, and looking at her – at myself – so depicted makes me feel liberated and more than a little naughty. The drawing ends at my navel, the rest left to imagination with words in Peeta’s hand:
As promised…flowers and a drawing. Forever etched in my memory. Perfect as you are.
Yours always, ~P~
I bite my lip and shake my head at the foolish giddy happiness that seems to consume me in that moment, sitting naked in our marriage bed, aching from his love, his kiss still lingering on my lips, and his words penned over this image of me as a goddess. Stunning.
I turn back to the first page and read the note he left for me there.
One drawing for every day hence. Until death do us part. I would court you for months or for ever, would you allow it, my pearl.
I read through the note and admire the drawing of a pearl resting on the tongue of an open oyster shell that accompanies it for as long as I dare, then I tuck the sketchbook into the drawer of my bedside table, placing it there to hide beneath the book I have been reading, to hide these drawings from any helpful servants or prying sisters. These will not be drawings that I share but drawings for my eyes only.
Then I spring from the bed and don my shift, humming to myself as I brush my hair and Mary enters. It is going to be a glorious day, I can tell.
************************
Everdeen has awakened, fully green and bountiful. The late summer harvest is upon us and I am still humming to myself as I make my way towards the stables and the carriage house to see about the cart for Father. Mother intends to bring out several blankets and pillows to make the ride as comfortable for him as possible, and I hold a brief discussion with Charles about which horses to use to make the ride docile. As I walk towards the stables, Madge emerges.
I’ve barely had a chance to speak with her in the past few days, and certainly not in private. There’s so much to tell her, so much that has happened, and I wish to confide in my friend. I am bursting with the need to share. Only as I hurry to intercept her, she is moving faster than I. Much faster, and so absorbed in her thoughts is she that she does not even see me, continuing towards the house.
I hurry into the stables and find Joe tending to Cicero with a deep frown on his face.
“What did you do to upset the Countess?” I ask and Joe turns his glare to me.
“Her ladyship is fine. Nothing wrong with her except a touch of arrogance and not minding her own business.”
I bristle at the disparaging of my friend. “You are far too bold Mr. …” I trail off as it occurs to me that I am not certain of Joe’s surname.
“Mason,” Joe informs me. “And I’ve a mind think perhaps you have the same problem as her ladyship.”
“I’ve no idea what you are insinuating, but I will not tolerate insults.”
“Wasn’t meant as an insult. Just an observation, Kitten,” Joe says and I scowl at the pet name, preparing to lay into him. I do not care if he saved Peeta’s life. He should not be allowed to address me so familiar. “But since you can’t stay out of my business, I’ve got more for ya. it’s fortunate that Peeta seems to like ‘em feisty. Really likes ‘em feisty. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t like being celibate.”
Joe’s words and the way he winks at me catch me off guard. It slowly occurs to me that perhaps Joe is Peeta’s confidante here. He has no valet, spends no time at the tavern in Seam drinking with friends. He cannot even play chess with Haymitch nor has he had the chance to truly know my father. There are no male companions for Peeta here save for the stable man who fought in battles beside him and saved his life, helped him train his horse to be an extraordinary ally. My cheeks burn at the thought of Peeta spilling our intimate secrets to this lout and yet I cannot begrudge it to him, even as my humiliation threatens to burn straight through me and perhaps scorch a hole in the ground beneath my feet.
“I’ve no idea what you mean to imply by that, however —“
“There’s no implications, and you know what I’m referring to,” Joe sneers and rummages in a sack that hangs from a peg in Cicero’s stall and my breath hitches as he tosses first Peeta’s hat and then one of my gloves at me. I manage to catch both. My mouth turns dry as I recognize the articles.
“Not so arrogant now, are you?”
“Whatever Peeta told you—“
“Relax, Kitten. He shares plenty with me but he’s mum on the bedroom secrets, always kept that to himself, never gossiped or bragged in the taverns. A right gentleman, he is, even if he weren’t born one. If you knew him at all, you’d already know that.
