Confessions
The next day Natasha wakes up and all she can manage to do is lay in bed for a while. She keeps thinking of what she witnessed last night, the look on Clint's face as he and James had returned to the manor.
He had known she was watching. He must have. There was no other explanation for his behavior at the door.
She runs her hands over her face and covers her eyes, wishing she could just go back to sleep and not bother with the day ahead.
Unfortunately, that was not an option. They had things that needed to be done, preparations for the wedding that needed to be overseen, final lessons she needed for when she was inevitably forced to face all the people that would surely harass her over her new position as Countess after the wedding.
There were also guests beginning to arrive. She most desperately wanted to avoid them all, but who knew what Clint might expect of her in regards to her role in all of this.
Society would say that, 'as the lady of the house,' she should be expected to deal with such things. But given that she isn't the lady of the house quite yet, would he expect it to be her responsibility? She knows that Clint himself seems to barely be able to stand most of his own peers, so would he want to pawn them off on her? Or would he save her the trouble of having to deal with them before she's truly prepared? Or… would they see to the welcoming of the guests together?
And how well will they be able to hide the truth of what Natasha comes from with so many nosey, entitled, snobs lurking about, trying to fish for more information on the mysterious bride Clint has managed to scrounge up from seemingly nowhere?
Groaning, she rolls over, burying her face in the pillow before letting out a sigh, feeling all the energy drain from her body. Just one more day until the wedding. Then things are sure to calm back down again and she can settle into some new semblance of normal life.
As a Countess.
Which is not normal at all in Natasha's mind. She's beginning to fear it never will be.
Another five minutes or so pass before she has scraped together enough motivation to get out of the oh-so-comfortable bed. Moving slowly in an effort to put things off just a few moments longer, she sits up and swings her legs off the edge of the bed.
From her now seated position, she is left facing the windows. The same window she had been looking out the night before, keeping her silent vigil. Through it, she can see into Clint's rooms again. She spots James first this time, not as a shadow through the curtains like she had last night, but clear through the glass, already going about his day attending to Clint, who she is almost positive will still be in bed.
Standing up and approaching the window hesitantly, she watches as James carries a tray over to where she now knows the bed is located. Catching just a glimpse of Clint, his blond hair a mess atop his head, chest left bare, she finally reaches the window.
Immediately, she draws the curtains over the glass to block out any further images. Frustration getting the better of her, she huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, blowing a stray hair out of her face and rolling her eyes.
Why did this have to get complicated?
She washes up and dresses quickly, tying her hair back because she is in no mood to deal with it if she left it loose today (and maybe to ensure she doesn't use it to hide behind when one of the men inevitably looks at her and she can't manage to look away).
Once dressed and ready for the day, she leaves her room and heads for the kitchen. She isn't feeling up to the usual fare put on in the dining room, nor does she know who, if anyone, would be joining her there if she were to go, so instead she settles on an apple and a handful of grapes from the fruit bowl always stocked in the kitchen.
She manages to sneak in and back out without being stopped by anyone. It was unlikely anyone would have made the effort, as she has found herself in some kind of limbo state where the slaves no longer acknowledge her as one of their own and have taken to avoiding her, and the servants know she isn't one of them, but they also know she doesn't actually rank higher than they do, so now everyone is uncertain how to address her. And all of that means that the only people who ever really interact with her anymore are none other than James and Clint. The two people she had no idea how to interact with anymore.
It was just as well with her. She had never been much for making friends with the other slaves: the boy who had captured her attention as a teen now long gone, and the women who had taken on roles as her caretakers were either gone or had retired to softer work on parts of the estate she rarely had reason to visit.
She spends the morning continuing her reading. Clint had said she was doing well with her studies and was pleased with her progress, so she doesn't technically have to continue if she doesn't want to. But she would be damned if she managed to bring scorn on Clint for not knowing enough to pass as a respectable Countess simply because she had chosen to only do the bare minimum.
Around noon, she stretches, realizing how much time has passed, and ventures from the small study she had holed up in to sneak into the kitchen again and, hopefully, escape with some food.
She makes it most of the way to the kitchen before she sees anyone. And, as luck would have it, the first person she sees is James.
Turning around without thinking about it, she starts back the way she came. After about two steps she stops herself, the foolishness of her attempts to avoid either man when the wedding is the following day is almost laughable. She and James had gotten to a good place yesterday. They had been open with each other and she would rather suffer some minor discomfort herself than set them back to square one by turning tail and running at the sight of him.
