“It is my understanding that officers are esteemed as highly as members of nobility—perhaps higher in social standing, if not economic. Most of the officers, I believe, are sons of noblemen,” Lord Delattre said.
“Giving out Trieux estates is a brilliant way to reward them, then. If officers are second or third sons, they won’t inherit a title or lands,” Julien said.
“Brilliant of the Erlauf Queen and her consort, yes,” Lord Delattre said. “But it saddens me to see my countrymen’s’ lands going to…,” he glanced at Lady Delattre and Cinderella and trailed off.
Cinderella smoothed her plain dress on her legs, and was surprised when Lady Delattre took her hand. “You look tired, darling,” the older woman whispered.
“I might be a little, but my work is not without its rewards,” Cinderella said.
“You will not let even a single servant go?”
“No.”
“You are just as stubborn as your father,” Lady Delattre said, shaking her head. “It is very noble of you, but what will you do when you marry? Julien and Marcus cannot afford Aveyron.”
Cinderella kept her face a smooth mask. When Cinderella’s father was alive, no one had dared to push the topic of Cinderella’s marriage. Now that he had been gone for over two years, Cinderella’s marriage seemed to be the only thing noblewomen could think of.
It wasn’t like the groom was going to be a surprise. Cinderella had two choices: Julien Rosseux or Marcus Girard—who was several years younger than her.
It was expected she would marry, and with taxes as high as they were, she would be forced to marry without a dowry. Her husband would take her to preserve Trieux nobility, not to inherit Aveyron, as had once been the reason for her popularity. When she married, it was likely that Aveyron and everything in it would have to be sold, for no one would want an estate of such monstrous size to care for in addition to their own.
Cinderella wished there was another way, but she couldn’t see it.
“Cinderella?”
Cinderella gave Lady Delattre her best smile. “I apologize; my thoughts clouded my mind for a moment. I do not know what I will do,” she said.
Lady Delattre sighed. “If only my Rodolf hadn’t died in the war,” she said, referring to her deceased son. He never would have been a candidate for Cinderella’s hand before—the Delattres weren’t of high enough standing to be joined to Cinderella’s family in the lavish times before the Erlauf invasion.
“I am sorry, Lady Delattre,” Cinderella said, resting her fingertips on the older woman’s hand.
Lady Delattre took a shuddering breath and bravely nodded.
When Cinderella removed her attention from her saddened hostess, she met Julien’s gaze.
The shy young man blushed and looked away.
Cinderella folded her hands together and returned her attention to Lord Delattre and Lord Rosseux’s conversation. She wouldn’t give up on Aveyron until she had exhausted all other options.
Julien and Marcus were nice enough, but Cinderella’s priority was Aveyron.
“You seem distracted today, Mademoiselle.”
Cinderella tore her gaze from the squad of patrolling soldiers. “I beg your pardon,” she said, setting the officer’s usual bag of carrots on the counter.
“There is nothing to pardon,” he said, coins clinking in his hand. “It was merely an observation.”
Cinderella said nothing and held her hand out for the coins as the officer did not seem inclined to place them on the counter as usual.
The officer held Cinderella’s gaze, his mouth slanting in a smirk as he brushed his fingertips against her palm, touching her hand longer than necessary.
Cinderella jerked her hand back. “Thank you for your business,” she said, her tone as stiff as the set of her shoulders.
Three soldiers stood with the officer instead of his usual pack. One of them laughed at Cinderella’s reaction and nudged the officer.
The officer still smirked. “What is your name, Mademoiselle?”
Cinderella, in the process of sliding the coins in the money box, almost dropped the coins. “What?”
“Your name.”
Cinderella puffed up like an anxious cat. Behind her Vitore squealed and dropped a basket of winter potatoes. She could lie, but the farce wouldn’t last long. Hair as red as hers was rare, and everyone knew the produce stand belonged to Aveyron.
“Mademoiselle?” the officer said, his smile growing more crooked.
“Cinderella. My name is Cinderella,” she finally said.
The officer tipped the brim of his hat. “Until tomorrow, Cinderella.”
He left with his cronies, exiting the market the same way he entered.
“Mademoiselle,” Vitore said, hovering at Cinderella’s shoulder.
“I know,” Cinderella said, her heart icing over as the officer disappeared from view.
With his exit, market business resumed. The cobbler went back to mending a busted shoe; a baker once again shouted his list of baked goods, and even the meat chickens five stalls up started clucking again.