“Listening isn’t gossiping though, and from what I’ve heard…what I can see right now,” Joe’s eyes sweep over me from head to foot and give me the oddest feeling that he knows what I look like undressed, “I’m thinking he listened well.”
I’ve no time to even consider what that means before Joe turns and points to a dark area amongst the rafters of the stables that I had quite forgotten about.
“That loft up there is a fine place to nap, although sometimes it is difficult with all the moaning and grunting of…horses. If you catch my meaning.” He leers at me then and I suck air in through my nose, dizzy and angry as the confirmation burns me further with shame.
“How much did you see?” I ask, terrified of the answer.
“Mrs. Mellark!” He feigns insult or scandal, a cheeky smile now wide on his face. “Tis rude to watch such personal intimacies, even if you were both too stupid to check the loft first. You’re lucky it was me and not one of the boys. They’re less given to keeping secrets.”
“Do not toy with me–”
“Ack!” He waves off my anger. “Don’t get your corset in a twist. I’ve no plans to share what I heard. I just want you to remember that I heard it. Every bit of it, so you know that I know how much you fancy him, and also how much you like having him toss up your skirts. No matter how hard you try to act better than the rest of us, you’re still the same when lust strikes.”
“To what purpose?” I seethe. “What good does it do to accuse me, to reveal that you are a lecherous voyeur?”
“So’s you don’t run off scared when things get a mite rough.” He examines his fingernails in a nonchalant manner. “That family of his is no picnic, Mrs. Mellark. And Peet, poor neglected soul that he is, harbors a strange loyalty to them. Just like so many of us do what was wronged or abandoned by our family. I am simply going to remind you what you stand to lose should you botch your visit to Vale. Though if anyone can get him to see sense where they’re concerned it might be you.” This last is said while he looks down at my skirts.
“Speak to my face when you address me,” I order and Joe laughs in my face.
“But why? It isn’t your face that’d be convincing him to let them go. Do you know what would be convincing him?”
“Mr. Mason, I suggest–”
“I suggest you learn a name for it and how to use it besides just offering it up for him to use. In most manly circles, she’s called a cunt, but she’s got plenty of other pet names. Would you care to hear some?”
“You are a disgusting rogue and a–”
“And you may thank me for his knowing what to do with one.” Joe taps the top of Peeta’s hat in my hands and then curtsies to me. “Learn how to reciprocate. Fast. I’d gladly give you lessons if you need ‘em. You know where to find me. Have a lovely ride, Mrs. Mellark.”
I stand there clutching Peeta’s hat and fuming, heart thundering and body sweating indelicately under my arms as Joe leaves the stables. Then I march to the stall with the fresh cut hay and stare at it. Nothing appears amiss, no one would know from looking at it what happened here yesterday. Even the left behind articles of clothing are not solid proof. We could have easily discarded them as we saw to our mounts and lost track of them. Then I turn and climb the ladder hidden in shadows up to the loft. I move about in the darkness, only marginally relieved when I am unable from any angle to see the stall where Peeta and I made love yesterday.
I can, however, clearly see the post where Peeta had me pinned as we kissed wildly with my skirts hiked up to my hips. Where we were when I begged him to not stop.
I am still caught in the storm of confusion when I hear Peeta’s uneven gait as he enters the stables. “Katniss? Are you here?”
“Yes,” I call out and Peeta’s feet scrape on the floor as he searches for me. I heft a sigh and descend the ladder to meet him. His eyes widen as he sees from whence I came.
“Twould appear we may have had an audience yesterday,” I admit to him.
“Who?” I tell him, and his brow furrows. “I will speak to him.”
“And say what exactly? Forbid him to gossip? That will only provoke him to reveal all, perhaps even exaggerate.” I mull over some of what Joe said to me and as I do, it occurs to me that perhaps Joe means more to protect Peeta than to do us harm. He did say his interest was in making sure I did not quit our marriage if things became difficult with Peeta’s family. His disgusting suggestions for lessons implied more that he was concerned with my abilities to please Peeta in the marriage bed than anything else. I shake my head as this does not seem to fit either. My own embarrassment and desire to keep my intimate life private may be affecting my perceptions. The more I think on the man’s words, the more of a conundrum they present.
