Today, Ashlyn didn't even bother to try and close the drawer; she just flung in the ledger and left it hanging open in resignation. With her arms crossed before her, she made purposefully across the tatty office to the window overlooking the farm. It tickled her how Mr. McHail still called her "Miss", even though she had been married for nearly a decade and a half. It made her feel young again, even if only for a few moments. Then the dread returned to her. The dread of growing old. The dread of being trapped for the rest of her life, here on this farm, in the middle of nowhere.
Ashlyn missed the city. She missed her contemporaries, the opulence of the city elite, and of rubbing shoulders with the Kingdom's aristocracy. Her family's lineage itself was not aristocratic, but they had built themselves a small empire of wealth through spice trading across the Wyrld. Her father, Alforth Montgomery, and her uncle, Len Montgomery, were among the first men to ever broker a trade deal with the mysterious continent of The Spine. Her uncle Len, as head of the business, had legislated the contract, while her father had captained the ship that made the first official round-trip to the Spineal port of Garrh'Daak.
It meant that Ashlyn, as a teenager, was catapulted into the higher classes; into the safest and most prestige Southstonian neighbourhoods and schools. She received the greatest education money could buy. Her friends were daughters of politicians, lecturers and high-ranking soldiers, and as she grew into a woman, the boys she fucked were the sons of noblemen, affluent merchants or men of the church. She had lived the fairy tale life, or at least, how she saw the fairy tale life unfolding - she was the child of privilege.
Despite her decadent, carefree youth, she had married her first true love - Phillip Armonde, the son of Cyril Armonde, and heir to the massively wealthy Armonde Silks estate. She still loved him dearly, to this day, but she had not anticipated the move. After she had became unexpectedly pregnant with her son, Phillip had received the news that his father had become gravely ill. Her husband usually oversaw the client-side of the Armonde Silk business, which allowed the couple to stay based in Southstone City and enjoy the highlife. They had even met this way; the young Armonde heir had brokered a deal with Montgomery shipping to have their silks exported to Bumi-Major on an annual contract. Alforth Montgomery had been so impressed with Phillip's conduct that he had him introduced to his beautiful daughter.
Shortly after being taken ill, Cyril Armonde passed away, leaving Phillip to control the entire business. Phillip's sister, Andrea, had married into the Morgan family, who ran a series of orange plantations in the arid region of Endfjord. So, heavily pregnant with her son Gabriel, and ever so in love with her strong-headed Phillip, Ashlyn had moved out to the farm with him to begin her new life.
The farm was in a glorious location, in the perhaps typically-named Silkwood forest, and was the perfect home to start a new family. The grounds swallowed up many acres, and whilst the workshop was something of an eyesore, the manor house was beautiful and grandiose, with many rooms and copious balconies, which were a delight in the summer evenings. They even had their own brook, which was a pleasure to hear; always relaxing and calming, especially at night, when the forest could get a little lonely and foreboding.
Ashlyn stood in the window of the Dispatch Office, gazing down across the land, listening for that very brook. It was faint, but it could be heard over the workers wrapping up for the day. The sun was setting, and the weather was glorious and hazy, and yes - the Dispatch Office did have a balcony - but Ashlyn did not feel like relaxing away the evening. She was on edge. The thoughts of escape dominated her.
She usually escaped the farm via the means of literature, or gin, or both. Recently she had developed a taste for the beer brewed by the men in the workshop. Phillip had allowed them to convert an old barn into a small brewery, and provided the materials to do such. It kept morale incredibly high, and Phillip actively encouraged the activity as long as it did not impose on the daily workings of the silk trade. So far, give or take the odd nasty hangover, everything had gone to plan, and everyone was happy with the arrangement, from peon to upper management. The beer itself was delicious, crafted in casks from local ingredients, and Phillip had considered ways of taking it commercial, but he had yet to do so.
Ashlyn had been to the brewery once. Ajamu had taken her there, on that first night, many moons ago. She marvelled at the craftsmanship of the Armonde workforce, having viewed them as avoidable brutes up until that point. She had been taken aback how such a crude bunch could have created something so sweet and delicate. The men often drank long into the night, either at the brewery or in their quarters at the workshop. The one time she had joined them, she had been reminded of the parties back in Southstone City. Sure, the workers on the farm were a lot rougher around the edges, but it was the sheer thrill of the social gathering that Ashlyn missed so much.
Ashlyn shook her head to clear her thoughts; reminding herself of Ajamu had put a fire in her abdomen and a iron weight around her heart. She glanced up. The lights were on in the brewery now; the first men to finish their shift had gone over to check on the development of the latest batch, no doubt. Ashlyn came away from the window. Giving the open drawer and the ledger one last disdainful look, she exited the Dispatch office and walked purposefully towards the kitchens.
The corridors on the "business" side of the house, and those leading to the kitchen were narrow and steamy, but there was an access staircase from one of the storage rooms to the Armonde's quarters, which was used by the staff to bring them their meals. This would be the quickest way to her bedroom from the Dispatch office.
The corridors were designed for the servants and workers to move about without disturbing the inhabitants above and therefore were quite low, pokey and dirty, clad with pale warping wood, capped with heavy beams and with heavy black flagstones underfoot. Mr. Armonde, and indeed any visitors or guests to the mansion, would never set foot in these parts of the house. Ashlyn was not so picky in choosing her route through the building. She used them to navigate the estate whilst remaining unseen to most prying eyes. Her son Gabriel too, was often found exploring the entire estate, but in a different capacity.
When the corridor met the kitchen, it opened wide, almost like a mouth, becoming the room itself, before the ceiling rose ever so slightly higher. Two great big stone fireplaces stood against the furthest wall, both occupied with a variety of pots and bubbling cauldrons. In one lay a miniature spit in rotation, impaled on which was some sort of large bird, most probably a wild turkey.
Mrs. Flitt was at the workbench in the centre of the stifling room, cutting vegetables on an inch-thick wood chopping board. Her two assistants - two young and nameless (to Ashlyn, at least) Bumi immigrants - busied themselves elsewhere in the kitchen. They were almost identical in their frocks; their small, brown faces bowed in concentration with the tasks at hand. One stirred the many pots at the fireplaces. The other, stood across the workbench from Mrs. Flitt, dicing red meat into cubes.
Mrs. Flitt had worked with the Armonde family for decades. She had originally been on the payroll of Phillip's grandfather, Emyr Armonde, and she - as well as her husband Jeremy - had been on the farm ever since. Ashlyn doubted that they had ever left the premises since coming here. The couple were, to some extend, the beating heart of the estate, in particular the mansion; Mrs. Flitt had been the cook for nigh on five decades, and Mr. Flitt was still head caretaker for the estate and farm, despite his old age.
"Good eve to you, Mrs. Armonde," Mrs. Flitt said politely, but without turning away from her veg cutting, "how have you been this fine day?"
"Most excellent, Delorys, thank you for asking," Ashlyn replied, coming to a rest at the workstation, "another day at the Dispatch Office for me, Gabe is being tutored today."
"Ohhhhh, yes," Mrs. Flitt exhaled, with a comically rising intonation, "such a fine man, is that tutor, Mr. Grensham. Such a fine, fine man. My Jeremy came up with him in the same village, m'lady. They are very old friends, since being babes in arms, on account of their mothers being cousins - annnnnd he is ever so clever, is that Mr. Grensham, ever so clever, not like my Jeremy - he couldn't tell a parsnip from a carrot, m'lady! Love him, aye, our Jeremy. Bless! But, that Mr. Grensham..."