Cringing to herself as she turns again, she heads back in the direction of the kitchen. James sees her, as she had known he would, and approaches her. He had been talking with another servant through a doorway so she can't see who, but they part ways as she goes to pass him.
Falling into step beside her, he greets her pleasantly. "Natasha. How are you doing today?"
There was some extra meaning in his voice, but she knows from their conversation yesterday the most likely cause of it. "I'm doing fine. Still no thoughts of running."
She hadn't looked at him yet, but she knows he had been studying her face, knows he will see the grin she makes sure to hold firmly in place. Really, it isn't hard for her to appear happy around him. She genuinely enjoys his company. And it's easy to put all of those complicated 'feelings' thoughts out of her mind when she's with him. It just feels natural so she can just focus on his company.
"Good." He declares after a thorough examination of her face, in which it appears he can't find any evidence to the contrary. "I'd like to say I wasn't worried, but… "
"But it isn't as though I haven't given you ample reason for that worry." She finished the thought for him with a chuckle, even though she knows he would have politely let it die off. She has decided to make a real go of this being open with each other, and that meant not avoiding things just because they were unpleasant. "I understand. But I promise, I'm not going anywhere."
James grins at her. They have both stopped moving, just around the corner outside of the kitchen.
"So, what have you been up to this fine day?" He is being overly formal in the way he does sometimes when he knows other people will likely be overhearing them.
She responds, equally formal. "Finishing up a bit of reading before tomorrow. I know My Lord said what I had accomplished would suffice, but I would hate to bring any kind of negative attention upon his household."
"Ah. Very thoughtful of you." He nods. "And now? Are you not going to eat in the dining hall?" He had caught on to her likely path then, because of course he had.
Natasha shrugs. "It's a lovely day outside. I see no reason not to enjoy it while I still can."
It isn't quite the whole truth, but it is true enough. James narrows his eyes at her slightly, then one edge of his lips curls up in a half smirk. She has noticed the similarities between him and their master recently, and their expressions are a perfect match, spot on. She wonders absently who learned from whom. "Allow me to accompany you then. We can have some food packed for us to spend the day outside." He gestures for her to enter the kitchen ahead of him. "I might even be able to help you with your studies a bit. Maybe test you on what you have learned so far, make sure there aren't any glaringly obvious gaps in your knowledge."
Natasha considers for a moment, then agrees with a nod of her head. She steps past him into the kitchen and lets him address the cook for them. Soon they have a feast of bread, meats and cheeses, and fruits. They get a bottle of wine and two glasses to go with them as well as a small water jug. Once it's all neatly packed into a basket with an old blanket tucked around the top, they set out down the steps. They head for the line of trees, much like she watched him do with Clint just the night before.
They come upon a small clearing in the trees. It's less of an actual clearing, more just a small patch with few enough trees that the sun can shine on them. James shakes out the blanket and lays it on the grass, handing the basket off to Natasha until it has been spread out for them both to sit on.
When they are both settled atop the blanket, they both dig into the basket. James pulls out the drinks and glasses while Natasha finds the small plates and sets out the food between them.
All of this is done in silence. She only notices that they haven't spoken a word to each other since before they entered the kitchen when she finally hears James speak.
"So, how 'bare minimum' have you gotten to in your studies that Clint says it is sufficient, but you apparently disagree with?"
Natasha laughs quietly. "I know names and places, but he has told me that he can hardly remember the date of his own ascension, so none of the dates really matter."
James' jaw drops, but he somehow manages not to look surprised. That must be the effect of knowing Clint for so many years. "Of course he said that. I should expect these things by now." He shakes his head, but the look on his face is fond.
"You disagree with his assessment then?" Natasha asks, feeling a bit like they were teaming up behind Clint's back, but in a way that sent a slight chill up her spine.
"I disagree with his complete lack of regard for certain things. The man enjoyed playing the fool for far too long. I sometimes think he has started believing the ruse himself." Rolling his eyes, James elaborates. "He is smarter than anyone, least of all himself, gives him credit for. He always has been. Just not in the way his parents wanted him to be. He understands things, but in a way that involves feelings, and many more than the Barton heir should have. That specifically was always a point of contention between them."
Natasha nods her head. She had gathered from the talks she had overheard, as well as her own talk with Clint, that that was the case. "Putting on that show for the public, the pretty face/empty head routine. That fit too well with the image his parents spread of him being unfit to inherit the Earldom. Everyone believed it."
Including herself. It had been a rude awakening coming to know him for who he actually is. And she agrees with James' assessment. She has seen him acknowledge the image he put in people's heads, the image his parents gave him long before he had started playing into it himself. It saddened him, like it was true, and not just a ruse he had chosen to keep up appearances for.