“There is no preventing the gossip, Katniss. Your father found hay in your hair, declared it in front of several witnesses. The entire house would have guessed by now what we did here yesterday.” My cheeks and pride burn with this reminder and I swipe at tears. Peeta takes my hand in his then and I twine our fingers together. “But as you said…it is expected between a husband and wife. Most will attribute our indiscretion to us being recently married. As for Joe, I can persuade him to cease tormenting you about it. He is accustomed to speaking his mind to me, and I suppose he now assumes that extends to you. I will correct that misunderstanding today.”
“No,” I say surprising even myself. There are my earlier thoughts regarding Joe as Peeta’s only friend beyond myself here, and I cannot deny Peeta confidence in a friend, no matter how questionable I find the man.
And then I dismiss Joe’s taunts. Peeta is quite right. Father guessed at what transpired between Peeta and I here yesterday based on a few bits of hay in my hair. There were at least a half dozen witnesses to that. With the speed of gossip in a country estate, it stands to reason that Joe was nowhere near the stables yesterday. He very well may have seen nothing nor heard a thing. Not a word he said serves as definitive proof that Peeta and I had an audience yesterday.
I smile at him, pulling my shoulders back as I stand to my full height, although it is not so imposing. With that small change in my demeanor, everything changes. I extend my hand with his hat in it.
“There is no need for that. I can handle his words. And…I believe this is yours, husband.” His eyes sweep over me, examining me in my resolve and he smiles right back.
“I suppose it is. I’ve been searching for that.” His words speak of hats yet his eyes speak of something decidedly less mundane.
My body responds, quick as lightning and every bit as scorched. Yes! It seems to thunder. Yes, we belong to one another now. Search for me, find me, and let us prove it again.
He takes the hat and brushes dust from it while my stays seem to have cinched unbearably tight around my ribs. I need to remove them. No, Peeta needs to remove them. Now. Yes, now.
Peeta’s eyes meet mine then and he leans over to whisper in my ear. “You are blushing and your breathing is quite laboured, wife. Do your thoughts wander to places that might shock or perhaps titillate?”
I lean towards him as he kisses beneath my ear. A quick flick of his tongue on my sensitive skin makes me gasp and sweat between my thighs.
“I have an insatiable craving to taste you again, my pearl. Tonight, in our bed, I plan to feast between your legs until you are submerged in pleasure and beg me to stop, unable to handle another second.”
I grasp hold of his coat, his words weakening my knees, turning my faint blush into an inferno of need. Perhaps I should take exception to his words. Surely this is no way to speak to a lady, but the thrill they cause, the flood of desire that rushes through me and pulls my body closer to his, is too delicious and impossible to resist. I never much cared for being seen as a lady beyond the societal protection it afforded me and my sister anyways, but who would judge me improper when there are no witnesses?
If it weren’t for the voices outside the stable that signal my father’s approach, I would drag Peeta into the loft, toss up my own skirts, and demand he make good on his promise this instant instead of waiting.
Oh dear. How am I ever going to accomplish anything now?
I somehow manage to tear myself away from him and move towards the stable entrance, but I dislike the idea of leaving the field of banter with him as the victor. I pause in the sunshine and turn to face him, lifting my head high and smiling. “Or perhaps, husband, it is I who shall have you begging for reprieve tonight.”
I hear him curse and then leave him to mount Cicero as I join my father.
*************************
The cart is not the most comfortable ride, but it is the only one of our conveyances that can magane to traverse some of the more rugged roads and trails across the farm. I drive, Peeta rides Cicero beside, and Father keeps up a steady stream of conversation and questions that Peeta and I take turns answering. More than once, I catch my father watching me closely.
When we reach the southeast hill where several workers already make preparations for the harvest, surveying the crops and determining work rotations, Father makes a request that presents a small problem.
“I wish to speak to them,” he waves towards the workers. They are too far afield to hear a shout, and also for Father to reach them on foot. The cart and horses would cause too much damage to the crops. Peeta’s gaze swings between us twice and then directs Cicero down one of the rows, the waving blades of our vetiver crop brushing his knees as he rides towards them.
