Chapter Text
Serena knelt on the ground, trowel in hand, pulling out the weeds that were trying to grow around her herbs. It was hot in the early summer sun, and she resolutely ignored the trickle of sweat that was making its way down the back of her neck. She’d been busy in her garden for a couple of hours now, content in the knowledge that Elinor and Jason were at their lessons and the household was, for the moment, in order. She paused for a moment to gaze fondly up at the large manor house that sat beyond the walled herb garden, grey stone soft in the sunlight. For all Edward’s faults he had brought her two pleasures; her daughter and this beautiful old manor house.
Edward was gone now, for the moment at least. The year was 1644, the tenth year of their marriage and the second of the civil war that was tearing the country apart. Edward had finally declared for parliament in January, taken all the men who could be spared from the village and manor and ridden off to join the army. Not that it was a surprise; Edward was a puritan through and through, with huge disdain for the riotous life that King Charles lived and the debauched, excessive nature of his Cavalier army. Life in Cromwell’s army would suit him. Serena had expressed the expected platitudes as he left, waved goodbye like a dutiful wife, and then shut herself in her room and danced a merry jig for her temporary freedom. Aside from the current, unlamented, absence of her husband, the war had, so far, passed their little corner of countryside by.
She sat back on her heels and wiped her face. The herb garden, her pride and joy, was looking good. Between her gardener Arthur’s work and her own she would have plenty of herbs to make her remedies and enough left over to spare a good amount for the healing woman in the village. While Mistress Naylor was generally feared by the village population for her sharp tongue, she was, nevertheless, the woman they went to when they fell ill. Long years had built up a certain amount of respect between Serena and Jac, although, given their respective stations, Serena thought they would never consider themselves friends.
She was just considering making a start on the next bed when a howl came from the house. “Mother. Mother!”
With a sigh, Serena pushed herself to her feet, dusted down her neat grey skirts and settled her discarded cap back on her head. She looked the model of a puritan wife, although she often longed for the brighter colours and joy of her youth.
“Aunty Serena!” Another voice wailed now, and Serena hurried out of the garden, across the large courtyard, to her house.
She closed the door behind her, blinking in the sudden gloom.
“I’m sorry, my lady.” Her chief maid was hurrying down the stairs towards her. “Elinor would take Jason’s paints and you know how he dislikes it.”
“It’s alright, Morven,” Serena smiled gently at the younger woman, “I’ll come and see to them now.”
In the large chamber designated to Elinor and Jason’s schooling, she found Elinor sulking in the window seat, while Jason attempted to clear up the mess of paints on the table.
“Where is Master Levy?”
“He went home early, Aunty,” Jason replied. “He said he had some duties to see to.”
“I see. And you two decided to have a fight, did you?”
“Why can’t he just share?” Elinor ran from the window to the door. “Everything is wrong since he came. I hate him!” She charged through the door, nearly knocking over Morven, and sobbed noisily down the corridor to her room.
Morven and Serena exchanged looks. “I’ll see to her,” the maid said, resigned.
“Thank you.” Serena turned back to Jason. In some ways she understood her daughter’s outburst; until Jason had arrived the year before she had had the sole attention of both her parents and had undoubtedly been spoilt by Edward, despite having committed the cardinal sin of being born female. Now she had to share her parents, her lessons and her toys, with a boy a year older than her, who was, unfortunately, decidedly odd. Serena bent to help Jason organise his colours and he smiled at her. She felt a bloom of sympathy. It was not his fault, after all, that his parents had died and he was a kind boy, if overly attached to set routines.
They got the paints sorted and Jason settled down happily to start a picture of the garden. Serena left the peaceful room regretfully, and headed down the corridor to check on Elinor. She met Morven coming out of her daughter’s room.
“She’s sleeping, my lady.”
Serena nodded and slipped past her maid into the room. Elinor was curled up in bed, tear stains visible against her pink cheeks.
“Oh, Elinor.” Serena sat cautiously on the edge of the bed and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “What am I going to do with you?”
After a moment of thoughtful contemplation, she slipped from Elinor’s room and headed down the wide staircase, across the hall, and through to the kitchen. Fletch, the head manservant, was busy stacking wood by the fire. He flashed her a cheeky grin as she entered, which she ignored. When she had first arrived at the manor she’d assumed him to be insolent, but it hadn’t taken her long to learn that he was like this with everybody, from the youngest stable lad to Master Levy. Everybody, apart from Edward.
“Can I help you, my lady?” he asked as she stood in the doorway.
She shook her head, “No thank you, Fletch.” Her gaze turned to her cook. If a cook was generally a model of his own cooking, then by all rights her household would be doing very badly. Henrik was a rail thin beanpole, a Swede who had arrived in Holby no-one quite knew how, usually seen with a frown line on his forehead. And yet his cooking was the best Serena had ever tasted. Why he remained was a mystery, but she was very grateful that he did.
“The standard meal is ready for dinner,” he said, catching her gaze. She sighed inwardly; after Elinor, Henrik had been most affected by Jason’s arrival in the household. She’d learned very quickly that if they deviated from a set routine of meals he would become anxious, fretful and, sometimes, inconsolable. Henrik chaffed under the rigidity of it all.
“It’s appreciated,” she said with a smile.
“Humph.”
She caught Fletch’s eye and he shrugged.
“Well, carry on, both of you.”
She headed back to the hall and opened the door. She took a deep breath and let the warm air and fresh scents of summer ease her soul. She had a good life, even if sometimes she wished for something more, some small excitement to liven the constant round of household management and care of the children.
For a few moments, she wiped her cares from her mind, focussed on the here and now; the soft sounds of the bees in the flowers, the gentle call of the pigeons nesting in the dovecote, the cool of the wood under her finger tips.
“My lady!” A shout from her stable lad roused her to the present. She took a few steps out of the door and Mikey came tearing down the lane towards her. “My lady!” he skidded to a halt at her feet. “Soldiers coming!”
Her heart hammered suddenly. “Is it my lord Edward?” she asked, schooling her voice to calm.
“No my lady! Cavaliers!”
Her hand flew to her throat, to tease the small pendant she wore there. So, war had finally come to Holby.
The lad was watching her anxiously but she could not summon a reassuring smile. “Go to the kitchens, Mikey, and stay there.”
He disappeared and she took a deep, steadying breath. She had survived ten years of Edward, she could survive this.