James kept watching her like he always did, like he could see the thoughts as they played out across her face. She speaks them anyway, just to make her position on it clear. "He'll have the chance to rectify that now." She is confident as she says it that he will make them see. "He doesn't have to play a part anymore. He can show them who he is. There won't be any reason to hide anymore."
Natasha and James, they would help him. He'd show everyone how right he is to be Earl. She's more sure of that than she is of anything else in their relationship at the moment.
James smiles at that. He looks away and starts unwrapping their food from the cloths they had been placed in. He divides the bread between them, first her plate, then his, before doing the same with the meat and cheese. The fruit he leaves out in between their plates. Natasha pours the wine into the two glasses. The silence returns between them as they start to eat.
They exchange glances every once in a while, smiling softly or sweetly or even a bit flustered at the other when they are caught staring. Natasha feels almost giddy at the interaction. Is this what normal people experience? She is sure this is what she has read about in books, the love stories she had always written off as fanciful and too far out of reach for her to ever even dream of.
Is it possible that there is more to James wanting her than just desire? She thinks back to what she had heard standing outside the study that day, to the things she had heard Clint say, to the looks she had caught from James herself. Could she have this? Could he want her in all the same ways she wants him?
And if so, what about Clint? She knows James feels no less for Clint than he always has. But what about her and Clint? Will she be able to be with him in the same way if she is with James? Or what if he feels the same too? What if this is the same for both of them? Not just a flesh deep desire, but a soul deep one?
One like what they share for each other. Like what she has for them. Both of them. Oh, but this is too much for her to focus on when James is sitting there looking at her like that.
Forcing herself off the subject, she asks, "So, I believe you said something about testing my new knowledge? Was that a serious offer?" She raises an eyebrow at him and he laughs, full body, laying himself out on the blanket, propped up on an elbow with his head thrown back.
"Yes, I can help with that. If you'd like." He stays leaned back, looking up at the sky, head still hanging limp from his shoulders. He lets it loll over to look at her.
"Well, you clearly don't trust his assessment that I've learned enough." She laughs a bit with him. "And not all of us come from a family that had to know these things."
That has him straightening up a bit. Still reclined on his arms, but supporting his head so he's looking out instead of up, he squints at her, curious.
"... what?" Natasha cocks an eyebrow at him, though the smile refuses to leave her face.
"You never speak about your family. Not to us at least. Not to me."
She takes in a breath, wrapping her arms around her knees where they're drawn to her chest and laying her head on her knee caps, angling herself to face him. "Well, there's not much special to mention. No brothers or sisters. A cousin who lived with us after her family died of some illness. That happened when I was very young. But mostly it was just us and my mother and father."
She can still see their faces, though they are becoming more vague as the years go by. There are some memories that are crystal clear, while others she sees as if through a fog, a giant cloud of smoke.
"They were killed shortly before Clint's parents, weren't they?" The soft words bring her out of her memories. It isn't meant as a cruel reminder, but any reminder is cruel, and it sends a pang to her heart. It takes less time to recover from the pain now, but the pain itself hasn't lessened.
She nods. "They were transporting supplies to the soldiers after one of their battles. My father worked with weaponry and it had been deemed more important for him to remain behind, supplying the men with weapons, than for him to be out with them wiedling one. My mother went along to deliver an order to the men because it was such a long journey; with two of them, they wouldn't need to stop to rest, they could just take turns sleeping along the way."
She isn't sure how she wants to continue the story. She knew very little of what actually happened next, only that they had left and not come back.
"After the battle?" James hadn't looked away from her face yet. She saw caution there, hesitation she had put into him by constantly being ready to attack him and Clint both over the past two months. Seeing it just strengthened her resolve to make sure she was done being that person for good.
"Yes," she answered, glad he had given her thoughts direction again. "The battle was over, but they were still such a long way from here. Several days of travel, even for my parents. And the soldiers would have had to stop to rest. A week would have been optimistic is how my father spoke of it."
She didn't recall much of their conversations regarding the battle, nor of the location. Any chance at remembering those specific details had been crushed quickly by the overwhelming loss she felt on the soldiers returning home and one of the higher ranking officers notifying her and her cousin that her parents had been killed.
"It was nearly two weeks after they had left. We knew something must have gone wrong, but never did we expect them to be gone. We had been promised they would be safe. They had been promised they would be safe. If not, they might not have gone at all… The thought hadn't even crossed our minds."