“Have I a blemish on my face, father?” I ask when Peeta is out of earshot.
“Not at all. In fact, if pressed to describe your demeanor today, I would call you radiant.” I turn towards him and take in the strange glow in his eyes. “Love becomes you, my daughter.”
“I do not–” I stop the words and nearly choke on them as Father inclines his head to gaze at me beneath my bonnet.
“Perhaps not yet. But Firecracker…he does.” I shake my head in denial and change the conversation.
“It will be time to harvest the eastern fields as well soon. I was thinking perhaps of planting winter crops in the fields we left fallow this summer. They should be recovered. Most of them have already gone to weeds.”
“You can avoid discussing it now, Katniss, but eventually it will be said and you will have to face what it means.”
“You’ve known him less than a day. How could you possibly believe that Peeta loves me?” Even as I say those three words, Peeta loves me, my chest and my entire being lightens, as though I might float right up to the sky. I tighten my grip on the reins to prevent that from happening. I acknowledged a willingness to bear children with him last night but it does not follow that I love him.
“I lost an arm, not an eye,” Father says. “Tell me, can you imagine this farm without him?”
I remain silent, eyes fixed on my husband’s back as he speaks to the workers. One of them laughs and the group begins to move towards us. No I cannot. I already admitted that to myself as well.
“It will not matter,” I remind my father and he grunts in displeasure.
“I mean to take care of that. I am still formulating plans and would like to test the waters first before setting anything in motion. I would have you compose a letter to Mr. Hawthorne today. As long as it bears my signature, I believe that should be sufficient to convince him of my improved health.”
“One can only hope so,” I say as Cicero walks backwards down the row, Peeta turned in the saddle to see where his horse steps and to guide him.
“Magnificent animal. I should like to speak with your husband and his stable man as well about training Jax with a few new tricks.”
“Mother will be quite angry with me if we overfill your day,” I remind him and he chuckles.
“She worries after me too much.”
“Only because she loves you.”
Cicero’s hoof finds a rut in the soil then and he loses his footing. I gasp and stand in the cart as Peeta gives some sort of command through the reins. Cicero recovers and a moment later, I drop into my seat, hands shaking a ridiculous amount.
“Who worries now?” my father mutters as Peeta and the workers finally reach us.
“I was concerned he might trample the crops. We’ve precious little of the vetiver and it is in high demand already,” I say and glower at my father for his suggestion. He is trying not to smile, I can tell. It may be several months since we have spoken like this and yet I can still read his expressions.
I am unable to follow the conversation with the workers, too lost in a fog and an exaggerated fear over Peeta’s horse nearly stumbling. But that does not mean that I love him.
************************
It is near tea time when I am finally able to carve out time alone with Madge, and then only because Mother insists that Father rest before tea. He is eager to return to his former life, and while I can quite understand that, I feel as though I have not ceased moving since waking. He must be tired and so I am grateful for Mother’s insistence.
I freshen up, change my dress, and scurry down the hall to Madge’s room, knocking lightly and then slipping inside when she calls “Enter.”
“Finally!” I sigh. “Have you a moment to talk?”
“Of course,” she says. I shut the door and she smiles at me as I throw myself onto her bed. “You will wrinkle your tea dress!”
“Oh who cares,” I mutter and kick off my slippers. “I am married. There is no one left to impress with my dress. Peeta knows what I am.”
“A mess?” Madge asks with a chuckle. “You’ve a dirt smudge on your neck.”
I tilt my head so that she can assist in scrubbing it off. Her brow furrows and she scrubs more harshly. I wince.
“Oh.” Her eyes suddenly widen as she withdraws her hand. You may want to consider a dress with a higher neckline.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Not dirt,” she murmurs and lifts one eyebrow at me. “So is this glow that you are wearing about today due to your father’s revival or something more…scintillating?”
