When I was a young woman, I loved to read. I still do, of course, but back then the only thing I enjoyed more than curling up in the attic with a good book was actually making up my own stories. It's how I spent much of my time.
My father was a simple miller, my mother, a miller's wife, and my older brothers, miller's sons. None ever having cause to learn the written language and I became the only member in my family who ever opened a book or lifted a quill. How this came about is due to my birth and my mother's unfortunate death.
I was born late in my parents' lives. They were not expecting. My mother, frail already, died in childbirth. my father, already deep in his prime, sent me away to a nearby village, where I lived with a couple and their children. I called the couple Auntie and Uncle and the children cousin, even though they were of no blood relation to me.
In the village, I went to school with all of the other children. I learned my reading and writing and arithmetic. At home I learned to cook and clean, along with my female cousins.
My father visited almost every week and gave me so many presents. However, I rarely saw my brother's and the first time I saw my father's house was when I was fourteen.
Once I turned fourteen, I was no longer considered a child and my schooling ended. If the children cared to continue their studies, they'd have to move to the cities and go to the university there, which very few boys did and even fewer girls thought about. Mostly, fourteen was the age when young men became full time apprentices and young woman began their search for a suitor. I decided to return to my father's house. I wasn't ready for neither marriage nor the enticing possibility of traveling to the city, to further my education.
My Auntie and Uncle and Cousins were sorry to see my go. They were my family and I loved them like my family, still do, but I knew I had to go. It was time that I met my real family.
Not the summer that I left the village, but the next summer, I was in the attic reading, like I usually was on summer evenings. I had one of our many cats draped across my knees. We always had a lot of cats, since rats and mice are always trying to get at the grain and flour.
Then, from downstairs, came my brother's voice, calling. "Seraphina! Seraphina!"
I tried to ignore him and concentrate on my book. I had that particular chapter about a million times, so I knew it was absolutely the best chapter. This is where the princess, distressed that her lover has deserted her, jumps off a bridge into a raging river. Oh, don't worry. It has a happy ending. She plucked out of the river by a golden eagle, which turns out to be her lover, who has been enchanted. It's so romantic, so exciting, so wonderful.
However, my brother was quite insistent. "Seraphina, come here this instant. Father wishes a word with you."
I sighed and put the book aside. I'll finish it later, I promise myself, as I climb down the ladder to the kitchen.
***
Oh, Dominic, Dominic, Dominic, my oldest brother, the patient, calm, strong one and his lovely wife, Yolanda. May they choke on chicken bones. As you may guess, I'm not very fond of either of them. They are both abominable.
Dominic would like nothing better than to marry me off to the nearest suitor. Not that there had been many, seeing as my family is not rich and I am no great beauty, but there have been a few. The only thing that stops him is my aging father and Yolanda's total helplessness.
My father once said that I shouldn't marry, unless I was in love, like he and my mother were. I think whenever my father looked at me, I reminded him of my mother. He loved me dearly, wanted only the best for, and sometimes a selfish part of my reasons I was his favorite.
As for Yolanda, she is good for nothing, except to look pretty. She was spoiled as a child and she was spoiled as a wife. I doubt she truly loves my brother and she certainly has no love for me. I am only the servant, who cooks and cleans and washes, while she sits on her dainty behind, embroidering. Okay, I admit, she's good at one thing I'm not. I couldn't embroider if my bloody life depended on it. Still, she can't read nor write, so what is she supposed to do all day?
My other brother, Hector, is not so bad, though he has recently joined the King's service and he has little time for me. Still, he sends me gifts (ribbons or pennies or books) for holidays and other special occasions, so he is not nearly as abominable as Dominic.
***
"Father," I said softly, as I came into his room, "You wanted to speak to me?"
My father had not faired the last winter well, often subcoming to fits of coughing and far too many times was restricted to bed. For my father, an active man all his life, it was Hell. It hurt me to see him there, looking so obviously ill. But he smiles at the sight of me and I automatically feel better.
"Ah, my Seraphina, my most precious jewel, my beautiful daughter, come, sit by me."
I felt a blush crawl up my neck to my cheeks as I took a seat on the stool by my father's bedside. Every girl loves to be flattered by her father, even though we tend to hide it because it can be embarrassing in public.
"Are you feeling well, father?" I ask.
"Very well, daughter." he said, as he pets a very large Russian Blue that is nestled in the crook of his arm. I don't recognize the cat but we have so many it's hard to keep track of them all. my father loved cats and, I guess, that's why I do, too. my father used to poo-poo anyone who'd say a dog was a better companion. he'd say, "A cat is just as loyal, more intelligent and better at catching rats." from my experience, I tend to agree.
I reached over and scratched the Russian Blue behind the ear. He purred in pleasure.
"His name is Puss." my father said, "Do you like him daughter?"
"I like any cat, Father," I answered, "especially one who purrs so loudly." Puss seemed to hear my praise and purred even louder.
"He likes you." My father observed, "That is good."
"Father, was there a reason you asked me here?"
"I only wanted to hear the sound of your beautiful voice."
"Thank-you."
"And to ask you if you'd like to come to Chapel Hill with me tomorrow,"
"We could have a picnic, with lemonade?"
"Of course."
"I'd like that very much."
We spoke a couple of brief words, before my father fell asleep and I crept out of the room. I don't think I have to tell you we never had a picnic on Chapel Hill.