It hadn't crossed Natasha's mind, at least. And if it had crossed her cousin, Yelena's, mind, she hadn't mentioned it.
"It was an ambush. Another army, a small one, had gathered and tracked the soldiers on their trek home. They waited until they had set up camp in a large enough clearing and they attacked." Her voice became scratchy as she shared the details of her parents' last moments for the first time in years.
"It was the same clearing my parents had found in order to meet up with them to deliver their weapons."
Sadness was the overwhelming emotion on his face when she looked at James again. She had closed her eyes while telling the story, not wanting to see his expression. It would either be pity or it would be some sort of superior expression, because it had been partly her parents' own fault. She had seen it plenty of times, she didn't need to see it from this man she was so helplessly fond of.
But she doesn't see either of those things, nor did she see any other emotion that she could take offense to. Just sadness.
She remembered that his parents were gone as well. His sister may be alive and well, but he had also lost a mother and a father. Looking into his eyes, it was like seeing her own loss reflected back at her rather than being mocked for it.
"And your cousin?" He urges her to finish telling the story, not just of her parents, but the full experience that had brought her to the Barton household.
"She was a few years older than I was, but she was no better off. We tried to stay together, but there was no way two young girls like us would have survived the winter. Not once they came and took the house." She looked up and rested her chin on her knees instead. "She was old enough, when they came to take possession of the house, they married her off to some old widower soldier they felt should be rewarded for his efforts. And they brought me to the manor."
That had been the last time she had seen Yelena. By the time she had gained enough freedom to even inquire about her whereabouts, Yelena was dead. Nobody quite knew the cause, but there was strong suspicion cast on her husband, considering his first wife had died under similar circumstances.
Her parents had taken Yelena in to keep her life from falling into the hands of the Bartons in the first place. Yelena's parents had worked in the manor, and had been so ill treated by the Bartons they may as well have been slaves themselves.
When Yelena's mother had fallen ill, her father had tried his best to keep up with both of their duties, while having to care for their young daughter, but it had run him even more ragged. Once her mother passed, her father hadn't been far behind, worn down by fending off the illness, the heartbreak, and the demands of the relentless Earl and Countess.
Natasha had been brought up hearing the tale, and she and Yelena had both been taught the nobility were such selfish creatures, they would rather work their servants into an early grave than allow them to live if it meant being inconvenienced in any way.
And that says nothing of how they treated their slaves. Had the Bartons lived, Natasha now knows, even with how short Yelena's life was after she had been sent off to be a wife, that she still could easily have outlasted Natasha by months. It felt wrong to be relieved that Clint's parents were dead, but she was. Her only solace was that she was pretty sure she wasn't the only one.
"And I became a slave and Yelena was dead before she was old enough that she should have been married at all."
James sat up, like the conversation had become too much for his relaxed sprawl. Natasha appreciates that, the move showing his respect for her struggles, her loss. It soothes that pain in her chest she gets anytime she allows herself to think back on what happened to her family.
"Wow." He says it with no inflection, like it's just his way of acknowledging all that she told him.
Silently, she nods beside him, staring at a tree in the distance. There is a bird sitting on one of the branches that she can't look away from, no matter how much she thinks she might like to look at her companion instead.
"So, that's why you've held such hostility towards us. Towards Clint." There is no judgement in his words, nothing to say he agrees or disagrees with the hostility, just a new understanding as to why it was there.
She wants to laugh at her own foolishness for not knowing that would be his reaction, understanding, when that had been their entire relationship so far: him understanding things about her that she didn't even know could be understood.
They sit in silence for a while longer. The bird flies away after some time and her eyes eventually find James' again.
He has something he wants to say, she can see it in the tension of his jaw, the slight frown on his forehead. She decides to wait him out, since he has always been so patient with her when she needs to find the words in order to say things. She closes her eyes, cheek laying on her arms where they rest on her knees again and focuses on enjoying the sunlight against her back and hair, warming her on the outside in much the same way his, and even Clint's, company has taken to warming her on the inside.
When he finally speaks, it's a question. "At least all of that is behind you now. The work, the lack of freedom, the slavery, all of it."
"Yes, I suppose so. Surely nobody would dare call me a slave once Clint and I are married. Just another day or so then."
She hears the rustle of his clothes on the blanket below him, the crunch of leaves as he repositions. When she opens her eyes, she is met with him staring at her, face to face, with some sort of anger held tightly in check while he asks through a suspiciously tight jaw, "What do you mean, another day or so?"
Something has gone wrong again, but this time, she can't tell how it has anything to do with her.