I wish I could say that I hold my secrets, but I do not. I blush at the word scintillating and decide it is perfect. Then I make a ridiculously girly sound and shake my head, the words bursting out of me as I tell her about our ride to the lake, the way he held me as I wept. I tell her of our time in the stables…and last night…and the second time last night. I tell her about the drawings and Joe’s claim to have witnessed our love making. She scowls for a moment until I explain that I am convinced Joe is lying about that. Our heads bend together as we lay sprawled on her bed, sharing our secrets and our joys. I tell her about Father believing Peeta to be in love with me and how I am as yet uncertain how I feel.
“I care for him. A great deal, and I do not wish to see harm befall him….I cannot imagine Everdeen without him and when I try… He is precious to me,” I finally settle on that and Madge smiles beautifically.
“I am happy for you, Katniss. Truly happy. Oh you’ve no idea the weight this relieves, knowing for certain I did not fail you completely in Capitol,” she says.
“Not in the least,” I sigh and then sit up as a thought occurs to me, along the lines of my discussion with Peeta last night. “What if I am already with child?”
“Well it is a possibility,” Madge says, sitting up with me and covering my hand with hers. “Would that please you?”
“It would,” I whisper, once more imagining the parcel of children as I did last night. The effect of my imaginings is still the same.
“Being a mother changes everything in your life.”
“Being married has changed everything in my life,” I say with a wry laugh. “Why not add another upheaval to the equation? Now I wish that it were true. Would you help me, Madge? When the time comes?”
“Of course I would,” she promises. “You will have your mother, Prim, and me, all here to help you. You likely will not know for a month or more, even then it is risky to claim to be with child. I would wait at least two or three to be certain.”
I sigh again and lean my shoulder against Madge’s. “Would you have another if you could?”
“I would,” Madge says with a soft smile that quickly turns dark. “But I do not believe that is in my future. I would need a father for my child first.”
I open my mouth to comfort her, to insist that she could now take advantage of her freedom to find love, to find a marriage like mine if she so wished it. There would be dozens of suitors clamoring for her, I’ve no doubt of it. Before I can reassure her, the darkness passes and she smiles at me.
“No matter. I shall give almost all of my love to Maysilee and be quite content with my lot.”
“Almost all of your love?”
“Well I shall need to save something for my adorable godchildren, as there are certain to be many if last night is any indication. I am thinking at least four. Two boys, two girls would be nice, don’t you think Katniss?” I laugh and we spend the remainder of our time sharing confidences until it is time to go downstairs to tea.
“Oh that reminds me,” Madge says with a rueful look. “Does your mother still prescribe that herbal tea? The one to lessen the pain of your monthlies?”
“Oh Madge. You should have said something. She does and we shall be sure to order some from the kitchen after tea…unless you need it now?”
“Oh no, not now. I would hate to have to explain my different tea to your husband. How awkward.” I chuckle at this and we loop our arms together as we leave her room.
************************
One glorious day leads into another. Then into weeks. The bright blue sky and the warm sun watch as we harvest our late summer crops. Father slowly regains his strength and dexterity with only one hand. We spend several hours across a week in the woods as he learns to rest the barrel of a rifle on his truncated arm, hold the weapon slightly differently. His aim will need some improvement, but already we see some success.
We strike a regular correspondence between Father and Mr. Gale Hawthorne, who insists he will be available in spring to visit and discuss alternate terms for succession of the lands. Haymitch writes to Father as well as to me, his letters full of sarcasm and observations of society, a few noted jabs at my former fiance. Most important and perhaps most disappointing are his sentences or two at that end, indicating that he has made little progress in finding Nancy Thackeray. His words describe a woman who moved often from one locale to another after leaving Peeta in the care of the Mellark family, one employer to the next, constantly on the move, altering her name. The only thing tying all of the leads together is that Nancy apparently had red hair, a detail that is difficult to forget or to ignore. I urge Haymitch to continue looking, unprepared to give up the search just yet.
There are moments that try the patience as Father recuperates, but either Mother or Peeta and sometimes Prim are usually able to smooth any ruffled feathers. One night, as Father bemoans the expenses of perhaps hiring another servant to assist him, and the modifications to the menus and the house to accommodate him along with their expenses, Peeta somehow finds the perfect thing to say.
“We may be adding accommodations to the bathing room, but that is a one time expense,” my mother reminds my father. He continues to complain and it is Peeta who, without looking up from his chess pieces manages to deliver.
“Think of the coin you will save on your tailor bills now that you need only one full sleeve and one glove. Less fabric and thread, fewer buttons…over several years that will add up to an appreciable amount. That should cover the bathing accommodations.”
For a moment after he says this, we are all quiet, waiting for an outburst. Instead my father laughs and claps Peeta on the shoulder with his good hand.
“Tis a shame you could not do the same with your trousers and boots,” my father offers and Peeta smiles, glances at me, I think perhaps to ensure my approval.
That night, I wait beneath the covers of our bed as Peeta prepares for sleep. My breathing ragged and my nails digging furrowed rows into my palms. The night is overly warm and he opens the window to allow the fragrant scents of the orchard and the breeze to relieve our room of some of the heat. The scents and tickle of breeze only heighten the sensations as I urge him to lay down and relax.
He hands me the reins and returns my kisses fervently. When my lips wander down his body, his hands caress over my shoulders and arms, my hair as he then holds it out of my way and murmurs to me. His voice grows more urgent as he realises my intent, his words insisting that there is no need, but I am determined.
When he sees that I shall not be deterred, his hands guide and his words encourage. Until he can no longer speak save for gasping moans. His face contorts with ecstasy as his hands cradle my head, his fingers gentle. Until his release is upon him and he tears me from him, practically tossing me aside. I know a moment of annoyance as he grasps himself, but his eyes remain fixed on me as I watch him caught in pleasure.
After it passes, I sweep my gaze over him, his flushed body painted with his own release, his chest heaving, one hand gripping my thigh and one holding himself. I smile then and tuck my knees to my chest.
“So would you say I am a quick study?” I say and he laughs. Then he grasps my ankle and I scream as he pulls me towards him. Towards his mouth and the pleasure that awaits me.
Slowly, we grow into a family, all of us. The kiss of summer fades and turns to the nip of autumn. My father returns to his normal self as much as possible. It helps when I tell him of our project with the plant book and Peeta shows him several of the pages. A wealth of knowledge pours from my father’s mind after that, expanding the book to almost double its thickness in the space of a few weeks. My mother is finally able to focus enough to add her wealth of knowledge as well, and it truly becomes a family project.
It is not long before Father begins to treat Peeta as a valued member of our family, respecting his thoughts and seeking his counsel, at first about the loss of limb but gradually about other subjects as well. I soon find that where Father would request counsel with me, he now asks for Peeta’s presence as well. Strangely enough, I do not feel neglected nor ignored by Father. His inclusion of Peeta does not cause an exclusion of myself.
My mother, Prim, Madge, and many of the women of Everdeen with a talent for embroidery have been hard at work creating decorative pouches for several of the sachets and restorative creams we will sell to our more wealthy patrons. Maysilee blossoms and begins to learn to seat her own pony under the direction of a surprising tutor… Joe. Madge and Peeta can both usually be found observing the lessons, keeping careful watch.
Peeta and I take longer rides together, enjoying the cool crisp air. On one particularly memorable day, when the trees bear their bright autumn foliage yet the weather has turned warm for a day, we linger at the lake. When we return, Joe eyes the dirt stains on my skirt, my unkempt hair and my hat that I no longer wear but carry in my hand. I blush under his scrutiny but lift my chin in defiance. There is no shame in desiring my husband. In fact I would count us as fortunate and Joe as perhaps jealous. At the least, he should be satisfied that Peeta is satisfied, if his claims that day in the stable are true.
At night, well perhaps night has become my favourite time of day, when Peeta and I at last have reliable time to ourselves, just the two of us with no one intruding or expecting us soon. We exchange the chairs in the small sitting area of our rooms with a more intimate sofa. Many of the night hours are spent with Peeta drawing, my head in his lap as I recline on the sofa and read. Others find us seated close together, my legs and skirts draped over his as we talk of so many things.
Now that he sleeps beside me nightly rather than in a chair, his slumber is much deeper and more restful, although I wonder if our vigorous night time activities, as Madge once referred to them, has helped with that as well.
Perhaps the best part of this development in our relationship is how it has opened an entirely new aspect of our daytime interactions. No more flinching and avoiding one another. Our intimacy now layered, I find it easier to read his moods and detect small indicators that reveal his thoughts and feelings to me. I do not claim the ability to read his mind, but rather I feel that we now know one another in a way that is both real and profound. And Peeta is now able to do the same, as it often seems that he anticipates my desires or knows precisely what I need.
It helps that he has ceased neglecting his own needs as well. There are very few days now when he limps to bed thanks to the new sleeves and padding I have fashioned for him as well as my insistence on caring for every sore and blister at the end of each day, the application of a healing herbal powder to reduce chafing every morning before he attaches his leg.
Since he no longer seems given to midnight roaming, Peeta has taken to baking in the mornings, rising before me to do so and charming the kitchen staff into adoration of him while he is at it.
There are nights, however, when the horrors of our pasts rise up to threaten us. But we manage the darkness together, wrapped in one another’s arms. I listen as he recounts scenes that make my fingers tremble while I trail them through his hair, but I come to understand the bitter darkness of those old drawings in his sketchbook. I wake from my own nightmares every so often, crying and calling out for my sister to escape the flames. Or for my father to get up from his fall off his horse. But Peeta’s arms are there to comfort me, his lips to remind me that Prim and my father are both safe. On the worst nights, he will walk with me to assure myself of Prim’s safety at least. Others, his embrace and soothing words are comfort enough. And still others I need a different kind of comfort, a different kind of fire, and Peeta is always gentle and loving with me on those nights.
Still other nights — oh God in heaven so many nights hold such joy and pleasure I can barely describe. We learn each other until even in this act of love and marriage, we seem to move as one, to anticipate the needs and desires of one another as we find release, completion, satisfaction that permeates to the bones and deeper to the soul in one another’s arms. Rapture is too ordinary a word for what we share in the deep recesses of our bed.
And in the mornings…in the mornings there will be a new drawing for me in the sketchbook that resides in my bedside table. Some are romantic, some are depictions of me in ordinary moments. Others are landscape studies of Everdeen, still lifes of flowers in the garden, the meadows…fruits hanging heavy in the orchards. Others are funny drawings of our family with observations of the idiosyncrasies of human life. All of them carry a short note and all of them are precious to me.
Peeta has become not simply my ally and partner, my husband, but my dear friend and my lover.
Harvest draws to a close, although the work is nowhere near done. Herbs and flowers and grains are processed, dried, or prepared for sale. Peeta visits me in the drying shed one afternoon as I examine hanging blades of vetiver. We risk discovery, and yet that does not stop me from seeking the pleasure I crave in his arms, my legs wrapped about his waist, booted feet planted on the wall behind him in the small space as he holds me aloft and brings me to sweet release.
After our encounter that day, I ensure he always has a bar of soap and a cream for his face after shaving that are both scented with vetiver. It is not native to our land, but grows quite well in small patches where the soil is overly moist for some of our other crops. I almost refuse to sell it after that day, despite the high demand for it, wanting to reserve the scent for Peeta alone. As it is, my body perks awake every time I catch the scent of it on Peeta’s skin.
In the evenings, we engage in pleasant activities as a family — my parents, my sister, my dear friend the former countess, my husband and I. On nights such as this one, when we all wish a little quiet, my father and Peeta sometimes play chess together, these two men whom I love so dearly.
— Love? I peer over the top edge of my book to watch their game. Haymitch observes as well, having already claimed the victor of this match as an opponent in the next match. Today saw the first bitter wind signifying autumn’s shift to winter. Tomorrow shall begin the Harvest Festival. Haymitch and Effie have come to visit, and as all preparations for the festival are done, we are now enjoying a quiet evening with a cheering fire in the grate. Prim writes to Mr. Rory Hawthorne. Mother and Effie make plans for Prim’s season that we have all decided on. Madge works on some embroidery. And I… I am apparently having an epiphany.
Love. Could such a thing be possible, I wonder as I watch Peeta speak a few words that make my father laugh. He smiles and my pulse flutters in my breast. It is not the first time the four lettered word has loomed large in my mind, uttered by others and now echoing in my head and my heart. A soothing calm washes over me as I watch the scene across the room. It blooms out to the edges of my mind and wraps my heart in its warm folds as Peeta’s gaze meets mine.
He smiles at me and returns his attentions to the game in front of him. Later tonight, we will be curled together in our bed for warmth, for comfort, sharing mundane details and soft whispers as we drift into sleep. There is no sweeping romance or fairy tale, only an ordinary life before us. Years upon years of days like this one. Family, hearth, home, harvest and planting.
And I would not wish it differently.
Yes, love. I can now recognize it for what it is, the gentle need to protect and see to the happiness of someone other than myself. The desire to have him near. He has become my friend, although I do not love him precisely as I love Madge. There is the complication of what occurs in our bed at night, a physical sort of connection between Peeta and I that I feel even now as he lifts his gaze to meet mine once more. My mind stumbles through attempting to sort and understand, yet I’ve no luck in the matter.
I’ve no luck even later that night as I cling to him for something solid as the world seems to shift unendingly around us, his body moving over mine and our limbs embracing as he murmurs soft words to me. I cry out with my release, burying my face in the side of his neck to stifle the sound and the myriad of feelings that all demand my attention, my words. I am grateful for the darkness as a few stray tears leak from my eyes and Peeta continues to thrust, claiming his own release with a quiet gasp of my name.
Then it happens. The thing I have been warned of. The thing that I cannot ignore. He holds me afterwards, fingers caressing delicately over me and his lips gentle on my brow as I drift down into slumber.
“I love you, Katniss.”
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It is still mostly dark when I wake and the sheets beside me still carry a small amount of lingering warmth. Peeta cannot have been up for long. I sit up and stretch, pulling blankets closer around me as I reach across the bed to the sketchbook on his pillow.
His words last night felt more like a dream than the truth. Perhaps I dreamt them up, and I open the sketchbook hoping for answers. As I find today’s drawing, I smile, nearly laugh. Today it is one of the silly drawings.
The words What if… Penciled across the top and then a picture of Peeta laying in mud, filthy and looking quite put upon. I am drawn sitting on his back as though he were a sofa, my dress mudstained and my hat drooping with rain. Clearly I am chastising him as Cicero and Sagittaria both look on in disgust at their riders’ folly. …I had dismounted written across the bottom corner.
I hold the book to my chest for a moment, as though by holding it to my heart I might absorb the love and care the artist himself has bestowed upon these drawings. It is a fanciful thought and yet I wallow in it, a sudden melancholy seeping through me that I cannot account for as I return the book to its drawer. Some women hold letters from their lovers precious. I hold these drawings from mine dear to my heart.
It is as I am dressing that I finally acknowledge the source of my melancholy. I had hoped he would wake me with his lips this morning, rousing more than just my mind, so that we might enjoy a few stolen moments in our bed before beginning the day. He has sometimes done this several times in the past few months, as have I. In truth, our morning love has been some of the more consuming times together, if only because their hurried nature almost necessitates a frantic sort of passion. It seems a fitting thing to do the morning after he had declared his love for me, if he did at all, and perhaps that is my answer. A man who declared his love in the night would not run from the bed and leave a silly drawing for his love, now would he? Had he truly made such a declaration, he would have been here this morning, eager to prove the depths of his devotion or to hear me return the sentiment.
But what would I know. Before Peeta, I had never been in love before.
— and there it is again. As I enter the breakfast room and Maysilee leaps up from Peeta’s knee to greet me, and Peeta’s brilliant smile sends a shock of heat down to my toes, I am embraced with realisation.
Of course I love him. How could I not?
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To be continued … Look for chapter 18 on the blog of @alliswell21.
Just wanted to stop by and leave a message for M, I hope you are doing great, more than great actually, and whenever you are ready to come back we'll be here patiently waiting for you!
Thank you, @ginarbk
I’m sure M will be very happy to know we’re still thinking about them and their wonderful story.
